The wind had shifted direction. The breeze that had been blowing from the Tharn Forest faded away, replaced by a murky air laced with the metallic tang of blood and the musky stench of beasts, seeping through the trees of the forest.
Under the darkness that filled the night sky, a crimson glow began to spread from the far side of the woods.
The crimson light from torches and campfires filtered through the leaves, illuminating deep into the forest. It dyed the woods so broadly that it looked as if the entire forest across the river were ablaze.
The sprawling encampment along the wide plain near the Velus River was utterly devoid of order. The orcs' tents were pitched in haphazard directions, with irregular spacing. Some areas were crammed so tightly with tents that passing between them seemed impossible, while others lay barren like empty fields. Most were barely worthy of the name "tent."
They were hides of beasts draped over wooden poles, ragged cloths layered and tied together, or even just pelts spread on the ground where orcs lay sleeping atop them.
Around the campfires, orcs huddled in groups. They gnawed on bones and tore raw meat with their hands, shoving it into their mouths.
Grease dripped down their beards, but they made no effort to wipe it away. They bellowed loudly, shoving each other to snatch food. When fights broke out, surrounding orcs gathered to watch, roaring in excitement. The ground was littered with bones and scraps, reeking with foul odors.
At the heart of the encampment stood a tent far larger than the others. Made of black fabric, it towered at least three times the height of a passing orc, with four armed orcs standing guard at the entrance, spears in hand.
Surrounding it were smaller tents arranged in relative order. A short distance away, wagons were clustered together. Each was loaded with sacks and crates, watched over by stationed orcs.
On the encampment's edge, by the riverbank, prisoners were bound to wooden posts. They were Dawi and Muwa.
The Dawi knelt, heads hanging limp. Their brown fur was matted with blood and dirt.
The Muwa had their wings bound. Thick ropes secured the wings tightly to their bodies, and chains shackled their legs. Some lifted their heads to gaze at the sky, but most stared at the ground.
Further across the river, at the very fringe of the encampment, lay the Minotaurs' separate camp. It was distinctly isolated from the orcs', with a wide empty clearing between them.
The Minotaurs numbered far fewer than the orcs. Their tents appeared larger and sturdier than the orcs', but still lacked orderly arrangement. The Minotaurs tended to something around their campfires, with massive axes and bludgeons laid beside them. There was no sign of mingling with the orcs; they merely guarded their own territory.
Thus, the massive encampment along the Velus Riverbank greeted the night in its chaotic, barbaric state.
Across the river, in the massive tree of the forest, Salma and the Yakra Winged Legion gathered atop its thick branches.
They were shrouded in the shadow cast by the enormous tree. Hidden completely in the darkness untouched by torchlight, their red cloaks were folded close to their bodies, and only the metal plates of their helms occasionally reflected faint glimmers.
Salma perched at the branch's end, gazing down at the encampment. His eyes moved slowly, surveying the whole.
The layout of the tents, the positions of the campfires, the movements of the orcs, the number and locations of the guarding orcs.
Nerum approached Salma's side. He moved his wings carefully, making no sound.
"It looks like every orc and minotaur from the Badlands has gathered here."
Bejede chimed in with a low voice.
"I've never seen so many at once. We've always fought them in tribal units."
Salma's beak parted slightly.
"This works out even better. If they were scattered, it'd take ages to hunt them down one by one and slit their throats. But since they've kindly gathered in one place, it saves us the trouble."
At his words, Bejede's beak curved open, a chuckle slipping out.
"That's our Warchief for you. Saying that even while looking at that writhing horde."
Nerum shook his head.
"But the numbers..."
"Numbers? Just kill them all."
Salma pointed at the encampment.
"From what I can see, there must be tens of thousands down there. Hard to tell exactly in the dark, but at least fifty thousand.
The minotaurs are far fewer. Ten thousand at most."
Sebire ruffled his wings once.
"Still, that's too many."
"So what if it's many? Orcs are orcs."
Salma spread his wings.
"Wait here. I'll scout the overall layout and return."
Salma kicked off the branch and soared upward. Rising silently, he gained a full view of the encampment. Tents stretched long along the riverbank, irregular dots of light from campfires, and the shambling movements of orcs between them—all laid bare at a glance.
"This isn't even worthy of being called a camp."
Salma muttered. His gaze traced the encampment's edges. At the northern end, guarding orcs were sparse, with wide gaps between them. The east bordered the forest, where the watch was even sloppier. No campfires, just darkness.
'That's the spot.'
Salma's eyes narrowed.
'Approach from the Sunside(east). Glide low through the forest's darkness—they won't notice. The wind's blowing too, so any sound of our approach will blend into it. Their guards are focused on the river. They're not even glancing toward the woods.'
He looked toward the encampment's center, where the massive tent stood.
'Leave that untouched. This raid's about striking a blow, not annihilation. Hit the outer orcs fast, then pull out quick.'
Salma glanced again at the northern end. A path led from there to the riverbank.
'Take out the ones on that path first, then hit the groups around the campfires. After that, rise before chaos spreads.'
He circled slowly, double-checking the guards' positions. Along the eastern forest edge, three campfires were visible, with three or four orcs each. They held spears but were mostly sitting or chatting.
'Idiotic orcs.'
Salma ascended higher to view the rear of the encampment. Wagons lined up faintly in the distance.
From afar, the wagons were loaded with blood-soaked chunks of meat, smoked beast flesh, rough hide piles, and barrels of liquor.
'Burning all that and escaping would be too much.'
Salma descended back to the branch where the winged legion waited. His talons scraped the bark as he landed.
"But we can't just turn back like this."
Salma looked at his adjutants.
"We can't let them rest easy in this forest."
Bejede's eyes gleamed.
"A raid, then?"
"Yes."
Salma nodded.
"Just give the order."
"Approach from the Sunside. The guard's lax, so limit targets to the outskirts—hit fast and withdraw."
Nerum asked.
"How shall we divide the squads?"
"Nerum, you fly higher than my unit and take the far end. Bejede, handle the forest edge. Sebire, follow behind and cover the watch. I'll take the center."
Salma spread his wings.
"The signal's mine. When I throw my spear, attack in unison, then ascend immediately. Understood?"
"Understood!"
The three adjutants replied in unison.
Salma turned back. The winged legion perched on the branches, their eyes sharp with pre-battle focus. Holding their breath, they were ready to launch at Salma's command.
"Tonight, we plant terror in the orcs. Show them how foolish it is to covet Damu!"
Salma spread his wings wide.
"We move out."
He kicked off the branch and soared. The adjutants followed, and the winged legion surged into the air as one. Yet, they made almost no sound. Their wingbeats were smooth, even the rush of air muffled. In the darkness, they were mere shadows.
Salma skimmed low between the forest trees. Branches passed overhead, leaves brushing his wingtips. But he didn't slow. The Yakra Winged Legion behind him did the same, maintaining perfect formation as they glided through the dark.
*****
As the encampment drew near, campfire light filtered through the leaves, and faint orc voices drifted from somewhere. Salma slowed further, gliding in a gentle descent. With wings spread wide, he rode the currents, sliding forward smoothly.
The encampment's outskirts came into view. Three campfires lined up, orcs seated around them.
They chewed scraps of meat from bones, chattering away. Weapons lay nearby but not in hand.
Salma climbed higher, directly above the encampment. Moonlight was veiled by clouds, only faint starlight shining. He halted his wings, hovering in place. The winged legion behind him stopped too.
They all reached for the spears strapped to their backs, grasping the shafts with manifested hands.
Salma drew his spear. The keenly sharpened tip, on a light yet sturdy shaft, settled steadily in the hand formed behind his cloak.
He looked down. The orcs around the campfires still chattered obliviously. Salma drew the spear back, channeling strength into his grip, then hurled it forward.
The spear sliced through the air, falling silently and swift. Dozens followed in unison.
In the dark, spearheads glinted faintly, then embedded into the orcs around the campfires.
"Uwaaak!!"
A scream erupted as one orc toppled backward, spear through the throat. Another collapsed with chest pierced. An orc by the fire pitched forward, impaled in the back. Dozens more spears rained down, felling several orcs almost simultaneously.
Only mingled screams and ragged breaths lingered briefly before the group by the campfire was obliterated in an instant.
Salma immediately surged vertically upward. With a powerful downbeat of his wings, his body rose swiftly, the winged legion ascending right behind. Once high enough, they slowed and hovered again.
"Yakra Winged Legion! Descend!"
Salma shouted.
He folded his wings and dropped. Twisting his body to build speed, he plummeted toward the encampment's edge. Wind whipped past his helmet, his cloak streaming back, wrapping around him.
As the ground neared, Salma spread his wings. The feather-blades fanned out with a sharp metallic ring.
He skimmed just above the ground, slicing an orc's neck. The sensation of blade through flesh traveled to his wingtip. Blood sprayed, the orc collapsing without a scream.
The winged legion dove behind him. They spread wings, sweeping through the orcs. Feather-blades flashed, severing necks, arms, legs. Spur-blades on talons crushed orc skulls. Screams erupted everywhere.
'The goal isn't annihilation. Sow chaos and withdraw.'
Salma ascended again. Kicking off the ground once, he beat his wings and soared. Circling, he surveyed. The winged legion struck their targets.
The orcs around the campfires, startled by comrades' screams, shoved each other in disarray, unable to pinpoint the attack.
Nerum's squad hit the encampment's far end. Spears rained like arrows, toppling guarding orcs.
Bejede's squad struck the forest edge. Flying low, they slashed orc necks with spur-blades.
Sebire's squad followed Salma's, hurling spears from above before diving in, weaving through the encampment and swiftly cutting down orcs.
The outer encampment plunged into total chaos. Embers from scattered campfires ignited dry grass and tents, small flames rising in spots. Overturned wagons blocked paths, orcs tumbling over them.
Orcs scrambled for weapons, colliding in panic; screams and roars mixed from all sides.
But they couldn't locate the enemy. Spears from the dark, shadows flitting through firelight—orcs lost all sense of direction, failing to respond.
One orc grabbed a horn, raising it to his lips, but a flying spear pierced his throat just before he blew, snapping him backward. The horn slipped from his hand, rolling away uselessly; no alarm sounded.
More orcs, gripped by terror, hid among tents or fled wildly into the forest's dark. But the winged legion didn't let them escape. Tracking from above, they folded wings and dropped straight down, closing distances in instants to fell fleeing orcs one by one.
As Bejede drove his talons deep into an orc's back, the spur-blade split armor seams, rending flesh; the orc screamed and pitched forward. Bejede yanked free with a twist, spreading wings to soar upward, veering toward his next prey.
Nerum's manifested hand moved swiftly, hurling spears at orcs.
The first lodged in an orc's nape scouting a campfire, staggering him. The second pierced a side as another raised a spear toward a winged soldier, dropping him. The third skewered a fleeing orc's leg, pinning it to the ground; he collapsed mid-scream. Confirming three orcs down nearly together, Nerum dipped low, gliding obliquely to shift toward his next target.
Sebire's squad wove between tents, slashing orcs with feather-blades. Wherever they passed, orc necks and shoulders gaped wide, blood spraying; bodies hit the ground.
Salma climbed higher for an overview. The outer encampment was a ruined mess, surviving orcs falling in confusion, chaos spreading further.
Everything was going smoothly. No, too smoothly.
Salma paused mid-motion.
A sense of unease stirred.
The battlefield—orc screams, rising flames, mingled blood scents—seemed fully under control on the surface, but Salma's instincts rang with an inexplicable warning.
'Fine. Time to pull back for today.'
Salma intuited he needed to act before that unease took clearer shape.