Page 35 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
Perhaps love, once kindled, burns bright enough to illuminate even the darkest possibilities.
13
ZAHRA
Dawn breaks over the settlement with the pale light of winter mornings, casting long shadows that seem to stretch toward an uncertain future. I wake in Rogar's arms, his massive frame curled protectively around me despite the constraints of his sleeping furs. The events of last night feel both distant and immediate—a sanctuary of intimacy carved from the approaching storm.
But sanctuary can't last when war drums echo through the canyon.
The deep, rhythmic pounding that jolts us both to full alertness carries a message every warrior understands: enemy forces sighted, multiple approach vectors, all hands to defensive positions. I'm reaching for my weapons before conscious thought intervenes, muscle memory overriding the lingering tenderness in my healing ribs.
"How many?" Rogar asks, already strapping on his armor with the practiced efficiency of someone who's faced such mornings countless times.
"Unknown. The drums indicate significant force, coordinated assault." I wince as the leather armor pulls againststill-tender injuries, but ignore the discomfort. Pain is irrelevant when survival hangs in the balance.
We emerge from his quarters to find the settlement transformed into organized chaos. Warriors rush between defensive positions while non-combatants gather personal belongings for evacuation to secure locations. Children's voices rise above the din—not panic, but the excited confusion of those too young to understand that death walks with dawn.
"Chieftain!" Thresh appears at our side, his young face bearing war paint applied with shaking hands. "Khela requests your presence at the command post. The situation is... complex."
Complex. In tactical terminology, that usually means catastrophically worse than anticipated.
We make our way through the maze of defensive preparations, noting how efficiently the clan has responded to crisis. Weapons stockpiles appear at strategic points, water reserves are secured against potential siege, and medical stations prepare for casualties. The Stormfang have clearly faced such threats before.
The command post buzzes with controlled urgency as senior warriors study reports from advanced scouts. Maps spread across the stone table now bear new markings—enemy positions, estimated force strengths, probable assault vectors. The intelligence paints a picture that makes my stomach clench with dread.
"Report," Rogar commands as we approach the central table.
"Three separate assault forces," Khela begins, her scarred face grim in the torchlight. "Northern approach carries approximately sixty fighters, mostly miou warriors with magical support. Eastern canyon shows forty-plus dark elves, including what our scouts identify as noble-born commanders. Southern route..." She pauses, studying the notations with obviousconcern. "Southern route shows evidence of siege equipment. Catapults, possibly other mechanical devices."
The tactical picture crystallizes with horrible clarity. Not a single overwhelming assault, but a coordinated three-pronged attack designed to stretch our defenses beyond breaking point. Each force represents a significant threat on its own; combined, they constitute an virtually unstoppable offensive.
"Total enemy strength?" I ask.
"Estimated one hundred fifty to two hundred fighters, with unknown magical capabilities and siege support." Grimna's voice carries the flat certainty of someone reporting mathematical facts. "Against our forty-three combat-ready warriors."
Four-to-one odds, possibly worse. Even with defensive advantages and superior knowledge of local terrain, such numbers doom conventional resistance to failure. The dark elves have committed overwhelming force to this operation, clearly determined to crush all resistance regardless of cost.
"Allied support?"
"Ironjaw Clan sent twenty warriors, arrived two hours ago. Bloodfang contingent numbers fifteen, positioned at the secondary defensive line." Khela's expression grows troubled. "Stormbreak elders... declined to honor their commitments. Claim pressing concerns with their own territorial security."
Betrayal stacked upon tactical impossibility. Even with allied reinforcements, we face odds that make victory feel like fantasy. The Stormbreak withdrawal eliminates our last hope of achieving numerical parity, leaving us dependent on terrain advantages and desperate tactics.
"Evacuation status?"
"Non-combatants are moving to the deep caves per your orders. Estimated completion within two hours, assuming the assault forces maintain current approach speeds."
Two hours to get innocent people clear of the killing ground we're about to create. Two hours to transform our home into a trap that might—might—inflict sufficient casualties to make the dark elves reconsider their strategy.
But looking at the tactical assessment, I realize conventional defensive thinking won't suffice. We need something that transcends mere military calculation, something that transforms desperate resistance into genuine threat.
"Rogar," I say, studying the map notations with growing certainty. "What if we're approaching this wrong?"
"How so?"
"We're thinking like defenders trying to hold ground. But what if we think like predators setting an ambush?"
The observation draws sharp attention from every warrior in the command post. Grimna's scarred eyebrows climb toward his hairline, while Khela's amber eyes narrow with interested calculation.
