This piece was written in one sitting with minimal editing.
The music of the wilderness played all about him.
It had rained for near on two full days. The pattering drumbeats of chill water signalling to him the fast-approaching winter. The north wind blew through the Valwood, shaking leaves of gold and amber from branches of oak and ash alike. The sound whistled and hummed, sheets of rain punctuating its sighs with harsh symbol like crashes as it ebbed and rose. A doe, her flanks shining with the downpour, passed right by him and yet did not take note. She bent low at the far end of the small glade to eat moss from a rock.
He remained motionless yet allowed his eyes, deep brown and flecked with brilliant green, to flick to the deer for a heartbeat. He caught the white end of her tail as she continued on her way and set his steady gaze back to watching the far tree line. From beneath his weather-beaten hood, he could see the company he had expected deeper in the wood. He narrowed his eyes and focussed his intent.
They became clearer to him. Like the wind they came from the north. Yet unlike the chill winds of winter, they did not fit the surrounding symphony. His ears twitched. Even from here he could hear their heavy footfalls and harsh grunting breaths as they struggled in their march. It was as if the forest itself was trying to keep them from passing beneath its boughs, as though it remembered the days in the distant past where it had stretched far, far to the south. That thought gave him cause to smile.
He rose from his concealment, water running off of his cloak as he did. From those drier confines he produced his bow, polished black wood bearing the intricate patterns of vines, flowers, and birds etched in silver. It was strung with a fine white string of Evhanian horsehair, though he had covered it with a wrapping of dark cloth that he now removed. Wet bow strings made for bad hunts. He made a few quick checks of his arrows on his back and his sword on his hip and was off.
His pace outmatched that of his quarry, light booted and surefooted steps knowing well the quagmire of the forest’s thick natural carpet. Again, it occurred to him that the forest was aiding him in his overtaking of his foe, speeding him on his way to the defence of the southern edge of the wood. His grim smile of satisfaction returned to his face and he offered up a silent prayer of thanks to the spirit of the place.
Now far ahead of and in the direct path of his enemy, he came to the base of a large oak. Shouldering his bow, he scaled the tree in a few moments, minding not the slick surface of its bark. He alighted on a branch that dipped low to the ground at its far end and waited, an arrow knocked. The group of orcs, seven of the things, were in clear view. Much like all their kind they were a brutish lot, taller than man and elf and more muscle than anything else. Their leader, a pale-green skinned thing wearing a cracked helm of dwarf make, called for the company to halt a stones throw from the oak.
The bowman, crouched low on his oaken branch, drew back the arrow. No sound did the weapon make as he set his eye to the arrow’s shaft, black and tipped with gleaming silvery steel. He breathed deep and slow, watching as the creatures below him caught up to their leader. The sounds of the rain and the wind fell away.
The high-pitched scream of an arrow whistling through the air broke his silence. Its thumped into the back of the lead orc’s neck, spraying one of its companion’s in black blood as it drove through the front of the creature’s throat. Before the monsters could realise they were under attack another arrow found its mark in the eye of another of the beasts. As the two dropped, the remaining five began to shout warnings to one another.
The archer stepped out along the branch and fired again as he did. This arrow caught one of the orcs in the chest and it crumpled to the floor. They had spotted him now, though, and he drew out his sword as he dropped from the downward slope of his perch. He landed on a large root that protruded from the soaked earth.
“You are not welcome.” He said to them.
The first of the remaining four orcs roared at him and hefted an axe above its head. It charged him alone. It slipped in the mud and, trying to steady itself, tripped on one of the oak’s roots. His sword plunged into the thing’s gut right to the hilt. Black blood issued forth from the wound as he pulled the weapon free from the squealing thing and allowed it to drop to the side.
“Three remain.” He said to the trio.
And three charged. He stepped backward off of his root, noting the struggle that his enemies had to find solid footing. Their charge broke as a matter of necessity and became instead a laboured advance. The first to reach him thrust at him with a crude spear which he batted aside with the flat of his sword from right to left. He used the momentum of that parry to bring the long blade about over his head to strike out at the orc’s throat. It could not cry out as it fell forward, grasping at its mortal wound.
“Two.” He said under his breath as he danced backward, seeming to find the surest ground with no issue. One of those two remaining had become stuck in the mud, leaving its companion to follow after him. It snarled at him, pointed and huge teeth bared, and swung its own sword at him from the right.
The ring of metal on metal pierced the hammering beats of the rainfall. Again, the orc struck out, this time in a clumsy overhead chop and again the ring of his parry pushed the attack back and off balance. He sliced his opponent’s belly wide, entrails slopping forth into the muck and mire.
“One.” He looked up from the two he had cut down and his gaze met that of the last orc. Its black eyes were wide with terror, its knuckles white with panic about its club. It was well and truly stuck with mud up to its knees. He stooped low to wipe the blood off of his sword on one of the fallen and straightened again.
He took a step toward it and the creature began to try once more to yank itself free of the sodden earth. He sheathed his sword and instead raised his bow once again, setting an arrow to the string. He pulled back. The orc roared at him. The arrow silenced it.
Lost Lore Library 