Chapter 16
Chapter 16
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 016
Chapter Title: Supply Battle (2)
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The Mad Tribe was also known as the "Bear Tribe."
They had lorded over the surrounding small and medium tribes by leading warriors said to be as strong as the ferocious North Bears. But today, that history was drawing to a close.
Countless orcs, drawn by the scent of human flesh, had surrounded the village and pounded relentlessly on the stockade day and night.
"Keruk, charge. Slackers. My sword. Kills."
"Gurruk, this time. Definitely. Over the stockade."
Thung, pa-bak.
An arrow bounced off a helmet. A heavy spear thudded into the ground without reaching the orc warrior. Of course, not every shot missed—one in ten hit home.
"Kieek, kiiiieeek."
One orc warrior clutched the arrow embedded in his eye and screamed. Spotting this, an elite orc halted and grabbed the warrior's head.
"Kuruk, hold still. I'll pull it out."
"Kueeek, kueeeek!"
As the arrow came free, dragging eyeball and nerve with it, the orc rolled on the ground shrieking.
"Krrruk, can't fight? Become food."
Thwack.
One axe swing granted mercy.
"Kuruk, charge. Slackers. My sword. Kills."
"Gurruk, gurruk."
The elite orc resumed his march, and the warriors surged past him in a rush. Near the stockade, screams from all races filled the air.
"Gurruk, die."
"Where you aiming? Eat this."
As an orc's axe clashed against a native warrior's shield, a spear thrust from behind pierced the orc. Even if their pain response was slow, a blade in the gut was another matter.
"Kuik, kuuiiik."
"Gailun, if you're hurt, fall back."
"I'm still good. That one landed nice. Keep thrusting."
The native warrior refused to drop his shield, even as blood streamed from his head. But not everyone's spirit held firm.
"Uwaaak."
"Help! Rabaho's down."
"Relief, where's the relief?"
The Mad Tribe fought valiantly, but the prolonged battle had worn them down. The orcs were tired too, but their numbers—nearly three times greater—tipped the scales. As time dragged on, victory tilted toward the orcs.
The situation inside the village was just as dire.
"Shields are running low."
"No stock left. Arrows are gone too."
"Then find substitutes. Rip doors off hinges. Come with me."
"I'll check the hunters' homes. Bound to be some arrows stashed away."
"I'll help."
The village elders dragged their frail bodies into the supply effort, one by one.
"Spears and swords will run out soon. We need countermeasures."
"Every house has obsidian knives. Confiscate them."
"Yes, understood."
"Relief troops are dwindling."
"Call for volunteers."
"But weapons are short."
It was a vicious cycle. Sarmanni Mad, chief of the Mad Tribe, pressed a hand to his forehead.
"Nngh."
Clearly, they held the advantage relying on the stockade.
Yet no matter how many orcs they killed, more kept coming. After each hard-fought victory, reinforcements arrived—equal to or exceeding the slain. The ceaseless battle had now stretched into its fifth day.
Over half of their 300-odd warriors were now combat-ineffective, and supplies teetered on the brink.
The last elder at his side rose.
"Heh heh heh, this is the limit, my friend."
"Nngh."
Sarmanni Mad gazed up at the sky.
The sun still blazed overhead, yet a century of tribal history hung by a thread. Blood trickled from his bitten lip.
"We've lived our span. It's the children that worry me. I'll take one more orc with my last strength."
With a groan, the old elder straightened and swapped his staff for a club studded with obsidian.
"I'll go first. Follow at your pace."
"......"
The elder turned and departed with serene resolve.
The chief watched blankly for a moment, then shook his head fiercely.
Once the warriors fell, nothing remained but to become the orcs' meal. Still, he had to lead his people to the very end.
He issued orders to a messenger.
"Spread the word to the tribe. All who can fight, grab weapons and rally at the stockade."
"......Yes."
The cheers at the stockade faded.
Not from victory or looming defeat, but exhaustion.
"Anyone there? Confiscate every horse in the tribe."
"Yes. Any other orders?"
"Ferry the women and children to foreign tribes. Where's the thinnest part of the orc siege?"
"Even overall, but no orc riders at the south gate."
The chief clapped the warrior's shoulder.
"You're in charge of escort."
"I'll stay to the end. You, Chief..."
"Tohuman, that's an order. Don't waste the time our warriors bought."
"......"
Tohuman, successor to Warrior Captain Yanip commanding the stockade defense, clenched his teeth. As he opened his mouth to respond—
"Uwaaaah!"
A cheer unlike any before—pure elation.
"I'll go check."
"No, together."
The two raced to the stockade, where a report awaited.
"About a hundred cavalry descending from the north. Orc command looks panicked."
"Foreigners. Tell the warriors quick."
"Foreigners! Foreign warriors here to help!"
"Waaah!"
The tide, growing grim, flipped in an instant. Warriors too drained to lift spears threw up both arms in joy.
"We're saved, Chief."
"Father, we're saved!"
Paulina, face caked in sweat and grime, rushed into his arms. Her waist pouch bulged with stones—she'd joined the fight herself. As a father, he wanted to scold her, but held back.
As chief, it deserved praise.
Tohuman suggested eagerly.
"This is our chance. Open the gates and counterattack."
"Not yet. They look road-weary, low on momentum. Stick to the warrior captain's commands."
The chief calmed his excited warriors.
The warrior captain's judgment aligned, as the stockade stayed shut. As orcs retreated in disarray, exhausted warriors slumped against it one by one.
"Evacuate the wounded."
"Tohuman, go help."
"Yes, Chief."
"Paulina, prepare water and food."
"Yes, Father."
Sarmanni glanced at his running daughter, then turned.
As he climbed the stockade, the warrior captain approached.
"The foreign cavalry seemed fatigued, so no counter. I'll take the coward's price after battle."
"Good call."
The chief pointed to the dust cloud ahead.
"They know killing a few orcs now isn't key."
"True, but..."
"Watch. They're just threatening from range. That's enough—we went from dying to living."
As he predicted, Westguard's cavalry lumbered in heavy maneuvers, harassing the orc rear—especially the orc riders—without committing.
Soon, Paulina's water and food arrived.
A blood-and-sweat-smeared warrior dunked his face in a waterskin.
Gulp, gulp.
"Ah, feels like living now."
"Your shoulder okay? Bleeding."
"Gailun's blood. Carried the stubborn bastard when he wouldn't retreat."
"Tch, reckless fool."
"Pass this along. Hey, anyone want some? Wait your turn."
Gulp, gulp.
"Drinking soup like water. Kekeke, spoon here."
Survivors shoulder-to-shoulder bantered over meals.
As they rested, the other side neared its limits.
The cavalry, poised to strike the rear command, veered away as orc riders countered, circling instead. It tired the foe, but them too.
"Haa! Haa!"
Clop, clop.
Cavalry Captain Nil Carpenter's adjutant drew alongside.
"Horses are at their limit."
"Enough for now. Sun's setting—pull back slow."
"Yes."
Westguard's cavalry retreated under orc rider pursuit, ending the day's fight. For the orcs, it was a ripe victory snatched away.
"Camp on that hill ahead. Stay vigilant."
"Yes, I'll set the watch roster."
The cavalry made camp 2km north of the village, trapping the orcs, who shifted east 2km. The camps now formed a triangle standoff.
Late that night, the main force arrived.
"Winded after half a day's ride? Cavalry's impressive."
Dust-caked Brad Cahill dismounted; Nil approached with a report.
"Executed as ordered."
"Casualties?"
"None."
"Good work. Mad Tribe status?"
"Stockade holds, but details unknown. No rash counter suggests command intact."
Nil paused, shrugging.
"Or no force left to commit."
"Some die, some live."
Pat, pat.
Brad dusted off his gauntlets, shedding clinging dirt.
"Night raid now?"
"Beasts like them won't fall to ambushes. Kids are beat dragging supplies—focus on watch."
"Yes, sir."
"Dinner, then my tent."
Meetings don't guarantee wins, but fewer mistakes do. Holding formation amid chaos edges toward victory.
That night, Brad's tent hosted detailed discussions.
Dawn broke next day.
Well-rested soldiers arrayed on the plain, armored head-to-toe in thick leather and plate, joints free.
Brad spoke as always.
"Good work riding these days. Rest short, but orcs battling natives are beat too—plus our cavalry drained 'em yesterday."
The sense of superiority steels troops. He paused, letting them judge.
"No long speeches. Time to show why orcs lose to humans. Full A formation."
"Heard the captain? A formation, shields front."
Heavy Infantry Captain Ray Schumacher formed ranks.
"Pikemen next. You with the spear, what?"
Click-click-click, thud.
Thud, thud, thud.
Soon, two shielded phalanxes stood firm on all sides.
Brad nodded; Ray pointed between stockade and orc camp.
"Good. Sweep the orc scum. Advance."
"Battalions, forward."
Thud-thud.
"No trumpets hurts. Should've bought from the capital caravan last time."
Adjutant Hal replied to Brad's mutter as he trudged along.
"You said flat-out, 'Trumpets are battlefield luxuries.'"
"Eyes wandered to that pure iron ore."
Nil wheeled his mount in.
"Two 75-man phalanxes. No issue commanding sans trumpets."
"Just saying."
Vice Commander Karl Bailyner joined.
"Scouts report: 40-odd orc riders slipped out. Main camp static."
"Orc riders act solo?"
Brad tilted his head, glancing at nearby cavalry.
"Cavalry's last bastion and hammer. For contingencies..."
He trailed off. All had devoted lives to the north. Last night's debates felt pointless.
"Just nagging now. Die with mouth still yapping?"
"Eek, grim."
Adjutant Hal shook his head.
"Don't worry. Explained to the men."
"Right. Anyway."
Brad narrowed his eyes at the orc camp, frowning.
"Never heard orcs use reserves."
"First I saw yesterday. Chilling."
Post-Winter Wave studies abounded, but none noted such orc tactics.
Even lifelong northern fighter Brad found it alien.
"Elite orcs match human intellect."
"Heard that. Rare numbers hinder civilization."
"Meaning..."
Vice Commander Karl's eyes gleamed.
"An orc lord might've appeared."
"No way."
Meanwhile, troops advanced steadily.
"Keep intervals. Shoulder to shoulder."
"One-two, one-two."
They reached midway between natives and orcs—shifted east, swapping yesterday's positions.
"Cavalry forward."
Clop, clop.
Cavalry swung right to left, checking orc riders. Battle began.