The chiefs and shamans of more than a dozen tribes sat around a campfire, the flickering firelight illuminating their solemn and anxious faces.
The air was filled with the smoky aroma of roasting meat and an uneasy atmosphere, with occasional crackling sparks, but no one spoke.
Finally, the elderly Greymane tribe shaman, Hultan, broke his silence.
"The human army has taken control of the water source," his hoarse voice said, like sandpaper scraping. "Their weapons spew flames and lightning; our warriors can't even get close."
"Then let's launch a night attack!" The young Red Fang chieftain slammed his fist on the ground, his bone ornaments rattling. "Under the cover of darkness—"
"It's no use." Another chieftain interrupted coldly, lifting the blanket to reveal his calves wrapped in bandages. "They've set up invisible steel thorns and can summon daylight. I led thirty warriors from the tribe to participate in Lord Urok's operation, and half of them didn't come back."
Silence fell again around the campfire. The night wind, carrying dampness, swept by, but could not dispel the gloom that shrouded everyone's hearts.
"Our arrows can't keep up with their flamethrowers," a chieftain said, stroking his quiver. "Our horses will be terrified by the noise. And now even our last source of water is gone."
The flames crackled, and sparks scattered in the night wind.
"We can migrate!" Chief Chiya suddenly stood up, his bone ornaments jingling. "Go east, cross the Gobi Desert, where there are still lakes untouched by humans!"
Several chieftains and shamans echoed in hushed tones, their eyes gleaming with hope.
But Grum, the chief of the Ironjaw tribe, simply shook his head slowly, his rough fingers stroking the bone ornament hanging around his neck.
"Foolish," he said in a hoarse voice. "Do you think humans will stop here? They control one water source and then move on to the next. They may flee today, but what about tomorrow? What about the day after? Besides, if we move to a new water source, we will clash with the local tribes and draw the blades of humanity to them."
The old shaman Hultan slammed his bone staff down heavily: " Grum is right. This is not a raid, but a devouring. Humanity's appetite is greater than that of the wolves on the steppe."
"But staying means waiting to die!" Chiya roared unwillingly.
"There is no choice." Chief Surina, who was present, finally spoke. She unfastened the wolf-tooth dagger from her waist and placed it on the ground. "Either we collapse like cowards now and be defeated one by one; or" her sharp gaze swept across the faces of each chief, "and concentrate our last strength to show Great Chieftain Abar that his people are bleeding to the last drop of blood."
" The Great Chieftain?" The eldest shaman, Hurtan, suddenly struck the ground with his bone staff. "Yes, there is the Great Chieftain. Only the iron cavalry of the Royal Tent can deal with them." He pointed south with his withered fingers. "Send the fastest messenger to the Great Chieftain Abar and tell him…" His voice suddenly choked up. "Tell him that the people of the steppe are being devoured by steel and fire."
"But…" Red Fang hesitated and said, " Great Chieftain Abar is busy with the war in the south. The Royal Tent's envoy just came by, and they also need warriors there."
Hultan raised his voice: " The Great Chieftain once promised to protect every tribe that pledges allegiance to the Royal Tent, and now it is time for the Great Chieftain to fulfill that promise."
A glint flashed in Grum's eyes: "That's right, our tribe's warriors can't go south for the time being; they must stay and defend their homeland."
Surina nodded heavily, " The Royal Tent envoy said that the army is conquering cities and territories in the south and is invincible. It shouldn't be a big deal to send a part of the army back to the grasslands."
They called for help from Great Chieftain Abar, and the leaders of the tribes quickly reached an agreement.
Three of the fastest warhorses carried the messenger southward, their backs not only bearing a plea for help but also a dozen or so strands of mane in different colors—the braids of the bravest warriors of each tribe, which on the grasslands represented an urgent distress signal.
...
Abar stood alone in front of the sand table, his bronze face appearing particularly somber under the lamplight.
On the sand table, blue flags representing the Aldor army are densely planted south of Stone Bridge Town, while the wolf-head flags of the Orcish Horde have retreated to the edge of Yellow Earth Land.
He picked up a small piece of iron that represented the human Cannon, and ran his fingertips along the cold metal surface.
"Speed," he murmured, recalling the deadly flashes of fire that tore through the sky on the battlefield.
Once upon a time, the speed of the orcish cavalry was the absolute master of the battlefield. They moved like the wind, easily outmaneuvering and flanking any human defense, crushing them before the enemy could react. But now—
Abar slammed the iron block onto the sand table. With a loud bang, the iron block embedded itself deeply into the sand representing Yellow Earth Land, knocking over several small flags.
Human cannonballs were faster than the fastest warhorses. While the Orc Cavalry were still halfway through their charge, those fire-breathing metal monsters had already showered them with death. Even more terrifying were the firearms —even the most elite horse archers were far less effective than those iron pipes that spit lead bullets.
The neighing of warhorses came from outside the tent. Abar lifted the tent flap and looked at the new recruits training. These young men were still practicing traditional steppe horse archery skills, as if the tactics of the past were still effective.
At the call of the Royal Tent, many tribes on the plains sent in new blood. These orc recruits were already skilled riders and could become a real army with just a little training.
" Great Chieftain." The captain of the guard bowed. "The newly trained cavalry are ready and at any time—"
"I understand. I will personally inspect it later." The Great Chieftain's voice was extremely authoritative.
The captain of the guard bowed and took his leave, but Abar walked back to the table in a huff.
"It's no use," he said to himself, his voice filled with unprecedented weariness. "Even the fastest horse can't outrun a cannonball."
He turned back to the sand table, staring intently at the blue flags. Humanity had not only seized the initiative on the battlefield, but more terrifyingly, it was rewriting the fundamental rules of war. The steppe warriors, who for millennia had triumphed through courage and horsemanship, had suddenly become obsolete relics.
"Unless we also have similar weapons!"
Dust billowed in the morning mist as newly assembled orc warriors stood in formation.
Abar rode slowly, his sharp eyes sweeping over each tribal flag fluttering in the wind, his brows gradually furrowing.
"Where is the Greymane Clan's banner?"
He suddenly pulled on the reins, the sound like an ice blade scraping against the ground.
"And what about the Ironjaw tribe's flag?"
Despite having many vassals under his command, Abar, as the Great Chieftain, was able to memorize the symbols of each tribe, and he soon realized something was amiss.
Among the newly arrived warriors, several tribes were missing.