Page 17 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
"Contact," comes Thresh's urgent call from the watchtower. "Dark elf scouts, moving toward perimeter positions."
The tactical situation crystallizes with horrible clarity. While we've been preparing for potential assault, enemy forces have moved closer than our detection networks should have allowed. Either their stealth capabilities exceed our expectations, orthey've found gaps in our surveillance that represent critical security failures.
"How many?" Khela calls back, already moving toward her weapons with practiced efficiency.
"Twelve visible, possibly more in concealment. Moving with professional coordination, testing response times and defensive positioning."
A scouting party rather than assault force, but still dangerous enough to represent genuine threat. Dark elf scouts possess magical capabilities that allow them to gather intelligence while remaining largely undetected, making them priority targets for elimination rather than capture.
"Alert the others," I say, surprising myself with the authority in my voice. "Full combat readiness, but maintain concealment until we can assess their full strength."
Khela nods approval before disappearing toward the main settlement, her movements carrying the fluid efficiency of someone who's transitioned seamlessly from conversation to combat preparation. Within minutes, the pre-dawn quiet transforms into organized chaos as warriors take positions according to defensive plans we've rehearsed but never tested under actual combat conditions.
I find myself moving toward the armory with automatic precision, muscle memory overriding the emotional turmoil that's been consuming my thoughts. Whatever personal complications the claiming has created, immediate survival takes precedence over psychological processing.
The leather armor slides over my skin with familiar comfort, each piece positioned for maximum protection while maintaining mobility that combat demands. Weapons feel natural in my hands—the curved saber that's become my signature tool, throwing knives balanced for accuracy ratherthan intimidation, the short bow whose range complements my tactical preferences.
"Ready?" Rogar's voice carries across the armory as he completes his own equipment checks. His massive frame radiates controlled violence, but his grey eyes hold concern that goes beyond mere tactical considerations.
"Ready," I confirm, though the word encompasses far more than combat preparation.
We move toward the defensive positions with coordinated precision that speaks of partnerships forged through shared trials rather than mere romantic attraction. The claiming bonds may have been accepted under pressure, but the tactical understanding between us has developed through weeks of training and mutual observation.
The dark elf scouts have positioned themselves along the canyon approaches that offer optimal surveillance of our defensive preparations. Their magical concealment creates distortions in the air that trained eyes can detect, but only if you know exactly what to look for. Fortunately, years of surviving in Liiandor taught me to recognize such techniques.
"There," I whisper, pointing toward a rock formation that seems to shimmer with unnatural heat distortion. "Scrying focus, probably two operators maintaining surveillance while the others map our positions."
"Range?" Rogar asks, studying the terrain with tactical precision.
"Seventy yards, maybe eighty. Close enough for detailed observation, far enough to avoid immediate detection by conventional patrols."
"Elimination options?"
"Coordinated assault from multiple angles, overwhelming their position before they can report back to main forces." I trace potential approach routes with one finger, noting how theterrain favors ambush tactics over direct confrontation. "But it has to be absolute—if even one escapes to carry intelligence back, we've gained nothing while revealing our capabilities."
"Agreed." Rogar signals toward concealed positions where other warriors wait for orders. "Grimna, take four fighters along the northern approach. Khela, southern route with three. I'll coordinate center assault with Zahra."
The assignments place me in the most dangerous position—direct frontal engagement that will draw enemy attention while allied forces maneuver for flanking strikes. It's a vote of confidence in my combat abilities, but it's also recognition that the claiming bonds make my survival central to overall clan welfare.
"Move on my signal," Rogar continues. "Silent approach until contact, then maximum aggression. No prisoners, no survivors, no intelligence gathered that we don't want them to have."
The assault that follows unfolds with devastating precision. Dark elf scouts may possess superior magical abilities, but they're not prepared for coordinated attack by warriors who know every inch of the local terrain. Their concealment spells provide protection against casual observation, not systematic hunting by enemies who've identified their positions.
My saber finds the first target before he can complete a warning spell, the curved blade opening his throat with surgical precision. Warm blood sprays across my armor as I move toward the second scout, whose attention remains focused on maintaining the scrying focus that provides intelligence to distant commanders.
Rogar's war axe crushes the magical apparatus with devastating force, the double-headed blade shattering enchanted crystal while eliminating the operator in the same strike. Around us, allied warriors emerge from concealmentto engage remaining scouts with coordinated brutality that transforms organized surveillance into desperate survival struggle.
The battle becomes a symphony of violence that tests every skill I've developed through years of desperate circumstances. Dark elf magic creates barriers and offensive strikes that require constant movement to avoid, while their superior physical capabilities demand tactical precision rather than direct confrontation.
But we have advantages they can't match—intimate knowledge of terrain, perfect coordination between forces, and the desperate motivation of people defending their home against invaders who've come to destroy everything they value.
One by one, the scouts fall to ambush tactics that exploit their overconfidence and unfamiliarity with local conditions. What should have been routine intelligence gathering becomes systematic slaughter that leaves no survivors to carry reports back to their commanders.
"Sweep for survivors," I command as the immediate fighting concludes, surprised by how naturally authority sits on my shoulders in combat situations. "Check bodies for intelligence materials, then prepare positions for cleanup."
The aftermath reveals the tactical significance of what we've accomplished. The dead scouts carry detailed maps of our defensive positions, communication crystals that would have allowed real-time intelligence sharing, and magical focuses designed to penetrate concealment spells we thought were effective.
But more importantly, their equipment suggests this was advance reconnaissance for larger assault planned within days rather than weeks. We've eliminated eyes and ears that enemy commanders were counting on for final preparations.
