Sorry for not posting yesterday.
Wings of War: 1 chapter ahead(except 2 more chapter within the next few hours)
Golden Fury: 7 chapters ahead
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The silence that followed the battle was almost as deafening as the roar of combat. Gone was the clang of steel, the screams of the dying, the visceral symphony of violence that had consumed the day. Now, only the groans of the wounded and the soft murmur of prayers for the dead filled the air.
I stood amidst the carnage, my body a tapestry of aches and searing pain, my armor stained crimson with the blood of friend and foe alike. Around me, the courtyard resembled a butcher's yard - a grotesque mosaic of broken bodies, discarded weapons, and the shattered remnants of war.
The stench of blood, thick and cloying, clung to the air, a morbid perfume that would forever be etched in my memory. Even the setting sun, painting the sky in hues of orange and purple, seemed unable to pierce the pall of death that hung over the fortress.
"Commander?" A soft voice, laced with concern, broke through my thoughts. It was Gorthra, her face, usually a canvas of battle paint and grim determination, now pale and drawn. Her left arm, broken during the Gaenadan assault, hung limply at her side, a makeshift splint already bound to it.
"Report," I croaked, my throat raw from shouting orders and choking on smoke.
"We've secured the fortress, Commander," Gorthra said, her voice firm despite her obvious pain. "The remaining Gaenadan dogs are either dead or captured. We've lost many good warriors, but…" she paused, her gaze sweeping over the carnage around us, "but we held."
"We held," I echoed, the words tasting bittersweet on my tongue. Victory, it seemed, was a dish best served cold, seasoned with the ashes of those who had fallen to achieve it.
"Your wounds, Commander," Gorthra said, her voice laced with concern. "They need tending to."
She was right. My body ached with a symphony of pain, a testament to the brutal dance of combat. The adrenaline that had fueled my fury was fading, leaving behind a dull throbbing in its wake. I was vaguely aware of a deep gash on my left shoulder, the scales around it torn and bloodied, and a searing pain in my side where a Gaenadan spear had found its mark.
"Tend to the wounded first," I said, my voice firm despite the tremor in my chest. "I am no stranger to pain. My needs can wait."
Gorthra hesitated, her gaze lingering on my wounds, but she knew better than to question my orders. Not now. Not with so much still to be done.
"As you command, Commander," she said, snapping a salute, her one good arm stiff but unwavering. "I'll have the healers brought to you as soon as they've seen to the most urgent cases."
I nodded curtly, my gaze already scanning the courtyard, my mind racing. The battle might be over, but the war was far from won. We were victorious, yes, but at a terrible cost.
The courtyard, once a place of martial drills and camaraderie, was now a testament to the brutal efficiency of war. The bodies of fallen comrades lay scattered among the enemy dead, their lifeless eyes staring up at the indifferent sky. Orcish women, their faces frozen in masks of pain and defiance, their hands still clutching broken weapons. Each one a life cut short, a story left unfinished.
Grief, sharp and cold, threatened to overwhelm me, but I shoved it down, deep inside, where it joined the ever-growing well of sorrow that threatened to drown me. There would be time for mourning later. Now, duty demanded my attention.
"Gorthra," I called, my voice hoarse but firm. "See to the defenses. The Gaenadan dogs may be routed, but they'll be back. And next time, they'll come in greater numbers, their fury stoked by defeat."
"Aye, Commander," Gorthra said, snapping another salute. "We'll make this fortress a graveyard for any who dare challenge us."
She moved off, barking orders to the surviving soldiers, her limp a constant reminder of the price we had paid for this victory. I watched her go, a surge of pride warring with the gnawing ache in my chest. Gorthra was a good soldier, a loyal lieutenant. She had earned a moment of respite, but duty, it seemed, had other plans.
As the remaining soldiers, their movements weary but purposeful, set about tending to the wounded, dousing fires, and shoring up the defenses, I allowed myself a moment of solitude. Leaning heavily against a wall, still warm from the recent blaze, I surveyed the carnage around me.
The pain from my wounds, a dull throbbing that had been held at bay by adrenaline and duty, surged through me, demanding attention. I winced, my hand instinctively moving to the gash on my shoulder. Beneath my scaled fingers, I felt the sticky warmth of blood, the unsettling sensation of torn flesh.
I had sustained worse injuries and lived to tell the tale. A dragonkin's resilience was legendary, our ability to heal surpassing that of most other races. But even dragons could fall. And this time, I felt a weariness, a deep-seated exhaustion that went beyond the physical.
The clatter of approaching boots interrupted my grim musings. Looking up, I saw two figures approaching. The first was a young Orc, her face still youthful despite the grime of battle, her eyes wide with a mixture of awe and apprehension. In her hands, she carried a bowl of steaming water and a handful of bandages. Behind her strode a taller, more imposing figure.
Her name was Agra, if memory served – a seasoned warrior with a reputation for both her tactical brilliance and her ruthlessness on the battlefield. She was a veteran of countless campaigns, her face a map of scars that spoke of battles fought and won. Her armor, though dusty from the road, bore the distinctive markings of the Drerenth's elite guard, their arrival a testament to the importance of this victory, or perhaps, a sign of how close we had come to defeat.
"Commander Renari," Agra said, her voice gruff but respectful. "Word of your stand at Razorwind Pass reached us as we were marching south. We made haste."
"You were needed elsewhere, Commander Agra," I said, my voice raspy. "The southron borders are vulnerable."
"No more vulnerable than this cursed pass," Agra said, her gaze sweeping over the carnage around us. "You held the line against impossible odds, Commander. You and your warriors have earned the eternal gratitude of the Drerenth."
"Gratitude doesn't bring back the dead," I muttered, my gaze drifting to the bodies that still lay scattered across the courtyard.
Agra nodded, her face grim. "No," she agreed, "it does not. But their sacrifice will buy us time. Time to regroup, time to rebuild, time to make the Gaenadan dogs pay for every drop of Drerenthi blood they have spilled."
She turned to the young Orc beside her. "See to the Commander's wounds, Daga. Tend to them with the reverence they deserve."
"Yes, Commander," Daga squeaked, her eyes wide with a mixture of fear and fascination. She set down the bowl of water and bandages with a clatter, her hands trembling slightly as she approached me.
I watched her for a moment, a flicker of amusement stirring within my weary chest. She was young, barely old enough to have seen the horrors of war firsthand. Yet here she was, tending to my wounds with a solemnity that belied her youthful appearance. It was a stark reminder of the toll this endless conflict was taking on our people, on an entire generation.
"The Gaenadan's will regroup," I said, my voice raspy but firm, drawing Agra's attention back to the matter at hand. Daga, bless her brave heart, flinched at my tone but continued her ministrations with a determined frown. "They'll likely send a larger force to retake this pass. They can't afford to lose this foothold, not with winter approaching."
Agra nodded, her gaze hardening. "They'll come for us with everything they've got. But we'll be ready for them." She gestured towards the battlements, now swarming with Drerenthi soldiers. "Your defenses held remarkably well, Commander. Your engineers deserve high praise."
"They were Orcish women, every one," I said, a flicker of pride warming the chill that had settled in my bones. "They understand the meaning of resilience."
Agra grunted, a flicker of grudging respect in her eyes. "Indeed. Still, we'll need to reinforce these walls, build new defenses. We'll make this pass impregnable. The dogs will break themselves against our might."
"What of supplies?" I asked, my gaze sweeping over the battered fortress. We had repulsed the Gaenadan assault, but at a cost. Our stores were depleted, our armory in dire need of replenishing.
"I've sent word back to High Command," Agra said. "Reinforcements and supplies are already en route. We'll fortify this position and make it a thorn in the Gaenadan's side."
"Good," I said, nodding curtly. "But we cannot afford to be complacent. The Gaenadan commander, she is no fool. She'll have anticipated our reinforcements. She'll be planning her next move even as we speak."
"Then we will anticipate her anticipation," Agra said, a predatory gleam in her eyes. "We will make her doubt her every move, question her every instinct. We will turn her fear against her."
I allowed myself a small smile. Agra, I had always suspected, possessed a mind as sharp as her blade. "Indeed. We will need to anticipate their movements, strike before they strike, and bleed them dry."
Our conversation continued late into the night, our voices a low murmur against the backdrop of Daga's gentle ministrations and the distant sounds of soldiers tending to the wounded. We spoke of troop movements, supply lines, and the unforgiving terrain that would shape the battles to come.
As Daga cleaned my wounds, her touch surprisingly gentle for one so young, I listened to Agra's plans, my mind already strategizing, envisioning the clashes to come. The battle for Razorwind Pass might be over, but the war, I knew, was far from won.
"How long until the reinforcements arrive?" I asked, breaking the silence that had fallen between us. Daga had finished tending to my wounds, binding them with surprising deftness. The herbs she had applied already soothed the burning, a testament to the Orcish healers' knowledge.
Agra consulted a small, leather-bound notebook, her brow furrowed in concentration. "Three days, at best," she replied, her voice grim. "The roads are treacherous this time of year, and the supply wagons move slowly."
"And the Gaenadan?" I pressed, already anticipating her answer.
"Five days, perhaps a week," Agra said, her gaze meeting mine with unwavering intensity. "They'll have to regroup, tend to their own wounded, and bring up fresh troops. They won't be expecting us to be so well-prepared for their next assault."
Five days. It wasn't much, but it was something. Time to shore up our defenses, tend to our wounded, and prepare for the inevitable storm.
"We'll make them pay for every hour," I said, my voice a low growl. The fire of defiance, banked but not extinguished, flickered within me.
Agra nodded curtly, a hint of a smile playing on her lips. "Indeed. We'll make them wish they'd never set foot in the Drerenth."
She stood, her gaze sweeping over the courtyard, now lit by flickering torches and the pale glow of the rising moon. The sounds of hammering and sawing filled the air, a testament to the tireless efforts of the Drerenthi soldiers.
"Get some rest, Commander," Agra said, her voice softening slightly. "You've earned it. We'll speak again at first light."
I nodded, acknowledging her words, though sleep seemed like a distant luxury at that moment. The weight of command, the burden of responsibility for the lives under my care, pressed down on me with a force that no armor could deflect.
As Agra turned to leave, I called out, "Commander?"
She paused, her hand resting on the hilt of her axe, her gaze questioning.
"Thank you," I said, the words unfamiliar on my tongue, yet heartfelt. "For answering our call."
Agra nodded curtly, a rare hint of warmth softening her features. "We fight for the same cause, Commander Renari. For the Drerenth. For the day we drive the Gaenadan dogs back into whatever abyss they crawled from."
With that, she turned and strode away, her silhouette swallowed by the shadows.
I remained seated for a moment longer, my gaze fixed on the flickering flames of a nearby torch, my mind awhirl with plans and possibilities. Five days. We would make them count.
Finally, exhaustion claiming its due, I rose to my feet. My body ached, my wounds throbbed, but I would not give in to weakness. Not now. Not while the fate of the Drerenth hung in the balance.
Turning, I limped towards my quarters, the echoes of battle fading with each step. Sleep, when it finally came, would be a restless thing, haunted by the memories of this day and the shadows of battles yet to come.