Page 46 of Her Rugged Orcs

Murok tenses upstream, his hand already on his blade. Grash's fingers curl around his axe handle, the metal catching what little sunlight filters through the canopy.

"How many?" I whisper to Dren.

"Ten," he breathes against my ear. "Maybe more."

Dark elves. They've found us again. The thought sends ice through my veins, but I refuse to freeze. Not this time. Not ever again. My fingers find my dagger.

Dren pushes me behind him, but I resist. "I can fight."

"Eira—" he starts, but the dark elves charge.

Grash and Murok sprint toward us. A dark elf leaps from the shadows, blade flashing. Murok parries the strike, but two more attackers emerge behind him.

"Down!" Grash roars, swinging his axe in a deadly arc that catches one of the dark elves in the chest. Blood sprays across my face, hot and sticky.

I duck under a blade, driving my dagger up into an attacker's ribs. The sound of steel sliding between bones turns my stomach, but I don't hesitate. I can't.

"Behind you!" Murok shouts.

I spin, but I'm too slow. A dark elf's sword slices toward my neck. Grash throws himself between us, taking the hit across his chest. He staggers, his eyes wide with shock.

"No!" The scream tears from my throat as he crumples to the ground, blood soaking through his tunic.

"Grash!" Murok's voice cracks with rage as he cuts down another attacker.

Dren appears next to me and Grash, his blade opening throats with terrifying precision. Blood runs down Grash's chest, pooling beneath him, and my heart threatens to shatter. I press my hands against his wound, my fingers slick with his blood.

"Stay with me," I beg. "Please, Grash. Stay with me."

His eyes flutter. "Not... leaving you..." he manages through gritted teeth.

The battle rages around us, steel clashing against steel, but all I can see is the way Grash's blood seeps between my fingers, all I can hear is his labored breathing.

Something inside me snaps. The world narrows to pinpoints of rage and blood as I launch myself at the nearest dark elf. My dagger finds his throat before he can raise his sword. The warm spray of blood across my face feels like victory.

"You want me?" I snarl at another who charges. "Come get me."

He hesitates - that split second of surprise at my ferocity costs him his life. My blade slides between his ribs. I don't stop to watch him fall.

Through the red haze, I see Dren moving like death itself, his eyes cold as he dispatches two more with brutal efficiency. Murok's braids whip through the air as he spins, his sword claiming another life.

But I'm already moving to my next target. The dark elf raises his shield, but I drop and slide beneath it, driving my dagger up through his jaw.

"Eira, left!" Murok shouts.

I roll, narrowly avoiding a blade that would have taken my head. Rising to my feet, I throw my dagger. It catches the attacker in the eye. He screams, dropping his weapon. I don't give him time to suffer. I grab his fallen sword and drive it straight into his heart.

The last dark elf turns to flee. Dren's thrown blade takes him in the back.

Silence falls, broken only by our heavy breathing and the drip of blood from our weapons. Bodies litter the ground around us.

My legs give out as I crawl back to Grash. His chest still rises and falls, but each breath is a battle. Blood soaks the ground beneath him. My hands shake profusely as I press them against his wound again, trying to stem the flow.

The same hands that just dealt so much death for him, now desperate to preserve his life. Because the thought of losing him - of losing any of them - makes my chest cave in on itself.

My throat closes around words I want to say, need to say. His golden-brown eyes flutter, fighting to stay open, to stay with me.

My hands press as hard as I can muster against his wound, his blood seeping between my fingers. The metallic scent fills my nose, making my stomach lurch.

---