Rise of the Horde
Chapter 412: Chapter 412

With the enemy magic canons silenced, the Ereian army began performing poorly in the battle. Their newfound courage to combat the orcs, stemming from those powerful guns began to wane.

On the side of the horde, the Yurakks and Rakshas pushed the enemy frontlines back much faster than before the initial clash. Their foes hesitant to continue on with the fight with the absence of the firepower brought by their magic canons.

The inferno raged, a wall of fire that swallowed the other side of the battlefield whole. Yet, amidst the blazing pyre, stood the Silver Helms, their figures unyielding. Their helms, polished to a gleaming silver, reflected the fiery chaos with an eerie red glow, their eyes hidden behind the mirrored surface.

The cannons, previously silent, roared back to life, their blasts of magical energy tearing through the air, each strike annihilating swathes of ogres with a blinding flash. The enemy's attempt at silencing the weapons had been futile.

"As if that would be enough," Rakabis said, his voice carrying a dismissive tone. He clicked his tongue, a gesture that conveyed his disdain for their enemy's efforts.

Khao'khen, observing the situation with a practiced eye, gave the order for a retreat. Ogres, trolls, and their cavalry, having witnessed the devastating power of the Silver Helms, began to withdraw from the battlefield. The magical barriers protecting the cannons, maintained by a contingent of mages, were proving insurmountable.

The Silver Helms, shrouded in flames, launched their counter-offensive. A sudden surge, a torrent of fiery figures that seemed to rise from the very depths of the inferno, crashed against the retreating enemy. Their armor, scorched and blackened, reflected the flickering flames, making them appear as demons risen from the underworld.

"They're pushing forward!" Haguk yelled, his voice barely audible above the roar of the flames. "We must fall back!"

Dhug'mhar, his face obscured by the smoke and ash, nodded in grim agreement. "Prepare to pull back" he commanded. "Cover the others in the retreat."

The battlefield shifted, a tide of fire and fury pushing against a wave of retreating warriors. The clash of iron against iron, the roar of the cannons, and the screams of the wounded filled the air with a symphony of chaos. Yet, amidst the carnage, the Silver Helms stood defiant, their red-glowing helms a beacon of unyielding resolve in the heart of the fiery storm.

The band of ogres found themselves in a dire situation as the relentless barrage of magic cannons rained down upon them. What was once their strength - their colossal forms - now proved to be their downfall. The sheer enormity of their bodies made them easy targets for the cannons, which rarely missed their mark.

The primary force of the horde, upon witnessing their comrades being targeted by the enchanted cannons, launched a swift and merciless attack against the enemy's front line. With brute force, they pushed aside their adversaries, determined to penetrate their ranks as swiftly and deeply as possible.

The magic cannons' relentless assault forced the ogres back, their massive forms offering little protection against the onslaught. The flashes of light were like specters, their swiftness almost impossible to evade.

As the cannons roared, the ogres' numbers dwindled, their screams of fear and agony echoing through the air. The Ereian army, once hesitant, was now invigorated by the revival of the enchanted cannons and their formidable might.

They rallied, their courage returning as they witnessed the tide of the battle turn in their favor. The Yurakks, and Rakshas fought with more ferocity as an answer. The battlefield became a maelstrom of fire and iron yet again, the air thick with the remnants of magic from cannon fire and the metallic scent of blood.

The Silver Helms, with their sudden change, were an almost unstoppable force. Their attacks were hardly contained by the combined efforts of the Rhakkadon and Warg Cavalries with the aid of the Troll Skirmishers.

The hostile riders, their unsettling crimson gazes obscured by their gleaming helmets, appeared impervious to any suffering as they recklessly plunge into battle, heedless of their own well-being. It was as if they were begging for death in their careless charges.

The sheer savagery of the orcs was fully revealed during the intense confrontation between the primary forces of the two opposing sides. The orcs effectively shattered the enemy's defenses with their ferocious attack. The heart of the enemy's main army was forced to retreat from the battle, their troops dispersing in all directions.

Rakabis watched, his face a mask of grim determination, as the frontline of their army crumbled under the relentless pressure of the orcish horde. The ground was littered with fallen soldiers, their gleaming armor now dull and stained with blood. The sheer number of orcs, their guttural roars echoing across the battlefield, was overwhelming.

He didn't hesitate. A swift whistle pierced the air, and a young runner, nimble and quick, broke from the ranks and darted towards the rear, where the mages stood poised with their magic cannons. The deadly weapons, with their swirling, crackling energy, had been decimating the orcish warriors, but their focus was on the flanking forces, the attempt of the ogres to silence their cannons. Now, with the main force pushing through, the mages needed to shift their firepower.

"Tell them to target the center," Rakabis barked at the runner, his voice a low growl. "The advance of the enemy main army... it needs to be stopped."

The runner, barely breaking stride, nodded in acknowledgement and vanished into the chaos of the battle.

The change in strategy was immediate. The magical cannons, responding to the runner's message, turned their deadly muzzles towards the heart of the orcish horde. The orcish warbands, who had just managed to push back the enemy's main forces, felt a sudden wave of terror as the arcane fire rained down upon them.

Gur'kan, a prominent War Chief, has been fearlessly leading the charge since the start of the battle. With a mighty roar, he declares, "The chieftain's watchful eye is upon us! His sheltering embrace is embodied in the 'Golden Wolf'," his piercing gaze fixed upon the majestic wolf reflecting the rays of the sun in the desert breeze.

At the forefront of the chaotic fray, Arkagarr's urgent cry echoes through the chaos, "Amazzfer! Rally to me!" urgency dripping from every word.

At the very front of the army stood Arkagarr, flanked by the Aurok, the bearer of the golden wolf. The orcish horde, as if by design, shifted into a formation resembling an arrow, with Arkagarr as the sharp tip.

Khao'khen, observing from the rear, was perplexed by the unconventional arrangement of his soldiers. His bewilderment grew as he witnessed the horde's battle formation.

Once in position, the orcs raised their voices in unison, marching boldly towards their enemies. The enemy's devastating cannons, thrown off by the chaos, were now charging up for another round of attack. The muzzles of the weapons glowed with a blinding light, foreshadowing the impending destruction.

Undeterred, the horde continued their advance, their resounding chants echoing across the battlefield. The gathering of light sparked, sending a blinding flash towards the approaching orcs. Yet, Arkagarr, at the head of the formation, marched steadfastly onwards.

Witnessing the fearless determination of the horde, Khao'khen was struck with alarm as he watched them boldly face the cannons' attack head-on. "Shit!" he cursed, bracing himself for the aftermath he could already foresee.

To his surprise, the burst of light ricocheted off of something and veered towards the heavens. A brilliant streak soared through the clouds, followed by a deafening thunderclap as the force of the explosion dispersed the gathered clouds.

"What the actual fuck!", Khao'khen exclaimed in surprise. A film of light with a golden hue covered the horde and protected them from the devastation of the magic cannons.

"The chieftain will shield us from harm!" Gur'kan roared and the horde roared after him in agreement.

Khao'khen was greatly confused by the turn of events.

A hush fell over the battlefield as the magic cannons' light show faded, revealing the orcs, unharmed and still marching forward.

Khao'khen, his eyes narrowed in confusion, searched for an explanation. "What sorcery is this?" he muttered, his voice laced with a mixture of awe and concern. He knew that the shamans and the mages on their side were still along the walls, and the horde was too far out for their magic to be able to reach them. Which leaves the mystery about the power protecting the horde still unanswered.

The mages manning the cannons, their confidence shaken, exchanged uncertain glances. They had never encountered such a thing, and the realization that their cannons were ineffective against it sent a chill down their spines.

Rakabis, sensing their hesitation, bared his teeth in a fierce snarl. "Do not falter!" he roared. "Fire of another round of attack! I doubt their protection would hold that long!"

The mages, their uncertainty growing, hesitated, and in that moment of hesitation, the orcs inched forward closer, their war cry echoing across the battlefield.

The enemy's cannons fell silent once more after another round of attack, the mages struggling to comprehend the nature of the protective barrier.

Rakabis, his impatience growing, bellowed, "Fire again! Do not stop attacking!" Yet, despite their efforts, the magical barrage had no effect on the advancing horde. The golden light shimmered, deflecting the attacks and rendering the cannons useless.

On the opposite side of the battlefield, the ogres, trolls, and cavalry of the horde finally managed to disentangle themselves from the Silver Helms who had previously blocked their path. Despite their bravery and resistance to pain, the riders, whose eyes glowed a strange eerie red, were ultimately defeated without the support of the magical cannons. Though they were mighty, their flesh and blood bodies were still vulnerable to destruction.