Necromancer, summoning 055? What the heck?

Chapter 156 The Shaman's Lament: The Truth Behind the Southern Expedition

The rolling mountains loomed in the twilight, like a lurking beast, silently stretching across the vast land. The last rays of the setting sun gilded the mountain ridges with a blood-red edge, only to be quickly swallowed by the spreading night.

The orc camp at Qishan Pass was bustling with noise and activity.

Orc troops from all corners of the White Deer Plain continued to surge in like a tide. All sorts of flags fluttered in the evening breeze, and the patterns carved on the totem poles shone brightly in the torchlight. The incredibly long poles, topped with seven-colored feathers, swayed rhythmically with the steps of the orc soldiers.

Every flag, every totem, every feather shaft represents an orc tribe.

Outside the tents near and far, thousands of orc warriors lit bonfires, illuminating the camps brightly. The rough voices of conversation, the low growls of dire wolves, and the clanging of armor plates intertwined to create a prelude to war.

Inside the tent, a chaotic pre-battle meeting had just ended. Sargeras Gorehowl sat alone on the animal-hide chair at the head of the table, rubbing his throbbing temples with his thick fingers.

This renowned strategist in the orcish faction is now facing an unprecedented headache due to the current situation.

Sargeris's professional rank was not high, even lower than the two lieutenants accompanying him, barely qualifying as a fourth-tier warrior. However, the High Chieftain overruled all objections and insisted on appointing him as the leader of the orcish coalition forces heading south, valuing his exceptional wisdom.

Over the years, as the orc chieftains have grown older, they seem to have become increasingly disliked those "all brawn and no brains" savages. Sargeris vaguely guessed at the underlying reasons for this, but he didn't fully understand them.

But he knew very well that even the orcs should not easily get involved in the murky waters of politics.

What troubled him at this moment was mainly the issue of war strategy.

“Revered High Shaman Karl,” Sargeris raised his head and looked at the old shaman in the corner of the tent who had been silent during the meeting and seemed to have fallen asleep, “too much time has been wasted. I think this ‘spring hunt’ will probably not yield any good results.”

"Could you give me some guidance from my ancestors?"

Yes, it was precisely because Bloodhowl was quite intelligent that he was so clear about the situation he was about to face.

The Beastman's chieftain and the council of elders successively dispatched twelve large tribes to graze on the White Deer Plain, each of which led seven smaller tribes. In other words, a total of ninety-six tribes settled on the White Deer Plain and established Beastman strongholds.

However, so far, only twelve large and fifty-five small tribes have reached the designated location, a full twenty-nine small tribes short.

These tribes did not disobey the orders of the Orcish Pale Tent, but were scattered across this land.

Unfortunately, the cause of all this was not an enemy, but an internal conflict between orc tribes!
Of course, the loss of dozens of small tribes' armies did not have a significant impact on the overall strength; the main force of the orcs remained formidable and powerful.

But what Sagris found most unacceptable was that this southern expedition had been delayed far too long.

The weather is about to get hot.

According to Earth's official standards, the Orcish Wasteland is located in a high-latitude region, and the Orcs are accustomed to the harsh, cold environment. Whether warriors or dire wolves, their thick fur provides excellent camouflage against the frigid conditions.

But in the hot southern regions, this thick coat of fur becomes a torment.

Even though they breached Razor Fortress more than a hundred years ago and could have easily marched south and roamed freely, the orcs' main area of ​​control remained north of Flag Mountain because they could not tolerate the scorching heat of the central region.

They can't fight when it's hot, and they can't fight when it's cold, so much so that the orcs' wars are like students on Earth having classes, and they even have to have winter and summer vacations every year!

But what could be done? We couldn't just have the soldiers shave all their hair off!

Now, because of the nearly two-month delay, the southward-bound army may have to face the scorching heat of the human territory at any time if it is even slightly delayed.

Sagris is now facing this tricky situation.

After seeing off the group of disgruntled tribal generals, General Bloodhowl turned to the old shaman Karl Wildwalker who had accompanied the army, partly to complain and partly to ask for advice.

The shaman was very old; his bronze face was covered with a dense network of wrinkles, and if you didn't look closely, it was almost impossible to tell which wrinkle concealed his cloudy old eyes.

Upon hearing General Bloodhowl's question, Karl simply waved his hand dismissively: "We'll follow the Warchief's orders, everything will be as the Warchief commands!"

Sagris remained silent for a moment, then suddenly stood up from his chair and solemnly bowed deeply to the old shaman.

"Revered High Shaman Karl, your warrior is now bewildered. I cannot find the meaning of this war."

For this "strategist," without getting to the bottom of things, he really couldn't continue fighting this battle.

Bloodhowl General raised his head, his gaze intense: "I promise to give my full support to your grandson, Karl of the Windwild Tribe. I beg you, wise elder, to guide me through my confusion."

Karl the Wilderness Walker shook his head helplessly, the wrinkles on his face seeming to deepen even more.

This is the trouble with smart generals—if you just randomly pick a muscle-bound guy to lead the troops like before, there wouldn't be so many messy problems.

This situation is indeed special.

The significant delays and the previous turmoil among the tribes brought great uncertainty to this war. Therefore, the Orcish royal court not only sent a strategist but also arranged for this old shaman to provide protection.

When the astute Sargeras offered his support for his grandson in exchange for guidance, old Karl had no choice but to set aside his pride.

After all, orcs also have their own families to take care of.

"Little one, come with me." The old shaman slowly stood up, leaning on his ancestral staff, and walked out of the tent.

General Bloodhowl followed silently behind.

As night deepened, the two stood at the mountain pass of Qishan. To the south, in the distance, lay the dilapidated Razor Fortress, its ancient rock walls covered with vines that cast dappled shadows in the moonlight. To the north lay the White Deer Plain, where scattered campfires, like stray stars, stretched to the horizon.

The night wind swept through the mountains, carrying the scent of earth from the plains, ruffling the old shaman's long white hair, and carrying away a deep sigh.

“Little Sass,” the old shaman’s voice sounded somewhat faint in the wind, “you have no choice but to fight this battle. Even if you lose, you have to fight.”

Sagris was stunned; he hadn't expected such an answer.

“White Deer Plains is a poisonous fruit,” the shaman continued, his gaze wistfully fixed on the flickering campfires in the distance. “From the moment we orcs swallowed it, we were no longer in control of our own destiny.”

Sagris's face showed a look of fear.

The White Deer Plain is filled with countless legends of orc heroes about this greatest victory in orc history, and he still cannot understand what the old shaman meant.
"I don't know if you've ever heard a distant legend that each race has its own corresponding element."

"We orcs correspond to the swift wind, humans to the heavy earth, elves to the graceful wood, and dwarves to the raging fire."

The old shaman paused, then added, "Well, and those dwarfs too, they're stained with greedy gold from head to toe."

"Our people must not forsake their destiny!"

The old shaman shook the ancestral staff in his hand and continued, "Therefore, humans can stay in one place to cultivate and build cities, while we beastmen must constantly migrate and move."

“Once they stop, the orcs will gradually forget their instincts.”

He turned to Sargeris: "Have you heard that the orcs have now split into wasteland orcs and plains orcs?"

Sargeris nodded solemnly, seemingly grasping at something. The old shaman pressed on, "Then do you know that the plains orcs harbor great resentment towards the wasteland orcs, while the wasteland orcs are filled with rage towards the plains orcs?"

“I…know something vague,” Sagris replied cautiously, “It seems that the taxes on the plains are too heavy, and there’s some discontent at the outposts here…”

"Heavy? Heavy my ass!"

The old shaman slammed his ancestral staff into the ground, then stretched out his palm and broke off a finger: "One-fifth tax! Do they think the chiefs and elders are idiots? If this is called heavy taxation, then what about the humans, who are called skinning people alive?"

"The plains orcs have long since lost their alliance with the wasteland orcs."

"Those who were driven to the White Deer Plain to establish a stronghold back then were the poorest, most miserable, and least powerful people in our orc tribe. They were the lowest-class orcs who couldn't even get enough to eat and whose families only had one set of clothes to wear when they went out."

"The results of it?"

The old shaman chuckled dryly: "When they arrived on the plains, they employed the people to cultivate the land, and they could easily have enough to eat."

"Even many of our beastmen laborers, defying the lessons of their ancestors from thousands of years ago, have secretly learned farming here."

"Back then on the northern grasslands, wherever the Great Chieftain's spear pointed, countless orcs charged fearlessly, risking their lives!"

"Now that they have full bellies, can they still be the same as they were back then?"

"So, if the orcs settle down on land, they'll quickly become just like those weak humans. That won't do."

As he spoke, the old shaman broke off another finger.

"The Grand Elders of the Royal Court collect surplus grain from various tribes in the plains every year in order to change their bad habit!"

"But the plains tribes have gone astray."

"They made all sorts of excuses—saying that human slaves were lazy, that orcs didn't know how to farm, that bandits were roaming and raiding, and that there were floods, droughts, windstorms, locust plagues... In short, the plains weren't producing enough, and the environment was unstable."

"In this way, the plain tribes collected very little grain tax and stored most of their surplus grain in the hands of those humans. You know, those humans are quite good at hiding things."

"and then?"

The old shaman broke off his third finger.

“When they need money, the smaller tribes fight amongst themselves, capture people, and seize the grain stored by these humans. They then quickly exchange it for other things from the dwarves.”

"Only our royal court can't receive anything!"

The old shaman lowered his voice slightly, "In fact, many bandit gangs on the plains are supported by them, and their money is kept safe by them!"

"The leaders of the plains tribes are living increasingly extravagant lives, with some even living better than the chiefs of the main tribes."

"The elders know perfectly well what's going on!"

“So,” the old shaman looked directly into Sargris’s eyes, “do you understand why we must go south, and why, no matter what happens, we must organize a large-scale southward migration every one or two years?”

Sagris faced the sacred mountain to the north, knelt on one knee, bowed deeply several times, and then stood up.

"I understand!"

"I understand the chieftain and elders' good intentions. This is to save them, to save these orcs who have abandoned their traditions!"

"No need to make it sound so nice, this is a blood transfusion!"

"But that's not all!"

The old shaman added quietly, "We must let the blood feud between orcs and humans deepen until it becomes irreconcilable. Otherwise, perhaps one day, the plains orcs will become a weapon for humans to attack the wasteland royal court."

"We must also use war to promote outstanding generals and bring them back to the royal court, while punishing those who perform poorly and demoting them to slavery. We must make room on the plains and bring in the orcs from the ancestral court to control the situation."

“Furthermore,” the old shaman’s voice grew even lower, “we must use the plundering from the humans to provoke the fighting spirit of the ordinary orc warriors.”

"Let them know that if they want more wealth, they should plunder the weaker humans, instead of staying here and digging in the dirt like humans!"

At this point, the old shaman let out another long sigh, which echoed for a long time in the night wind.

"However, no matter how they are changed or adjusted, as long as they stay on this plain for a period of time, those once fierce and brave orc warriors will quickly degenerate and become just like those cunning humans."

The old shaman shook his head. "This is simply a cursed land!"

Sargeris was terrified.

He wanted to know why the orcish royal court's orders were so strange and resolute, but certainly not to understand them so thoroughly or deeply.

Sargeris licked his lips, his voice trembling slightly, and still asked his question: "Then, Your Excellency High Shaman Karl, why doesn't the Royal Court allow the orcs here to return to the wasteland?"

The old shaman scoffed.

"This is the greatest achievement of the orcs since ancient times. Which chieftain dares to give up? Or want to quit?"

"Who would be willing to give up such a large fortune?"

Even if you know it's poisonous, you have to keep it in your mouth until you die from it.

"Little Sass, many things are too interconnected, and you have no choice in the matter!"

The old man released the ancestral staff and patted Sargeris on the shoulder: "Wait until later, when you become an elder of the royal court, before you think about this matter."

"Let's win this battle first!"

Sargeras Bloodhowl remained silent for a long time.

Several complex emotions were battling within him, sometimes filled with passion, sometimes with confusion, and sometimes with dejection.

Then, he heard the old man splash the last bit of cold water on the side.

The shaman looked up at the sky, his lips moving slightly.

"I have a bad feeling that this expedition may not go so smoothly."

"It's as if, as if something high in the heavens is looking at us with a compassionate expression!"

(End of this chapter)