Page 39 of Bound By Blood
Six human guards against Ironmaw berserkers.Might as well arm children with willow switches. But pride demands the offer, and desperate situations demand every blade.
"Gratefully accepted." I incline my head formally, respect between warriors, regardless of blood. "Take positions on the east flank. Gorth will coordinate."
The war-drums stop.
Shit.That means they're moving.
"Positions! Now!"
The grotto erupts into controlled chaos. Healers scramble for makeshift armor, leather aprons, iron cooking pots, anythingthat might turn a blade. Eirian moves among them, calm as still water, adjusting grips, offering quiet encouragements.
She's magnificent.Even facing death, her first instinct is to tend to others.
I vault up stone steps to the grotto's defensive gallery, war-axe singing as I test its balance. From here, I can see the full scope of Gorth's ambition: forty fighters, not thirty. Fresh from successful raids, judging by their new armor and confident swagger.
Overconfident.That's their first mistake.
Their second mistake is assuming we'll cower behind walls like frightened rabbits.
Grashak's voice echoes again: "The enemy's expectations are their weakness. Turn expectation into trap, and trap becomes victory."
I close my eyes, reaching back twenty years to a mud-soaked training ground where a scarred old warrior taught a hot-headed youth the difference between courage and stupidity.
"You think too much with your rage," Grashak growled, circling me with predatory patience. "Rage is a tool, boy. Use it wrong, and it cuts you instead of your enemy."
I lunged again, war-club whistling through empty air as he sidestepped. Mud sucked at my boots. My chest burned with exhaustion.
"I'm. Trying." Each word came between gasping breaths.
"Trying to what? Kill me? Prove yourself? Impress your father?" He cracked my knuckles with his practice blade, not hard enough to break bone, just enough to sting. "Wrong answer. Try again."
I wiped blood from my split lip, glaring at him through sweat-stung eyes. "Trying to win."
"Better. But still wrong." He lowered his weapon, studying me with those glacier-blue eyes. "You're trying to fight like me. Like your father. Like every other Orc warrior you've seen."
"Isn't that the point?"
"The point, young chief, is to fight like yourself." He gestured toward the clan-hold, where smoke rose from cooking fires and the sounds of daily life echoed off stone walls. "Those people need their leader to come home. Not to die gloriously, not to prove anything, but to come home and lead them through tomorrow."
I hefted my club again, this time more carefully. "So how do I fight like myself?"
"Figure out what you have that others don't. Then use it." His scarred face split in a rare grin. "But first, survive long enough to discover what that is."
What do I have that others don't?
The answer comes as Ironmaw warriors charge the lower gates: Eirian's healing magic, yes, but more than that. Trust. Fellowship. The bonds that turn strangers into family.
Gorthak expects clan against clan, blood against blood, the old dance of raid and revenge. He doesn't expect humans fighting alongside Orcs. Doesn't expect healers standing shield-to-shield with warriors.
Doesn't expect love to sharpen steel.
"Steady!" I roar as the first wave hits our outer defenses. "Hold formation!"
Eirian's voice rises in harmony with mine: "Shields high! Trust your training!"
Training.Half an hour with kitchen pots and garden tools. But trust? That we have in abundance.
The battle erupts in earnest now, steel ringing against steel, guttural war-cries echoing off cavern walls. Ironmaw berserkersthrow themselves against our improvised shield wall, expecting it to shatter like glass.
