(One more release today due to the Powerstone goal being reached)
By the time the surviving orcs finally reached the rangers, they had already lost more than half their original numbers. The canyon floor was littered with green-blooded corpses and the acrid stench of charred flesh.
Among the elven squad, the mage had dealt the most devastating damage. One high-powered spell after another had been unleashed with merciless precision, each cast wiping out multiple orcs at once in explosions of fire and rending earth. However, his magical reserves were also draining at an alarming rate. Sweat beaded on his forehead as he prepared yet another incantation.
As the few remaining orcs finally closed the distance, Aisha smoothly holstered her bow and drew the elegant longsword at her waist in one fluid motion. An orc howled with berserker-like fury as it charged directly at her, axe raised high. She calmly sidestepped the telegraphed blow with minimal movement, the crude weapon whistling harmlessly past her head.
With a graceful spin that made combat look like a deadly dance, she flicked her blade upward, the steel piercing straight through the orc's exposed torso. Green blood sprayed as she withdrew the sword and moved to her next target without hesitation.
More orcs surged forward in a desperate final push, roaring with mindless aggression and bloodlust. The rangers holstered their bows as one and drew their swords, seamlessly transitioning into close-quarters combat. They moved with supernatural grace, yet every strike was lethal. Swords flashed in the fading daylight as they cut down orcs with the practiced ease of butchers slaughtering livestock.
The orcs' fearless, suicidal charges couldn't disrupt the rangers' tight formation or disciplined coordination at all. Elven training and their superior skill proved utterly overwhelming against the orc's brawn. Before long, barely any orcs remained standing.
Only Bloodfang still fought, locked in fierce single combat with Dalrix. His massive body was covered in bleeding wounds that would have dropped any weaker warrior, yet paradoxically, the more injured he was, the fiercer and more dangerous his attacks became. Some kind of primal orcish battle-frenzy was taking hold ofhim.
Panting heavily, blood and sweat dripping from his scarred face, he swung his notched battle axe with terrifying force. Each strike carried enough weight to shatter bone and cleave armor, his heavy blade whistling through the air.
Dalrix's fighting spirit was fully ignited by the challenge. This was a worthy opponent. He blocked Bloodfang's powerful attacks again and again, his sword ringing against the axe's edge, then launched precise counterattacks whenever he identified an opening in the orc's aggressive but sloppy technique. The two warriors were locked in a brutal stalemate, neither able to gain a decisive advantage.
"I'll help you!" Aya raised her staff and began chanting, arcane chantings building up power. She was the Moon Cleric assigned to their squad for magical support after all.
"I don't need your help! I've got this myself!" Dalrix roared indignantly, insulted by the implication he couldn't handle one orc alone.
Unfortunately for his pride, it was too late. Aya's spell released before he could stop her, violet energy washing over the battlefield.
Bloodfang desperately wanted to cleave this nimble, infuriating monkey-eared bastard clean in half and claim his skull as a trophy. But as their duel dragged on, his eyelids suddenly grew impossibly heavy, as if weighted down, and exhaustion crashed over him.
What was happening? Why was he so unbearably sleepy all of a sudden? His reactions visibly slowed, his vision blurred and doubled, his eyes fighting desperately to stay open against the magical compulsion pulling him toward unconsciousness.
He shook his massive head violently, trying to physically clear the unnatural drowsiness. These despicable elves always used dirty tricks instead of fighting honorably. No respect for proper combat.
Dalrix's attacks continued without mercy or pause. Seeing the orc's noticeably delayed reactions and sluggish movements, he was furious that his teammate had interfered with what should have been a fair duel between warriors. But his hands didn't stop, and his assault actually became even more vicious and opportunistic.
He ducked low beneath a wild swing, flashed behind Bloodfang, and in the critical moment of the orc turning to track him, drove his sword straight through the exposed ankle with surgical precision.
Bloodfang roared in agony and dropped down to one knee, the injured leg unable to support his weight. A perfect, vulnerable opening.
Dalrix raised his sword high, ready to deliver the killing blow and end this.
"Don't kill him! We need him alive!" Aisha's commanding voice cut through the battlefield chaos.
This orc was clearly the raid leader. He would know far more than the rank-and-file warriors. Intelligence was more valuable than another corpse.
Dalrix was visibly displeased, his jaw clenching with barely suppressed frustration. Every instinct inside him screamed to finish him, to disobey the order and end this worthy opponent with dignity. But then something shifted in his expression, as if recalling larger responsibilities. This wasn't the time to act on personal impulses and satisfy his ego.
With a dark, resentful expression, he instead methodically severed all the major tendons in the orc's limbs with precise cuts, ensuring Bloodfang could never fight again, even if he somehow escaped. Then he produced a rope and bound the now-helpless warrior tightly, knots cruel and efficient.
Bloodfang struggled with everything he had left, pure animal fury and the sharp pain keeping him conscious and fighting against his drowsiness. But Dalrix was an expert at this, pinning down the orc's arms and securing the bindings until resistance became physically impossible.
With their leader finally captured, the brief, brutal battle reached its conclusion. The ranger team efficiently cleaned up the aftermath, methodically finishing off any wounded orcs still breathing among the scattered corpses. Mercy wasn't part of their mission.
Then they gathered around their prized captive in a loose circle, weapons still drawn and ready.
Dalrix stepped forward without hesitation and viciously smashed the pommel of his sword into the orc's scarred face, splitting his green skin and drawing fresh blood.
"Talk. Talk. TALK!" he demanded, punctuating each word with another brutal strike.
Bloodfang's inherent bloodlust and defiance flared instantly despite his helpless position. He glared at Dalrix with bulging, hate-filled eyes. Though he didn't even understand what specific information the elf wanted from him, he roared with all the defiance he could muster.
"Orcs will never be slaves! WAAAAAA—"
SMACK! Another sharp, contemptuous slap across his face cut the war cry off mid-roar, snapping his head sideways.
"Step aside. Leave this to me," Aya said quietly, removing her hood as she calmly moved forward.
She hadn't contributed much during the actual fighting, her offensive magic barely being useful. But interrogation through dream manipulation was her particular specialty, the reason Moon Clerics accompanied ranger squads despite their combat limitations.
She positioned herself directly before Bloodfang, meeting his furious gaze. Her eyes suddenly shifted, turning impossibly deep and unfathomable as violet arcane magic swirled within her irises, forming a hypnotic vortex that pulled at the strings of his consciousness itself.
Bloodfang felt his awareness sink like a stone into dark water, all of his resistance crumbling. Then he fell into a deep, dreamless sleep, his massive body going limp.
Not long after, perhaps ten minutes of tense silence, Aya finally withdrew her invasive magic and opened her eyes. Her expression was deeply grave, troubled in a way that immediately put everyone on edge.
"How are you, Aya? What did you learn?!" Dalrix demanded urgently.
Everyone stared at her with visible anxiety, sensing bad news.
"Captain," Aya addressed Aisha directly, her voice carefully controlled. "What happened at the Silent Moon Outpost wasn't done by the orcs."
"What?!" Multiple voices responded in shock.
Though they had already suspected something was deeply wrong with this whole situation, the direct confirmation still sent waves of alarm through the squad. That meant a hidden force existed, operating in the shadows with unknown goals and capabilities.
Their objective seemed painfully obvious now: ignite a full-scale war between elves and orcs, using manipulation and false flag attacks to turn suspicion into certainty and skirmishes into genocide.
"In this orc's memories," Aya continued her report, "when the raiding party reached Silent Moon Outpost, all the guards were already dead. Slaughtered. The orcs only moved south across the border because they received specific information from an unknown source, someone who told them exactly where to strike and when defenses would be down."
Under normal circumstances, the instant orcs crossed into elven territory, the border outpost would issue immediate warnings through Magic. Horns would sound, signals would be sent, and garrisons would be mobilized. This time, because Silent Moon Outpost never transmitted any signal at all, several villages were completely unprepared and got massacred and looted before anyone even knew orcs had crossed the border.
This systematic failure and the resulting civilian casualties had already enraged the upper leadership of the Moon Elf Territory. There definitely would be some, having to take accountability, and when that happens, heads would roll.
Aisha's expression grew heavy with the weight of this revelation. This information was absolutely critical intelligence and had to be reported to Lunaria immediately, before more lives were lost to whoever was orchestrating this conspiracy.
She quickly retrieved the mission-issued magical communicator from her belt pouch, then stopped with a sudden realization. They were deep inside orc territory now, well beyond the reach of their magic. The enchanted device was useless out here.
But that was manageable. From the mage's voluminous robe, a specially trained messenger raven emerged, its intelligent eyes watching her attentively.
Aisha hastily wrote down the vital intelligence on a small scroll, her handwriting rushed but readable, and fastened the message securely to the raven's leg with a leather cord.
Dusk had fallen across the wasteland, painting the sky in shades of warm orange and purple. The raven flapped its dark wings powerfully and flew toward the distant, glowing sunset, carrying their warning home.
"Captain," Aya spoke up suddenly with slight embarrassment. "Did you forget about me?"
Aisha blinked, then understanding dawned. Right. Aya was a Moon Cleric, trained specifically in dream manipulation and consciousness projection. She could send messages directly through the Dreamscape from anywhere, bypassing physical limitations entirely. That would actually be significantly faster than relying on a bird.
A trace of relief and hope flickered in Aisha's eyes. Redundancy was good. As long as the critical message got through to command quickly through at least one method, that was what mattered. The mission would be complete, and they could finally return home.
The team collectively relaxed slightly, tension draining from their shoulders and weapons being lowered. The hard part was over. They had spent days in constant motion through hostile territory, exhausted beyond normal endurance, surviving on adrenaline and discipline. Soon they could rest properly.
Aya sat down cross-legged on the rocky ground, staff across her lap, preparing to enter the meditative trance required to access the Dreamscape and transmit their intelligence.
BANG!
What just happened?!
Warm blood suddenly splashed across Aisha's face in a horrifying spray. Her pupils went blank with shock as her mind struggled to process the impossible scene before her.
Aya felt sudden, overwhelming pain blossom in her chest. Her consciousness's connection to the Dreamscape was violently severed like a cut rope. She stared blankly downward at her own torso, at the massive, gaping hole where her heart had been just moments before. Blood poured freely from the wound.
In the distance, the messenger raven in flight let out a single sharp cry of alarm before being shot down as well, black feathers exploding as the bird tumbled from the sky.
"Aya! AYA!" A desperate cry rang out as her body collapsed limply onto the blood-soaked ground, eyes already going glassy and vacant.
On a distant hillside overlooking their position, stood a figure clad in black, clearly visible now that concealment no longer mattered. He hefted a massive dwarven firearm in his hands; calling it a simple gun would be overly generous. It was closer to a portable hand cannon, smoke still rising lazily from its wide barrel.
"Expensive as absolute hell," he muttered to himself with amusement, his voice raspy and unnatural. "But damn, it works beautifully."
A chilling laugh escaped him, the sound sending shivers down their spines. One by one, more black-clad figures emerged from concealment on the surrounding ridges, slowly and deliberately encircling Aisha's team like wolves surrounding cornered prey. The trap snapped beautifully.
The elven rangers were still frozen in stunned shock at Aya's sudden, brutal death, their minds struggling to shift from relief to an alarmed combat stance. Then they registered the tightening encirclement of enemies, and they understood instantly.
Fury erupted through the squad like wildfire. Aisha's rage could no longer be restrained or controlled by discipline and training. Her eyes locked onto the black-clad assassins with pure, incandescent murderous intent burning behind them.