by Greg Ricker
Dalt made one step out of their cover and knelt down by the beast’s side, his hands searching frantically. When he returned seconds later, he held a long dagger in each hand.
“It’s all that it carried.” He said, handing Taron one of the jagged black knives. He discarded his broken bow and was left with a useless quiver and one arrow. He slid the leather case off of his shoulder and laid it on the ground, then handed his last arrow to Taron.
The screams of terror from the villagers continued, though not as many as before, sadly due to their thinning numbers. More homes and shops were set afire, and cries from the women and children hiding within them pierced the sounds of battle.
Tears filled the eyes of the two young men as fierce anger grew in their hearts. Heavy on their minds was the inevitable fact that their loved ones could already be gone. Then Dalt was gone into the street, and Taron quickly followed behind.
Bodies were strewn about the village street like unwanted dolls on the floor, as Orcs, Dragynn, and what small number of villagers remained, fought without pause. The whole gruesome scene was engulfed in thick, black smoke and flickering firelight.
Dalt came up from behind one of the Orcs as the creature brought an axe down fatally on a villager weakly attempting to block the blow with a heavy shafted spade. The long, black dagger was fOrced to the hilt into the creature’s back, and he shrieked while falling slowly to his knees. Dalt kicked the Orc flat on his face, and the blade slid free, covered in yellow Orc blood. He then saw that the Orc’s axe had found its target, smashing through the spade’s thick shaft, and into the man’s chest. It was too late to help him.
Only five yards away, Taron plunged into battle with an Orc that was unfortunately well aware of his approach. He could have sworn he heard the beast laughing as his sword thrashed into Taron´s dagger. He caught every swing, and tried many times to move in and strike, but he either missed, or backlashed off of the Orc’s heavy chest plate.
Then one of the evil creature’s comrades joined in on the battle, his mace circling over his bald head as he ran towards them howling. With surprising accuracy, Taron flung the long knife at the oncoming Orc, and it struck the creature in the neck. During the beast’s final dying steps, he stumbled into the sword wielding Orc and smashed his snout with the spinning mace.
Only steps from his own home, Taron ran to the front door. It had been kicked in, and was hanging awry on one hinge.
“Father!” Taron called desperately for the village blacksmith. The tables and chairs in the shop had been thrown about and busted. Only two swords and a spear, all strewn on the floor, remained of Jarl’s creations, and Taron was quick to grab the longest blade before heading upstairs to the bedrooms.
“Father!”
Clothes littered the steps, and Taron found them slick to walk on. At the top, was a short hall with a door on both the left and right side, each to a small bedroom. Both were victims of the Orcs’ pillaging. The beds were turned over and personal belongings had been broken or stolen.
His father, Jarl, was nowhere to be seen.
Taron ran down the stairs to the shop, and found that he was no longer alone. Two Orcs with swords, and a third with an axe, had left the war outside to treasure hunt. They spotted him and charged, growling.
If he didn’t fight, he would surely be fOrced upstairs, where he would have to do so in the confines of one of the small bedrooms. Taron was the best archer in Gerhihn, but holding a wobbling sword in front of him was not his game. He had no choice, no chance for escape, and no mercy for evil murderous Orcs. His thoughts and his fears, had both lived and died in that flashing instant. Surviving overwhelmed all else. Holding his sword awkwardly, but strong, he caught the first oncoming blow in mid air, and kicked another Orc in the knee, breaking the leg on impact. He just missed losing his head to the axe wielding Orc, as he slid by on the worn hardwood floor.
The Orcs spread out quickly, and lined the perimeter of the room before Taron could bolt out the front door. The beast with the shattered knee held his position on one leg. He would be the weakest brick in their wall. They saw it in Taron’s eyes, and predicted his next move, rushing in all together as he headed for the wounded Orc.
Taron panicked, and closed his eyes as he spun through the line of beasts, swinging his blade wildly. When he looked to see what had happened, he gasped. To his amazement, there remained only one startled Orc left on his feet. The creature sneered, thick saliva oozing from his jaws. He slid his free hand down to his belt, and pulled a long, black dagger from an old, leather sheath. The dagger was exactly like the ones the rest of the foul creatures were using, but when Taron saw it, the blade appeared to reflect colored light that did not exist in the room. First green, and then purple, followed by blue, and yellow. Every twist and turn of the dagger created a new hue. It was almost hypnotizing to watch.
The Orc roared, and lunged with sword in one hand, and dagger held high in the other.
Taron stood next to a table lying on its side, and with his free hand he sent it sliding into the Orc’s path. Wide-eyed, the creature stumbled over the moving obstacle and crashed onto the floor. Taron quickly made certain the beast would never stand.
Fwishh! A black dagger flew by just behind his head with a flash of blue and gold, and stuck deep into the wall. He turned to see an injured Orc on the floor, trying desperately to crawl to the nearest weapon of a fallen comrade. His progress slowed greatly by a painful wound.
With ferocious anger to give him haste, Taron leaped to the creature’s side and thrust the long sword straight into his ribs. The Orc looked up at him as life left him. Yellow blood ran from his mouth, dripping from fangs that longed for flesh.
Taron made sure the Orc felt him twist the blade, and slowly pull it free, before it died.
He stood where he was, taking deep breaths. Alone, for the moment. Then he remembered Dalt, and darted out of the front door toward the main road.
There were no more screams in the street, or from the flame spitting windows of the houses and shops. The figures standing on the road appeared to all be Orcs and Dragynn. The battle had ended during his absence. Most of the small dragons were having large nets containing livestock fastened to their strong ankles. Some a horse, cow, or bull, and as many sheep or pigs as one could carry. The rest of the Dragynn were allowing two or three Orcs on their backs before taking to the air. They seemed to be evacuating the village.
It was over, but the Orcs had won.
Where was Dalt? He had to find him!
Taron heard a roar, and spotted an Orc he had not seen across the street from him, pointing him out to the others within earshot of a warning call. Over a dozen Orcs charged, their shouting voices drowning out everything else he could hear. Upon fleeing, he quickly discovered he was much faster than they were, and had gained plenty of space between the Orcs and himself to expend an arrow or two.
He threw his sword down to the road, and grabbed his longbow. Then he stopped in his tracks as he nocked an arrow, and in one smooth motion turned back on a pivoted foot to aim.
“Come on!” Dalt stepped into view, but was ready to run, instead of fight. He was bleeding from his left shoulder, however his clothes were mostly stained with yellow Orc blood.
Then a Dragynn swooped down out of the sky, and only missed their heads by inches with its razor sharp claws, as they both dropped and rolled out of the way. It was fortunate that they had rolled, or they would have been caught up in the net that the Dragynn rider had thrown down at them. It landed flat on the road instead, then Taron and Dalt wasted no time getting on their feet and running.
They passed the Old Oak, engulfed completely in flames, and kept their eyes on the forest tunnel ahead. With a great crack, a huge oak tree beside the inn snapped in half. It had been a blazing tOrch for longer than it could stand. Nearly thirty feet of the massive oak crashed onto the road, and what limbs remained shattered into a hundred burning embers. A wall of fire and smoke had been placed behind Taron
and Dalt by the fallen tree, and the rushing line of Orcs came to an abrupt halt.
The young men entered the forest, and Dalt left the main road on the first path that he spotted. Taron followed wordlessly, his eyes focused on the ground, and the two feet running ahead of him. Leafy branches whipped at them as they ran, slapping their unprotected hands and faces until they stung. This path was much narrower than the one they had raced on earlier. They dodged in and out of the heavy thicket of oaks, hickories, pines, maples, various bushes, and tall weeds, bounding over fallen limbs and protruding roots in the darkness. They raced on, oblivious to everything but the need to run faster, and to escape being caught.
Minutes passed, and their legs cramped and ached from the endless strain. The rapid pace began to take its toll, and they commenced to decelerate. Only as much as they had to. Dalt still held one of the black daggers in his hand, using it to clear the path before him as he ran, but it was a lot of extra effort for the little good that it did.
Taron pushed himself to go further. He could not feel his feet, and was no longer even thinking about what they were running from, but was concentrating on keeping a hold of his ebbing will to put one foot in front of the other.
Then the narrow path spilled into an open clearing, lit brightly by a full moon that beamed down in white columns of light through the gaps in the treetops. Dalt stopped on the far side of the grassy, isolated area, and leaned on a massive acorn tree. A large root from the tree had grown up out of the ground and then twisted back down, forming a makeshift seat that Taron hopped onto.
When they finally could hold enough air, Taron spoke. “Where are we going?”
Dalt’s head was tilted back, eyes closed. “We need help.” He let out a deep breath and then lifted his head to look at Taron.
“No one survived back there.”
“Why, Gerhihn?” Taron did not ask aloud, knowing Dalt knew only as much as he did, himself.
Dalt did not speak for a moment. He glanced around, while the eerie feeling of being watched chewed at his courage.
“Why kill everyone for our livestock?” Taron forgot about his weary legs, dropped down to his feet, and began to pace the width of the clearing.
“They had nets to carry them off,¨ he continued, ¨as if that was the whole reason they were here.”
Dalt still did not respond. He continued to search the forest for movement, and saw it everywhere. Branches swayed, and shadows darted. It reached a point when he could no longer trust his own judgment, and he was ready to move on.
“Daylen.” Dalt spoke suddenly, but his eyes still wandered. “It’s the closest village to find help.”
“There’s at best forty men in the whole village!” Taron pointed out. “And it’s a little late for help, don't you think?”
Both were quiet in thought for a moment.
Truly, it was too late.
“Well, we can’t stay here,” said Dalt, as he finally slid the black dagger inside his belt, “and we can’t go back.”
He started walking where the path continued, with or without Taron.
He hesitated at first, but Taron ran to catch up.
Grim faces hid beneath hanging heads as Dalt led them northwards on the narrow forest route. He always led, it seemed, but Taron wasn’t arguing. It may have been because troubled thoughts claimed much of Taron’s time. Great yawns that they could no longer hold back came all too often. They tried many times to deny their weariness, but their will to go on was quickly diminishing.
Taron watched Dalt’s feet drag and stumble, even over the smallest nut shells and twigs. He could no longer imagine what was holding him up, though he also wanted to keep going more than anything. If his legs had not numbed, he probably would have given in long ago.
Over an hour later, Dalt finally collapsed onto the forest floor. The path was blocked by a giant, fallen pine tree that had since lost every one of its limbs, and was now just a heavy log in their way. Taron leaned on it, panting wildly. He began to slide slowly down until he was sitting on the ground. Then he stripped free of his bow and quiver, collapsing next to Dalt. Eyes closed, and chest pounding.
Minutes passed without words. Both were lost in their own separate thoughts, whether or not they held any substance. An unsettling confusion ate away at them, with anger and despair also taking their toll on their hearts and minds. Like a bad storm, the Orcs had come and gone, leaving nothing but death and destruction in their wake. The dismal scene replayed itself over and over, embedded in their minds like permanent scars. Ripped open and salted again.
Dalt suddenly jumped up on vivacious feet, as if totally refreshed. Or just done thinking about Gerhihn.
“I’ll take first watch.” Dalt volunteered, as he began an intent search for movement among the surrounding trees on foot. “I’ll wake you when it’s your turn.”
Taron only barely heard him as he willingly let sleep cast him into dark unawareness.
When Taron woke, he felt the warm sun on his face. He had to close his eyes again to block the blinding rays. His head ached, and his feet burned from blisters. He started to strip off one of his short, leather boots, but stopped when he noticed he was alone.
Crepuscular rays of sunlight shot down to the forest floor through the scattered breaks in the thick boughs overhead. One great beam landed on the fallen pine and warmed the ground where Taron sat. He could, at last, see into the forest, until the seemingly endless maze of trunks became too dense to see beyond. He grabbed his bow and quiver, and carried them as he walked slowly along the huge, dead pine to the dried up roots and dirt that still held on to its rotting base. It was probably held together by both the spider webs outside of it, and the bugs that dwelled within it. A deep gaping hole remained where the pine had once stood, but had since been occupied by weeds and dead leaves.
Taron’s attention was drawn away by an owl racing through the forest, only a man’s height from the ground. He watched the grand bird’s flight until it was lost within the forest labyrinth.
Whump! Something struck the ground behind Taron, and he spun toward the unexpected noise. He spotted Dalt, standing beneath a nearby tree, brushing off his tunic and checking his belt. Taron’s look of surprise vanished, and he sighed.
“We’re almost out of the forest.” Declared Dalt. “I could see the hills to the north.”
“Could you see Gerhihn?” Taron asked.
There was no response as Dalt started walking. He clutched the black dagger within his belt and Taron was shortly blinded by a blue light that changed quickly to red. Then, just as suddenly, the blade was pitch black again. He looked down at his own, hanging from his belt, as well. Something about it made him feel uneasy, and he strangely felt glad he had not wielded it yet.
By noon the two young southlanders reached the edge of the woods, and broke through into the wide open grasslands that stretched for many miles. They had traveled straight for Daylen during the night, based upon the hills to the north, and were directly south of the small village. Dalt guessed it could be reached before dark, if they kept the same pace. They could hardly wait to reach the village. Hunger and thirst were noticeably growing harder to control. On anxious feet they pressed on, immensely relieved to be free of Lynnwood, away from the stifling closeness of its massive trees. A light, but steady breeze made the tall grass appear to flow like waves that rolled on until out of sight, and for a brief moment, they stopped to admire its beauty. Then side by side, they continued their march toward Daylen.
II
Daylen
The sun had just touched the highest crests of the Dorol’s when Taron and Dalt completely ascended a steep hill that dropped off into a small, flat valley. Within the crater-like depression rested the lumberjack village of Daylen. A once thriving community, its business had dropped dramatically over the past decade. The main stream of its profits had come from the propelling growth of the kingdom of Bowenn, but that soon proved to be imminently temporary. They became craftsmen and buil
ders, but soon every trade became available within the walls of the great city, and the long journey to Daylen for furnishings became one seldom made. Most of the villagers had eventually taken their skills and their families to Bowenn, never to return. Many left the first year of slowing sales. Then those souls that boasted about never leaving, one by one, would turn up missing one morning. For the stubborn few that remained, the village became quiet and distant. If not for the high spending customers at Gerhihn’s annual fair, Daylen may have been left abandoned.
What Taron and Dalt saw in the valley below, was much worse than abandonment.
The village was only a short line of homes and shops, with a few two and three story barns scattered about, but all was in shambles. Large holes could be seen in rooftops. Some buildings no longer stood at all. Daylen had been attacked and set ablaze, seemingly by the Orcs, as well.
With heads held low, the two young men stepped out of the tall grass and onto a field of blooming clover that surrounded the village. They could hear a loud creaking noise that came from a single large windmill turning slowly nearby. Taron spotted something on the road just outside of the village, and when they neared it, they found it to be the charred, skeletal remains of a Dragynn. It’s jaws were gaping, and claws reaching.
Dalt slid free the black dagger, and Taron held an arrow ready at his bowstring, before they continued on.
The clover became patchy, then gave way altogether to trodden soil. There stood a tall, brown and white windmill, its base blackened by fire.
“This must have happened just before Gerhihn was attacked.” Dalt assumed, as they began to enter the line of buildings.
The scOrched village now seemed very cold. Once again, the two fell witness to a street littered with bodies. It appeared as though the small mass of villagers had been totally eliminated. Weapons at the ready, Taron and Dalt patrolled the street. Less than ten slain Orcs had been counted. One had been fixed to the front door of a furniture store, a pitchfork stuck clean through its neck and into the wood behind it. The beast hung loosely, four inches off the ground, held up by the deeply embedded tool.
