The Orc Wolf Rider leader inspected the temporary camp, his former bravado long gone. The camp was filled with wounded soldiers and Worgs, their groans mingling into a continuous chorus. The two shamans had just recovered a little mana, but they dared not immediately start treating the soldiers.
Many of the uninjured Orc soldiers were helping the wounded dig out shrapnel, then dressing their wounds with first-aid bandages. Far too many unlucky soldiers had suffered fresh injuries before their old ones had healed. They had to undo bandages applied only a short while earlier, dig out the shrapnel, and bandage themselves all over again.
There were no longer enough first-aid bandages. Some Orcs could only reuse old ones after removing the shrapnel. The six warlocks were in a miserable state as well. Their robes offered decent protection against magical attacks, but their defense against physical attacks was woefully inadequate. Every robe was riddled with holes. Their only advantage was that they belonged to the Shadow Council and held a much higher status than ordinary soldiers, so the shamans always treated them first whenever they were injured.
The two Orc shamans, who had only just recovered a little mana, trudged wearily out of the Orc Warlocks' tent. First came the relentless explosions in the minefield, then air raids at all hours. Not many had died, but there were far, far too many wounded. With only two shamans, it was hardly surprising that they could not keep up.
As for the ordinary soldiers, the two shamans could not possibly heal them all with magic, let alone the Worgs. Many Worgs were weak and limp from excessive blood loss, too feeble to carry Orc soldiers on the march, much less charge into battle. Only after joining up with the main army behind them