Reed Riverbank. After last night's heavy snowfall, the snow lay a meter deep, weighing the pine needles down until they drooped.
A northern elk gingerly padded across the snow, skirting the edge of the pinewood, lowering its head to nudge aside the crust with its nose, searching for any moss or tender shoots beneath.
Its moist black nose sprayed white breath as it chewed on withered yellow grass, ears swiveling alertly to catch any odd sounds in the trees.
Suddenly it seemed to sense something. It lifted its head and glanced at a dense shrub half-buried in snow not far away, amber eyes flashing with a thread of wariness.
But the bushes were still. The elk waited a moment, found nothing threatening, lowered its head, resumed grazing, then plodded off through deeper woods.
Once the elk disappeared, the shrub that had seemed so calm emitted a low, hushed voice: “There are still elk tracks here... those orcs haven't broken through the snow curtain to the south yet.”
The voice came from two savages crouched in the snow. When the elk left, they poked their heads out from the bushes.
One was hulking, named Kager. He had the broad frame and thick limbs typical of savages, his exposed skin a reddish-brown, full of wind-and-sun marks and tiny frostbite scars.
The other was leaner, but his gaze was sharper. His name was Morock, the keenest tracker in the tribe.
Kager brushed the drifting snow off the ice with thick leather-gloved hands, exposing the solid layer beneath. He examined the surface carefully for any tracks or scratches that didn't belong to animals, then pricked his ear to listen for the water flowing under the ice.
“The ice is thick. No new marks,” Kager whispered. “Those orc scouts haven't reached here.”
In summer, the tribe had followed the Slime Envoys through the dangerous snow curtain and left the bitter coldlands where the orcs were pressing in.
With the “engineers” sent by the Slime Kingdom, they built a hidden savage fortress deep in this northernmost kingdom pinewood.
The snow forest became their new home, and this place was also the kingdom’s northern outpost. Their task was to garrison here, monitor northern movements, be wary of large-scale orc southward pushes, and guard the land that had just given them peace.
In past years, when an orc horde moved south through the snow curtain, a sizeable contingent would often split off and take the frozen Reed River as a route south, pillaging everything along the way until they reached the warmer Dark Realm.
Where the orc horde passed, it was like a plague of locusts; nothing living remained—elk, snow rabbits, and any unlucky humans or savage tribes were devoured.
They ate whatever they could, carried away what they could, burned what they couldn’t take. So if an elk could still graze here leisurely, it at least meant no large orc horde had reached this area yet.
Having confirmed temporary safety, the two men relaxed some of their taut nerves. They retreated to the lee of the shrubs, slipping into a simple observation hide made of branches and animal hides.
“This damned weather, somehow colder than the open plains,” Kager muttered, rubbing his nearly numb hands and blowing warm breath into his palms.
He unfastened the animal-hide waterskin at his waist and took a small sip of barley wine brought up from the southern kingdom. The spicy liquid warmed his body.
Morock took the waterskin, drank a little, then wiped his mouth and smiled: “Cold is cold, but at least we don't have to fight wolves for a scrap or worry about being eaten by orcs like before.”
As they enjoyed a rare idle moment, they produced the moss monster smoked jerky they carried, preparing to settle their meal for the day.
The smoked jerky came from the kingdom's swamp farms; in both texture and flavor it was vastly superior to the tree bark the tribe used to gnaw on. The dried fat provided enough calories to last them through the cold.
After eating, they both cupped the rations in their hands, facing south, closing their eyes, lips moving as they prayed aloud, devoutly.
“Thank the grace of Morock's spirit, thank His Majesty's benevolence, for letting you eat your fill, protect our homes...”
It was a common tribal custom: food was the most precious thing. Praying after a full belly was a way to show sincere faith.
Benevolent Morock His Majesty had provided them with winter clothes and food rations enough to survive; no one would starve or shiver in cold any longer.
They no longer needed to kill one another for a bite, or shiver through the cold night waiting for dawn.
For these savages who had once struggled to survive on the plains, the Slime Kingdom had given not only safe shelter and food but a hope for a better life.
When the Envoys had guided the whole tribe safely through the snow, bringing them to the verdant land their ancestors had dreamed of, no savage would forget that green expanse and the warm breath of the place.
Their devotion was genuine; their piety born from hope. It mattered far more than any primitive superstition.
After the prayer, the two began tearing into the moss monster jerky. Morock chewed and sighed: “I never dreamed we'd one day be warm and full, and have real things to do...”
“I heard a few strong young lads in the tribe did well and were chosen by His Majesty to join some Northern Knights’ training?” Kager nodded with envy. “Yeah, the reserve training for the Northern Knights.”
“That’s the real royal army, wearing shiny armor, learning to ride and fight... if only I were ten years younger...”
They murmured about everyday things, their words full of awe at the new life.
Before they finished the jerky, Morock seemed to sense something. He signaled Kager to lower himself and the two melted back into the shrub shadows, holding their breath.
Across the bank, several tall, burly figures stepped soundlessly out of the snowy woods.
They wore filthy animal hides and tattered scraps of metal, gripping stone axes or bone clubs, searching the area.
Orc scouts.
The two exchanged a quiet look.
The orc scouts were clearly cautious. They did not immediately cross the river but paced along the bank, striking the ice with their weapons as if testing its thickness.
One particularly large orc stomped hard; the ice gave a muffled “thud” but did not crack.
Kager and Morock realized at once that the orc horde had indeed moved south, and it looked like they intended to cross via the frozen river.
Once the scouts seemed convinced the ice could bear them, they nodded and slunk back into the woods, vanishing.
Kager hissed, “I’ll go back and warn them. You stay and keep watching. See how many there are and what banners they carry. Be careful, don’t get discovered.”
Morock nodded.
There was no time to hide traces. Kager dashed off using bushes and terrain for cover toward the fortress.
Morock stayed low, flattened himself among the shrubs, and kept his gaze fixed on the opposite bank.
About half an hour later, the sound of footsteps grew closer. Frost wolf-mounted orc cavalry burst from the opposite woods and onto the frozen river.
They were followed by hordes of orc infantry, poorly equipped but astonishing in number, swamping the ice like a tide of green.
They lugged crude packs; some herded a few captured livestock. Boisterous shouts and rough jeers shattered the forest's silence.
The frost wolves were about the size of calves, covered in thick gray-white fur. Their keen noses constantly sniffed the air and ground, low whining sounds rumbling from their throats.
Morock's heart pounded in his chest. He forced himself to stay calm and studied the orc horde closely.
He noticed the crude hide banners bore totems: a frost-covered skull, a blood-dripping battle axe, a roaring bear head.
They represented the three tribes of the plains: the Frostbone Tribe, the Blood Axe Tribe, and the Split Bear Tribe.
The three major orc tribes of the plains had united and marched south. That was unusual; in past years they fought separately and often raided one another.
What made Morock even more anxious was a familiar figure at the front of the Frostbone ranks—Groln, Skullcrusher.
Compared to summer, a scar now slashed from his forehead to his jaw. He wore a bear-skin cloak and carried a heavy battle axe.
This was the orc who had been scared off by the Envoys last summer. He had returned, and this time it was clearly for revenge.
Morock saw a frost wolf twitch its nose toward where he hid, its pale blue eyes sweeping over the bushes.
His heart tightened. He dared not look longer and quietly retreated, melting into the depths of the pinewood.
...
Groln plodded across the ice, nostrils steaming, eyes sweeping the snow-covered woods. He paused where Morock had just been hiding, then moved on.
Beside him, Kaga of the Blood Axe Tribe split his lips in a grin: “This woods don't look to have much worth hunting. Haven't seen a fat deer.”
On the other side, Urg of the Split Bear Tribe harrumphed: “This cursed place is colder than the plains. Last night my fur mat froze solid. Get to the southern warmth sooner, there's enough to eat down there.”
Groln snorted, “Don't forget those slimes.”
Kaga laughed: “Slimes? Those things you can crush with one stomp. Harder to deal with than the castle-dwelling vampires?”
The surrounding orcs guffawed.
Only Groln did not laugh.
He could not forget the strange slime they encountered on the plains last summer... it looked harmless, yet it had left him dizzy, limbs unresponsive, as if his very spirit had been yanked.
Although they had retreated safely, that eerie feeling lingered.
Those slimes were not as simple as they seemed.
But with an orc horde behind him, his confidence was higher.
Even though the main forces had moved further south to the Storm Territory, Groln believed that with his several hundred fierce warriors, frost wolf cavalry, and numerous rabble, they could crush anything in their path—including that so-called Slime Kingdom and the savages who had betrayed him.
“Search both sides of the wood thoroughly. Leave no oddity unchecked. See if any game left tracks.”
On the three’s orders, orc soldiers split into squads and scattered through the woods to begin a rough search.
Soon an orc soldier found the place where Morock and his companion had hidden earlier.
“Lord Groln, there's something here!” the orc shouted.
Groln strode over, shoved the soldier aside, and sniffed forcefully at the spot where Morock had hidden.
“Savages... the scent of rats,” he growled.
He lifted his head, eyes cruel as they swept the empty fortress and the obvious traces of an evacuation. The feeling of having been toyed with by rats irritated him.
“They ran fast...”
He rose and looked toward the direction of the savages' retreat.
“Chase them down. I want the skulls of those rats to be used as wine flasks.”
...
On the other side, when Morock returned to the fortress gasping, the scene before him eased him slightly.
After Kager had run back with the warning, the tribe had quickly packed and were orderly retreating along the secret path behind the fortress; most of the fortress was already empty.
They had lived for generations with the orcs on the plains and knew their terror well. This crude fortress could not withstand the savage onslaught.
The frost wolves' noses were too keen; large-scale migration traces were hard to fully conceal. Discovery of the fortress was only a matter of time.
They had to leave early.
Morock joined Kager and hurried to the shaman's side to report in a low, swift voice what he had seen: “Three tribes united, led by Skullcrusher Groln. There are many of them, frost wolf cavalry, crossing the ice.”
The old shaman nodded slowly. “Nature spirits are aware. The message has been sent back through His Majesty's gel. The kingdom's support will arrive soon.”
Morock nodded, a little steadier. He joined the evacuation line and took the initiative to help a young man support the old shaman.
The group began to slip southward along the secret path, leaving some warriors behind to set traps.
As they moved, the old shaman spoke softly to Morock, wistful: “I can't count how many times I've had to flee and move to avoid orcs. They come like winter storms—fierce and quick—yet wherever they pass there is only cold and death.”
“Year after year, year after year...”
Morock supported the elder's arm and listened silently, glancing back at the fortress's receding silhouette.
Maybe next year we won't have to migrate anymore.
...
About an hour later, following the faint traces left on the ground, the frost wolf cavalry finally found the hidden fortress.
Groln crouched by an orc body pierced by a trap, rough fingers wiping the icy blood and shredded flesh beside it, his face dark enough to drip.
No orc had expected the savages to dare resist and set traps as they fled.
He raised his head, his gaze sweeping over the empty fortress and the clear signs of evacuation. The sense of being toyed with by rats infuriated him.
“They ran fast...”
He stood and stared toward the direction the savages had fled.
“Chase them down. I want to twist the skulls off those rats and use them as wine flasks.”