Rise of the Horde

Despite being outnumbered, the Ereian defenders proved to be formidable opponents against the horde. With their ample supply of oil, they strategically set fire to the ladders propped against the walls, engulfing both structures and soldiers in blazing flames. The city walls were transformed into a fiery battleground, devouring everything in its path.

The flames danced like malevolent spirits, licking at the wooden ladders, turning them into pyres.

Orcish bodies, singed and blackened, clung to the smoldering rungs. Their roars, raw and guttural, rose above the crackle of the fire, a testament to their unyielding ferocity.

Among the defenders on the ramparts, the sight of the orcs braving the inferno ignited a storm of conflicting emotions. Fear, cold and primal, gripped their hearts, a whisper of doubt that slithered through their ranks.

Aedan, an experienced archer with a scar that ran from his brow to his chin, felt the tremor in his hand as he notched another arrow. He had witnessed before the aftermath of orcish fury when he was younger, the blood-soaked fields and the charred bones.

"By the sands, they're insane," whispered a young officer barely past his teens, his voice laced with awe and dread. He gripped his sword, the iron's coldness against his palm, his breath quickening.

"Don't let them scare you," Aedan said, his voice steady despite the tremor in his hand. "They just have more vitality, but they are not immune to the flames. Remember that if it bleeds, it dies."

Aedan's words, though meant to inspire, held an undercurrent of fear. He had witnessed the orcs' savagery, their unrelenting rage.

The sight of them now, their burning forms scaling the ladders to get to them, was a testament to the terrifying resilience of their kind. They were like a tide, relentless and unstoppable, seemingly fueled by a madness that defied understanding.

"Seems like you are mistaken, Aedan," whispered the young officer, his eyes fixated on the burning figure of an orc who was clawing his way up a ladder, his arm ablaze. "Look at them. They don't even flinch from the fire."

Aedan felt the chill of doubt creeping into his heart. His hand, normally steady as a rock, now trembled as he gripped his bow. He had to fight, to protect his home, his family, but the sight of the orcs' defiance, their willingness to embrace the flames, was unsettling. He saw not mere ferocity, but a desperate, fanatical drive that bordered on the supernatural.

He met the young man's gaze, his eyes reflecting the firelight. "What are we to do," he murmured, a hint of fear creeping into his voice, "The reinforcements from the palace are yet to arrive."

The fiery inferno, a twisting, animated force, devoured the last rung of the ladder. It tumbled down, a charred framework, into the fiery inferno below. The orcs, their attack punctuated by a savage, guttural scream, wavered.

"No more ladders!" a voice, sharp with fear roared. The defenders cheered after seeing the last of the ladders collapse.

An orc, his face streaked with sweat and grime, glared at the burning timbers. "What do we do?"

Another orc, his armor charred and smoking, spoke in a ragged whisper. "We…we can't reach the walls." The orcs, their guttural battle cries now choked by the fumes of burning wood and flesh, retreated.

Their frenzied assault, driven by an insatiable thirst for blood that ran deep in their heritage, had been thwarted by the barrier of flames. They staggered back, their eyes burning, their skin blistered and raw. The heat warped the air, making each breath a searing agony.

A collective gasp rippled through the defenders atop the wall. Their faces, grim with exhaustion and sweat, slowly relaxed into a semblance of relief. The weight of the impending doom, a monstrous cloud of fear that had choked their throats and constricted their hearts, seemed to lift, replaced by a fragile, shimmering hope.

Among them, a young man gripped the rough-hewn stone of the parapet, his knuckles white, his breath ragged. His heart hammered against his ribs, a frantic drumbeat against the backdrop of the roaring fire. The battle had been a maelstrom of chaos, a swirling vortex of noise and fury. He had seen his comrades fall, their blood painting a crimson stain on the worn stones of the wall. He had tasted fear, the bitter, metallic tang of it, but had swallowed it down, forcing himself to stand firm, to fight alongside his comrades.

He looked down at the burning ladder, at the charred corpses of the fallen orcs, their eyes still wide with the unyielding fury of death. He looked at the faces of the defenders, their features etched with exhaustion and fear. They were ragged, broken, their armor dented and stained with the grime of battle. But they were still standing, their backs to the wall, their weapons clutched tight in their hands. They were alive, they were defiant.

The young man's eyes, bloodshot and weary, scanned the battlements, taking in the destruction and the resolve etched on the faces of his fellow defenders. A sense of pride and determination swelled within him, mingling with the acrid smoke that hung heavy in the air.

Though they had held off the orcish horde, the battle was far from over. The defenders knew that their respite would be fleeting, and the enemy would return with renewed ferocity.

Aedan, his voice gravelly and worn, spoke with the weight of experience. "We've earned a moment's peace, but we cannot let our guard down. The orcs will regroup, and their thirst for blood will only grow. We must ready ourselves for the next wave." The young officer, his awe now tempered by the reality of war, nodded, his grip tightening on his sword.

The defenders, a ragtag group of soldiers and citizens, prepared as best they could, knowing their fate hung in the balance. The air crackled with anticipation, the heat of the flames now a familiar companion. The defenders' eyes darted between the burning wreckage below and the distant figures of the orcs, who were heading towards their camp. The silence was heavy, broken only by the occasional hiss of burning wood and the sound of agony from the wounded.

*****

The sun, a fiery disc sinking below the horizon, cast long shadows across the endless line of wagons. They stretched eastward, a serpentine ribbon of lumber against the canvas of the setting sun. Each wagon, laden with logs thick as men's torsos, groaned beneath its burden, the weight of wood echoing the weight of the coming storm.

Baron Ragab, perched upon a craggy hill overlooking the procession, traced the line with his gaze. It was an impressive sight, a testament to the support Adhalia had from her people .

The wood was not merely fuel for campfires or building materials; it was the sinews of war. It was the backbone of the siege engines Khao'khen envisioned, engines that would batter the gates of the capital and bring the city to its knees. Yet, beneath the satisfaction of the sight, a flicker of unease danced in the baron's heart. The wood, though plentiful, was not inexhaustible. He knew that wood was a scarce resource in the Burning Sands and the main source of wood that supplies the kingdom was from the lands to the east that was beyond their borders.

*****

As the sun surrendered to the night, a new threat emerged within the city's walls. The demoness's minions, shrouded in darkness, began their sinister work.

Unbeknownst to the queen and her sisters, who stood resolute in the face of this unseen danger, a shadowy figure had been lurking in the shadows, tracking their every move. The air crackled with anticipation, the heat of the flames now a distant memory as the chilly night breeze whispered through the streets.

The queen, her features illuminated by the flickering torchlight, exuded an aura of unwavering determination. Her sisters, a force to be reckoned with, stood by her side, their weapons drawn, ready to face whatever lurked in the darkness.

The city, bathed in the eerie glow of the moon, held its breath, awaiting the outcome of this confrontation. Among the twisting alleyways and shadowy corners, the minions of the demoness slithered and skulked, their malicious intent palpable. Their mistress's command echoed in their minds, driving them forward with relentless purpose.

The moon rose higher, a pale specter in the night sky, casting an ethereal light upon the city. The defenders, their faces illuminated by the moon's glow, stood vigilant, their weapons at the ready.

The air was thick with anticipation, the silence broken only by the distant, mournful howl of a dog. Each man's breath formed cloudy puffs in the chill air as they scanned the shadows for any sign of movement.

Beyond the walls, the orcs were just waiting for the chieftain's orders, all of them raring to have a go at the defenders. The firelight from their camp flickered, casting dancing shadows that mocked the defenders' uneasy vigil.