Elliot barely saw Morris charging toward the shaman at the gates before a guttural growl stole his attention. The old orcs were on him, their lips stretched into grins that shook his certainty. Prepare for melee combat, Morris had commanded. But was it even combat? This wasn't a noble conquest. It was butchery. Plain and simple.
His companions surrounded him in a tight circle, each drawing an enchanted blade from their bags. If anyone shared his reluctance, none of it showed on their focused frowns.
They hacked at the burning orcs leading the suicidal charge. Blades sliced through ill-fitted leather harnesses. His eyes widened as they dug into withered muscles, and blood sprayed on his cheeks.
Elliot watched the first orc collapse to the ground with a smile, its guttural voice feeling eerily grateful. "Drahk'mar."
"One down! Don't stop using spells even in melee!" The roar from his companion jolted Elliot out of his confusion. Karen had said it: it was him or them.
