486  Chapter 486

    The air hung thick with the stench of blood and burnt flesh. Deramis, his face streaked with grime and sweat, urged the remaining Threian Marksmen onward. Their lighter gear, a boon now, allowed them a relative speed that their infantry comrades, weighed down by armour, could not match.

    The screams of the fallen echoed behind them, a chilling symphony of agony swallowed by the rustling leaves. He glanced back, seeing the last of his infantry, their heavy plate armour useless against the brutal efficiency of the orcish blades, collapsing under the relentless onslaught.

    "Faster!" Deramis rasped, his voice hoarse from shouting. He risked another glance. The relentless pursuit was thinning, but not stopping. The orcs, a tide of muscles and snarling teeth, pressed relentlessly. Their guttural war cries were a constant, terrifying backdrop to their flight.

    One of the marksmen, Solin, stumbled, catching himself on a low-hanging branch. "Lieutenant," he gasped, his breath ragged. "We can''t..."

    The earth itself seemed scarred, churned and torn by the impact of the colossal iron balls fired from the "Thunder Makers," the three enormous cannons strategically positioned on the opposing mountainside.

    11:22

    "We have to," Deramis interrupted, his gaze fixed on the unrelenting pursuers. "We have to reach the camp. We still have a chance."

    Their escape was a desperate dance amongst the trees, a race against both the orcs and exhaustion. Each shadow held a potential threat, every rustle of leaves a potential sign of their pursuers. The heavy thud of orcish boots on the earth behind them was a grim constant reminder of their precarious position.

    The battlefield lay behind them, a scene of carnage etched into the landscape. The ground was a patchwork of crimson and grey, bodies of both men and orcs strewn across the ravaged earth.

    The earth itself seemed scarred, churned and torn by the impact of the colossal iron balls fired from the "Thunder Makers," the three enormous cannons strategically positioned on the opposing mountainside.

    The effect of the bombardment was devastating. The ground was cratered, the trees splintered and blackened. Where once stood ranks of Threian infantry, now lay only twisted metal and scattered limbs.

    The impact zones of the cannonballs were particularly horrific. The bodies within those zones were not simply killed; they were pulverized, reduced to a grotesque mixture of flesh and bone, a gruesome testament to the power of the powerful weapons.

    In some areas, the ground was still smoldering, a testament to the explosive force of the attack. The air itself, even from a distance, was thick with the metallic tang of blood and the acrid smell of burning flesh. Even the resilient Threian armour lay scattered, twisted and broken, rendered utterly useless by the destructive force.

    Further off, near the wreckage of their formation, Sakh''arran, the battle commander, surveyed the scene. He had seen enough carnage. Their own losses were heavy, too. The three "Thunder Makers" had exacted a heavy toll on both sides.

    The resulting explosions were cataclysmic, ripping apart the cannons and those manning them. Limbs, chunks of metal, and burning debris rained down on the surrounding area, adding to the already horrifying scene.

    The Verakhs, under the command of Khao''khen, continued their assault. They were a relentless tide of savagery, rolling down boulders and throwing more flaming Bufas Fruits, each impact adding to the carnage.

    Khao''khen, despite his grim determination, knew their position was untenable. Outnumbered and outgunned, their only hope lay in inflicting as many casualties as possible before safely retreating.

    The Threian marksmen, their faces contorted with effort, struggled to find targets amidst the chaos. The Verakhs were masters of fleeting movement, appearing only for a fraction of a second to hurl what they have in their hands before disappearing back into the rocky cover.

    Every shot fired from below was a gamble, with a high probability of missing the target. Their carefully aimed volleys ended up either missing entirely, striking the rock face, or, far more often, killing their own men.

    The Threian infantry, meanwhile, faced an insurmountable obstacle in their attempt to scale the mountainside. The continuous barrage of rocks and burning fruits made any advance suicide.

    He felt a cold dread wash over him as he saw the complete annihilation of his company. The carefully prepared defensive line he had meticulously orchestrated was nothing but a pile of charred wood and smoking debris. He thought of Major Gresham, the man who had placed his trust in him. He had failed.

    11:23

    Those brave enough to try found themselves pounded by falling debris, incinerated by the fires, or crushed by boulders. The mountainside became a slaughterhouse, littered with the bodies of those who dared to challenge the Verakhs'' advantageous position.

    Faris watched, his heart heavy with despair. His men were dying, not in a glorious battle, but in a senseless massacre. The meticulously planned defense had crumbled under the weight of a brutal, unforeseen attack.

    He felt a cold dread wash over him as he saw the complete annihilation of his company. The carefully prepared defensive line he had meticulously orchestrated was nothing but a pile of charred wood and smoking debris. He thought of Major Gresham, the man who had placed his trust in him. He had failed.

    Khao''khen, watching the devastation unfold from his vantage point, felt a grim satisfaction. He knew the Verakhs would not survive a head-on clash; their numbers were too few, their weapons lagging behind against their foes.

    But they had achieved their goal, they had inflicted heavy casualties on the enemy. And more importantly, those giant cannons were taken out of commission and would no longer wreak havoc on the other battlefield.

    The setting sun cast long, menacing shadows across the battlefield, painting the scene in hues of blood and fire. The air was thick with the smell of smoke, blood, and the bitter taste of defeat.

    The battle on the Lag''ranna Mountains was far from over, but the outcome seemed certain, as horrifying as it was inescapable. The screams of the dying mingled with the crackle of flames, creating a symphony of destruction that echoed through the unforgiving mountains. The only sound louder than the explosions were the increasingly desperate cries of the Threian soldiers as they met their fiery end.