35. Murok
35
MUROK
T he morning sun barely breaks through the dense canopy as we begin our trek back to the settlement. Grash takes point, his massive form cutting through the undergrowth. My eyes scan our surroundings, catching every shadow, every movement. Eira walks between us, protected as she should be. The way she moves now - confident yet cautious - makes my chest tighten with pride.
A breeze carries the distinct scent of leather oil and steel - dark elf scouts. My nostrils flare as I catch Dren's eye. He's noticed it too.
"Something's wrong," I mutter, placing my hand on Eira's shoulder to slow her pace.
"I smell them," Grash growls from ahead.
The forest goes quiet - too quiet. My fingers tighten around my blade as five dark elf scouts emerge from the trees, their armor gleaming dully in the filtered sunlight.
"Down!" I shove Eira behind a fallen log as arrows whistle past.
One scout raises a horn to his lips. Before I can reach him, the sharp blast echoes through the trees, signaling our position to the main force.
"Fuck," I snarl, driving my blade into his throat. Blood sprays across my chest as I spin to face another.
Grash roars, his axe cleaving through two scouts at once. Dren appears like smoke behind the fifth, ending him with skilled precision.
"They'll be coming," Grash says, wiping blood from his axe. "All of them."
"Then we run," I say, already moving to lift Eira.
"I can keep up," she protests, but I cut her off.
"Not fast enough. Let me carry you - we need speed now."
Her green eyes flash with defiance, but she nods, allowing me to lift her. Smart girl.
We push hard through the forest, covering ground quickly but not quick enough. The sounds of pursuit grow closer - boots crushing leaves, branches snapping, orders being shouted.
"Half a day's run to the settlement," I call out between breaths. "We need to move faster."
"They're gaining," Dren warns from behind us.
An arrow thunks into a tree beside my head. I curse, changing direction sharply. "This way!"
We've covered maybe half the distance to safety when I hear the horns again - closer now, too close. They're herding us, the clever bastards.
I scan our surroundings, calculating distances and angles. The settlement's too far - we'll never make it without engaging them.
"They're boxing us in," I say, my braids whipping as I turn to face the others. "Two squadrons, moving in formation."
Grash spits blood, his earlier wound still fresh. "Then we end this." His massive knuckles crack as he flexes his hands. The sound reminds me of breaking bones - a promise of what's to come.
I unsheathe my blade. "Your wound-"
"Won't slow me down," he cuts me off with a growl.
Dren appears beside us, silent as death itself. His blade catches the filtered sunlight, and his silver eyes hold that cold focus I've seen countless times before. He's already mapping out kill zones in his head.
"Formation delta," I command, falling naturally into strategy. "Dren, take the flanks. Grash-"
"I know my job," he rumbles, hefting his axe.
My eyes fall on Eira as she steps forward, her blade gripped with purpose. The sight of her makes my heart clench - not with worry, but with pride. Her eyes burn with a warrior's fire now, nothing like the broken slave we found in the pits.
"You don't have to fight," I tell her, though I already know her answer.
She meets my gaze, chin lifted. "Yes, I do."
Something fierce and protective surges through me. She's not just surviving anymore - she's choosing to stand with us. To fight with us. The woman before me has been forged in pain and emerged stronger than steel.
"Then you stay between Grash and me," I order. "We move as one unit."
The horns sound again, and boots thunder through the underbrush. Let them come. They'll learn what happens when you corner four warriors who have vowed to protect each other.
The first arrow cuts through the air like a whisper of death. Dren's hand snaps up, plucking it from its path as if catching a falling leaf. My lips curl into a savage grin - these dark elves have no idea what they're facing.
The second archer doesn't even get to nock his next shot. Grash's axe cleaves through him in a spray of crimson, the wet thud of metal meeting flesh echoing through the trees.
"Formation!" I bark, my blade already singing as I parry a strike meant for Eira's throat. "Keep them from circling!"
The forest erupts in chaos. Steel rings against steel and war cries pierce the morning air. A dark elf lunges at me with a spear - amateur move. I sidestep, grabbing the shaft and yanking him forward onto my blade.
"Behind you!" Eira's warning cuts through the din.
I spin, watching as she ducks under a sword swing, her movements fluid as water. She's beautiful in battle, all grace and deadly precision. Her blade finds the gap in her attacker's armor, and he drops with a gurgle.
"Not bad," I call out, dispatching another enemy with a quick thrust. "But watch your left side!"
"I've got her left," Dren says, his daggers claiming two lives in the space of a heartbeat.
Grash roars somewhere to my right, the sound of splintering armor telling me he's found his rhythm. "Come on, you pointy-eared bastards! Show me what you've got!"
A dark elf captain steps forward, his armor more ornate than the others. His blade whirls in an impressive display as he advances on me.
"Finally," I laugh, rolling my shoulders. "Someone who might actually be worth killing."
Our blades meet in a shower of sparks. He's good - but I'm better. Each strike is calculated, each parry precise. I can see the frustration building in his eyes as I match him move for move.
He snarls, exactly as I predicted. His next strike comes wild, uncontrolled. I slide under it, my blade finding his heart.
The battle rages on around us, but I can't help but notice how Eira moves between us like she was born to it. She's no longer a broken slave - she's become something magnificent and deadly.
"Keep them contained!" I shout, already moving to engage my next opponent. "Don't let them regroup!"
The morning sun catches on our blades as we dance this deadly waltz, four warriors against an army.
I direct our movements with sharp hand signals, keeping us fluid and lethal. These dark elf bastards think they can trap us? I've fought wars before they could hold a blade.
"Circle formation!" I bark, watching as Grash smashes his fist through a scout's face. Blood sprays across his teeth as he laughs, the sound echoing through the trees.
I parry a blade aimed at my throat, spinning to catch another with my elbow. "Keep them off balance! Don't let them surround us!"
Dren moves like death itself, appearing and vanishing between the trees. His daggers flash, and bodies drop in his wake. No sound, no warning - just the wet gurgle of dying men.
A dark elf lieutenant charges at me, blade raised. Amateur. I step inside his guard, my knife finding the gap beneath his ribs. "Too slow," I growl, already moving to my next target.
"Behind you!" Eira's scream cuts through the chaos.
I whirl to see a dark elf reaching for her with a garrote. Before I can move, Dren comes over from the shadows, his blade opening the bastard's throat in one clean sweep.
"Stay close," I order Eira, cutting down another attacker. "We move as one unit."
She nods, her blade dripping red. The way she fights now - it stirs something primal in me. She's learned well, moving between us like she was born to battle.
"More coming from the east!" Grash calls out, his massive form already turning to meet them.
"Good," I snarl, rolling my shoulders. "Let them come. Show these elf bastards what happens when they hunt orcs."
I assess the battlefield in seconds. Two dozen more approaching, trying to flank us. They think numbers will win this fight. They're wrong.