Page 37 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
Murmurs ripple through the crowd—some agreement, some protest, all carrying the weight of warriors who understand mathematical realities.
"But mathematics assumes conventional warfare," I continue. "It assumes we'll fight the battle our enemies expect, using tactics they understand, following patterns they've prepared to counter."
"What do you propose instead?" The voice belongs to an Ironjaw veteran, his scarred face bearing skeptical interest.
"I propose we fight like the hunted rather than the hunters. Like escaped slaves rather than proud warriors. Like people who've learned that survival requires discarding honor when honor becomes a luxury we can't afford."
The words spark heated responses from throughout the assembly. Pride in martial tradition runs deep among orc clans, and suggesting they abandon honorable combat strikes at fundamental cultural values.
"You ask us to fight without honor?" A Bloodfang warrior steps forward, his filed tusks gleaming in the morning light. "To skulk and hide like cowards?"
"I ask you to fight to win," I reply evenly. "To preserve the lives and freedom of everyone you've sworn to protect. Honor means nothing if those you love die because you were too proud to use effective tactics."
"And what do you know of honor, human?" The challenge comes from multiple voices, expressing the doubts I've expected since stepping forward.
"I know that honor without victory is just elaborate suicide. I know that your enemies count on your predictability, your adherence to codes they've studied and prepared to exploit." My voice grows harder, carrying edges sharpened by years of desperate survival. "I know what it feels like to watch good people die because someone valued principle over pragmatism."
The assembly falls silent as the weight of personal experience gives gravity to my words. These warriors may question myheritage, but they can't dismiss the authority that comes from surviving impossible circumstances.
"The dark elves expect you to fight like orcs," I continue. "Charge their lines, test strength against strength, die gloriously in battles that change nothing. What they don't expect is coordinated ambush tactics, psychological warfare, the systematic destruction of their confidence and morale."
"You speak of victories," calls another voice. "What victories have these tactics achieved?"
"My life," I answer simply. "Two dead dark elves who thought human flesh was their right. Escape from the strongest city on this continent. Survival in wastelands that kill the unprepared." I meet their gazes directly, letting them see the steel beneath apparent vulnerability. "Every day I draw breath is victory achieved through refusing to fight fair."
The response seems to resonate with warriors who've faced their own impossible odds. Gradually, the suspicious murmurs give way to interested calculation as tactical minds begin processing possibilities.
"Tell us your plan," demands the Ironjaw veteran.
What follows is the most crucial presentation of my life—detailed tactical outline designed to transform overwhelming enemy advantage into manageable threat. I explain ambush positioning, coordination protocols, psychological operations intended to shatter dark elf confidence. The strategy requires perfect timing and absolute trust between forces that have never worked together.
But as I speak, I watch understanding dawn in weathered faces marked by countless battles. These warriors recognize effective tactics when they hear them, regardless of their source. More importantly, they recognize desperate necessity when survival hangs in the balance.
"This could work," admits the Bloodfang challenger, his skepticism replaced by grudging respect. "If we can maintain coordination between clan forces."
"It will work," I correct, pouring absolute conviction into my voice. "Because failure means the death of everything we value. Because victory requires us to be more than the sum of our individual parts."
"And you would coordinate this alliance?" asks another warrior.
"I would serve it," I reply. "Whatever role best serves our collective survival, that's the role I'll take."
The distinction seems to matter, marking the difference between seeking authority and accepting responsibility. Around the assembly, I see nods of approval from warriors who've learned to value competence over birthright.
"Then let's show these dark elf bastards what unified clans can accomplish," declares the Ironjaw veteran.
The roar of agreement that follows shakes dust from the canyon walls, echoing with the fierce joy of warriors who've found cause worth fighting for. Whatever happens in the coming battle, we'll face it as allies rather than desperate individuals.
And perhaps that unity will prove stronger than any force our enemies can deploy against us.
14
ROGAR
The ambush unfolds with the precision of a master craftsman's work, each element falling into place exactly as Zahra planned. From my concealed position overlooking the main approach, I watch dark elf forces advance into what they believe is a conventional defensive engagement. Their formation speaks of arrogant confidence—tight ranks, coordinated magical support, the measured advance of troops who expect victory through overwhelming superiority.
They have no idea they're walking into a killing ground designed by someone who learned warfare in the cruelest school imaginable.
"Northern force is in position," Grimna's voice carries through the communication crystal, barely audible over the sound of approaching enemies. "Ironjaw warriors report ready."
