Translator: CinderTL
A dozen tribal chieftains and shamans sat around a crackling bonfire, the flickering flames casting long shadows across their grave, anxious faces.
The air was thick with the savory aroma of roasting meat and a palpable sense of unease. Occasionally, sparks would crackle and pop, but no one spoke.
Finally, Hurtan, the aged shaman of the Graymane Tribe, broke the silence.
"The human army has seized control of the water sources," his voice rasped like sandpaper. "Their weapons spew fire and thunder, and our warriors can't even get close."
"Then we launch a night raid!" The young Red Fang Chieftain slammed his fist on the ground, his bone ornaments clattering. "Under the cover of darkness—"
"Useless," another chieftain interrupted coldly, lifting his blanket to reveal a leg wrapped in bandages. "They've laid invisible Iron Thorns and can summon daylight-bright light. I led thirty of my tribe's bravest warriors in Lord Urgok's operation, and half of them never returned."
Silence fell once more around the bonfire. The damp night wind swept through, but it couldn't dispel the gloom that had settled over their hearts.
"Our arrows can't reach their flamethrowers," a chieftain muttered, stroking his quiver. "Our warhorses will be driven mad by the thunderous noise. Now even the last water source..."
The fire crackled and popped, sending sparks scattering into the night wind.
"We can migrate!" the Red Fang Chieftain exclaimed, leaping to his feet. His bone ornaments clattered. "We'll head east, across the desert. There are still lakes there that haven't been claimed by humans!"
Several Chieftains and Shamans murmured in agreement, hope flickering in their eyes.
But Grum, the Chieftain of the Iron Jaw Tribe, merely shook his head slowly, his rough fingers stroking the bone ornament hanging around his neck.
"Foolish," he rasped. "Do you think humans will stop here? They'll seize one water source and then march on to the next. If we flee today, what about tomorrow? The day after? Besides, migrating to a new water source will bring us into conflict with the local Tribes and draw the humans' blades to them."
Old Shaman Hurtan slammed his Bone Staff heavily on the ground. "Grum speaks the truth. This isn't a mere raid; it's a devouring. Humans' appetites are greater than those of the wolves on the Grassland."
"But staying means certain death!" Red Fang growled fiercely.
"We have no choice," Surina, the female Chieftain, finally spoke. She unfastened the wolf-tooth dagger from her belt and laid it on the ground. "Either we scatter now like cowards, to be picked off one by one, or..." Her sharp gaze swept across each Chieftain's face. "We gather our remaining strength and show Great Chieftain Abal—show him that his people are shedding their last drop of blood."
"The Orc Chieftain?" Hurtan, the eldest shaman, suddenly struck the ground with his bone staff. "Yes, the Orc Chieftain. Only the Iron Cavalry of the Chieftain's Tent can stop them." He pointed a withered finger south. "Send our fastest messenger to Great Chieftain Abal. Tell him..." His voice choked. "Tell him the children of the Grassland are being consumed by steel and fire."
"But..." Red Fang hesitated. "Great Chieftain Abal is currently occupied with the southern campaign. An envoy from the Chieftain's Tent just arrived. They also need warriors there."
Hurtan raised his voice. "The Orc Chieftain once promised to protect every tribe that pledged loyalty to the Chieftain's Tent. Now is the time for the Orc Chieftain to fulfill his promise."
A spark of light flickered in Grum's eyes. "That's right. Our tribe's warriors can't go south for now. They must stay here to defend our homeland."
Surina nodded firmly. "The envoy from the Chieftain's Tent said their army is conquering cities and sweeping across the south like wildfire. Surely, sending a detachment back to reinforce the Grassland wouldn't be too difficult."
The tribal leaders quickly reached a consensus: they would send a plea for help to Great Chieftain Abal.
Three of the fastest warhorses carried the messenger south. Strapped to their backs were not only the plea for aid but also a dozen strands of mane in different colors—braids from the most valiant warriors of each tribe, a desperate signal of emergency on the Grassland.
Abal stood alone before the sand table, his bronze face appearing particularly grim under the flickering lamplight.
On the table, the blue flags representing the Aldor army were densely clustered south of Stonebridge Town, while the Orc Clan's wolf-head flags had retreated to the edge of the Yellow Earth.
He picked up a small iron cube representing a human cannon, his thumb caressing its cold metal surface.
"Speed," he murmured, recalling the deadly fire that had torn through the sky on the battlefield.
Once, the Orc Iron Cavalry had been absolute masters of the battlefield. They moved like the wind, easily flanking any human defense and crushing it before the enemy could react. But now—
Abal slammed the iron cube onto the sand table with a resounding thud. The cube plunged deep into the sand representing the Yellow Earth, knocking over several small flags.
Human cannonballs were faster than the swiftest warhorse. While the Orc cavalry was still halfway through their charge, those metal monsters spewing flames had already rained death upon them. Even more terrifying were the firearms—even the most elite mounted archers couldn't match the range of those iron tubes that spat lead bullets.
The neighing of warhorses echoed from outside the tent. Abal lifted the tent flap and watched the new recruits drilling. These young men were still practicing traditional grassland archery techniques, as if tactics from the past still held value.
Summoned by the Chieftain's Tent, many tribes from the Grassland sent fresh recruits. These Orc warriors were already skilled riders, requiring only minimal training to become true soldiers.
"Great Chieftain," the Guard Captain bowed respectfully. "The newly trained cavalry is ready and awaiting your command."
"I know," the Great Chieftain's voice was stern. "I will personally inspect them later."
The Guard Captain bowed and withdrew, but Abal returned to his table in agitation.
"It's useless," he muttered to himself, his voice laced with unprecedented weariness. "Can even the fastest horse outrun a cannonball?"
He turned back to the sand table, his gaze fixed on the blue flags. Humans had not only seized the initiative on the battlefield but, more terrifyingly, were rewriting the fundamental rules of war. For a thousand years, Plains Warriors had relied on courage and horsemanship to win, but suddenly they had become obsolete relics.
"Unless we have similar weapons!"
Dust swirled across the training ground in the morning mist as the newly assembled Orc warriors stood in formation.
Abal rode slowly past, his sharp eyes scanning each tribe's banner snapping in the wind. His brow furrowed.
"Where is the Graymane Clan's banner?" he suddenly reined in his horse, his voice like an ice blade.
"And the Iron Jaw Tribe's?"
Despite the many vassal tribes under his command, Great Chieftain Abal could instantly recognize each tribe's emblem. He quickly realized something was amiss.
Several tribes were missing from the new recruits.
(End of the Chapter)
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