The wind on the grassland swept fine sand across the withered yellow grass. In a beastman tribe, the herdsmen were bending over packing their luggage. Tanned animal hides were tightly bound together, and leather bags containing dried meat were firmly tied. In the distance, the tents had been dismantled down to their skeletons, and dust filled the air.
The rapid hoofbeats approached from afar, causing the ground to tremble slightly. Royal Tent general Amur led a troop of fully armed cavalry at full gallop. They wore heavy leather armor, with sharp scimitars at their waists, and looked menacing.
The cavalry halted in the center of the tribal encampment. Amur dismounted, surveyed the panicked herders, and shouted sternly, "Where is the tribal chief? Bring him to me immediately!"
The orc general's voice echoed through the encampment. The chieftain, who had been directing his people to gather supplies, changed his expression upon hearing the voice. He hurriedly dropped the rope he was holding, quickly straightened his dust-covered sheepskin clothes, and rushed to Amur, bowing respectfully: "So it's Lord Amur! What brings you here?"
Amur sized him up, a cold smile playing on his lips. His gaze swept over the packed luggage and the cattle and sheep ready to be loaded, and his first words were laced with undisguised sarcasm: "Give orders? I'd like to ask you, what are you doing?"
The chief's eyes flickered, not daring to meet Amur's gaze. After a long while, he stammered, "Sir, the nearby pastures... the pastures have been almost completely eaten by livestock, and water and grass are scarce. We are preparing to migrate to the area to the east where the water and grass are abundant, so that the cattle and sheep can rest and recuperate properly."
"Abundant pastures?" Amur suddenly raised his voice, kicking the animal hide bundle beside him, sending it tumbling to the ground. "Do you think I'm a fool?" His eyes turned ferocious. "You're clearly deserting before battle! The warriors of the Royal Tent are fighting valiantly against the Aldor on the front lines, risking their lives to protect this grassland, and you're here cowardly packing your bags and running away! You're nothing but a bunch of cowardly cowards!"
These words struck the chieftain like a hammer blow, turning his face deathly pale. He couldn't utter a single word in defense. The surrounding herders also stopped what they were doing, heads bowed, too afraid to speak. The only sounds in the air were the howling wind and the heavy breathing of the cavalrymen.
Amur suddenly drew his scimitar from his waist. "I'm not going to waste any more words with you! The rest of you can leave, but the young men must stay!" He slammed the scimitar into the ground, sending up a cloud of stone chips. " The Royal Tent has issued an order: all male orcs in the tribe who are fifteen years of age or older must immediately gather their weapons and go into battle with the Royal Tent! Anyone who disobeys will be considered a traitor!"
The conscription order struck the hearts of the orc tribes like a bolt from the blue. A suppressed commotion arose among the crowd, and the orcs' faces instantly turned deathly pale. News of Great Chieftain Abar's repeated defeats and the rout of his main force by the Aldor army had already spread throughout the tribes on the plains. They had seen with their own eyes the emaciated and wounded orc warriors fleeing from the swarm, and they had heard of the Aldor army's formidable firearms. To send them into battle with the Royal Tent now was tantamount to sending them to their deaths.
The tribal chief's lips trembled as he abruptly knelt, his forehead pressed tightly to the sand, his voice utterly humbled: " Lord Amur! I hope you have some mercy!" He raised his head, his wrinkled face filled with pleading. "In my youth, I followed the Royal Tent in countless battles, and the scars on my body are proof of that. But the young men of the tribe are just a bunch of herders, they haven't received any proper military training, and they don't even have decent weapons! Sending them to face the Aldor's army so hastily is like sending them to their deaths! Please, spare the tribe's life!"
"A way out?" Amur roared in fury, kicking the chief to the ground. " The children of Great Prairie are born warriors! War itself is the best training!" He stomped on the chief's chest, roaring down at him, " Aldor's guns are sieves, weeding out the weak; the battlefield is a furnace, forging the strong! Now send them to the battlefield. Those who survive are qualified warriors, and those who die are only fit to be fertilizer for the grasslands!"
The chief, gasping for breath from being trampled, blood trickling from the corner of his mouth, still struggled and pleaded, "My lord... they are still too young, many of them have never even killed anyone..."
"Then let them learn by killing!" Amur's eyes hardened as he gestured to the cavalry behind him. "Drag out all the men in the tribe who are fifteen or older. If they don't have enough weapons, use machetes and stone axes. Assemble and depart in half an hour! Anyone who dares to resist will be killed without mercy!"
The cavalrymen immediately dismounted and charged into the crowd like wolves. The orcs cried and struggled, but dared not resist the fully armed Royal Tent cavalry. Young orcs were forcibly dragged away from their parents, and the cries of women, the pleas of children, and the shouts of cavalrymen mingled together, turning the once peaceful tribal settlement into a hell of despair.
The chief lay prostrate on the ground, tears streaming down his face as he watched his people being forcibly conscripted, but he dared not utter another word. He knew that Amur's words were the ironclad rule of the Royal Tent. In this moment of utter defeat, the Royal Tent needed to use more lives to fill the gaps in the battlefield, and their weak tribes could only become sacrifices in this war.
Dozens of ragged young orcs, armed with rudimentary weapons, were herded into a line, their eyes filled with fear and confusion. Amur mounted his horse, pointed his scimitar eastward: "Go! Go fight for the Great Chieftain, go fight for the Great Prairie!"
...
As Amur led his conscription team back to the Royal Tent camp, he saw from afar a row of orc heads hanging on a tall pole at the camp entrance, black blood dripping down the pole, a gruesome and terrifying sight.
His heart sank. He spurred his horse forward and demanded sharply of the soldiers on guard duty, "What's going on? Whose head is this? Why is it hanging there?"
The soldiers on guard, their expressions grave and still shaken, replied, "Sir, these are the heads of the envoys stationed in the Redstone Desert."
"Envoys?" Amur frowned. "Shouldn't they be stationed in the desert oases, overseeing the subjugated city-states? How did they end up like this?"
The soldiers lowered their voices, a hint of fear in their tone: "They escaped back. It is said that... all the oasis kingdoms of the Redstone Desert have been conquered by Aldor's Sentinel Legion. Some city-states surrendered directly, while others that resisted had their walls breached by the Cannon. Our people simply couldn't hold them off."
"These messengers fled back and reported the defeat to the Great Chieftain. Upon hearing this, the Great Chieftain was furious and rebuked them as incompetent and spineless cowards who could not defend the city and only knew how to desert in the face of battle, disgracing the Royal Tent. He then ordered all the messengers who had fled back to be executed, their heads cut off and hung high as a warning to the entire army."
Amur followed Soldiers ' gaze to the heads, each face bearing the lingering terror and despair of death, while his own expression grew increasingly somber.
I have things to do this weekend, so I won't be updating for the next couple of days.