CH233 Wildkin Cunning

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Exercitus Alexis had shifted camp closer to Werth. Their banners now fluttered in plain sight of the city walls, a silent declaration to the Wildkin:

We are here!

But despite their close proximity, the humans were in no hurry to begin their assault. On Alex's instructions, the commanders delayed, careful to stretch out preparations without looking suspiciously idle.

To further achieve this, the leaders of Exercitus Alexis sent a bold message to the Orc Chieftain, a proposal to settle the conflict with a Champion Duel, expecting it would eat up more time

Both sides would send forth champions. The victors would decide the fate of Werth, and the greater Kellerman fief.

If the humans won, the Wildkin would withdraw from the city, and back into the Ironmourn Desert. While if the Wildkin triumphed, Exercitus Alexis would retreat from the territory currently under their occupation.

On the surface, it looked like an equitable pact. In truth, it was anything but.

The Regiment Commanders had worded the terms with cunning.

They knew the Wildkin had never meant to hold Werth indefinitely—the raid itself was the goal. Even if they lost and were forced to pull back, the Wildkins wouldn't hold Werth for long anyways before retreating back home into the Ironmourn.

Worse still, the humans had split Exercitus Alexis into three separate contingents. Only one—the "taskforce" currently negotiating—was bound by the proposed oath. Even if that unit lost, the others would be free to continue the campaign.

A clever deception, the kind the commanders prided themselves on when dealing with "uncivilised savages".

The Orc Chieftain, however, had his own traditions. He rejected the idea of a single duel, instead insisting on a series of paired battles:

Five champions from each side.

All under the Veteran rank.

Five duels, fought one by one.

Whichever side claimed the most victories, won the war.

It was not the dramatic spectacle of a one-off death-match, nor the bloody endurance of a king-of-the-ring format. But it was the fairest—and most honourable—choice.

An obvious one, for a people obsessed with glorious battle.

Both armies were given three days to select their champions.

It was time which the humans wanted in the first place so they agreed.

For the Wildkin, the process was complex. Orcs might dominate by strength, but they were not the only race among the coalition. Time would be needed to agree upon who represented them.

For the humans, it was much simpler. Every regiment maintained lists of their finest combatants. The commanders needed only to pick the strongest from across those rosters, then drill them intensively for the duels.

Training began at once. Regiment Commanders poured effort into sharpening their chosen fighters, teaching them new tricks, and refining strategies.

This inevitably caused confidence and morale to swell. The Fury soldiers began to believe victory was assured.

But then—

Something happened that shattered all their careful plans.

The first day passed quietly. Scouts reported that the Wildkin were still competing among themselves to choose their representatives for the duel.

But at midnight, on the eve of the second day, those reports suddenly stopped.

The scouts had just returned to brief the Regiment Commanders—when the alarms sounded.

A Wildkin unit had attacked the Exercitus Alexii camp.

The commanders were stunned. They had never imagined the Wildkin would double-cross them.

They quickly issued order, rushing the troops to arms.

The attackers struck with speed and ferocity—wolf-rider Orcs stroke from below and winged Mantisari diving down from the night sky. The outer ring of the camp was shredded quickly, soldiers cut down in moments.

Yet those deaths bought precious time.

Barrier Mages flung up wards, trapping the Wildkin within, and forcing their charge into narrow funnels.

Only the winged Mantisari bypassed the traps, swooping freely above.

But they didn't go scot free.

The Fury mages and archers filled the air with arrows and spells, riddling the winged Mantisari's bodies until they fell from the sky, screaming into the camp.

On the ground, the funnelled Wildkin found themselves herded into prepared kill zones.

Shieldbearers and Pikemen stood waiting, lines braced behind jagged rows of anti-cavalry spikes and trenches.

The first wave of mounts crashed against the steel teeth, skewered in dozens. The more agile riders—wolf-mounted Orc elites—darted around the spikes, but in doing so they exposed themselves. The long pikes lashed out, gutting beasts and riders alike.

When the spikes finally splintered under the pressure, the Shieldbearers absorbed the charge. Fortunately the hostiles' charge momentum had already been bled away by barriers and spikes; so the flesh wall held.

But not everywhere.

Some of the elite wolf-riders broke through in different sections of the camp, tearing into Fury troops, and leaving bloody gaps in the camp lines.

Hooorn—!

The long, guttural blast of a Wildkin war horn rippled in the air across the battlefield.

And then—the gates of Werth creaked open.

From the city, fresh Wildkin forces poured forth.

The Mage and Archer Regiment Commanders exchanged grim looks.

They were barely holding the fight as it was, grinding down the raiders inch by inch. If those reinforcements joined, the balance would break.

The camp might fall!

There was no choice left.

The Regiment Commanders gave the signal.

From the shadows of the hills around Werth, the hidden human detachments moved.

Two groups under the Warrior Regiment Commander's command surged forward, angling to slam into the flanks of the charging Wildkin. At the same time, the Cavalry Commander's concealed force instead charged towards the open gate itself.

Hooorn—!

At once, the retreat order echoed through the Wildkin ranks. The reinforcements outside Werth abruptly abandoned their kin, turning back toward the city in a surprisingly orderly retreat.

The human cavalry pressed their charge anyway, hoping to cut down some of them before they reached the gates safety. Meanwhile, the Warrior Regiment's hidden detachments gave up their flanking manuoevre, and instead moved to cutting off the Wildkin raiders' escape path from the camp back to the gates.

They wanted to at least crush the raiders who dared assault their force's main camp.

But before the cavalry could close the gap, the air itself shuddered.

A crushing pressure rolled out of Werth.

The Orc Chieftain had stepped onto the city walls.

He stood tall, one massive fist cocked and ready to fire. Just the sight of that raised arm weighed like a mountain on the charging cavalry — a promise of annihilation aimed squarely at them.

"Retreat!"

The Cavalry Regiment Commander's pupils shrank to pinpoints. He gave the order, though his riders were already turning on their own, their instincts screaming at them to flee.

Boom!

The Chieftain struck.

Not once, but twice!

And not at the cavalry as expected.

Bang!

The first blow smashed down on the camp from over five kilometres away, ripping apart the magical barriers that had trapped the raiding Wildkin.

The second fist followed, streaking straight for the Mage regiment.

Prepared defensive wards flared, the array holding for a heartbeat before shattering like glass. The blast hurled men from their feet, but by some miracle, most of the mages survived.

They wasted no time trying to rebuild the camp wards. Instead, every mage scrambled to reinforce their personal shields, desperate for survival.

That single hesitation was all the Wildkin raiders needed. Heeding the prior retreat order, they surged out of the camp in different directions to evade the incoming Fury warriors and fled toward Werth.

Up on the wall, the Orc Chieftain's brow furrowed. His strikes had cleared the way, but his expression soured with dissatisfaction.

Slowly, he raised his fist once more, ready to throw another earth-shaking punch.

But then—he froze.

A gaze fell upon him.

A cold, sharp and suffocating gaze...

The air thickened with electricity, the hairs on his neck standing on end.

This was a true hunter's warning.

His instincts honed for years on the battlefield warned him, if he struck again, he would be struck down in turn.

For a moment, his lips curled in a madman's grin. His eyes blazed with battle lust. He longed to ignore the warning, and instead clash fist with this unknown hunter.

But then reason smothered the fire. His gaze cooled and let his fist drop.

"…Not just yet," he muttered in the Orcish tongue.

As he turned from the wall, the oppressive stare also faded, vanishing as suddenly as it had come.

Shaking his head in regret, the Orc Chieftain walked back into the shadows of Werth.

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