Page 39 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
I catch the extraction party at the canyon's narrowest point, where rock walls funnel movement through a natural chokepoint. Perfect terrain for ambush, if timing and positioning prove adequate to overcome numerical disadvantage.
My war axe takes the first guard before he can complete his warning shout, the double-headed blade shearing through armor and bone with mechanical precision. The second warrior manages to raise an alarm before my follow-up strike silences him permanently, but damage control becomes irrelevant when surprise achieves its primary objective.
Dravik wheels his mount to face me, violet eyes blazing with hatred that transcends tactical consideration. His elaborate armor gleams with protective enchantments, and chaos magic crackles around his hands like captured lightning. Every inchthe deadly noble whose reputation has spread terror throughout the borderlands.
"The orc chieftain," he says, his voice carrying cultured menace. "How convenient. Killing you will enhance the lesson your escaped pet's public execution provides."
"Come and try," I growl, settling into combat stance as his remaining guards move to flank my position.
What follows tests every skill acquired through decades of warfare. Dravik fights with the lethal precision of someone trained from childhood in magical combat, his spells weaving defensive barriers while chaos energy seeks gaps in my guard. His guards coordinate with professional efficiency, their attacks timed to exploit the openings his magic creates.
But fury has its own tactical value. The protective rage that drives me forward proves stronger than magical barriers, my war axe carving through defenses powered by desperation rather than mere technique. Each strike carries the weight of personal stakes that transcend military objectives.
The first guard falls to a blow that shatters his spine, the sound echoing off canyon walls like breaking stone. The second requires more effort, his magical protections absorbing punishment before finally yielding to sustained assault. But their elimination comes at cost—multiple wounds seep blood through my armor, and exhaustion begins to weigh on muscles pushed beyond sustainable limits.
Dravik recognizes opportunity in my accumulated damage. His chaos magic shifts from defensive casting to aggressive assault, eldritch energy seeking vital organs while his mount positions for optimal striking angle. The combination of magical attack and physical mobility creates tactical challenges that strain even experienced combat skills.
"Your pet will scream my name before I grant her death," he taunts, seeking psychological advantage when physicalsuperiority proves insufficient. "Every cut, every burn, every violation will be dedicated to your memory."
The words ignite something primal in me. My war axe moves with renewed fury, each strike powered by protective instincts that make tactical calculation irrelevant. Dravik's mount staggers under the assault, its magical resilience insufficient against raw determination.
But even fury has limits. The chaos magic finds its mark, tearing through my left shoulder with force that sends me staggering against the canyon wall. Pain flares white-hot through damaged nerve endings, and my war axe suddenly weighs more than conscious strength can support.
"Pathetic," Dravik sneers, gathering magic for what will clearly be a killing blow. "Did you truly believe primitive rage could overcome civilized power?"
The spell builds to devastating potential, chaos energy coalescing into forms designed to inflict maximum agony before granting death. In moments, the magical discharge will end both the battle and any chance of protecting the woman who's become my reason for living.
But even as defeat approaches with mathematical certainty, I hear the sound that transforms despair into renewed hope.
The whistle of arrows finding their targets. The clash of steel on steel. The war cries of allied clan forces arriving at precisely the moment when their intervention might tip the balance.
Zahra appears at the canyon's edge like an avenging spirit, her bow singing as arrows seek gaps in Dravik's defenses. Behind her, Ironjaw and Bloodfang warriors pour into the confined space, their weapons already in motion as surprise once again becomes tactical advantage.
"Impossible," Dravik breathes, his concentration shattered by the arrival of forces that should be engaged elsewhere.
"Possible," Zahra corrects, her voice carrying absolute conviction as she draws her curved saber. "When people fight for something worth protecting instead of mere conquest."
The final confrontation unfolds with brutal efficiency. Dravik's magical abilities mean nothing when surrounded by warriors who've learned to coordinate their attacks for maximum effect. His chaos spells seek individual targets while multiple blades penetrate his defenses from angles that make protection impossible.
But it's Zahra who delivers the killing blow—her saber finding the gap between helmet and gorget with surgical precision. The dark elf lord dies with surprise written across his aristocratic features, unable to comprehend how his carefully planned campaign has ended in personal defeat.
"Rogar!" She's beside me before Dravik's body hits the ground, her hands already working to assess the damage from his final spell. "How bad?"
"Survivable," I manage, though blood loss and magical trauma make consciousness feel increasingly precarious. "The battle?"
"Won. Dravik's death broke their morale—the survivors are retreating toward their staging areas." Her amber eyes blaze with fierce satisfaction. "The allied clans performed perfectly. Your tactical coordination was flawless."
"Your tactical coordination," I correct. "This victory belongs to you."
The words carry weight beyond mere battlefield assessment. She conceived the strategy, forged the alliances, inspired cooperation between forces that should have remained divided. Her leadership transformed inevitable defeat into crushing victory, proving that unconventional approaches can overcome even overwhelming disadvantage.
"Our victory," she says firmly. "Achieved together, as everything meaningful should be."
The distinction feels important as allied warriors gather around us, their faces marked by the satisfaction of warriors who've survived impossible odds. We've proven that unity gives strength greater than any would suggest, that cooperation based on mutual respect can accomplish what traditional hierarchies cannot.
But more than tactical success, we've demonstrated something that transcends military achievement. We've shown that love can inspire courage, that bonds forged in trust can withstand pressures that break lesser connections.
As consciousness finally slips away under the combined weight of blood loss and magical trauma, my last clear thought is of gratitude. Not just for survival, but for the extraordinary woman who's transformed my understanding of what victory can mean.
