Page 36 of Owned By the Orc Warlord
"Elaborate," Rogar commands.
"They're expecting us to fight like orcs—direct confrontation, strength against strength, honorable combat according to traditional warrior codes." I trace the enemy approach routes with one finger, noting how they converge on our defensive positions. "But what if we fight like the escaped slave they're hunting? Dirty, desperate, using every underhanded trick survival has taught me?"
"Such as?"
"Psychological warfare. Make them afraid of what they can't see or predict. Turn their expectations against them until paranoia becomes their greatest enemy."
The strategy crystallizes as I speak, drawing on years of observing how dark elf arrogance becomes vulnerability when their assumptions prove wrong. They expect orcish honor, predictable tactics, resistance that follows established patterns.
Time to show them what happens when their victims refuse to play by familiar rules.
"The siege equipment on the southern approach," I continue, warming to the theme. "What if it never reaches firing position? What if the crews operating it start disappearing in ways that leave their comrades questioning every shadow?"
"Sabotage operations," Grimna muses. "Disrupt their coordination, force them to commit reserves to protecting their own forces."
"Exactly. And the northern assault force—what if they find the settlement apparently abandoned, only to discover too late that every building has become a killing ground prepared by warriors who know exactly when and where to strike?"
Excitement ripples through the assembled warriors as the possibilities become clear. Instead of passive defense against superior numbers, we could seize initiative through unpredictable tactics that exploit enemy overconfidence.
But the strategy requires something more than mere tactical innovation. It demands unity, coordination between clan forces that have never fought together, trust that extends beyond traditional hierarchies.
"The allied contingents," I say, addressing the concern that threatens to undermine any plan. "Ironjaw and Bloodfang warriors don't know our tactical patterns, our communication protocols, our defensive preparations. Integration under battlefield conditions..."
"Would be nearly impossible," Khela finishes. "Unless someone coordinates between the different fighting styles and traditions."
All eyes turn toward me, and I realize with growing clarity what they're suggesting. Not just tactical advisory, but active command coordination—the human female who's been amongthem for weeks stepping forward to lead warriors she's barely met against enemies who want her captured alive.
"The allied clans won't follow human leadership," I protest.
"They'll follow competence," Rogar corrects. "And they'll follow someone who's proven willing to die for principles they respect."
"This is insane."
"Most effective strategies are," Grimna observes with dark humor. "The question is whether you're brave enough to attempt it."
The challenge hangs in the smoky air, demanding an answer that will determine not just tactical arrangements but the future of resistance in this territory. Accept the responsibility, and I become the focal point for hopes and expectations I might not be able to fulfill. Refuse, and we fall back on conventional approaches that promise only glorious defeat.
Looking around the command post, I see faces marked by grim determination and desperate hope. These warriors have accepted me as family, trusted me with their secrets and their lives. The least I can do is trust them with mine.
"What do you need me to do?"
"Speak to the allied contingents," Rogar says. "Convince them that unconventional tactics serve everyone's survival. Show them that working together multiplies our effectiveness beyond simple arithmetic."
The assignment feels like stepping off a cliff into empty air. Address warriors I've never met, from clans with their own traditions and prejudices, convince them to trust the tactical insights of someone they probably see as an amusing curiosity at best.
But looking at the map again, studying the overwhelming force arrayed against us, I realize that conventional leadershipapproaches face the same impossible odds as conventional tactics.
Time for something unprecedented.
"Gather the allied warriors in the main assembly area," I decide. "All of them, from every clan. If we're going to do this, we do it openly."
The next hour passes in a blur of preparation and growing anxiety. Word spreads through the settlement that the escaped human sacrifice will address the combined warrior force, that tactical decisions affecting everyone's survival will be made in open council rather than private consultation.
The main assembly area fills with green-skinned fighters bearing the distinctive markings of three different clans. Ironjaw warriors display the bone ornaments and filed tusks that mark their particular martial traditions. Bloodfang contingents wear the red war paint that speaks of countless battles survived. And scattered among them, Stormfang fighters who've accepted my presence but may struggle to see me as their tactical coordinator.
I stand before them wearing full armor and weapons, the war paint Khela taught me applied in patterns that blend clan traditions with personal symbols. The morning light streaming through canyon openings illuminates faces marked by suspicion, curiosity, and the grim anticipation that precedes desperate battles.
"Warriors of the allied clans," I begin, my voice carrying clearly across the gathered assembly. "You know why we're here. Dark elf forces approach in overwhelming numbers, determined to crush all resistance in this territory. By every tactical calculation, we face certain defeat."
