by Ethan Spears
Aoden shrugged. “I’ve grown unused to your way of speaking over the years. The conversation around here tends to be curt, and those involving me are as short as the speaker can manage. I prefer your... I can't think of a more polite word for it than ‘rambling.’”
The halfling laughed. “I suppose I am rambling, aren’t I? Bad halfling habit, I’m afraid. In my own nation, everyone treats me as a diplomat first and a person second, making a good dialogue a bit hard to come by. Though, I suppose, it was turning into something of a monologue by the end. Diplomats, you see, are accorded a certain level of respect among the halflings that is, perhaps, undue. Just try to have a good argument with someone when they instinctively defer to you. It can’t be done, I tell you. It simply cannot be done. Anywho, I shouldn’t overstay my unwelcome, so I'd best get moving. Can you lend me a hand with those boxes there?”
The half-elf obliged. They smelled strongly of spice and tobacco, and Aoden was sure the halfling had bartered for them somewhere in camp, though how he found anyone willing to trade with a halfling or what he had traded them Aoden couldn’t guess. He placed them gently onto the back of the halfling’s tiny wagon. The vehicle, pulled by small-breed ponies, resembled a rather intricate children’s toy. That it could survive a trip across the open countryside, much less over the forest floors blanketed with roots and tall grasses, was a testament to its ingenious design.
“Did you not come with a driver?” Aoden asked as the diplomat clambered into the driver’s seat.
Aoden must have sounded more concerned than he intended, for the halfling chuckled. “I may be old and a gent of words rather than fists, but I’m quite capable of handling myself, thank you.” He straightened up and took the reins and whip with sure hands. “To be honest, I brought you along with me to break the bad news a bit away from your fellow military men. I’m afraid by needs I make your morning worse by telling you that I shan’t be returning this way again.”
Aoden was taken aback. “The halflings are giving up on their attempts at alliance?”
Cofus chuckled. “Well, I suppose that’s the political side of things, yes, but while I can appreciate you keeping the big picture in mind, the fact I was trying to impart was that, unless you get sent my way, we won’t be seeing each other again.”
“Oh,” Aoden said, the weight of that realization heavier than expected and stripping him of an intelligent response.
“Don’t worry overly much about it,” said the halfling. “You’ve always treated me fairly and well. I can see that you are a good lad. If you ever need the help of a halfling, tell them you’re a friend of Cofus Benderbury and, well, make sure to mention that you’re only half-elven, and I’m sure they’d be willing to lend a hand. Consider it a gift from Jorgin to you. That way, it’s almost like you had truly gotten to meet him.” Cofus smiled broadly.
Aoden nodded, too discouraged to be pleased with the advice but not enough to forget his manners. “You’re too kind, Benderbury.”
“Aoden, call me Cofus, please.”
“Right, Cofus. I wish you well on your journey home and all journeys hereafter.”
“And I wish you well in life.” The halfling pulled a blanket over his legs, appearing ever more the old man. With a short flick, he snapped the reins. The ponies started off at a trot, rocking the wagon forward into an uneasy start. Aoden watched as the rickety wooden transport rolled along the path, the diplomat’s tiny hand waving careless farewell to bewildered guards and couriers as he went. Aoden felt that, though the conversation wasn’t particularly robust, he would still have liked to continue it for just a moment longer.
He turned back towards the crumbling tower.
***
Four hours’ time would find Aoden in the dense forest at Archon Arisil’s behest. His elves offered no complaint concerning the orders despite having just returned from patrol not an hour before Aoden himself, though he was familiar enough with them to sense their sour mood. They weren't angered so much about having new orders despite not having slept for twenty hours—for that wasn’t uncommon in any military—but rather because they knew it was due to his actions at Handock. Not that Aoden cared what they thought of him anymore: this squad hated him, and he had long written them off as a lost cause. They packed lightly and were gone as soon as he could finish a quick breakfast.
Aoden’s archers were quiet. He could make out the sound of approaching marching. According to the reports the scouts had brought back to the main camp, at just past noon a band of no fewer than two hundred orcs would be clearing the forest pass in which he and his archers were now positioned. The missives he had been reviewing and the orders he had been given made it abundantly clear that they were to crush the orcish soldiers thoroughly before returning to camp.
Aoden espied the advancing group from his high perch in a giant oak tree. Below him, concealed within the lower branches of the smaller trees, were his archers, twenty strong, each with fifty arrows, their heads scorched so they wouldn’t glint in the sunlight, and padded leather armor. Aoden was also in leather, his heavy steel left behind, a liability when climbing trees. Their leathers were brown and green, dyed and ruffled to more closely resemble foliage. The squad’s scout stood above him, his weight expertly managed so he wouldn’t snap the thin branch, his well-trained eyes attempting to pick out any details that may be crucial in the coming ambush. Aoden himself was preparing to join his elves below.
“Were the reports accurate on the orcs’ numbers?” he asked the scout as he secured the strap on his quiver and flung it over his shoulder.
“I’d wager no more than two twenty-five, but no less than two hundred. The reports were accurate. I’m fairly certain they’re poorly armed.” The scout peered again through his spyglass, his mouth moving silently, describing details to himself.
Aoden had no idea how the scout was able to come to such a conclusion at this great a distance but had learned to trust the instincts of his scouts. He remembered the arrogance this scout had shown when he was being harried in Handock that morning. At least he kept his manner professional while afield. “If the situation changes, find me,” Aoden commanded, descending the tree. “Give the signal and get into position once they’re within a half-stretch of the forest.” The elf nodded understanding, keeping his eye on the advancing band.
“Commander?” his lieutenant called questioningly as Aoden came into view from above.
“Nothing has changed,” Aoden told him, finding a sturdy branch to crouch down on. “Keep your positions and proceed with the ambush as planned. No surprises are expected. The scout will be down at a half-stretch to entry.”
Aoden didn't have to say anything about time but, based on the speed of the orcish horde and the distance, the Lieutenant knew when the scout came down they would have roughly fifteen to twenty minutes before combat began.
The Lieutenant passed the information on to the next archer. The twenty-one archers—twenty-two once the scout came down—were stationed in pairs over the span of a stretch. Though the branches were obscuring, by passing the order down to the next in line via hand signal, the entire squad was quickly made aware of the update.
Each one of the archers had already inspected their bows and their arrows. All sound and movement ceased. Aoden listened with strained ears to the approaching cacophony of shouting, laughing, stomping, and clanging iron.
Slowly, despite his efforts, his attention began to drift. He thought of that morning in Handock in the short-lived snow, and of Cofus Benderbury, one of the few tasks he was assigned that surprised him by not making him miserable— entirely, anyway, since rejecting reasonable requests you wish you could fulfill was its own kind of misery. It seemed that all things he enjoyed would eventually be gone and there was little he could do about it. But sitting in a tree with weapon in hand moments from open conflict was not the best time or place to have an existential crisis, so he shunted those thoughts aside and settled in for the wait.
With nothing else
to occupy his mind, he eyed the trees and the sunlight gently filtering through the leaves. The birds took flight, frightened off by the pounding approach of the orcish horde. In their haste, they passed within inches of the still elves, utterly unaware of their presence. The wind, which had been gently blowing south, picked up and changed westwards as if to prod the orcs on the backs and urge them forward at a faster pace. The sandy smell of orcs drifted through the boughs to warn the elves of their approach. Even nature was against the orcs.
“Commander,” called the voice of the scout from above. Drawn from his reverie, it took Aoden a moment to locate the hidden elf.
“Is there something amiss?” he answered.
“The grasspigs have two shamans in the center of their horde.”
Aoden swore. He thought quickly. “They need to be taken care of first. We cannot have their fire magics devouring these forests. Pass the word not to attack until the shamans are halfway through. When the sixth pair sees the shaman, they’re to kill them immediately. Should they miss, or should the shamans defend or fail to fall, everyone is to make the shamans their priority. After that, it reverts to the original plan; archers first, then war leaders, then warriors.”
The scout sped from the Commander’s roost and vanished in the thick of the greenery to both relay the new orders and get into position. The sound of the approaching mob was reaching its apex. Aoden could feel the steps shaking his perch ever so slightly and knew it would only be moments before the orcs were within range of his soldiers. He could see his lieutenant across the path with his bow ready, an arrow firmly in hand resting against his bowstring.
After several tense minutes, the first orc broke into sight, staggering backward onto the forest path with a banner tucked under one arm and a clay drinking jar in his hand, shouting something at the ones behind him that, despite being muffled by distance and foliage, had the feel of a bawdy song. The orcs were human-like, though much taller, most easily taller than Aoden, their skins a mishmash of yellow and green hues reminiscent of snot, grass, and fish. Their heads were uniformly round with ears a bit over half the size of a human’s, small black eyes, large brows and foreheads, and wide mouths full of large, flat teeth and tusks, giving them a boar-ish appearance. Black hair sat either in tiny tufts on top of the head or trailing down the back in braids. Aoden scoffed at the ill-trained and ill-armed soldiers below him, marching completely out of line with little semblance of order, many so steeped in alcohol that he did not expect much of a fight to come out of them. Eight orcs passed through in the first group, a pitiful, noisy vanguard.
Over a full minute passed before the second group emerged. They were considerably less drunk, but still far from sober. Many had their armor unstrapped and their weapons stuffed into bags or bedrolls. This was the start of the main body. Aoden signaled to his lieutenant to have the last elves along the trail eliminate the vanguard should they reach the bend in the path before the shamans were handled. The Lieutenant dutifully passed the message along.
As the train moved along at an ambling pace, the soldiers became increasingly sober. It seemed to Aoden that the condition of their weapons and armor worsened as their sobriety increased until some stone-sober men had no weapons or armor at all. Additionally, while the orcs at the start were almost uniform in age, the orcs that were passing now were ranging from children to old men—drafts more likely than not. Aoden wondered how the orcs could be so foolish as to pass through the northern border of Elvish lands in such careless disarray and with no attempt at stealth; while they weren't the most intelligent of creatures, they weren't usually this dense.
The shamans came into view supported on a platform carried on poles by four orcs. The palanquin was primitive, wooden planks suspended across more wooden planks and tied together with no cloth to shield the shamans from the elements. The shamans, two aged orcs of frail composition and jolly countenance, were chatting amiably with some of the old soldiers as they walked along.
Then the first female orc made an appearance. She wore a simple dress that resembled a burlap sack over a body that, befittingly, resembled a sack of grain. At first, Aoden brushed her off as nothing but a comfort woman—a whore brought along to fulfill the desires of the marching orcish men—but then he saw a child clinging to her side. Aoden was horrified to see more women and children filtering onto the shaded forest path, bedrolls and clay cookery upon their backs and babies in their arms.
He realized at that moment that the band of orcs they were about to annihilate weren’t members of a war band but a nomadic tribe. He cursed the original scouting reports that failed to mention this fact. He knew the elves under his command would feel no compunction when it came to killing orcish women and children, for they barely recognized orcs as sentient beings, but that wasn’t something Aoden was willing to let happen, let alone participate in.
His mind flipped immediately from the cold calculation of a commander of soldiers to that of the child he once was who despised bullies and violence. He needed some way to give the innocent a chance to flee, but what could he do? The shamans were doubtlessly nearing the center of the ambush and would be struck down, at which point the slaughter would begin. His orders had already been given and it was too late to signal new orders in that short a time. He felt a mixture of guilt and panic welling up within him as the coming slaughter approached inevitability.
Suddenly, there was a shrill scream from one of the orcish women and a crash. Aoden feared the attack has already begun, but he saw instead that one of the women carrying a baby had nearly lost her balance. Rather than drop the child, she released the pot in her other arm to catch it, sending the pot shattering on the forest floor. But Aoden saw this as his opportunity.
“We’ve been spotted!” He shouted with all his might. “Fire! Open fire!” He loosed an arrow on a young guard near the rear that was stunned in surprise by his sudden shouts. The orc fell with a curious look etched on his face. In the distance, more shouts of “Fire!” rang out, the loss of stealth negating hand signals, followed by the song of bowstrings. The soldiers below began to yell and panic, the innocents to scream and run. Aoden fired arrow after arrow into the guards, his eyes repeatedly double-checking the families as they fled. Springing the trap early prevented them from getting too deep into the forest and staggered the initial volley of arrows, giving them precious seconds. Many families would shrink today, but hopefully they would not be destroyed completely. Part of him wondered if his decision was the height of idiocy, for he did not know what would happen to those who survived, but at least he might sleep better tonight.
As ordered, his bowmen were focusing on the soldiers first, giving the civilians ample time to retreat either out of the woods or deeper in, away from their arrows. His Lieutenant and the other elves ran along the closely-knit branches to chase the warriors, peppering their backs and necks with stinging death. After a handful of minutes, the sound of clanging metal had all but vanished and the wails of women and children prevailed accompanied by the sound of leaves being crushed underfoot. Nothing alive remained on the road.
“Descend!” The Lieutenant ordered. The elves swiftly made their way to the forest floor. Aoden scanned the bodies for innocents. The boys were probably young hunters and the old men retired veterans or elders, but that mattered little; they held weapons and each died a warrior’s death. He was pleased to not find any unarmed corpses or those of the womenfolk among the dead.
He did, however, feel sadness for the shamans. Their bodies had tumbled to the dirt when their palanquin was dropped, slumped and lifeless in undignified positions. Magic was indeed a dangerous tool, but Aoden had trouble seeing the two withered men, each with a half-dozen arrows in their backs and chests, as much of a threat.
“Are there any losses?” he asked his lieutenant at length.
The lieutenant made a face. “Really? To these beasts? No.”
Now that the battle was effectively over, the scorn that Aoden was accustomed to returned. He br
ushed it off, uncaring. “That’s good. Good work, Lieutenant,” he removed his command crest and raised his voice, “and excellent work, elves. Those that remain no longer pose a threat. Let us report victory back at camp and get some rest.”
The Lieutenant turned to the men and pumped his arm in a victory salute. “Shodan!” He shouted. The men pumped their arms and responded in kind.
“Shodan!” Their calls reverberated down the road.
Among the din came a sudden rustling. The soldiers reached for their bows and their commander for his sword. Aoden’s heart skipped a beat as a lone female orc emerged from the tree line, the same woman with the sack-like dress and even more sack-like body. He could hear arrows being notched behind him and held up his hand. “Never mind her. She’s just a whore.”
“That can breed more grasspigs—” his lieutenant began. Aoden turned and gave him a superior look. The Lieutenant did not continue. Regardless of how they felt about him, an elf would not ignore an order.
“Our targets were armed warriors. We’re done here. Unless you want to explain to the Archonite why you were wasting arrows on unarmed whores?” Aoden stepped forward, pulling himself to his full height and gripping his sword, attempting to look as menacing as possible despite her being taller than him. He could see the woman crying, an expression of unparalleled anger on her face. Behind her, he could see the child that had been clinging to her leg pressed against a tree, peering around it.
Aoden’s heart was heavy with pity. The father of the family was undoubtedly lying somewhere along the forest path having breathed his last moments before. Aoden used that thought to empower him as he shouted at the woman. “Begone, whore! Go back to your masters on your knees!”
