The Orcish Plains stretched in waves of churned mud and clotted blood, the aftermath of the initial skirmishes turning the soil into a paste that clung to boots, hooves, and the edges of armor. Heat hung heavy in the tropical air, sweat dripping into eyes, mixing with the dust, blood, and grime of battle. Yet even amidst this oppressive atmosphere, the orcish Horde held its discipline.
The horn of Sakh'arran cut sharply across the plains. Its tone was not a call to panic, not a shout of fury, but a command of unyielding authority. Every Yurakk soldier in the retreating warbands recognized it and obeyed instantly.
"Third! Fifth through eighth!" Sakh'arran ordered. "Fall back to the Rakshas! Maintain formation! Step lightly! Shields forward! Blades at the ready!"
