Rise of the Horde
Chapter 406: Chapter 406

The sun beat down upon the Burning Sands, a vast expanse of scorching grains of sand that stretched as far as the eye could see. The wind, a constant companion in this unforgiving land, whispered tales of ancient battles and forgotten heroic tales of the past, its voice a haunting melody that echoed through the canyons of sand.

But today, the wind carried a different song, a requiem of despair that filled the air with a palpable sense of dread.

The Ereian army, once a confident force that came to deal with the orcs, now huddled in defeat, their ranks thinned by the carnage of the first battle. The orcish horde, a savage tide of flesh and iron, had crashed upon their defenses, leaving a trail of shattered armor, broken spears, and the haunting silence of fallen comrades.

The once-mighty Ereian soldiers, their faces etched with the scars of battle and the fear of defeat, struggled to hold onto their fading hope.

Accompanying the invading orcs were the people of their kingdom, branded traitors by their king. The rebels flew the banner of the once proclaimed destroyed noble house.

Their capital, a beacon of hope in the heart of the desert, now stood vulnerable, a tempting prize for the orcish horde. Whispers of fear rippled through the remaining Ereian soldiers, whispers of the orcish war drums pounding a relentless rhythm of conquest, a rhythm that threatened to drown out any remaining hope.

Rakabis was at his wits end on how to salvage the situation. The numbers of the soldiers under his command was still plenty, but many of them were now unwilling to clash head-on with the orcs. They weren't up against only with the orcs, adding to their troubles was the sizeable army that flies the banner of the Darkhariss house.

In the midst of this despair, a saviour came; a man who had the look of a soldier entered the camp. The man was covered in sweat and his drench clothes speaks volume of his exhaustion. "An urgent message from the king," he quickly presented the letter after dismounting, skipping pleasantries. Rakabis was not one of those people who are hung up with his status that would flare up when it was ignored.

"Gather the officers, we need to discuss some things," he ordered his aid. The young man, who served as his aid who was still in his teens bowed his head, then went on to get the task assigned to him with haste.

Rakabis stood at the head of the table; he saw the weariness in their eyes, the doubt that gnawed at their resolve. Yet, he knew that he could not afford to falter, not now, not when the fate of the kingdom hung precariously in the balance.

"We have lost the first battle," Commander Rakabis declared, his voice firm despite the tremor that ran through his words. "But we will not lose the war. We will fight back. We will rise again."

A murmur of disbelief ran through the gathered officers. They had seen the brutality of the orcish horde firsthand, their savage strength and relentless hunger for battle. How could they possibly hope to defeat such an enemy?

But Commander Rakabis, his eyes burning with a fire that refused to be extinguished, held their gaze. He knew that their hope, their very survival, rested on his shoulders, on his ability to replace a way to turn the tide of this desperate war.

"I have gathered you here to break news of a weapon, a weapon that would surely tilt the table of the battle to our advantage," he continued, his voice rising above the murmurs of doubt. "A weapon that will ensure our victory, a weapon that protected the very heart of our kingdom since the previous king. And two of those weapons was sent to us by the ruler."

A collective gasp filled the chamber as Commander Rakabis, with a gesture of defiance, revealed the details about the weapon. Some of them already knew what the weapon base on the hints that they have pick up from the words of the commander. They have seen it on the walls of the capital many times.

The pitch black tubes, its edges adorned by intricate carvings, the carvings hinted at a destructive power that slumbers within. The silently lets out a terrifying flashes that could cut through almost anything that was in its path.

The metal from which these weapons were forged was unlike anything known in the kingdom. It was said to be a gift from Faerush, a metal that resonated with the very soul of the desert, imbued with a power that could turn the tide of any battle, or at least what the stories say about the weapon.

The truth though was that, the weapon was purchased by the previous king through some means with a costly price.

The officers, their hearts filled with a renewed sense of hope, gathered around the said weapon, their eyes wide with wonder and awe. This was their salvation, their chance to reclaim their lost glory, to rewrite their destiny.

They were no longer just weary soldiers facing a hopeless battle; they were now warriors armed with a weapon of legend, a weapon that promised to turn the tide of war in their favor.

"But where is it?" one of the officers questioned, they haven't seen anything in the camp that looked like the said weapon. The other officers began talking in hush tones. They were doubtful that the king would bring out two of those weapons.

"The weapons are on its way, it would arrive the next day at the latest," Rakabis informed them, "Now, spread the news to the soldiers and have them steel their hearts till the weapons arrive. We will give the orcs and the rebels a big surprise," he chuckled after finishing his words.

The harsh desert wind caressed the faces of the sentries who were on duty. Their eyes tired of the monotonous sight. There was nothing to see but the rolling grains of sand and the silhouette of the town up ahead.

After hearing news of the powerful weapon, the decline of the army's morale halted. The task given by the commander which was to fortify the camp was quickly executed by them. Drenched in sweat, the soldiers finished fortifying their camp before the day could even be over. The added contraptions and fortifications for the defense of their camp gave them a sense of satisfaction and security.

They all believed that no enemy would be able to go through all that without paying a heavy price.

After dismissing the officers, Rakabis sat in his chair, lost in deep thoughts. The letter informed him of the weapon that was on its way but that was not all that was there to it. The king would also make his appearance in the battlefield but it was not mentioned when it will be. Along with the weapon was also a group of mages who would oversee its use upon the battlefield.

*****

The chilly wind of the desert's night came swooping in, the guards who were dressed poorly for the night, shivered from the cold night wind. There were camp fires scattered by the walls of the town, as soldiers huddled together around the fire.

The Ereians who were with the horde were gathered together far from the gates that faced the enemy's camp. Many of them were not comfortable with the orcs being around them, especially with their loud voice.

There were barrels being distributed around. The special drink of the trolls was being shared with everybody. "What is this?" one of the Ereians who joined Adhalia's army late questioned.

"It's a good drink, very tasty and strong," Zaraki answered as raised his cup towards the soldier.

Hearing the words of their commander, the soldiers quickly filled their cups then chugged down mouthfuls of the drink. Fits of coughing followed quickly as the soldiers choked upon the powerful taste of the troll's special drink.

All the words used by Zaraki to describe the Traffar was indeed correct but he played down its strength. The drink wasn't just strong but it was very strong since it could even knocked down the ogres after just a few cups of it.

Zaraki, the members of the Drakhars, the trolls and the orcs who were nearby, all broke out in laughter after witnessing the scene caused by the Traffar. The weaker ones among those who chugged down mouthfuls of the said drink could be seen clutching the temples of their head as they murmur something that was incomprehensible.

"Weak!" an orc mocked as he chugged down the contents of his cup. He proceeded to drink three more consecutive cups of Traffar which earned him the admiring gaze of the crowd. The orc clicked his tongue but showed a proud smile on his face. A few moments later, he was on his back, staring at the starry night.

The orc tried to get to his feet many times but always stumbled around before falling down to the ground again and again. Another round of laughter echoed around.