Frost-Speaking Plain.
About two hours after the battle ended, only footprints and corpses remained on the ground.
The orcs were withdrawing.
This was already the third time in five days that the Demon Legion had attacked the orc army’s supply lines.
Although the orcs had once again won and driven the enemy away, the damage the demons inflicted on the orc supply lines was incalculable.
On the lookout tower at the edge of the plain, Morrigan rested both hands on the railing, watching the dissipating black smoke in the distance with keen interest.
Casaric sat a few steps behind him, holding that thick book, flipping through it and commenting as he read.
“Apparently the orcs’ supply lines are more fragile than we anticipated.”
Morrigan: “Fragile, yes, but not broken yet.”
Casaric chuckled hoarsely.
“Don’t underestimate our enemies. These orcs who have roamed the tundra for a thousand years still inherit ancient totems. That knowledge is as precious as the demons’ tongue.”
Morrigan’s shadow flickered.
“The soul coins we’ve spent aren’t mine. Maybe you should worry about how to make these orcs yield sooner.”
Casaric closed the book.
“The orcs bypassed our defenses and attacked the Forge Region. That commander named Karl—Durotan—was smarter than we thought. He doesn’t just fight; he calculates. He knows where our weak points are.”
“There are our forges, our demonic nests, the Abyss fissure we just dug, and our secrets. If the orcs’ Wolf Cavalry set fires across the Northern Territory, we’ll have to pull forces meant for assaulting the Royal Capital back to defend.”
“They want to force us to contract.”
Morrigan picked up the thread, “If we contract, their supply line becomes safe. They’ll be able to send more troops and materials to the front.”
“Then we should ramp up our raids. Before they catch their breath, we need to sever their supply line completely.”
Casaric walked to the railing and stood shoulder to shoulder with Morrigan, his gaze sweeping over the plain, toward farther reaches.
“That’s right. We have the Abyss fissure, we can summon demons endlessly. If these cannon fodder die in battle or starve, so what—summon another batch.”
“The orc supply line is long, from Karl’s stronghold to the Frost-Speaking Plain—thousands of miles, across tundra and forests, past the blizzard line. If any segment is cut, they can’t hold.”
“Morrigan, soul coins don’t matter. What matters is what I can harvest from the souls.”
“Without supplies, the orcs won’t last long.”
“What we have to do now is wait, wait for the orcs to truly retreat.”
Morrigan said nothing.
He simply wasn’t as optimistic as the Greater Demon.
Perhaps he had learned caution the hard way beneath the Solk—enough setbacks to make him wary.
The first day passed.
The second day passed.
On the third day, Morrigan stood on the lookout and saw smoke rising from the orc camp in the distance.
There were fewer figures in the camp than in previous days, and the orcs’ reactions to demon raids slowed, like travelers trudging through snow for too long, their legs no longer obedient.
On the fourth day, many orcs pulled their camps back.
Without supplies, they could barely hold out and had to retreat. It seemed everything was unfolding as the demons had predicted.
This made Morrigan doubt whether his instincts had been wrong.
Could this really go so smoothly?
But when the fifth day came, everything changed again.
The orcs returned.
A few more wisps of smoke rose within the camp, and patrolling figures were more numerous than two days before. This time the demons sent to ambush were routed quickly, even faster than ten days prior.
They even received battle reports from the Royal Capital that the orc army had resumed attacks on the west line.
“How do they still have food? Five days—we hit their supply line for five days. They can’t possibly still have provisions.” Morrigan questioned first, then recalled his damned intuition.
“Maybe the orcs are bluffing,” Casaric said without looking up.
“Five days isn’t enough to eat through all their supplies. Keep waiting; time will give us the answer.”
Time passed day by day.
With each passing day, Morrigan’s unease grew.
It was already the tenth day, and the orcs, instead of collapsing from lack of supplies, were attacking even harder.
Their offensives had not stopped; they were fiercer than ten days ago.
Every day catapults hurled stones into the Royal Capital’s western fortresses; every day orc infantry braced shields and charged at the base of the city walls; every day demons’ bodies were hurled from the ramparts.
This meant the orc supply line had not been cut.
Morrigan did not know how they managed it, but the facts were plain.
The orcs were still eating, still fighting, still dying, still pushing forward.
The food brought from Karl’s stronghold should have been consumed long ago. The supply depots attacked on the Frost-Speaking Plain should have starved them out, but they hadn’t.
Their supplies seemed like an inexhaustible spring.
“This is not normal.” Casaric said slowly.
“We may have missed something.”
Morrigan looked at him.
“Missed what?”
“I don’t know.” Casaric tapped the railing with a finger out of habit. “But something is happening that we don’t know about.”
“The orcs didn’t conjure food out of thin air. It’s true their supply line was hit, but they are still eating and fighting.”
“Maybe our intelligence is wrong,” he said, “Maybe the orc supply line doesn’t just come from Karl’s route.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean maybe someone is helping them.”
A name that made Morrigan’s blood run cold surged into his mind.
“Slimes?”
Casaric neither nodded nor shook his head.
“Maybe yes, maybe no. We need confirmation.”
“Send cultists to spy, follow the orcs’ wagons, see what they’re doing, where their grain and supplies are coming from.”
Orc camp.
Unlike the demon operations that were faltering, the orcs welcomed a convoy of supplies coming from the south.
The convoy came from the south, slowly climbing a snow-cleared earthen road into the camp.
At the front were six flatbed wagons, each pulled by two short horses or tall draft animals, the cargo on the planks bound with coarse hemp rope and covered by oiled cloth.
Some curious orcs approached, cautiously lifted the cloth, and found sacks and sacks of grain underneath.
In some open crates they could even see neatly stacked iron arrowheads and bundles of hemp bandages.
The whole convoy had around a hundred people, including several slime adventurers. They watched their surroundings carefully, guarding against any possible attack.
Soon human adventurers drove the wagons to the spots the camp designated, pulled up the reins, jumped down, and began untying the ropes.
The orc soldiers in the camp gathered around in curiosity.
An orc with his left arm missing stood at the front. He grabbed a handful of grain and let the kernels slip through his fingers, falling back onto the wagon boards with a rustling sound.
“It’s wheat, good wheat.”
His voice was hoarse, but his eyes were bright.
Other orc soldiers also grabbed handfuls, brought them to their noses and sniffed, then popped some kernels into their mouths and chewed.
“It’s new, not old stock; it’s wheat harvested last autumn.”
“Really? Let me see!”
These orc soldiers, who normally killed demons without blinking, now looked like curious children, faces lit with joy at the sight of food.
By the time healer Grol stepped out of his tent, half the convoy’s cargo had already been unloaded.
He stood at the tent entrance, squinting at the wooden crates carried off the wagons, and saw that a few crates had paper tags stuck to them with human script written across them.
He couldn’t read human letters, but he recognized the seal stamped across the tags—a chubby little slime, crooked and squiggly, like a child’s doodle.
“Sent by the slimes?” he asked a young orc assistant beside him.
The orc assistant nodded. “Yes. Same as last time—grain, arrowheads, bandages, and a few other things.”
“Other things?”
“Medicines.” The assistant pointed at a corner where several wooden crates had been set apart. “They said it’s a new medicine for treating wounds.”
Grol walked over, crouched, and lifted a crate’s lid.
Inside, a layer of dry straw padded ten or so small clay pots. The pots fit in one hand; the mouths were sealed with wax.
He picked one up, weighed it in his hand, and gently shook it; he could hear something rolling inside.
Holding the pot to his nose through the wax and ceramic wall, he smelled a faint herbal scent.
Herbs?
Grol’s brow furrowed.
He had been a medic in the Palaver for decades and had seen more herbs than he had orcs—pine resin, willow bark, birch fungus—he could usually identify them blindfolded.
But this scent was different: milder, cleaner, not that raw, earthy herb smell. It seemed purified.
Could slimes understand herbs?
He thought for a moment and decided to try one. He scraped off the wax seal with his thumb and poured out a small brown pill.
The pill was tiny, about a circle smaller than his thumbnail, round and smooth, its surface dull brown in the tent’s snowy light.
He leaned in to smell it; the scent was stronger now but still that indefinable herb note with a cool hint, like mint but not as sharp.
“Did the slimes say how to use it?” Grol asked.
The orc assistant replied, “The one who brought the medicine said to swallow it whole, don’t chew.”
“Bring a wounded one over and try it,” Grol said.
The assistant ran into the tent and soon the flap was thrown aside as two orcs carried a stretcher out.
On the stretcher lay a young orc, about seventeen or eighteen. His right leg was wrapped from knee to ankle in bandages, soaked through with blood and blackened, emitting a putrid stench.
His face was flushed, as if running a fever.
The surrounding orcs gathered, thinking someone inside the tent must have died.
Someone murmured a single name when they saw him.
“Solk.”
It was the name of the young orc.
Solk looked at Grol nervously. “I…I—”
“Kid, you’ll be fine.”
“The slimes sent some new medicine.”
Grol crouched and carefully unwrapped the bandage to reveal the wound.
It was a clawed gash running from above the knee down into the middle of the lower leg, edges blackened, the center oozing a yellow-white pus—looking bad.
Solk turned his head, not daring to look at his leg.
“Grol…does that medicine really work?”
“Try and see.” Grol handed him the pill. “Swallow it whole, don’t chew.”
Solk took it; his Adam’s apple bobbed as he swallowed it.
Grol asked, “How do you feel, any better?”
Solk looked blank.
Nothing happened.
The leg still hurt, the fever hadn’t broken.
“No change.” His voice was lower, an embarrassed confession. “Grol, did it not work for me?”
Grol said nothing. He rewrapped the bandage and stood up.
“The medicine might not be that fast. Lie down and wait; we’ll see after tonight.”
He turned to the assistant standing by. “Check him every hour. If the fever drops, come find me. If it worsens, come find me.”
The assistant nodded.
.......
Time flowed, and night fell quickly outside the tent.
There were more fires in the camp than during the day. Around each fire sat a few wounded—some eating, some talking, some lying down with blankets pulled up, faces half-exposed, eyes half-open watching the flames.
The fire nearest the tent burned hottest and had the largest circle of people.
An orc with a shoulder wound squatted by that fire, holding a sharpened stick threaded with several white chunks, slowly turning them over the flames.
After a while the chunks browned on the surface and released an aroma like toasted bread or roasted chestnuts.
“What is that?” an orc with his head bandaged asked, staring at the browning pieces.
“Tubers,” said the shoulder-wounded orc. “Sent by the Slime Kingdom, arrived with the grain.”
“Taste any good?”
“No idea, it’s my first time,” he said, pulling the stick from the fire and pricking one piece with his nail. Inside it was white and steaming.
He blew on it, bit cautiously, chewed twice, and his expression shifted from curiosity to surprise.
“How is it?” the bandaged orc pressed.
“Sweet.” The shoulder-wounded orc mumbled around his chews. “Like…like roasted sweet potato, but more doughy, more floury, with a hint I can’t place—like pine nuts.”
He divided the remaining pieces and handed them out. The bandaged orc held one between both hands, blowing on it several times before biting, then chewed with his eyes squinting.
“Not bad at all,” he said, his mouth full. “Sweet.”
“Solk, try some too.”
Solk, still thinking about what had happened that afternoon, almost refused at first, but his stomach grumbled.
He took a cautious bite.
Honestly, it was pretty tasty.
On the other side of the fire, an orc missing a finger held up his piece of food for others to see.
It was a palm-sized slice of jerky, very dark, its surface covered with a layer of green moss.
“What’s that?” someone asked.
“Moss Monster,” said the one-finger orc. “Also from the Slime Kingdom. They sent some last time; I’ve been saving it.”
“Moss Monster?” the bandaged orc leaned in and scrutinized the dried meat with distrust.
“Eat it.” The one-finger orc drew his short knife and cut off a small slice, then popped it in his mouth. “Tastes good—like beef jerky but softer, still juicy.”
He passed the knife around. Several orcs sliced pieces and chewed, their faces shifting from suspicion to surprise, then to satisfied enjoyment.
“Really tasty.” One orc chewed thoughtfully, as if recalling flavors. “Way better than the frozen meat we eat on the tundra.”
“Those slimes sure know how to make food.”
The shoulder-wounded orc stuck his stick into the snow and rubbed his hands. “Imagine what they normally eat. Wouldn’t it be even better than this?”
“Who knows? But if they can make things this tasty, they’re not fools.”
“They’re so nice. I wish we could invite them to the Palaver.”
“Ha! You’d freeze them to death. Slimes can’t handle this cold.”
The orcs chatted happily and laughed. “They even sent medicine.”
“All this is given for free, without taking a copper. If humans had done this, they’d have looted what they could. Free gifts?”
“By the way, Solk.” The one-finger orc suddenly asked, “That pill you took at noon…did it work?”
Solk, still gnawing on a tuber, froze.
He looked down at his bandaged leg.
The bandage was the same one Grol had applied in the afternoon—white, clean, with no blood seeping through.
He stared at it for a long moment and then realized something.
The pain was gone.
The burning sensation, the stabbing—none of it remained.
Not only that, his forehead seemed to be cooling down.
Was he healed?
“What’s wrong?” the bandaged orc asked, noticing Solk’s odd expression.
Solk didn’t answer. He bent over and began to untie the bandage with both hands.
His fingers trembled—not from the cold, but from excitement.
He unwrapped slowly, loop by loop, his heartbeat quickening with each turn.
When the last few wraps remained, several people leaned in and stared at his leg.
The last loop hit the ground.
The firelight washed over Solk’s leg, over the wound.
The wound was still there, but the edges were no longer blackened. New pink flesh had started to form.
Everyone widened their eyes.
“By Karl’s bones,” someone murmured, tone halfway between awe and reverence.
The bandaged orc looked at Solk. “You only took the medicine this afternoon?”
Solk nodded.
“Just one pill?”
The bandaged orc fell silent. He stood up, stepped back, and inspected Solk’s leg anew, as if looking at something he’d never seen before, then shouted loudly,
“Grol! Grol, come out and see!”
“He’s not here, he went to meet Durotan.” The orc assistant from the tent called out.