Page 13 of Savage Devotion (Orc Warrior Romances #2)

"Flank attacks. Force the formation to turn, create gaps in the line." Her diagrams show the weak points that mobile forces could exploit. "Or missile fire from elevated positions. Make them advance uphill into arrow storms."

Detailed knowledge. Professional competence.

She's fought against orc formations before.

Successfully.

I nod, grudging respect replacing my initial skepticism about human military capabilities. "Valid tactics. Properly executed, they'd work."

Admission of vulnerability. Strategic reality.

Also recognition of her competence.

"Would have worked," she corrects. "Past tense. Your people adapt quickly."

True. Survival requires adaptation.

Static tactics lead to extinction.

"Mixed formations now," I explain. "Shield-walls supported by mobile units. Wolf riders for pursuit, spear-throwers for ranged combat. Combined arms rather than single-tactic dependency."

Evolution. Progress.

Learning from defeat to achieve victory.

Her expression sharpens with the professional interest that military minds share regardless of species or allegiance. "Integrated command structure?"

"Clan champions coordinate overall strategy. Unit leaders handle tactical implementation."

Standard organization. Effective hierarchy.

Nothing revolutionary, but proven through generations of warfare.

"Weaknesses?"

Direct question. Testing my willingness to share operational intelligence.

Trust or manipulation?

Does it matter if the information serves mutual survival?

"Communication delays between units. Coordination failures during rapid maneuvering." I meet her gaze directly. "Same weaknesses that affect all military organizations."

Truth. Partial truth.

Enough to show trust without compromising operational security.

"And strengths?"

"Unit cohesion. Individual warriors who'd die before disappointing their brothers." The words weigh with personal experience. "Loyalty that can't be bought or broken."

The strength that saved me when I should have died.

The bond that makes survival possible.

The reason I'm here instead of buried beside Jorak.

She nods slowly, absorbing the implications. "That kind of loyalty makes you dangerous."

"Yes."

Simple truth. No elaboration needed.

She understands the tactical implications.

"It also makes you vulnerable."

Accurate observation. Uncomfortable truth.

Emotional bonds create exploitable weaknesses.

"Explain."

"Threaten one warrior's family, his clan, his brothers. He becomes predictable. Desperate. Desperation leads to mistakes."

She's used this against orc forces before.

Successfully.

Professional admiration and personal concern.

"You speak from experience."

Statement, not a question.

Testing her willingness to share tactical intelligence.

"Human nobles understand leverage. Political marriages, economic dependencies, family hostages." Her expression hardens with distaste. "Manipulation disguised as diplomacy."

Personal knowledge. Direct experience.

She's been both victim and practitioner.

"And now?"

"Now I fight for coin rather than causes. Simpler. Cleaner."

Deflection. Partial truth.

There's more to her story.

More than professional curiosity.

Personal interest.

I care about her answer. Not just tactical intelligence or professional assessment, but genuine concern for her past and future.

Dangerous. Complicated.

Inevitable.

Like everything else about this day.

"Mercenary work has its own complications," I observe.

"Such as?"

"Conflicting loyalties. Professional obligations that contradict personal preferences."

Testing. Probing.

What happens when her contract conflicts with a growing attraction?

What happens when this alliance serves neither coin nor clan?

Her smile carries knowing challenge. "Worried I'll choose money over... other considerations?"

Direct question. Honest answer required.

Risk or opportunity?

"Yes."

Truth. Vulnerability.

Trust offered without guarantee of reciprocation.

"Then give me better reasons to stay."

Challenge accepted.

Game on.

Her challenge is charged with possibilities that make my chest tighten. Better reasons to stay. The words echo in my head as I search her face for answers to questions I'm not ready to ask.

What would those reasons be?

What am I willing to offer?

What am I willing to risk?

Before I give a response that doesn't expose too much vulnerability, the sharp blast of a war horn cuts through the night air. Three long notes, followed by two short. The Ironspine signal for urgent summons.

Clan business. Always clan business.

Duty before desire.

Responsibility before personal complications.

Ressa's expression shifts instantly, the teasing challenge replaced by professional alertness. She recognizes the sound of military communication even if she doesn't understand the specific meaning.

"You need to go."

Statement, not a question.

Understanding without explanation.

Professional courtesy between warriors.

I nod, already mentally cataloging equipment I'll need for whatever crisis demands my immediate return. "Stoneborn stronghold. Something's wrong."

The horn pattern shows emergency assembly.

Not drill. Not routine.

Real threat requiring immediate response.

The war horn sounds again, closer this time. Hoofbeats approach through the darkness with a rider pushing hard over rough terrain. I notice the rhythm before the horse and rider emerge from the shadows: Garok's mare, distinctive gait born of old injuries that never healed properly.

Garok himself looks worse than his horse. Blood streaks his left arm, his breathing labored from a hard ride that's pushed both mount and rider to their limits.

"Kaelgor. Drokhan sends immediate summons."

Bloodied messenger. Emergency summons.

Combat situation.

Lives at stake.

"Report."

"Bloodfang war band. Five hundred strong, massed at Skullcrack Pass." He catches his breath, one hand pressed to his wounded arm. "They've got siege equipment. Catapults. Battering rams."

Five hundred. Significant force.

Siege equipment indicates serious intent.

This isn't a raid. This is war.

My mind shifts to tactical analysis, personal considerations temporarily set aside. Skullcrack Pass controls the main approach to Stoneborn territory. If the Bloodfang take it, they gain access to our supply routes, our secondary settlements, our civilians.

Strategic chokepoint. Vital defensive position.

Loss means exposure. Vulnerability.

Potential slaughter.

"How long have they been there?"

"Since yesterday dawn. They're building camps. Permanent positions." Garok's expression darkens. "This isn't hit-and-run. They mean to hold the pass."

Coordinated assault. Long-term planning.

Someone's been preparing this for months.

Intelligence failure on our part.

I glance at Ressa, who's been listening. Her expression reveals nothing, but I feel the slight tension around her eyes that suggests personal concern.

Worry for my safety?

Professional interest in tactical developments?

Both?

"Time frame for assembly?"

"Dawn march. Full war party." Garok straightens despite his obvious exhaustion. "Drokhan wants you leading the advance scouts. Standard reconnaissance before main assault."

My specialty. Advance intelligence.

Map enemy positions, identify weaknesses.

Guide the attack that keeps our people alive.

The familiar weight of responsibility settles across my shoulders like worn armor. This is what I do, what I'm trained for, what clan survival depends on. Personal complications must wait.

Duty before desire.

Always.

Even when it tears at something inside my chest.

"I'll need an hour to prepare equipment and brief my second on camp security."

Garok nods, sliding off his horse with visible relief. "I'll tend to my mount and grab some food. Been riding straight through since the summons."

Standard procedure. Practical necessity.

Also gives me time to explain the situation to Ressa.

Time to ensure she's protected while I'm gone.

I turn to face her, noting the way she's already mentally calculating implications. Her tactical mind works through possibilities with the speed that separates competent officers from dead ones.

"How long will you be gone?"

Direct question. Practical concern.

No emotional complications. Yet.

"Unknown. Depends on enemy deployment and tactical requirements." I meet her gaze directly. "Could be days. Could be weeks."

Truth. Military reality.

Uncertainty that makes planning difficult.

"And this camp?"

"Holds strategic value. Forward position for clan operations." I gesture toward the equipment storage, the defensive improvements we've made. "Abandoning it would concede tactical advantage."

Practical justification.

Also personal concern for her safety.

She needs secure position while I'm unavailable for protection.

"You want me to hold it."

Statement, not a question.

Recognition of tactical necessity.

Trust in her competence.

"Yes."

Simple acknowledgment.

Complex implications.

Giving her authority over clan resources.

Trusting her judgment with strategic assets.

Personal trust disguised as military necessity.

"Your people will accept human authority over clan territory?"

Valid concern. Potential complication.

Prejudice runs deep among traditional warriors.

Even temporary command could create problems.

"They'll accept my orders. I'm designating you as temporary garrison commander." The words come easier than expected, decision crystallizing as I speak. "Anyone questions it, they answer to me when I return."

Authority backed by personal reputation.

Protection through association.

My word as guarantee of her position.

She nods slowly, absorbing the implications. "Equipment? Supplies? Personnel?"

"Whatever you need for defensive operations. Three warriors remain for security detail—volunteers who've worked with human forces before."

Practical arrangements.

Also careful selection of personnel who won't create unnecessary complications.

Men who respect competence over species.