The river that wound its way through the hills was known as the Black Tongue by the locals—a sluggish, brackish flow that carried the stink of rot and iron. Near its midpoint was a natural bottleneck of jagged rock, narrowing the river's breadth into a ford barely wide enough for three warriors to walk abreast. This was the Broken Current Ford, and it was here that Gorak would make his stand.
The dawn sky was choked with ash-gray clouds, promising rain. Mist drifted across the river like ghost's breath as Gorak crouched behind a low ridge of black stone, flanked by his personal guard of hardened orcs. His obsidian axe sat across his lap, silent, as if it, too, anticipated the slaughter to come.
Drask crept forward, sliding into position beside him. "Scouts report thirty, maybe forty of them. Advance party. Mostly bone-painted savages."
Gorak nodded. "Small enough to break, large enough to send a message."
Below them, on the far side of the ford, Bone-Eater warriors began to emerge. They wore patchwork armor—bone, rusted metal, and human leather stitched into grotesque shapes. Skulls dangled from belts; their weapons were cruel, serrated things.
At their head marched a brute of a half-ogre, tusks cracked and one eye milky white. His rusted cleaver was nearly as tall as a man. By the way the others kept distance around him, Gorak knew this was the squad's leader.
"Signal the others," Gorak whispered.
A sharp birdcall broke the mist. From the brush to the west, Ragla's hunters began moving into place, bows strung and arrows blackened with pitch.
The Bone-Eaters advanced cautiously, weapons out, sniffing the air like carrion beasts. They didn't see the oil-soaked brush lining the trail just before the ford, nor did they spot the narrow trenches hidden beneath woven mats.
Gorak raised his hand. Held it.
The lead warriors stepped onto the ford itself.
"Now."
Ragla's hunters loosed. The first volley wasn't aimed to kill but to startle—to drive the Bone-Eaters forward into the trap. As shrieks rang out and the front rank stumbled, Drask and his squad rose from concealment, flinging torches onto the waiting brush.
Fire roared to life with a hungry crackle, cutting off retreat.
Panic set in.
The Bone-Eaters surged forward into the ford—exactly where Gorak wanted them. The orcish ambush rose from both sides of the path, pikes bristling, axes raised. Gorak himself leapt from his perch, landing heavily before the cleaver-bearing brute.
"Ashfang sends regards," Gorak hissed.
The brute roared, swinging his cleaver in a wide arc. Gorak ducked low, feeling the blade pass over his head by inches. He drove upward, shoulder first, crashing into the larger foe's gut, knocking the wind from him. His obsidian axe arced upward in a brutal, two-handed swing, cleaving deep into the brute's armpit where armor was weakest.
Bone shattered. The brute toppled sideways, roaring defiance even as blood poured from the gash.
"Push them into the water!" Drask bellowed.
The narrowness of the ford betrayed the Bone-Eaters. Pressed from behind by the flames and before by disciplined orcish ranks, they were funneled like cattle. More arrows hissed down, taking those who faltered.
In less than ten minutes, the ford was a butcher's work. Bone-Eater bodies floated in the sluggish current, staining the water a dark crimson.
The cleaver-wielding brute, still alive though barely breathing, tried to rise. Gorak stepped over him.
"Take a message back to your war-chief," he said, and with a brutal blow of his axe, separated the brute's head from his shoulders. "Tell him I'm coming."
A roar rose from the Ashfang warriors—part triumph, part hunger for the war to come.
Ashfang Forces After the Ambush:
Casualties: 7 dead, 15 wounded (mostly minor)
Supplies Gained: Bone-Eater crude weapons, some rusted armor, 6 barrels of salted meat from scavenged packs
Morale: Rising sharply; confidence in Gorak's leadership solidifying
Drask grinned as they surveyed the aftermath. "This will get their attention."
Gorak nodded. "Good. I want their full attention. The Bone-Eaters started this game. I intend to finish it."
And somewhere downriver, Skarn Blackjaw, the Bone-Eater war-chief, would soon hear the first whispers of his doom.
- To be continue...
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Check my other work on webnovel : Lionborn Overlord: Rise of the Abyssal Sovereign