Translator: CinderTL
The blazing campfire crackled in the night, its heat causing fat from the roasting whole lamb to drip onto the coals, sending up tiny sparks.
Grum Ironjaw, the old chieftain of this Orc Clan, sat cross-legged on a fur cushion, offering a wooden bowl brimming with Mare Milk Wine to the weary Royal Tent Envoy.
"Drink, brother from afar!"
A hearty smile spread across the old chieftain's rugged face, and the bone ornaments woven into his gray-white braid swayed gently with his movements. "Tell me, how is the war in the south going?"
The Royal Tent Envoy thumped his chest. "It's going splendidly, of course! The Great Chieftain's army has routed the humans, sending them fleeing in terror."
The old chieftain narrowed his eyes, his rough fingers tracing the rim of the wine bowl. "I heard the humans built iron walls and wielded sorcerous weapons that spew fire?"
The envoy suddenly straightened, his eyes blazing with fanaticism. "Ha! Those cowardly humans did indeed resort to tricks, but before the Great Chieftain's mighty army, they were nothing more than laughable parlor games!" He took a long swig of the strong liquor, foam splattering across his beard.
"Just a month ago, our Iron Cavalry swept through three human fortresses!"
The envoy waved his furry arm. "Their firearms hadn't even lit their fuses before they were drowned in our arrow storm! Great Chieftain Abal himself severed the human general's head, and now it hangs from the War Banner of the Chieftain's Tent!"
"And our tribe's young men..." The old chieftain paused, a flicker of barely perceptible softness in his eyes. "When can they come home?"
"Come home? Why would they come home?"
The envoy took the wine bowl and drained it in one gulp.
"Do you want them to return to this grassland where livestock freeze to death in droves every winter and people starve in packs?"
The firelight cast an especially glaring light on the freshly healed wound on his face.
"Besides, the war isn't over yet, Chieftain Grum," the envoy rasped, wiping his mouth. "The Orc Chieftain needs more warriors—I request that your tribe send another fifty brave men."
The laughter of the surrounding tribesmen abruptly ceased, their faces now etched with various expressions.
The young Orcs looked eager, their eyes gleaming with enthusiasm for the call to arms from the Chieftain's Tent.
But the wine bowl in old Chieftain Grum's hand trembled slightly.
"Fifty?" The chieftain's smile was strained. He gestured towards the empty youth tents on the edge of the camp. "But our Tribe has already sent eighty of our finest young men, including both my sons—"
"This is an order from the Chieftain's Tent," the envoy replied.
Seeing the old chieftain fall silent, a shrewd glint flashed in the envoy's eyes. He leaned closer, lowering his voice and speaking with a seductive tone:
"Old Chieftain, how many winters have you lived on this grassland? Forty? Fifty?"
He spread his arms wide, gesturing towards the grass outside the tents. "Your people are still fighting over scraps of grazing land with other Tribes, fretting over a few scrawny sheep. But to the south—"
His voice suddenly rose, filled with incendiary rhetoric. "The land of humans flows with milk and honey! Their granaries are piled higher than snow-capped mountains, and their women have skin as white and soft as goat's milk!"
The young Orcs around them began breathing heavily, their eyes burning with greedy flames.
Seizing the moment, the envoy pulled a silk handkerchief from his pouch—a prize looted from a human merchant caravan.
He deliberately let the cloud-like fabric flutter before the crowd. "Look at this! Even the most ordinary human cloth is softer than our finest hides! Imagine our children wearing such garments, living in warm stone houses..."
The old Chieftain's gaze finally wavered, his rough fingers unconsciously touching the silk.
"The Orc Chieftain has spoken!" The Royal Tent Envoy leaned in, his voice like a viper's hiss. "The tribe that most actively responds to the call will be granted the richest lands. But those who hesitate..." He chuckled. "Will have to settle for whatever scraps are left!"
A young Orc warrior suddenly smashed his drinking bowl and stood up. "I'm sick of watching our livestock starve every winter! I'm going to see what's on the other side of the mountains!"
"Yes! To the south!"
"Kill the humans! Seize their lands!"
The Envoy watched with satisfaction as the crowd erupted. Finally, he patted the old Chieftain's shoulder. "You're a wise man. Think about it: Will your descendants be gnawing on grass roots in this frozen wasteland, or feasting on fresh fruit in human orchards?"
The young Orcs clamored, begging the old Chieftain to let them accompany the envoy. Grum sighed deeply.
The raucous chatter around the campfire abruptly ceased as an Orc stumbled into the camp, his face covered in soot and his voice hoarse. "Fire! The grassland's on fire!"
The old Chieftain sprang to his feet, his cloudy eyes suddenly sharp. He strode out of his tent and looked up—the distant horizon was stained crimson, billowing smoke surged like giant waves, and a fiery line was rapidly closing in on the Orc Clan. The night wind howled, fanning the flames, which devoured the dry grass as sparks rained down like embers.
"Strike the tents! Drive the cattle and sheep! Quickly!" the Chieftain roared, his voice cutting through the panicked cries.
The entire Orc Clan erupted into chaos. Women screamed as they struggled to pull down tent ropes, children stumbled as they clutched lambs, and the elders frantically herded the terrified livestock. The young Orc warriors, abandoning their earlier fervor, scrambled to salvage supplies.
"Those bastards from the forest did it!" an Orc warrior roared. "I saw them set the fire!"
As if deliberately announcing their presence, several agile figures on horseback lingered near the Orc Clan's camp, illuminated by the flickering flames. They wore dark leather armor and moved with the swiftness of phantoms.
One of them glanced back, revealing a human face smeared with black ash beneath their hood. Judging by their build, however, not all of them were human; there were Orcs among them as well.
"What are humans doing here?" The Royal Tent Envoy was both shocked and enraged. He drew his warblade and lunged forward, but the old Chieftain grabbed his arm.
"It's too late!" the old Chieftain gritted his teeth. "Don't risk it!"
Forced to abandon their camp, the entire Orc Clan was driven into hasty migration by the encroaching inferno. Cattle and sheep scattered in the thick smoke, wagons laden with their belongings were consumed by the flames, and the Orcs' fiery zeal for conquest was largely extinguished by the sudden blaze.
The Royal Tent Envoy stared at the human riders disappearing into the fiery horizon, his eyes filled with bewilderment. "How could humans be here? Aren't they all huddled behind the southern city walls?"
Chieftain Grum, while directing his tribesmen to herd the panicked livestock, gasped for breath as he replied, "Brother, those aren't the humans from the south—"
He pointed toward the faint outline of a forest in the northwest. "They emerged from the Lucky Forest."
(End of the Chapter)
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