"The Redmoon chieftain may have even suggested it," I continue, working through implications that make my jaw clench with suppressed fury. "Promise her status in exchange for eliminating Wintermaw's leadership from within."
The betrayal cuts deeper than simple tactical maneuvering or even attempted murder. This represents the violation of bonds that should transcend political ambition—the destruction of childhood trust, the weaponization of shared history against the very clan that had sheltered and protected her since birth. It's the kind of treachery that demands blood payment, not just for the crime itself but for the fundamental corruption it represents.
"We'll handle her when this is finished," Korrash growls, his remaining eye blazing with the promise of violence to come.
I nod, filing away that particular debt for future collection. Right now, Sareen's fate matters less than eliminating the external threat she helped create. Personal vengeance can wait until clan security is assured.
The sounds of battle grow louder as we approach the contested ground—the ring of steel on steel, shouts of command and pain, the wet sounds that accompany serious violence. But something about the audio signature strikes me as wrong, lacking the chaotic intensity I'd expect from active combat between significant forces. This sounds more like cleanup than pitched battle, the kind of one-sided engagement that occurs when superior numbers encounter depleted resistance.
We crest a low ridge that offers visibility into the valley below, and the tactical situation becomes immediately clear. Perhaps two dozen Redmoon warriors occupy defensive positions around a hastily constructed barricade, their formation tight with the kind of desperation that speaks to severely reduced numbers. My own forces—nearly sixty strongand fresh from successful assault on their base—maintain positions that offer multiple angles of approach while preventing retreat.
A siege, then. My warriors holding position while the enemy considers surrender or death as their only remaining options.
But as we descend toward the combat zone, one figure emerges from the Redmoon defensive line with the kind of arrogant swagger that immediately identifies him as someone accustomed to command. Tall for an orc, built like a weapon designed for close combat, with the kind of predatory grace that marks natural killers. Rokkan. I recognize him from previous encounters—ambitious, bloodthirsty, and possessed of just enough tactical intelligence to make him genuinely dangerous.
More importantly, his presence here instead of with the main force suggests significant changes in Redmoon's command structure. Their chieftain's absence could mean capture, death, or simple abandonment of failing subordinates to save his own position.
"Wintermaw!" Rokkan's voice carries across the intervening distance with practiced projection, the kind of battlefield communication designed to be heard above the noise of combat. "I was wondering when you'd arrive to witness your clan's destruction."
I step forward, allowing moonlight to illuminate my features clearly enough for recognition. "Rokkan. Where's your chieftain? Too cowardly to face the consequences of his schemes personally?"
Something flickers across Rokkan's expression—satisfaction, maybe, or the kind of cruel amusement that accompanies successful treachery. "I am chieftain now. And soon, I'll be chieftain of Wintermaw as well, when I take your head as proof of victory."
The casual revelation carries implications that restructure my understanding of Redmoon's internal politics. A successful coup, then—Rokkan eliminating his superior and claiming leadership at the moment when external pressure demanded decisive action. It's exactly the kind of opportunistic violence that appeals to ambitious subordinates, and it explains why their remnant forces fight with desperate intensity rather than seeking terms for surrender.
Rokkan has committed himself completely to this course of action. Victory here represents validation of his leadership and foundation for future expansion. Defeat means death, either at my hands or from his own warriors' inevitable judgment of failed ambition.
The realization narrows tactical options to a single viable choice. This won't end with negotiation or conditional surrender. One of us dies here, tonight, in full view of both forces. The survivor claims absolute authority over whatever remains of both clans.
I draw my sword—the familiar weight settling into my grip like an extension of my own arm—and step clear of my warriors' formation. Around the defensive perimeter, combat gradually stills as both sides recognize the significance of this moment. Individual conflicts become irrelevant when leadership itself hangs in the balance.
Rokkan mirrors my movement, producing a weapon that gleams with the kind of professional maintenance that marks a career warrior. His smile reveals filed tusks sharpened to predatory points, an affectation that speaks to deliberate cultivation of intimidating appearance.
"You should have stayed dead, Nelrish." His voice carries the conversational tone of someone discussing weather rather than imminent violence. "Sareen's poison would have been quicker than what I'm going to do to you."
So he knows about the assassination attempt. Probably planned it, if Sareen's alliance with Redmoon runs as deep as circumstances suggest. The confirmation settles something cold and final in my chest—this isn't just clan warfare anymore. This is personal.
We circle each other with the patient wariness of experienced killers, each seeking advantage while denying opportunity to the other. Rokkan moves well, his footwork displaying the kind of trained competence that comes from surviving countless battles, but there's something theatrical about his posture that suggests more concern with appearance than pure efficiency.
He attacks first—a testing strike designed to gauge my speed and defensive capability rather than achieve immediate resolution. I deflect easily, countering with a thrust that forces him to give ground while revealing the reach advantage my slightly superior height provides.
"Getting slow in your old age," he taunts, though sweat already beads on his forehead from the effort of avoiding my counterstrike.
I don't respond verbally. Words are a distraction in serious combat, energy better spent on reading subtle shifts in stance that telegraph incoming attacks. Rokkan talks because he needs the psychological advantage—beneath the bravado, he knows he's facing a superior opponent.
His next assault comes as a combination—overhead strike followed immediately by horizontal slash, both delivered with the kind of brutal power that would end the fight instantly if either connected cleanly. I step inside his reach, accepting a shallow cut across my ribs in exchange for a position that allows my pommel to connect solidly with his temple.
The impact staggers him, disrupting his balance enough for me to follow with a knee strike that doubles him over. But he recovers quickly, spinning away from my attempted finishingblow and creating distance that allows him to reassess tactical requirements.
Blood runs from the shallow gash on my side—painful but not debilitating, the kind of injury that can be ignored until more pressing concerns are resolved. Rokkan's temple sports a rapidly swelling knot that will affect his vision and reaction time, but he's still mobile and dangerous.
We engage again, trading strikes in rapid succession as combat intensity escalates beyond preliminary testing. Steel rings against steel in staccato bursts that echo through the valley like irregular heartbeats. Rokkan fights with the desperate fury of someone whose entire future depends on this single encounter, throwing himself into attacks with suicidal commitment.
But desperation makes warriors predictable. His need for quick resolution forces him into increasingly risky gambles, seeking the single decisive blow that will end the contest before accumulated damage reduces his effectiveness further. It's exactly the kind of tactical error that experienced fighters learn to exploit.
When he overcommits to a thrust that would split me from sternum to spine if successful, I step aside and let his momentum carry him past my guard. My blade finds the gap between his ribs with surgical precision, sliding between bone and cartilage to pierce lung and heart in a single economical movement.
Rokkan's eyes widen with shocked recognition of his mortality, blood frothing from his lips as he tries to speak final words that emerge only as wet gasps. The strength leaves his legs, and he collapses forward against my blade, his weight driving steel deeper into vital organs.
