Pools of Darkness

by James M. Ward

  Ren had been pushing the war-horse as hard as he dared in the darkness. He had scouted the land carefully earlier that day and knew where the orcs were gathering. Leaving Stolen in a circle of trees, the ranger crawled to a rise high above the encampment.

  Slowly the ranger peered over the hillock. A ring of watchfires illuminated the valley. What had been a small brook flowing into the lowland was enlarged by the rain into a wide stream, but the marshy conditions didn’t seem to bother the orcs. They were beginning to arise from soggy tents, gathering about a central bonfire.

  “Ren, you sorry thief, what have you gotten yourself into now?” He groaned as he tried to hold his grip in the mud and keep his face out of the water. He tried to console himself by thinking that the mud covering him would serve as a useful camouflage.

  As he watched, more and more orcs joined the circle around the fire. As the surveillance wore on, Ren’s mind wandered to his recurrent nightmare. The ranger hadn’t thought about Shal and Tarl for months. The three of them were good friends, but their paths had diverged after they’d killed the evilly charmed bronze dragon controlling an army of orcs and ogres that were menacing Phlan. When Shal and Tarl became lovers, Ren felt out of place. They had parted friends and sent messages back and forth, but ten years had passed in the meantime. Ren hadn’t seen his friends in three years.

  The images from the nightmare lingered. He could see Shal and Tarl looking a little older than the last time he’d seen them. The two were in Denlor’s Tower, in their bed. An enormous, gut-wrenching earth tremor and a crash of thunder was shaking the place. Shal leaped out of bed, naked, and ran to a grab a purple cloak filled with pouches. Tarl followed, pulled on his clothes, and reached for his shield and warhammer. The nightmare shifted to reveal Shal casting streams of violet energy at an unseen enemy and Tarl fighting something dark and horrible. Ren’s own screams always awakened him before he could learn what terrors his friends faced.

  The first time he had dreamed about Shal and Tarl the ranger was disturbed, but this third nightmare left him truly shaken. Ren wasn’t one to have visions of any kind, so he was terribly afraid for his two friends.

  Now he cursed the charter to which he had agreed. Ren was forced to devote all his energy to clearing out the orcs until the job was done. If he hadn’t given his sworn and signed word to terms made clear on the vellum he carried, he would have dumped the responsibility, forsaken his quest to settle the valley, and sought his friends to make sure they were safe.

  After the second dream, Ren had begun taking risks he normally wouldn’t have taken. Any skilled ranger could battle five or ten orcs without fear. An average warrior orc stood about five feet tall and was usually armored in anything it could steal from its victims. Orcs liked using arrows and slings rather than getting close to the enemy to battle with swords or axes, so at close range most of them were lousy fighters.

  But the ranger knew from experience that orcs liked to travel in packs, and the larger the pack, the bolder the orcs. Because Ren was worried about his friends, he’d started attacking packs of ten to thirty orcs. The ranger’s tactics were particularly reckless, but the size of the orc bands made such attacks especially dangerous. A few orcs always managed to escape and warn other bands, so that eventually the hunter had become the hunted.

  In the weeks that followed, Ren had discovered many traps set by the orcs, although his keen eyes and sharp tracking skills helped him avoid the cruder snares. Ren had spent the last two decades in the woods, and only the elves and the native woodland creatures were more skilled at moving stealthily through the forests.

  Ren had considered returning to Glister to lead its troops into battle against the orcs, but he would have suffered an unbearable delay. By the time he arrived in Glister, organized the militia, and led them back to the hills, he would have lost more than five days. All her scouting would have been for nothing—the orcs would have moved away and set new traps. Besides, Ren trusted his instincts and disliked worrying about the welfare of companions.

  Forcing his mind back to the task at hand, Ren peered over the hill. He caught sight of seven different totems, each representing a different orc warband. Ren was well aware of this custom, because he had captured sixteen such orc totems and hidden them back on the trail. Later on they would be proof to the council that the ranger had done his job.

  Squinting through the rain and darkness, the ranger saw captured dwarves in slave pens at one end of the camp. The dwarven warriors had obviously been tortured; their long beards and hair had been hacked off. Something would have to be done to save them, and quickly. He would have to devise a plan to free the dwarves or, as a last resort, put them out of their misery before the orcs subjected them to painful deaths.

  Three of the larger orc totems concerned Ren. These were different from the others he had encountered. They were centered in the middle of heavily guarded tents. Half-ores roamed around them.

  “Now there’s a completely different breed,” the ranger muttered to himself. “I hope the next time I want to sign a charter a lightning bolt comes down and—”

  Crash! A lightning bolt split the sky, and the rest of Ren’s sentence was lost in the thunder. The rain poured more heavily, drumming on Ren’s armor. He clamped his mouth shut and thought better of saying anything more. He was in no position to push his luck.

  Ren sighed. Half-orcs. These crossbreeds were taller, smarter, and fiercer than their cousins. The totems told Ren there were at least three powerful bands of half-ores in the valley, heavily armed and well organized. The ranger looked around for any nearby guards. Half-orcs were usually smart enough to post perimeter guards.

  A lengthy scan revealed one guard crouched under a tree about fifty yards away. Hunkered down under its tarp, it wasn’t paying attention to anything but the rain. Ren didn’t have to worry about that one immediately.

  Then the ranger spied a band of hill giants. They were hard to miss, since none stood shorter than twelve feet tall. Hill giants weren’t known to be very bright, but what they lacked in brains, they made up in muscle. They lived by terrorizing communities of humans and other “smaller” people. Primitive in appearance, each sported overly long arms that, combined with their stooped posture, meant their knuckles nearly scraped the ground. Their low foreheads resembled those of apes. Ren had fought a few hill giants in his day. He knew they were slow and not impossible to kill, but taking on this large of a contingent—he counted nearly forty—would be nothing less than suicide.

  The ranger groaned. He had no other choice but to turn back to Glister and form a small army of men and dwarves to take to the valley. But if he left now, the captured dwarves would surely suffer unspeakable horrors at the hands of the orcs. On the other hand, if those forty dwarves with their armor and weapons were on Ren’s side, the story might be different. Forty dwarves and a skilled ranger might conquer the monster army.

  “Now what do I do? You’d better think of something in a hurry, ranger. Hmmm. Now that’s not a bad idea,” Ren muttered under his breath. “I’ll kill the guard, and meanwhile, I’ll think up a typically brilliant plan to kill an army of orcs, half-ores, and giants all by myself.” The confidence he heard in his voice was greater than the confidence he felt in his gut.

  Crawling through the mud on his belly and then on hands and knees, Ren made his way to the brush near the ore’s tree. He was grateful for the rain and thunder that hid the sound of his movements. Rising to his feet but keeping low, he cautiously approached the guard, planting each foot solidly so as not to slip in the mud.

  The ore had chosen his position well. His post overlooked the north end of the valley and was in view of two other trails leading to the camp. Had it not been for the rain, Ren would have been an easy target.

  The ranger was within thirty yards of the orc when the mud gave way under his feet and he fell with a loud splash. The ore leaped to its feet with bow in hand. It nocked an arrow before Ren could react.

  Too late th
e orc learned a lesson about soggy bow strings. They behaved a lot like wet noodles; neither hurled killing arrows very far.

  The look of surprise on the ore’s ugly face as his arrow hit the ground at his feet was nothing compared to the expression on his face when, a moment later, Ren’s two-handed sword cut him in half. Ren’s blood was pumping at his brush with death.

  The ranger grabbed the arrows from the ore’s quiver, ran through the mud to his war-horse, and drew out his longbow. Ren wasn’t as skilled with the longbow as other rangers. In contests, he’d seen skilled bowmen hit discs of wood hurled up in the air one hundred and fifty yards away. Ren could never hit such targets from more than seventy-five yards. The orcish arrows he had stolen had to fly only one hundred yards, but their targets were stationary and much larger than a four-inch circle of wood.

  The ranger’s bow strings were coated with beeswax and were safely dry inside a pouch. Ren knew they would be effective for a short time, even in the rain. If his plan failed, the warrior had nothing to lose. He ordered Stolen to follow quietly, then walked to the ridge.

  The storm was at its worst. Lightning shattered the sky, thunder rattled the valley, and rain poured down in sheets. The ranger peered down the hill and discovered a clear line of sight to the orcs as they huddled together in clumps. Partially sheltered by a white oak, Ren launched arrow after arrow into the small army below. He hurried the attack to prevent his own bow from becoming useless and to give the impression of multiple archers confronting the army.

  The effect of a black-feathered orc arrow arriving out of nowhere and thunking into the chest or leg of another orc was more than Ren could have hoped. Like a swarm of angry bees, the ores screamed and began drawing weapons. Ren knew the only thing orcs hated as much as dwarves and humans were other orc tribes. As the arrows landed amongst them, the creatures naturally assumed they were being attacked by some other orcish tribe in the valley. Ren saved the last few arrows for the hill giants. These stupid beasts quickly decided they were being double-crossed by the orcs.

  In moments, monsters were fighting with monsters and the valley was a swarm of battling giants and orcs. As Ren fired the last arrow, he worried about what to do next. If he rushed down to free the captives, it might distract the orcs and giants and force them to join together. If he stayed on the hill, he might be too late to save the dwarves.

  Ren watched the struggle. The half-orcs made short work of the smaller orcs, and the battle quickly switched to half-orcs against giants. The swirl of melee moved to the south end of the valley. The orcs were hampered by the mud and the stream cutting through the valley, but the giants barely noticed these obstacles. Every strike by a giant crushed an orc warrior. The giants had to suffer dozens of orcish blows before teetering into the mud.

  Ren saw his opportunity. Mounting his horse, he charged down the hill, waving his sword. The razor-sharp edge sliced through the bindings on the slave pens and the gates popped open.

  “Run for your lives while the fools are busy.” Ren shouted. But the ranger had forgotten about the hatred these dwarves held for their captors. Every one of the forty wounded, exhausted warriors picked up an orcish weapon and shield, and charged straight into the battle.

  The mounted ranger was left without a choice. If the dwarves were determined to fight, honor demanded he be at their side. But astride his horse, he was at a disadvantage against the giants. Leaping off his mount, he left the horse in the shelter of the slave pens. Gripping his sword, he charged into battle behind the dwarves.

  Amid the clamor of battle, a chant arose. In all his years of battles, Ren had never fought side by side with dwarves. He now learned that some dwarves go to their deaths singing.

  The unarmored dwarves chanted a steady, low hymn of battle and bravery. The rhythm of the song coordinated the dwarves’ attacks and united them into a single killing force. Hill giants and orcs alike were confused by the sudden influx of the dwarven fighters and by their apparently joyful song. The dwarves seemed charged by the tune. Every evidence of weariness evaporated. As Ren rushed into the fight against the hill giants, he heard the pounding of the rain, the grunts and groans of monsters, clanging weapons, and above everything, the amazing dwarven song. And most remarkably of all, he found himself energized by the tension in the air.

  The battle became a swirl of arms and legs, but mostly giant legs. Ren swung, hit, dodged, and jumped without thinking. The dwarven voices carried him along. He never slowed. The blows from the ranger’s sword found many targets and often ended the lives of the giants he struck. The dwarves had to work much harder with their orcish weapons, but the giants constantly missed the short, ducking creatures. The stocky warriors dodged in and out between the legs of their foes.

  For a long time, it was impossible to tell which side was winning. Being a practical man, Ren was ready to lead the retreat if it looked like his allies were in trouble. But after a time, there seemed to be more and more dwarves and fewer giants battling. Ren became the lead figure in a wedge of death boring through the ranks of the giants and half-orcs.

  And then only one hill giant was left. Panting, Ren moved toward the armored foe. The singing stopped suddenly, and the ranger heard a gravely shout behind him: “Back off, human. This one’s mine.”

  Ren looked over his shoulder to see fifteen dwarves, all that remained of the forty that had entered the fray.

  The speaker was the biggest and strongest of the lot, but obviously battle-weary. In one hand he held a shield too large for his short frame, and in the other hand he grasped a hill giant’s spiked club. Even Ren would have struggled to wield such a club. The dwarf swung the weapon in his hand like a small mallet.

  “He and his tribe stripped our mine and killed many of my people. I will have the final revenge on him. And nothing will stop me.”

  The tone of his voice and the fire in his eyes left no question that anyone arguing would become his enemy. Ren lowered his sword and backed away.

  The dwarf began his chant. The remaining dwarves took up the song, but stayed a respectful distance away from the two opponents.

  The last giant was also obviously some type of leader. The sixteen-foot-tall creature was armored from head to foot in bronze plate mail. The armor surprised Ren, since hill giants weren’t normally intelligent enough to make use of anything more complicated than animal skins for clothing. It must have been made or stolen from a band of ogres or evil humans. Ren was also curious about the baton of bronze the hill giant carried.

  Between the dwarf and the giant, there was no fencing, no circling, no testing each other’s skills. There was only raw hatred, spawned from generations of conflict with the other’s race. The dwarf threw down his shield and ran at the giant as fast as his stout legs could bear him. The hill giant tossed away his shield too and smashed at the earth with his baton. Huge sprays of mud and water flew into the air with every blow. Both foes lunged at each other with all their might. The baton sailed toward the head of the dwarf, and the dwarf’s club crushed the chest of the bending giant. Both were dead before they hit the ground.

  Ren shook his head over the waste of the dwarf’s life. It was as if the warrior wanted to die in battle to remove the stain of being captured by an enemy. There was no logic to the sacrifice, but hatred was rarely logical.

  Another gravelly voice diverted his attention. “Human, what is your name?”

  “Ren o’ the Blade. What are your friends doing?” he asked, watching the remaining dwarves moving slowly around the battlefield.

  “We never leave a battlefield without killing any wounded enemies or those faking death. It is our way. We owe you a debt of steel and blood. Such things aren’t taken lightly by my kind.”

  A thought came to the ranger. “If you feel you owe me a debt, I’ll consider it settled if you’ll take these orc totems to the human settlement of Glister. I’ve hidden more totems in the woods. If you’ll collect them all and present them along with this charter to the council there, I�
��d be most grateful. You can tell them Ren has accomplished his mission. Will you do this?”

  “We would do this and much more. We have heard about the ranger who kills orcs for the right to settle in the Valley of the Falls. Know this day you have become a warrior brother to all our kin. We will spread the word about you to our brethren.” The dwarf bowed respectfully. Ren flushed at the honor.

  For the next few hours, Ren helped the dwarves bury their dead. The orcs and giants were left to the elements. At first, Ren thought about looting the bodies of the orcs, but he knew the dwarves would view such actions as dishonorable and disgusting.

  “By the gods, I’m tired,” the ranger said.

  “It is the weariness of battle and victory. We feel it also. But we dwarves welcome the exhaustion. It feels good because it makes us feel alive.” A throaty, hoarse chuckle came from the dwarf, and Ren realized it was the first time he had ever heard one laugh.

  “For all eternity, we will make sure the Valley of the Falls belongs to you and your children, Ren. On this you have the promise of the dwarves.” The dwarf spoke so solemnly that the ranger couldn’t doubt the sincerity of his new friends.

  Ren exchanged hearty handshakes with the dwarves and mounted his war-horse. He galloped through the woods without looking back. He would return in a few weeks after finding Shal and Tarl and enjoying a long, peaceful visit. His mind told him he would find them safe and well, but his heart nagged that something was terribly wrong in the city of Phlan.

  City of Unrest

  In the war-torn streets of Phlan, residents were busy with last-minute shopping and trading. Evening approached. Although night and day were artificial in the gods-forsaken cavern, the citizens knew darkness might mean a new battle at the city walls. They wisely observed a self-imposed curfew and rarely ventured out after dark.