Chương 117: 117： Starvation and a Desperate Plea for Rescue

Recently, the name 'Soren' had been spreading like wildfire through the swamp. A fiercely protective, absolutely ruthless war-maniac who possessed an unbroken streak of impossible victories. What does a subordinate of a butcher like that have to gain? Risking his life through monster-infested mud just to run here and trick me? Thomas rapidly weighed the possibilities in his mind. In a flash, a layer of cold sweat soaked his back.

If the intel was false, the absolute worst-case scenario was losing a day of production and maybe a few hundred silver coins from the panic of an emergency evacuation. But if it was true, and he remained completely unprepared... Those five hundred blood-red battleaxes would shatter every single building in Lone Cliff to splinters. They would chop every living soul into meat paste and eat them raw! The mere thought of that apocalyptic catastrophe—even if the chance was only one in ten thousand...

"Enough!" Thomas violently shuddered, finally abandoning his hesitation. As a merchant, his instincts drove him toward the ultimate insurance policy. It was infinitely better to believe it than to bet his life against it! SMASH! He slammed his hand so hard onto the mahogany desk that his inkstone flipped over.

"Sound the alarm!" Thomas roared, his face flushing violently red. His previously refined, aristocratic demeanor vanished completely:"Immediately organize the civilians! Evacuate them through the hidden western tunnels into the subterranean caves!" He violently grabbed the guard captain by his collar:"Assemble the entire garrison! Even the cooks holding brooms—throw leather armor on them! Strap them in chainmail!"

"Grip your swords and shields! Form ranks behind the high-ground wooden palisades! Enter highest combat readiness, right now!"

"Go! Go! Go! Get to the cellars! Haul every single stalk of magical herbs and every newly harvested sack of flour onto the wagons! Drag it all into the safehouses! Do not leave a single grain of wheat for those animals!" CLANG! CLANG! CLANG! The sharp, frantic ringing of the bronze alarm bell instantly tore through Lone Cliff's relaxed atmosphere. This was the highest-level invasion alarm, a sound that hadn't echoed in these lands for years. The peaceful settlement instantly plunged into chaos and terror.

Merchants knocked over the stalls they usually guarded with their lives, grabbed their children, and sprinted for the rear. The heavy iron portcullis slammed down with an ear-piercing screech of grinding gears. Every adult male was temporarily conscripted, trembling as they gripped short spears and rushed toward the defensive barricades. Meanwhile. Merely two and a half miles away from Lone Cliff's entrance, at the edge of the toxic forest belt. Crack. Snap.

The sound of boots crushing dead branches began to multiply into a dense, overlapping roar. Piercing through the thick mist, pairs of eyes—as crimson as dripping blood—began to materialize in the gloom. Towering figures, each over two meters tall and completely encased in Blackiron scale armor, silently marched out of the mud. They gripped blood-red, double-bladed battleaxes the size of heavy wooden doors. Garrosh, the Commander of the Bloodaxe Battalion, strode at the very front of the vanguard.

His face looked as though it were forged from raw pig iron, bisected by a gruesome, curled scar. Resting easily on his massive shoulder was a double-bitted battleaxe of terrifying weight, its deep blood-grooves caked with dried, blackened gore. Garrosh was absolutely certain of victory in this raid. To achieve this extreme marching speed, he had ordered his entire force to abandon all logistical wagons and siege equipment. They were carrying only three days' worth of dry rations. It was a massive gamble.

But as long as they could rip open the gates of the human settlement 'Lone Cliff', the soft, sheep-like human civilians inside, the mountains of ale, and the highly valuable alchemical herbs would become the most glorious feast to reward his Bloodaxe butchers.

"Report!" From the dead woods ahead, several highly agile Orc scouts bounded back like wildcats, practically rolling to a stop at Garrosh's feet.

"Commander! The cliff entrance ahead... there's no cooking smoke! No sound of livestock! It's too quiet! It feels like a dead zone!" The corner of Garrosh's eye violently twitched. He kicked aside a massive dead log blocking his path and charged up the moss-covered slope to his right. Taking advantage of a brief clearing in the dense fog, he looked down from the high ground, sweeping his gaze across the entire Lone Cliff basin.

The sight that greeted him instantly flooded the battle-hardened Orc Commander's eyes with bloodshot fury. The basin's market square, which should have been bustling with activity, was completely deserted. The scattered merchant carts were empty; not a single grain of wheat was left behind. But what truly drove Garrosh to despair was the entrance of the basin. Layer upon layer of human anti-cavalry spikes, gleaming with cold metal, had already been fully deployed.

Row after row of human soldiers were hunkered down behind three-man-tall, heavy stone walls. They gripped swords and shields, creating a dense forest of spears. Behind them, archers had already drawn their bowstrings to full tension, their deadly gaze locked directly onto the mountain path. The author's content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. The humans knew they were coming! They had been fully prepared!

In that instant, the boiling rage born of absolute frustration completely drowned out Garrosh's rationality. They had abandoned their supplies. They had force-marched for three days through mud pits swarming with toxic insects and demon crocs. They thought they were descending like gods from the heavens, only to slam face-first into a fully fortified, heavily prepared human garrison!

"Scum! Cowardly human maggots!" Garrosh violently swung his massive battleaxe, cleanly shearing a thick, toxic tree right in half. Amidst the flying splinters, he threw his head back and unleashed a beastly roar:"Throwers! Step up! Let them taste the fury of the Bloodaxes!" BOOM! BOOM! BOOM! A hundred Orcs, their arm muscles thicker than an average man's thighs, stepped forward from the ranks. They unhooked the clasps at their waists, drawing razor-sharp, short-handled throwing axes.

"For the glory of the Bloodaxes! Fight to the death!" Accompanied by a synchronized, deafening roar, a hundred throwing axes tore through the air like a dense swarm of iron hornets. They blanketed the sky, soaring over the wooden palisades and smashing brutally into the interior of Lone Cliff! CRASH! SMASH! The wooden roofs of dozens of houses were instantly pulverized into splinters. Wood and roof tiles exploded outwards, and several empty wooden carts parked in the courtyards were violently chopped into firewood.

Huddled deep inside his reinforced underground bunker, Lone Cliff's Administrator, Thomas, listened to the apocalyptic booming from above, his fat trembling uncontrollably. But as he peeked through the ventilation shaft and saw that almost every single axe had landed harmlessly in the already-evacuated residential zone... cold sweat poured down his back, and he began to rapidly mutter to himself:"Praise the storms! Praise wealth! That madman Lord Soren... his intel was absolutely flawless!"

"If we hadn't evacuated the supplies and hidden in the cellars, Lone Cliff would be a literal slaughterhouse right now!" The fruitless ranged bombardment only lasted for a moment.

"Don't cower! Counterattack! Give them hell!" The Lone Cliff garrison commander sharply seized the opening. SWISH! The heavily entrenched human defenders rapidly executed a perfectly organized counter-volley through the gaps in their shield wall. Arrows shot upward like reverse rain, streaking from the cover at the bottom of the slope straight toward the high ground! Instantly, Garrosh found himself in a devastatingly awkward position.

Because his massive Orc army was currently crammed onto a steep, moss-covered slope, their footing was incredibly treacherous. Worse, they were entirely exposed within the humans' firing arc. Standing on the slick incline, facing a dense volley of arrows fired upward from behind cover, the Orcs had absolutely zero room to maneuver or dodge. Agonized screams rang out. Even with their heavy Blackiron armor, the combination of gravity and the vicious firing angles allowed several arrows to find their marks.

Blackiron Orcs took hits to their thighs and faces, their blood instantly dyeing the muddy slope red. Garrosh wiped the splattered blood from his face. This position was a death trap. If they charged down, they would be skewered on the defensive spikes behind the walls. If they stayed, they were nothing but sitting ducks.

"Cease throwing! Raise shields! All forces, abandon the slope! Fall back and secure the high ground overlooking the basin! Move!" After paying the price of over a dozen minor casualties, the massive Orc phalanx was forced to retreat back into the woods. They rapidly ascended, finally occupying a dominant, elevated position known as Eagle Beak Ridge, which overlooked the Lone Cliff basin. This high ground was surrounded by sheer drop-offs on three sides, accessible only by a single, treacherous mountain path.

It was a flawless defensive position that temporarily prevented the human garrison from advancing an inch. However, the moment they secured their footing, a chilling reality washed over every single Orc. They had absolutely zero supplies. Not a single grain of wheat. Not a single mouthful of clean water. The freezing wind howled across the ridge. Five hundred starving, heavy infantry Orcs leaned against the barren rocks, their eyes slowly filling with restless, desperate agitation. Garrosh knew the truth.

Within two days at most, without food or water, the elite Bloodaxes would completely collapse. He was forced to make a humiliating choice.

"Shaman!" Garrosh violently grabbed the old Voodoo Shaman accompanying the unit.

"Grab a few mounts! If there aren't enough, drain the blood of the wounded! Immediately open a Blood Sacrifice Array! Contact Bloodfang Fortress and request reinforcements!" The thick, nauseating stench of blood quickly saturated the high ground. The old Shaman chanted obscure, sinister incantations. Crimson blood pooled on the stone slabs, forming a twisted magical totem. An eerie, spectral light erupted into the sky, shooting straight toward the distant Orc headquarters.