477  Chapter 477

    The wind, biting and cold, whipped across the Lag''ranna Mountains as Khao''khen descended with his Verakh warriors. The moon, a sliver in the inky sky, cast long, skeletal shadows that danced with the swirling snow.

    Behind them, a single, hardy squad remained, cloaked in the mountain''s gloom, tasked with observing the Threian camp and reporting any changes.

    The arrival of the Threian reinforcements, and more specifically, the colossal cannons, had forced a significant recalibration of Khao''khen''s strategy. The previous plan, a slow, harassment, was now no longer viable. Those cannons, monstrous things of metal and fire, posed an unacceptable threat.

    Their range and destructive power were too great a risk to ignore; a single volley could decimate his tightly-packed formations, the very core of his fighting strength.

    Khao''khen, his face grim beneath the fur of his cloak, surveyed the sleeping orcish camp. The silence was heavy, broken only by the creak of the wind and the distant howl of a wolf.

    The addition of the Threian cannons had shifted the balance of power dramatically. He needed a plan, and he needed it quickly. A plan that wouldn''t involve a direct confrontation with those devastating weapons.

    "Warriors of Yohan," Khao''khen''s voice, low and gravelly, cut through the night. "We vacate the camp immediately. Quietly. Efficiently."

    A murmur rippled through the assembled warriors. Confusion flickered in their eyes, but discipline prevailed. They knew their chieftain; his word was law. Questions were for another time. The Verakhs, renowned for their swiftness and stealth, moved with practiced efficiency. They dismantled their makeshift shelters, packed their meager supplies, and melted into the shadows.

    "Drok''tagar must be informed," Khao''khen added, his gaze unwavering. "The Fourth Warband needs to know of this change of plans."

    A swift runner, chosen for his endurance and speed, was dispatched. He would carry the news to Drok''tagar, the Warband Master of the Fourth Warband, across the treacherous rocky terrain. The message was simple: abandon the harassment. Rendezvous with the rest of the Horde .

    "The cannons.... are the problem, aren''t they?" Grunted Maghazz, one of Khao''khen''s most trusted warriors. His face was etched with worry.

    "Yes," Khao''khen confirmed, "those cannons are a death sentence for any of our formation that comes within their range. A direct assault is suicide."

    "So, what is the plan, chieftain?" another Verakh asked, his voice tight with suppressed anxiety.

    "We will not engage them directly," Khao''khen declared. "We will strike at their weakness. Their supply lines. We will harass their rear, cut them off, make them bleed supplies, until they''re forced to retreat or, at the very least, unable to use those cannons effectively."

    But the anticipated response never came. There was no answering roar of fury, no panicked cries, no frantic sounds of an alarm being raised. Only silence. An unnerving, heavy silence that was far more disturbing than the din of battle.

    "Another volley!" Gresham ordered, a knot of unease tightening in his stomach. This was not how it was supposed to go. He had anticipated resistance, a desperate fight, but not this unnerving quiet. This was wrong. This was deeply wrong.

    Again, the cannons roared, shaking the very ground they stood on. Again, the silence remained unbroken. The air hung heavy with the scent of gunpowder and...something else. Something acrid, something faintly sweet, something that sent a chill down Gresham''s spine.

    "Sergeant Odric!" Gresham called out, his voice betraying a hint of the growing unease he felt. "Send out a scouting party. Find out what the devil is going on."

    Sergeant Odric, a seasoned veteran with a perpetually worried brow, saluted crisply. "Aye, sir." He quickly selected four of his most experienced men, whispering quick instructions. The scouts moved out, disappearing into the pre-dawn gloom towards the silent orcish camp.

    "What do you make of it, Sergeant?" Gresham asked, his gaze fixed on the direction of the scouting party. He felt the weight of responsibility pressing down on him. His plan, his strategy, seemed to have fallen apart before it had even begun.

    "I don''t like it, sir," Odric replied, his voice tight with tension. "Too quiet. orcs ain''t known for their quiet retreats."

    Minutes stretched into an eternity. The silence was broken only by the occasional rustle of leaves and the distant call of a bird. Gresham felt a growing sense of dread, a premonition of disaster hanging in the air.

    Then, the scouts returned, their faces pale, their movements jerky and frantic.

    "Sir!" Sergeant Odric''s voice was hoarse. "The... the camp is empty. Completely deserted."

    "Empty?" Gresham''s voice was barely a whisper. The words hung in the air, heavy with disbelief. He looked towards the wrecked remains of the orcish encampment. The cannons had done their work, leaving behind a scene of destruction, yet the orcs were gone.

    A silence fell upon them, a heavier silence than the one which had preceded the assault. This wasn''t the victory he had anticipated. This was...worse. The feeling of unease deepened into a profound sense of dread.

    This unsettling quiet, this sudden, inexplicable desertion—it was a chilling harbinger, a prelude to something far more terrifying. What had happened here? And more importantly, where had the orcs gone?

    The questions hung in the air, unanswered, a terrible weight hanging over the entire army. This wasn''t a victory; this was the beginning of something far more dangerous.

    The enemy was gone, but the threat felt far more palpable than before. The pre-dawn silence now held a far more ominous weight. The silence was broken only by the thump-thump-thump of Gresham''s own heart.