Page 21 of Bound By Blood (Orc Warrior Romances #1)

DROKHAN

T he 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 through possibilities. "Half-trained is better than nothing when you need numbers."

"They're healers , 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."

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, anything that 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 berserkers throw themselves against our improvised shield wall, expecting it to shatter like glass.

Instead, it bends and holds. Healers who've spent years steadying their hands against death's pressure don't flinch when death comes calling. Human guards who've trained for ceremony fight for survival, and ceremony melts away, leaving only necessity.

Beautiful. Deadly, chaotic, terrifying, but beautiful in its raw honesty.

An Ironmaw champion breaks through our left flank, obsidian war-hammer spinning in wide arcs. I drop from the gallery, landing cat-light behind him.

"Gorthak sends his greetings," he snarls, pivoting to face me. "And his terms. Surrender the human healer, and your clan lives."

"Counter-offer." My axe splits the air between us. "Withdraw now, and your clan lives."

He laughs, genuine amusement, not mockery. "Eighteen against forty, and you threaten us ?"

"Numbers aren't everything."

I prove the point by removing his head.

The battle rages for another twenty minutes, vicious, close-quarters fighting in confined spaces where skill matters more than numbers. Eirian moves through the chaos like a guardian spirit, her healing light keeping our wounded on their feet, her voice coordinating our ragged line.

This is what Grashak meant. Not fighting like other warriors, but fighting like myself , chief first, warrior second, protector always.

When the last Ironmaw berserker falls, silence settles over the grotto like fresh snow. We've won, but the cost shows in every bloodied face, every labored breath.

Eirian kneels beside a wounded healer, green light flowing from her hands into torn flesh. Her healing sash is splattered with blood, some her own, from a glancing blade-stroke across her forearm.

Mine. They dared harm what's mine.

The rage that thought brings surprises me with its intensity. Not the clean anger of battle, but something deeper. More personal.

Bond-protective instinct. She's truly clan now.

Lady Jazmin approaches, her fine clothes torn and dirty but her spine straight. "Your healers fought bravely. Our guards, they learned much today."

"War teaches quickly." I clean my axe on a fallen enemy's cloak. "Those who survive the lesson, anyway."

"Indeed." She studies me with shrewd eyes, calculating, but not dismissively. "Perhaps we should discuss terms. Not for my niece's ransom, but for... other arrangements."

Alliance. The word hangs unspoken between us, heavy with possibility.

Before I can respond, Eirian rises from her healing work and moves to my side. Not behind me, not in front, but beside, equal partners facing whatever comes next.

"Terms can wait," she says quietly. "We have wounded to tend and dead to honor."