Chương 80: 80：The Plundered Smuggling Caravan

Alaric—the Commander of the Royal Griffon Knights! Unlike the Crimson Moon Knights, who had been cast aside to rot in the swamps, Alaric was a true, power-holding noble of the Holy Halycon Empire. He was the son of a Duke! The Holy Halycon Empire was vastly more powerful than the Silvermoon Kingdom. Though Alaric was merely a Duke's son, his standing was only marginally beneath that of a Silvermoon Kingdom prince. But why would the high-and-mighty Alaric transport supplies into this perilous wasteland?

It was precisely because of the treacherous, complex terrain of these borderlands. Alaric was utilizing this perfect natural cover to secretly conduct highly lucrative arms smuggling. To be fair, Alaric didn't trade with the Orcs. His clients were the other surrounding human nations within the alliance. In a twisted sense, this could even be considered "aiding" other human nations in their united front against the Greenskins.

"Gah-hah-hah-hah..." Suddenly, a vulgar, owl-like cackle echoed through the thick fog from all directions. The bearded captain's face drained of color. He violently drew his heavy knight's broadsword.

"Formation! Protect the carriages!" But it was too late! Rumble! CRASH! From the high ridges on both sides, hundreds of massive logs—their bases pre-sawn—barreled down the slopes with devastating, crushing momentum. Accompanied by ear-piercing warcries that rent the air, massive vine nets laced with cruel barbs rained down upon the convoy! Over a hundred rogue Orcs, their bodies covered in grotesque, blood-red tattoos, surged out from every corner of Drybone Heights! They cared nothing for formations.

Some vaulted from three meters up directly onto the carriage guards. Unhinging their fang-filled maws, they bit straight into the humans' necks, violently ripping out chunks of flesh and windpipe!

"Damn it! Greenskins! Loose your arrows! Fire!" The bearded captain cleaved down a Greenskin that lunged at him, only to realize with sheer terror that these Orcs felt no pain! Even with their hands chopped off, they grinned maniacally and used their jagged, exposed arm bones to gouge out their enemies' eyes! Thump! Thump! Thump! The very earth trembled. A towering, three-meter-tall Orc, bulging with grotesque slabs of muscle, stomped toward the convoy, dragging a pair of greataxes the size of wagon wheels.

Draped over his monstrous shoulders was a necklace strung with human fibulas, rattling with a sickly clack-clack in the wind. This was the chieftain of the rogue Orcs of Drybone Heights—Gul!

"Do... do you have any idea who we are?!" Looking at his elite guards, nearly half of whom were already slaughtered, the bearded captain stumbled back two steps in absolute dread. Voice cracking, he invoked his patron's name in a desperate bid to frighten off the marauders.

"The military supplies we're transporting belong to Lord Alaric, Commander of the Royal Griffon Knights!" he shrieked.

"Touch them, and Lord Alaric's iron cavalry will flatten this godforsaken plateau into dust! Back off!" Gul halted his advance. A tyrannical, utterly arrogant glint flashed in his single remaining eye. He picked at an ear crammed with wax, then leaned down to loom over the trembling captain who was putting up a false front of bravado.

"Al-a-ric?" Gul stammered out the name in heavily accented, broken Human tongue. Then, he abruptly straightened up and erupted into deafening, maniacal laughter. Gul shot out his massive left hand. Like an iron vice, his fingers clamped around the bearded captain's skull, effortlessly lifting him off the ground and dangling him in mid-air!

"Bwa-ha-ha! You mean the boss of those Griffon bird-riders who walks around with feathers stuffed in his helmet?" Gul grinned viciously. He ignored the terrified captain kicking his legs frantically in the air and hacking his heavy broadsword against Gul's rock-hard arm. The blade did nothing but leave faint white scratch marks on the Orc's thick hide.

"Do you have any idea who the hell I am? I use Warchief Blackstone's military orders to wipe my own ass! I sliced up my own commanding officer and roasted his meat over a fire! You think I give a shit about some grand commander who hides behind human walls drinking his own piss?" Gul yanked the bearded captain right up to his rancid, foul-smelling maw, spraying spit all over the human's face.

"Since your 'Grand Commander' sent this stuff all the way out here, I'll just consider these weapons his personal tribute to me! I'll be taking it all!" CRACK! With a sickening squelch resembling a watermelon being smashed, the captain's head burst open under the crushing grip of Gul's palm before he could even utter a scream. Gray matter splattered everywhere as Gul casually tossed the headless corpse aside like a broken ragdoll.

Gul stared in sheer excitement at the twelve wagons securely covered with high-quality oilcloth. His nostrils flared, breathing in the rich, coppery scent of the blood pooling from the twitching, dying human guards on the ground. The tale has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation. His solitary eye flushed a dark, violent crimson. Hoisting his massive greataxe high, he unleashed a feral roar at his crazed subordinates:"Strip these wagons clean! Don't leave them a single damn hair!"

"And as for the escorts of this little smuggling operation... boys!" Gul cruelly licked a splatter of brain matter from the corner of his mouth.

"Chop 'em all to pieces! Throw 'em into the big iron cauldrons! Tonight, we feast on every last one of them!" Amidst the psychotic, blood-curdling cheers of the rogue Orcs, a human lieutenant whose legs had been brutally shattered clawed desperately through a mud puddle. But a wide bone machete swung down without an ounce of mercy. The rogue Orcs of Drybone Heights were entirely consumed by the ecstasy of their windfall. Not a single one of them noticed what was happening just a short distance away.

Three hundred paces out, concealed within the dense canopy of a towering dead tree. Completely cloaked in his [Chameleon] camouflage—having regulated his breathing and even lowered his body temperature to match the bark of the tree—Meyer coldly retrieved a piece of charcoal. On a scroll of parchment, he flawlessly mapped out the rogue Orcs' defensive perimeters and sentry distribution. The rain was coming down harder now. Howling winds violently battered the wooden shutters of the command post in Greywater Village.

"We're back." The door to the treehouse was pulled open, and two soaking-wet silhouettes stepped inside. Gary ripped away the muddy vine camouflage wrapped around his face. Stepping in right behind him was a gaunt figure who looked as though he could melt into the shadows at any given moment—his younger brother, Meyer. Meyer didn't utter a single word of nonsense.

He strode swiftly over to the large wooden table, pulled a crumpled sheet of parchment from his waterproof leather pouch, and began sketching rapidly with his charcoal. Guided by his [Memory Replication] talent, it took him a matter of minutes to present a perfectly accurate, three-dimensional topological map of the treacherous mountain peak right before Soren's eyes.

"My Lord, this is Drybone Heights." Meyer pointed to the solitary, towering peak in the center of the parchment, tracing a winding line with his fingertip.

"It is a fortress of nature—impossibly easy to defend and virtually suicidal to attack."

"To access the entire plateau, there is only this single, zig-zagging, precipitous mountain path on the front face."

"The path is incredibly narrow. At its widest choke point, it can only accommodate three heavy infantrymen standing shoulder-to-shoulder."

"Gul and those bastard Greenskins have established four separate blockades rigged with rolling logs and boulders along the route. There isn't an ounce of cover on either side of the cliff." Soren leaned over, planting both hands firmly on the table as his eyes bored into the map.

"Even if a fully equipped Knight Order attempted a frontal uphill assault, without heavy siege weaponry or magical bombardment to soften them up, the casualty rate would be downright atrocious," Soren analyzed.

"A frontal assault means nothing but feeding bodies into a meat grinder." Gary clenched his fists so tightly his knuckles popped.

"My Lord, does this mean we let it go? What about avenging Old Tom and Little Jack?" There wasn't a shred of hesitation in Soren's eyes. He raised his gaze to meet Meyer's.

"I made a promise. No matter the cost, those animals are going to the grave with them."

"Keep going," Soren ordered.

"What else did you uncover on the trail?" Meyer swallowed hard.

"Aside from the terrain, we managed to get an exact headcount of Gul's forces."

"There are exactly two hundred and fifteen rogue Orcs. However, My Lord... just half an hour before we initiated our extraction, Gul came down from the mountain and pulled off a massive heist."

"They ambushed and slaughtered a human smuggling convoy. And not just any convoy—it belonged to Alaric, the Commander of the Royal Griffon Knights of the Holy Halycon Empire!" The moment those words left his mouth, several veteran soldiers listening in on the briefing inhaled sharply, a collective gasp echoing through the command post. The Holy Halycon Empire! The Royal Griffon Knights! Alaric! That was a terrifying behemoth of a faction—one that even the Silvermoon Kingdom tread carefully around!

To rob the smuggling routes of someone of that magnitude? These rogue Orcs were nothing but a pack of lawless, rabid dogs! Soren's eyes narrowed dangerously. Alaric's contraband had been seized. What did that mean? As a second-generation imperial noble and a commander wielding immense military authority, having his illicit goods plundered and his men slaughtered by a rabble of rogue Orcs wasn't merely a financial loss. It was a vicious slap to his face—his pride had been torn off and trampled into the mud!

Alaric would absolutely stop at nothing to save face. He would undoubtedly mobilize a massive army to completely eradicate Drybone Heights.