Page 38 of Bound By Blood
DROKHAN
The ground trembles beneath my boots before I hear the war-drums.
Thrum-thrum-thrum.Blood rhythm. Battle cadence. The sound every Orc learns before they can properly hold a blade.
But these drums carry the wrong beat, not Stoneborn rhythms, but the harsh staccato of the Ironmaw Clan. Gorthak's dogs, come sniffing for easy prey.
"Chief!" Gorth bursts into the grotto's entrance chamber, chest heaving. "Ironmaw war-party. Three dozen, maybe more. They've surrounded the lower gates."
The human voices, Eirian's family, cut off mid-sentence. Lady Jazmin's pale face whips toward me, terror replacing indignation. These soft-skinned nobles have never heard real war-drums. Never felt the earth shake under charging Orc feet.
They're about to learn.
"How long?" I grab my war-axe from the wall mount, muscle memory checking the blade's edge.
"Minutes. They sent a herald with terms." Gorth spits blood, his own, from running too hard. "They want the human healer.Alive. Claim she's worth more than our entire winter stores to the right buyer."
Of course.Word travels fast through the clan networks. A human noble with healing gifts, bonded to a war chief? Every ambitious clan lord from here to the Bitter Peaks would pay handsomely for that prize.
Eirian steps forward, chin raised in that stubborn line I'm learning to recognize. "I won't hide while others bleed for my sake."
"You'll do exactly as I command." The words come out harder than intended, but fear makes me cruel.Not fear for myself. Fear for her."Gorth, how many fighters do we have ready?"
"Eighteen. The rest are scattered on patrol or..." He glances at the human delegation. "Otherwise occupied."
Eighteen against thirty. Poor odds, even with fortress walls to our advantage. Worse, half our fighters are wounded from yesterday's border raid. Fresh bandages don't stop Ironmaw blades.
Think, Drokhan. What would Grashak do?
My old war-tutor's voice echoes from memory:"When the enemy expects strength, show them cunning. When they expect cunning, show them rage. But always, always, show them something they don't expect."
I scan the grotto's healing chamber. Two dozen apprentice healers, mostly young, mostly untrained in combat. But their hands are steady, their nerves tested by tending screaming wounded.
Something they don't expect.
"Eirian, can your healers hold a shield wall?"
"What?" She blinks, caught off-guard.
"Shield-bearers. Not fighters, just bodies holding formation while archers work." I'm already moving, mind racing throughpossibilities. "Half-trained is better than nothing when you need numbers."
"They'rehealers, not soldiers?—"
"They're Orc-bonded now. That makes them clan. Will they fight to protect what they've sworn to heal?"
Understanding dawns across her features. Not just tactical comprehension, but something deeper. Recognition of what I'm offering: not just protection, but belonging. Equal stakes in the outcome.
"Yes." No hesitation. "They'll fight."
The war-drums grow closer, more insistent. Through the grotto's upper windows, I catch glimpses of movement on the cliff paths. Ironmaw scouts, positioning for assault.
Time to show them something unexpected.
"Gorth, gather every shield we have. Kitchen pots if necessary." I turn to Eirian. "Get your healers armed and positioned. They hold the center line, nothing fancy, just keep formation and don't break."
"And the human delegation?"
Lady Jazmin steps forward, her voice carefully controlled despite obvious terror. "We have guards. Six men, well-trained."
