Chapter 9: The Ladened Caravan Of War
General Thorgar Ironhide stood at the helm of the war platform, his battle-hardened frame unwavering as he surveyed the endless ash dunes of the Burnt Sea. The rumble of the platform’s engine reverberated through his bones, a familiar sensation that brought him comfort. Ash drifted in choking clouds across the horizon, piling high into mountains of dust that shifted with the wind. Beneath the thick grey haze, his convoy lumbered forward—a vast swarm of war platforms, each heaving with the mass of the orcs perched atop it and the weight of their world’s future.
The air reeked of metal, sweat, and blood, and Thorgar welcomed it. This was his domain, where the strong survived and the weak perished. His kin, the orcs, were warriors, bred for battle and forged in the fire of conflict. They were the instruments of war, and Thorgar was their master.
Behind him trailed a hundred such platforms, each carrying a precious cargo of seeds. Each package, just a couple of barrels, held the key to their survival - their worth measured in the blood of hundreds of thousands of lives lost and the tears of countless lives yet to be saved.
On the horizon, Thorgar could see the dark figures of monsters cresting the ash dunes—slithering horrors, clawed abominations, and things that seemed scarcely possible, with limbs twisted and eyes that glowed with malevolent hunger. Boney spiders the size of war horses scuttled forward on brittle legs, and packs of fanged hounds, flesh hanging in strips from their faces, charged with guttural howls. He sneered. Each wave of beasts brought new shapes and horrors, the forces of nature clawing for his convoy, desperate to rip the seeds from their hands.
The orc shamans stationed atop the platforms raised their staffs and arms, channeling their magic to slow the onslaught, walls of packed ash surging upward and holding for only moments before the creatures smashed through. And from above, the dragon riders and wyvern riders plummeted in swooping strikes, flame and talon tearing through beast flesh in deadly arcs. The creatures fell in heaps, bodies tumbling back into the ash, but still more came, a rising tide of claws and fangs.
And so from each of those platforms, waves of orcs leapt from the caravan decks, their descents slowed by shamanic spells as they hurtled down to meet the clawed, scaled, and fanged monsters clawing up from the earth.
Thorgar watched them fall—warriors plunging into the fray like drops of rain into a stormy sea. He admired the courage of his kin, though he took no comfort in the staggering loss they’d endured. They were warriors, yes, but expendable all the same. And in Thorgar's eyes, only the strong were meant to survive this trial.
In the distance, a particularly ferocious beast—a twisted amalgamation of scales and eyes, its limbs writhing with barbed tentacles—burst through the ashen wall, trampling an orc with sickening ease. A wyvern rider swooped in, loosing a torrent of flame that sent the creature stumbling back, thrashing in flames as it screeched.
Beside him, his assistant, Ghorna, a grizzled warrior with eyes like chipped flint, cleared her throat. “General,” she said in her familiar rasp. “We’re halfway to the elven line, but we’ve lost more than three-quarters of the force. Barely fifteen thousand still fight.”
Thorgar grunted, folding his massive arms across his chest. “Then Kaelos has favored us with a culling. Those who remain are the best. We will hold. We must.” He squinted at the horizon, where clouds churned in ominous shades, masking their destination.
Ghorna nodded, but her eyes flickered with uncertainty. She was unshakeable, or as close to it as anyone dared to be in his presence, but even she couldn’t hide the shadow of doubt. Thorgar noticed but said nothing; no words would change what waited ahead.
“How is the steam engine holding?” he asked.
Ghorna turned to a young orc hunched over the communication runes, his left arm scarred and blackened from some past miscalculation with essence crystals. She muttered something in his ear, and he immediately set to tapping the runes, fingers dancing with practiced haste. Moments passed as they waited, the silence broken only by the rumble of the platform and the distant screams of orcs and beasts.
Then the runes flashed, dimming and glowing with no discernible rhythm, and after a long moment, they stilled.
“Engineers report the new alloy is holding,” he relayed, relief slipping into his otherwise rigid tone. “Efficiency is better than we thought. We still have a surplus of essence crystals.”
Stolen from Royal Road, this story should be reported if encountered on Amazon.
Thorgar’s lips twisted into a grim smile. Perhaps the engineers have earned their keep after all.
“Good. Send word to all caravans. Double speed until the engines overheat. Let every wheel scream.”
The young orc nodded, tapping at the runes once more. Thorgar felt the platform lurch beneath him as the caravan quickened, gears grinding in protest but holding firm. The heat rose in waves from the deck, and he took a deep breath, relishing the burn in his lungs. Blood and iron—the scents of home, the scents of war. His mind cleared, his muscles tensed, and he could feel his bloodlust rise, creeping into his chest like an old companion.
“Fetch me a crossbow,” he barked, wanting a weapon he could wield from the platform to thin the horde below. He’d rarely needed weapons beyond his own fists, but today…
His order died on his lips. Ahead of them loomed something that defied explanation—a monstrous form so vast it blotted out the dull sun above. It crawled, vast and slow, from an unseen crevice in the land, rising taller than any platform, a twisted mass of writhing limbs and bulbous eyes. The creature seemed not of flesh or bone but of some sickly amalgam of stone, its limbs pulsing with unholy energy. It was a Ruin Beast, a legend among monsters, a being summoned only in the darkest tales of terror, and now it lay directly in the path of the convoy.
For a moment, a flicker of awe stirred in Thorgar’s chest. The thing was a nightmare given form, its many eyes rolling lazily over the platforms, as if already savoring the blood it would spill. Its limbs, like spindled trees of molten rock, dug into the ashen ground, splitting the earth with each movement.
But awe turned quickly to rage. It dared to stand in his way. My way, he thought, his fists tightening as he watched the creature.
“Belay the crossbow,” he growled. He straightened, his gaze fixed on the abomination, its massive maw yawning wide enough to swallow an orc whole, revealing row upon row of serrated teeth that dripped a vile, steaming ichor. Thorgar’s pulse quickened, excitement and fury flooding him in equal measure.
“Shamans!” he bellowed, his voice echoing across the platform. “Prepare your spells! I’m going in!”
He turned to Ghorna, his eyes alight with an energy only bloodshed could bring. “Alert the dragon riders and wyvern riders. They’re to follow me.”
“Sir?” Ghorna hesitated, and for a brief second, her composure cracked. The Ruin Beast was no ordinary foe; it was the kind of creature that made legends, or crushed them.
“You’ll take command here,” Thorgar said, voice steady and final. "The caravan is yours. I expect it to hold, or I’ll hold you accountable.”
Ghorna dipped her head in solemn acknowledgment, and as he turned away, he knew she’d understood. There was no return from an order like this one. He’d either bring that ruinous beast low or be added to its twisted collection of prey.
He strode to the edge of the platform, the heat from the engine coiling around him like a shroud. He could feel the shamanic energies building beneath him, air bending to their will in preparation for his leap. He took one last look at the beast, at the whirling mass of flesh and stone, the ruinous form that seemed almost to revel in its own monstrosity.
A thin smile pulled at his lips. Let them break against me. If they seek war, I shall answer with iron and blood.
With a roar, Thorgar leapt from the platform, and the shamans’ power surged around him, hurling him through the air, propelling him like a javelin toward the Ruin Beast. Wind roared in his ears as he descended.
He let his mind enter him, enter the communal essence pool shared by most orcs. Allowed it to draw the essence into his body, reinforcing every bone, every muscle, every thought. He let the essence collect in his fist, even as the ground raced up to meet him.
The ground was a mere dozen feet away when he felt shamans’ magic take hold. Propelling him forward, faster, faster, toward the Ruin Beast. Behind him, the dragon riders soared, wingbeats filling the air as they swept after him, weaving through the smoke and flames, their talons glinting in the hazy light.
The Ruin Beast turned its baleful gaze upon him as he closed the distance. It loosed a screech that reverberated across the battlefield, shaking the earth itself. Thorgar gritted his teeth and bared his fists, muscles taut, his whole body coiled in anticipation.
“Come then,” he growled, the words torn from him in a snarl.
He hit the beast with the force of a meteor, his fist a hammer against the writhing, stony mass. The essence detonated, a shockwave of pure force radiating outwards, spiderwebbing cracks across the monster's hide.
The impact sent the behemoth hurtling through the ashen landscape, plowing through dunes and skipping across fissures in the ashen earth, a trail of pulverized ash marking its path.
Thorgar felt the bones in his hand splinter and shatter, but he felt no pain. For General Thorgar Ironhide was the Right Hand of High Chief Garrok, the Shield of Kaelos. Pain was a triviality. No beast, no human, no force of nature would stand in his way.