The sound of the battlefield was deafening—metal clashing against metal, the cries of dying men and orcs alike, the shrill whistles of arrows cutting through the air. Ashar's senses were heightened as he led the charge through the smoke and dust, his sword slick with the blood of his enemies. His eyes never left the Orc general, a hulking figure standing at the heart of the chaos, his battleaxe raised high.
Ashar's heart pounded in his chest as he pushed forward, slicing through the Orc soldiers who dared to stand in his way. His soldiers followed closely behind, fighting with a ferocity that only desperation could bring. They had no choice—this was their fight for survival, and they would not lose it without taking down their oppressors.
The general's eyes locked with Ashar's across the battlefield, and in that moment, Ashar saw something in the Orc's gaze—something that made his blood run cold. The general wasn't just a mindless warrior; he was a leader, calculating, deadly, and far more intelligent than Ashar had given him credit for.
"You'll never take me down, human," the general bellowed, his voice cutting through the noise of battle. His deep, guttural voice was filled with confidence, and he swung his battleaxe down, cleaving through two of Ashar's soldiers in a single blow.
Ashar's mind raced. He had expected this. The general was strong, but Ashar had a plan. His soldiers, though few, were well-trained and determined, and with the element of surprise, they had a fighting chance.
"Charge!" Ashar bellowed, and the few soldiers left with him surged forward, cutting through the Orcs as best they could. But the general stood like an immovable mountain, cutting down anyone who came too close.
Ashar's blood burned with anger. The Orcs had destroyed everything he had ever known, taken his people, and enslaved them. This battle—this moment—was everything. If they didn't win, if they didn't defeat the general, they would all die, and the Orcs would take their stronghold with ease. His mind flashed back to the early days, to when they had first escaped the village, when he had been nothing more than a man struggling to survive.
Now, he was the leader of this band of survivors, and he would die fighting for them.
With a battle cry, Ashar leaped forward, closing the distance between him and the general. The general swung his battleaxe again, but Ashar was faster. He ducked under the blow, narrowly avoiding the massive weapon as it sliced through the air.
In a swift motion, Ashar raised his sword, aiming for the general's exposed side. The general blocked it with his axe, the impact sending a shock through Ashar's arm. But he didn't stop. He danced back, waiting for the right moment to strike again.
"Is this all you have?" the general taunted, his voice full of contempt. He swung his axe down, but this time Ashar was ready. He sidestepped the blow and used his momentum to land a strike to the general's leg. The Orc bellowed in pain, but his stance didn't falter.
Ashar's heart raced, but he didn't let up. He couldn't afford to.
The battle raged around them, but Ashar's focus was entirely on the general. His men were pushing forward, but they were fighting against insurmountable odds. If Ashar could defeat the general, it might just be enough to break the morale of the Orcs and turn the tide in their favor.
With a growl, the general lunged forward, his massive battleaxe swinging down with deadly intent. Ashar barely managed to parry the blow, his sword vibrating from the force of the impact. His arms felt like they were on fire, and his legs trembled with exhaustion.
But he couldn't stop. He couldn't.
In that moment of desperation, Ashar's mind raced. He remembered the old tactics—the ones his mentor had taught him in the early days of training. They weren't just about brute strength; they were about precision, about exploiting weaknesses. And he knew the general had one—a weakness that would make all the difference.
Ashar gripped his sword tightly and waited for the general to make his move. The Orc raised his axe again, but this time Ashar didn't dodge. Instead, he stepped forward, moving into the general's range. The general's axe came down, but Ashar sidestepped just enough to avoid the worst of it, and with one swift motion, he drove his sword deep into the gap in the general's armor—the space between his ribs.
The general let out a roar of pain, staggering back, his battleaxe falling from his hand. But Ashar didn't stop there. He twisted the sword, and with a final, brutal motion, he drove it deeper, cutting through flesh and bone until the general collapsed at his feet.
The battlefield fell silent for a moment. The battle around them continued, but the death of their leader had a profound effect on the Orcs. They hesitated, their morale faltering as their general's body hit the dirt with a sickening thud.
Ashar stood over the fallen general, his chest heaving with exhaustion, his sword slick with the Orc's blood. His heart was still racing, and he felt a strange mix of triumph and exhaustion. They had won the fight—but at what cost?
Rylah, Kess, and the remaining soldiers rushed to his side, their eyes wide with disbelief.
"We did it," Kess said, his voice hoarse.
Rylah nodded, though her face was pale. "We need to hold the line, now."
Ashar didn't reply. His gaze was fixed on the Orc general's body. It had been a close call—too close. They had won, but the Orcs were still out there, and their war was far from over. The real test was yet to come.
"We'll hold," Ashar said, his voice cold with determination. "But we need to regroup. Reinforcements are coming."
"Agreed," Rylah said, her eyes narrowing as she surveyed the battlefield. "We've lost a lot of men today."
"But not enough to lose this war," Ashar replied firmly.
The first victory had been won, but the war was far from over. The Orcs would regroup, and Ashar knew that soon enough, they would be back. But this time, they were ready.