Story Contest Entry (Winter 2010) - End of the Peace

[Greg]

Word Count: 3,872

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Thump. Thump. Thump. Gaelhin’s stick hit the ground repeatedly as he worked the field. He cut across the field, back and forth, paying special attention to the larger clumps of brambles and briars. As he approached the largest of the briar patches, this one well over shoulder height, he circled around to the upwind side. Adlanna, his hawk, was perched atop a burnt out pine that had stood quiet watch over the grassy field for as long as any alive could remember. Rumor had it that the old dead tree was a remnant of a settlement, burnt to the ground by Orcs before the long, quiet of this ‘Watchful Peace’ had begun.

Whatever its origin, the tree now provided an excellent, unhindered view of the area, and a perfect high perch for Adlanna to sit atop while Gaelhin kicked up the field in search of game.

Gaelhin had circled around, and was now directly between the briar and the bird. He snapped his thumb and forefinger sharply, twice, and from out of the thick, golden grasses to his right, a shaggy black dog, Athu, snaked towards him, staying low. The dog stopped short at his signal, and when he pointed at the large patch that was his target, Athu slinked silently away through the grasses towards it.

They arrived a few feet from the bush without disturbing anything, and halted for a brief moment. Gaelhin checked behind him to ensure that Adlanna was focused on the two of them. As always, she was.

Now, he thought.

A quick jerk of his head in the direction of the briar caused Athu to spring in from the side, barking loudly, while Gaelhin swung his stick like a massive war club, smashing it into the side of the brittle plant.

Then, he heard it.

A large hare exploded out from the cover, bolting directly away from them, in the direction of the wind. Right where he wanted it.

“Hai! Hai! Hai! Hai! Hai!” came Gaelhin’s exuberant cry, though the Falconer’s game call was hardly needed. Adlanna had already dived off from her high vantage and was well on her way. The wind at her back had been planned by the hunter; the bird now pumped its wings, gaining twice as much ground per beat as normal, while the hare, unaware that the real threat was from the sky, continued to bound through the grass.

Within seconds, the hawk had caught up, extended its feet, and connected with the hare. They tumbled together through the undergrowth as the Rabbit squealed beneath the pressure of the bird’s powerful feet, the bell attached to the bird’s ankle jingling wildly before the two combatants came to a stop near the dry creek bed that had once run happily through the quaint little village.

Gaelhin took a few minutes to find his hawk, and when he finally approached, his dog was lying calmly next to the bird as she fought to keep possession of her still-struggling quarry. He found her with sharp talons still embedded in the hare’s neck and upper back, clutching on
desperately. That alone would have taken quite some time to end the hare’s life; she wasn’t contacting any major vitals. Rather than prolonging its suffering, the hunter drew a short, double-edged utility knife from his belt, pulled on the hare’s back legs to expose the vitals, and quickly set about ending its misery.

After a moment’s struggle, the hare’s body relaxed, and Gaelhin released it for a moment to wipe his gleaming blade on the grass before replacing it in the leather sheath on his belt. He brought his game bag around, concealing the hare from the hawk’s view, and tossed a tidbit of meat to one side, baiting the bird off of her kill as both a reward and so that he could bag the hare without her deciding that his arm would make an equally excellent target for her talons.
He allowed her to enjoy the morsel he had given her, and then gave a low whistle. She hopped up, and with a few quick flaps of her powerful wings, alighted gently on his outstretched glove. He tied a short leash onto the jess straps wrapped around her legs, and began the long march back to the nameless, uncharted settlement that he called home.

He had grown up without war. The peace had lasted as long as any of his living kin could remember. War was now a thing of the past; a threat of legend more than anything else, though all men, Gaelhin included, were still raised as warriors. He was a capable swordsman and an outstanding archer, though neither had ever been tested in a deadly combat scenario. No one in his village even carried their swords with them, except for on special occasions or when traveling. He could track both beasts and men, and could survive alone in the wilds of the world without difficulty for months at a time. The peace had even allowed him the time to pursue taming a hawk as a means of hunting, a pursuit that wartime would never have allowed for.

His father had barely allowed it regardless. As far as he was concerned, the time could have better been spent hunting, becoming more proficient with the sword, or helping around the house. He had started the pursuit in secret until he had been able to prove that he was successful. The man still harassed him about it, but the bird brought home food, so he had let it pass. His mother would have supported the endeavor from the start, but she had gone long ago while giving birth to him. The things others in the settlement had told Gaelhin about his parents had convinced him that his father could be an agreeable, even likable, man, but that side of him had died with her. Now, Gaelhin was solely responsible for her death in his father’s eyes, and the man had never shown a hint of affection for his only son. Even the honor of learning to fight from his own father had been denied him. Instead, he had been forced to learn from his uncle, who was nowhere near the swordsman his father was. His father had blamed it on ‘old age,’ but Gaelhin was sure it was simply contempt.

The village was a good hour away yet. The field was a frequent destination of his for hunting with Adlanna, and due to the distance from home, he typically brought his equipment with him. Anything could happen, and the weather was ever unpredictable here in the far north. Besides, the frost had been out and fresh this morning, and the bitter chill still made his breath visible. For those reasons, he had brought a heavy cloak, quiver, and a stout bow, and at his hip there hung a short but broad sword, effective for both cutting and thrusting. He strapped these back on now, for no self-respecting Falconer, in his mind, need burden himself with such implements while hawking. And it was just when he finished this that he and his companions all heard a twig snap down in the ravine, not far beyond the tree line where they stood.

He froze, and hissed a near-silent command to Athu, who froze as well. Seeing nothing, he dropped into a crouch, and moved along the edge of the trees, searching for the source of the sound, shadowed by his soft-footed companion. A squirrel ran along a tree limb away from him, the pattering of its four tiny paws the only distinct sound to be heard above the gentle rustling of the leaves in the wind. Gaelhin sighed, and stood up, relaxed, only to duck back down immediately as Athu barked viciously at something unseen.

In all of the short time he had spent with his animals, he had been constantly reminded to trust their senses more than his. Today was no exception, as a spine-tingling hiss split the air above him, a heavy-shafted bolt of wood with crude leather flights buried itself into the tree where he had stood.

He instantly recognized the missile as a crossbow bolt, and dashed for better cover, trusting that the weapon’s sluggish reload time would give him a chance. He wasn’t counting on a second shooter, and he howled in pain as his left calf took a bolt in punishment for his mistake.
He crawled behind a large oak, grasping at the wound. It hadn’t connected with bone, merely piercing the fatty tissue near the edge. But oh, did it hurt.

He forced himself to think clearly. You only have one hand right now. Set Adlanna free.

He untied the leash and tossed her up, letting go of her jesses. She flapped, quickly gaining altitude and riding the breeze until she sat aloft in a large oak some distance away. Once he knew she was away, he set about working the bolt out of his leg, all the while glancing around for signs of his attackers. Hearing a few muffled curses and grunts confirmed that they were Orcs, as he had feared. The bolt had a barbed iron head, and it wasn’t cooperating with him. It hadn’t come all of the way through his calf. He bit down hard on his thick leather glove while he pushed the rusty blade out through his leg so he could break it off, tears flowing freely down his face due to the pain.

Having freed the cruel barb of his skin, Gaelhin closed his eyes and broke the tip of, swearing as he did so. The shaft then slipped back out the way it had entered, and he wrapped the wound as quickly and tightly as he could with his fumbling, shaking fingers, all the while fighting off Athu, as he whimpered and attempted to lick the wound clean.

He heard nothing behind him. He had spent so much effort concentrating on the wound that he’d forgotten to listen. There was no telling where the Orcs would be by this time. He expected at any moment that one of them would spring out from behind his own tree and end the ordeal on the spot. He desperately looked in front of him for a solution…a place to run to, a path to take as an escape, anything. The nearest cover that could protect him from a crossbow bolt was ten yards away; far too long a distance to cross safely, much less with an injured leg, and by this time, he knew they would have reloaded their deadly weapons.

However, there was no other choice. Their location was a mystery to him, and if he appeared around either side of the tree to shoot, they would spot and kill him before he ever saw anything. There was no fight here. He had to run.

He got up onto his feet in a crouch, wincing at the knife of pain running up his bleeding leg. He would run with the tree at his back until the last possible moment, and then break right towards the next cover. Yes...that was his only chance.

His muscles tensed, ready to explode into a sprint, when the ear-splitting hunger cry of a hawk pierced the silence of the trees. He heard a confused grunt from behind him, and he bolted.
He felt as though he ran in slow motion, expecting the excruciating pain of an iron arrow point burying itself in his back, the likes of which he’d only heard about in stories, to rear its ugly head with every painful step he took. It did not come. They had been distracted by Adlanna’s cry, and had lost precious seconds, and their opportunity. He made it to the tree, Athu hot on his heels, and hugged up against the backside of it just in time to hear a pair of bolts slam into the left edge, shearing off large chunks of bark. He turned and ran again, entreating with the Valar for there to be only two archers, that they would reload slowly, that he would find more cover, that he would not be surrounded...

No more bolts came. He clumsily ran on, unhindered, leaving a perfectly defined trail of blood behind him that anyone, even a half-witted orc, could follow, a thought made all the more poignant by the snarls of pursuit continuing dimly behind him.

He cursed. He could not return to the settlement, or it would become an empty, burnt-up graveyard just like the one he’d left behind.

His mind made up now, he altered his course towards the east, moving through the trees as quietly as he could manage with his limp, Athu out in front now, watching as always. The sun was high now, just past midday. He could not keep this pace up for much longer. He chewed on some dried meats from his pouch as he fought to keep up his steady jog.

He had no combat experience. He had received training, but no experience. His father’s disdain for him would become his undoing, he was sure. Out here, he would die, with none to know what had happened. None to find him, none who would mourn him.

No. He pushed the thought from his mind. He was not an heir of kings, but he, Gaelhin, was of the Dunedain. It was his turn for great deeds worthy of a song. Or, at least, he thought grimly, his turn to try.

He ran on with renewed strength, adrenaline pumping now, and he set his sights on a large granite outcrop perhaps a mile ahead in the distance. He pushed on through the undergrowth, dashing around the twisting vines and gnarled trees, wishing for flat land to run across, and finding none. The rock seemed impossibly far away, but slowly and surely, it grew in his vision until finally he could touch it. He circled his path around its left and beyond the great pile, and then doubled back around the other side, leaving a trail clearly painted with the cruel brush stroke of Orcs all the way ‘round. A snap of his fingers brought Athu to his side, and a simple pointed finger sent him charging up the rock itself, Gaelhin climbing nimbly after him. The pain was gone, now. He was too determined to feel that anymore.

He came to the peak of the rock, looking down around him, and saw clearly the red path he had bled alongside it. He laid down low, instructing Athu to do the same, and saw to the southwest a glimpse of his pursuit. His heart sank. At least a half-dozen orcs were running steadily through the shade of the trees. Clouds were thickening; there would be snow this evening, he was sure. It was dark enough for his pursuit to wander freely without the comforting shade of trees. He slipped his bow out of its place on his back and strung it awkwardly as he lay down. Checking his quiver, he spat at himself for his over-confidence. There were four. Typical for hunting, that number might have been, but it was not sufficient for combat. He would have to even the odds some other way.

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“Keep at it, you wretch!” the lieutenant howled at a straggler. “He’ll lead us straight to them! DON’T lose this one!”

They had been pursuing their injured quarry easily for some time now. There was little worry of losing him; he was losing blood quickly, all over the trail. The lieutenant was actually more worried that he wouldn’t make it to his home, wherever that might be. Either way, this one, at least, would die. He didn’t regret giving the order to let him go. Allow the north-man this one small victory; give ourselves a greater one shortly after. It made sense to him. His master would be pleased.

They approached a large granite formation; the human’s blood trail went straight past it. He had half-expected the wounded Ranger to make a stand here, but thought nothing of it otherwise. The loss of blood and the attack must have shaken the man’s senses. It wouldn’t be long now.
The trail continued on past the boulders without incident. The lieutenant was ready to urge his troops on with another choice set of sharp words, when a deep crackling sound was heard above, followed by an eerie silence. The company looked up just in time to see a massive boulder falling silently, almost peacefully, towards them, before it slammed into the ground with a sickening crunch, completely crushing the first Orc in the line. A few twitches remained in one visible arm, and then it stirred no more.

They all ran for whatever cover they could find. The lieutenant pressed his back against the rock face, trusting the overhang to protect him. He turned just in time to see the straggler he’d cursed at mere minutes before slump to the ground with an arrow in his back. He’d been right; the Ranger was making his stand.

“Climb, you ingrates! CLIMB!”

He whirled around the rock to his left, out of the Ranger’s sight, and began his ascent, a cruel dagger in his mouth, climbing like a sea captain up the ropes in a fit of rage. Snow began to fall. He didn’t notice.

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The boulder and his first arrow both successes, Gaelhin had allowed himself a brief moment of elation. Then he heard the hoarse, rasping order from below: “Climb, you ingrates! CLIMB!”

He was running out of time, and there were only three arrows left, against four. His earlier count appeared to have been accurate. He drew another shaft and took aim as they streamed towards the rock he had chosen as his meager fortress. He foolishly loosed the arrow at a running orc, rather than waiting for the beast to reach the rock and become an easier target. The arrow planted itself firmly in the ground several feet behind the charging orc. What a waste.

The orcs began to climb. The four were scrambling quickly up the steep rock face, fanned out across nearly half the circumference of the structure that he could tell. Athu was barking viciously at them now, no longer having need for stealth or quiet. His protective instincts were driving him into frenzy, and he would no longer have cared for his master’s orders, had there been any. Snow, as Gaelhin had guessed, began to fall in slow flurries, then picking up speed, faster and faster. The wind could become dangerous atop such a smooth and wet rock. Gaelhin knew he would have to be careful.

He waited for them to get nearly halfway up before he began firing again. His two remaining shafts both found targets, one in the collarbone, the other in the throat, and their victims fell silently to the rocky ground meters below.

Gaelhin cast about him for other rocks or implements that could be hurled at his two remaining assailants while he still had time. He found nothing. The only movable object atop the imposing tower was now far below, holding the first of his victims in a deadly grasp between it and the unforgiving ground. He took a deep breath, drew his sword, and cried out with all of his might the ageless call to arms of the Dunedain. “Lacho calad! Drego morn!” As the call faded into the clouds and snow, the first of his assailants reached the peak of the tower, and charged.

Gaelhin charged him in turn, lashing out with his keen blade, drawing his small knife in his other hand as he did so, stabbing furiously at the orc, hoping to find an opening. The orc, unprepared for this vicious assault, found himself defending against a madman, but neither of the combatant’s weapons found an opening.

Another orc reached the top, and moved in behind the frenzied Ranger, ready to deal a killing blow from behind. A small, black blur materialized out of nowhere, it seemed, and flew snarling at the orc’s neck. Bones were crushed as Athu’s jaws clamped shut, and the warrior fell back onto the rock, silenced.

Gaelhin was slowing down. He was tiring. But his opponent was as well. Finally, the orc swung a clumsy, two-handed stroke at Gaelhin’s head, sluggish at best. Gaelhin parried it with his sword, and brought his knife up under the Orc’s left arm, into his armpit. A small point emerged from the orc’s shoulder, and an unearthly scream was heard from his mouth, cut short by a final stroke from the Ranger’s blade. He stepped back to take a breath, when a heavy wood and iron club slammed into his hip from behind, bringing him to his knees.

He lurched to the side, turning to face this new, unexpected attacker. The orc pulled a dagger from his mouth and held it reversed, preparing to deal a final blow to this pitiful man from the north.

Gaelhin had no clue where the orc had come from. He must have counted wrong. It didn’t matter now. It was over. Not even Athu could help him. The dog was snarling wildly, the black blood of his victim mixing in with his drool, but his front leg was bleeding red, and he could not stand.

Gaelhin looked up into the sky, directly at the dimly shining sun that fought to be seen through the clouds, and drew breath for one final cry of defiance. A familiar shadow from within the clouds above flickered over his face, and he called out with all his remaining strength “Hai! Hai! Hai! Hai! Hai!”

Adlanna, riding the turbulent thermals of the winter storm, tucked her wings in and dove out of the cloud cover, talons slashing wildly, as though gripping a stubborn hare. The Orc howled in rage, dropping his club from one hand, clutching at his eyes. Black blood and clear fluids mingled, draining profusely from his face as he writhed, swinging his dagger blindly at the air, hoping to find his new assailant from the skies.

A quiet hiss and a thud punctuated his cries as an arrow flew from far below and buried itself in his twisting back, punching through armor, flesh, sinew, and bone. The orc paused, an almost confused look on his face, before tumbling forward and down, off the rock, to the ground far below, where he lay still.

A few moments later, the shapes of men came into Gaelhin’s blurry vision. The voice of his father stood out among them all.

“We heard your call. You fought well...son.” The last word was added, almost as an afterthought. But Gaelhin knew he had meant it.

Gaelhin knew that this Watchful Peace was over. Arahad, son of Araglas, their Chieftain and Lord of the Dunedain, would have to lead their people against the enemy, whoever they may be, once again. But now, it did not matter to Gaelhin. His father was here, his town was safe, and, with a little luck, he just might make it too. He replied with a trembling voice, tears of happiness and relief streaming down his face. “Flame light?” It was a plea for acceptance as much as anything.

His father smiled in return. “Flee night.”

[Eric C]

Good read, Greg! Very enjoyable!

[kaelln]

This was really good! It kept me on the edge of my seat all the way through. Excellent!

[Mirimaran]

Excellent entry, Greg!

[Jon]

Great! Always love to here stories of ranger fights.

[Ernildir]

Excellent! I liked the implementation of falconry.

[Greg]

Excellent! I liked the implementation of falconry.

Couldn't help myself. It's kinda been on the mind lately, ya know? Can't blame me, I suppose...

[Ranger of Arthedain]

*Applauds you*

A wonderful read, indeed! It kept me on the edge of my seat as well, kaelln.