A short story in celebration of the 17k+ people who looked at this blog: cloeyk.blogspot.com which features an interview by Amaymon.
This is a story inspired by the long hours I spent playing Dungeons and Dragons Online. Try to guess my class. Hint: its in the title. Also I threw in there some Lord of the Rings. Bonus points if any of you can guess from where I got the direwolf's name.
Enjoy.
The
Ranger
The
deer was getting heavy on his shoulder. Living at the edge of the forest had
its perks, but it was not without its difficulties. He had killed this deer
perhaps a few hours’ stride from his usual hunting grounds, chasing after the
large specimen.
Animals
had gotten sparser in the past few weeks: he would have to head out again after
he deposited his catch and restocked his quiver.
He
had gotten to the edge of his hut when he suddenly heard the shriek of birds
and saw a flock emerging from the west. That bode trouble. Animals in these
woods lived comfortably alongside wild predators, man-eating flora and fauna
and platoons of knights either brave or desperate enough to venture through
these parts. Local wildlife was not easily intimidated and whoever, or
whatever, had done so, had been new, unknown and terrifying. The Ranger checked
his equipment and, setting the deer aside, he ran towards the disturbance.
It
was the mark of a real hunter: stalk and observe your prey before taking any
further action. He leaped over branches, bobbing and weaving amongst the trees.
The movements were instinctive, his body and mind honed by years of living in
the forest. Halfway through he saw a shadow emerging; a beast running alongside
him. The direwolf was as large as a bear yet it moved with stealth and grace.
It ran alongside the Ranger, fangs barred and spittle mottling random leaves. Man
and beast got closer to the disturbance and the sounds escaped neither’s ears.
The
Ranger slowed down, motioning with his hand to placate the direwolf. Garruk,
the most faithful of companions, came to a halt, his slender legs still
quivering. He crouched besides his companion, awaiting the signal to leap and
rip out the throat of whatever dared instil fear in his beloved home. But the signal
never came.
It
was a small battalion of orcs and barbarians, men who long ago shed their
honour and took up arms for the sake of baser desire. From his perch, the
keen-eyed Ranger saw them escorting a wagon. He heard the familiar clink of
metal, chucks of wooden flasks and the thump of powder barrels. It was a supply
wagon and, judging from the direction of the tracks, it was headed for the
Western Banks. A wagon of such size could support a legion of warriors. The
Ranger saw the warriors surrounding it: most carried swords, cleavers, spears
and axes. Two walked with only a staff and a small intricate club respectively;
the weapons of magic-users. Scouts had already departed forward, their tracks
too evident in the vegetation. Whoever these men were, they were not accustomed
to the ways of the forest.
And
that would be their downfall.
The
Ranger motioned for Garruk to follow him. They ran through the forest, trying
to keep their pace silent. The direwolf took the lead; his keen sense of smell
serving as a compass. Ahead he could see the first of the scouts. Orcs, despite
their mountaineering lifestyle, could navigate to forest better than most men.
But they could not escape the Ranger and his companion.
Notching
an arrow, the Ranger let loose the missile. It whistled softly for a split
second before burying itself in the back of the orc’s neck. The monster lay
dead before his mind could process another thought. Garruk growled softly and
turned his head. The Ranger followed the direction with his bow and saw a small
shadow. He let loose his arrow and heard the thump of another body.
Five
men lay dead in total, an arrow in each of them. The Ranger searched for the
wagon tracks in the soil. He was certain it would pass from here on its
journey. Further along the tracks, he presumed, would be the camp but he had to
deal with that later. First, he had a wagon to sabotage.
Their
march through the forest was as loud as the beat of a drum and blow of a
trumpet. Grunts, swear words, clanking of metal and stomping of boots were
aplenty as the wagon passed by. The garrison was letting their guard down,
confident in their numbers and blades. And an overconfident soldier is the best
victim of a trap.
The
first arrow struck a particularly large and ugly barbarian wielding a
double-headed axe. The body slumped down with an arrow sticking out from its
eye. The rest of the garrison heard a whistle and from the surrounding trees
dozens of direwolves burst out, leaping on the first man or orc in sight. A
mage leapt forward, his spell hitting a wolf on its flank. Beneath him the rock
crumbled and he found himself falling in a pit. His waist was still above
ground and a look of relief washed over his face as he made to hoist himself
out of the pit. He heard slithering and hissing and saw a dozen serpents
coiling around his boots. He screamed as the vipers sank their fangs in his
flesh. He waved his wand around but no amount of magic could save him from his
fate now. He soon ceased his flailing and fell motionless.
The
Rangers notched another arrow and slew an orc. Garruk had left his side, eager
to taste blood with his kin. The Ranger got down from the hill he was on and
let go of his bow. Unsheathing a longsword, he struck down a barbarian before
he could swing his axe at Garruk. He spun low, grabbed the handle of a long
knife inside his boot, and thrust the blade inside an orc who snuck up behind
him.
Soon
the entire garrison lay dead.
The
Ranger cut the horse loose, sending the scared beast running. He pried open
crates and barrels with his knife, spilling their contents. The direwolves assaulted
any food and provisions the Ranger threw away, their hunger rarely satisfied.
The powders were buried in the soil, forever ruining them. He opened a crate of
weapons and inspected them. The arrows he took for himself, having nearly
exhausted his own. Some knifes he traded, discarding his own for better ones.
The weapons were not of superior quality, which was better for a Ranger’s
lifestyle. A weapon too finely crafted would be too expensive for the Ranger to
trade for pelts and meats. And even the best of blades atrophied over time and
use. Besides, a princely weapon would be a waste in such a wild environment.
But a poor weapon would not do either. Durability was the key element of a
Ranger’s equipment: a finely crafted weapon with a durable blade and nothing
else was what suited the Ranger best.
He
took what he needed and motioned at Garruk. The direwolf growled once and
trotted back amongst the trees, his pack following him. The Ranger retrieved
his bow and followed suit. Garruk led them to the main camp. It was Spartan as
camps went: a small clearing, with a tent at the side and a fire in the middle.
Two empty wagons lay uselessly at the edge of the camp. A large reindeer spun
on a spit. A small pile of dead animals sat on a side, with the occasional orc
ripping out a leg and eating it raw. The Ranger felt enraged and disgusted at
such barbaric behavior He notched an arrow, took a breath and observed.
There
were far fewer warriors here but they could still overrun himself and Garruk’s
pack. Stealth and cover were key here.
On
the Ranger’s signal, Garruk and his pack leapt at the camp, assaulting warriors
and barbarians alike. The Ranger remained hidden at the surroundings, thinning down
their numbers with arrows. Before they knew it, the campers found themselves
short in numbers and courage. Some tried to flee but none could escape the
direwolves’ fangs or the Ranger’s arrows. Just when the last of the camp
warriors were killed, a mighty roar emerged from the small tent and the canvas
was ripped apart.
An
orc emerged wearing a headdress of feathers, pieces of leather around his chest
with symbols drawn in blood and paint and carrying a club with what looked like
a skull on top of it. The orc shaman had piercings and bolts of metal in
various parts if his body. When he moved the necklace of bones clattered
against the metal on his chest and other ornaments. He roared and swung his
club. A flash of fire shot at a direwolf, incinerating it to the bone. The
beast kicked another wolf, throwing it away, as if the large direwolf weighed
nothing more than a pebble. The Ranger shot arrow after arrow at the orc shaman
but to no effect. Most fell away harmlessly and those that pierced through his
magic could not penetrate deep enough through the thick, leathery hide.
The
orc threw a lance of fire at the Ranger who ducked and rolled. Reaching across
his chest, the Ranger let loose two throwing daggers in quick succession. One
fell short of its target; the other embedded itself in the monster’s thigh. The
beast roared in pain and fell to one knee. Garruk leapt and sank its large
fangs into the orc’s shoulder, trying to drive it into the ground. The orc
raised its club and brought it down on the direwolf’s head.
The
Ranger’s sword slid in between the club and Garruk’s skull, deflecting the
lethal blow. The Ranger swung his sword, carrying the club away from his
companion, and plunged his long knife into the orc’s throat. The shaman swung
his club once more and the Ranger lost the grip on his sword, leaving it embedded
on the ground. He wrestled against the orc’s arm and managed to grab hold of
the massive forearm. Pulling out a skinning knife, he sunk the blade inside the
orc’s arm and sliced along the beast’s forearm, splitting it wide. The orc
dropped his club.
The
Ranger let go of the knife, leaving it inside the orc’s elbow, and spun,
grabbing the hilt of his sword in one sweeping motion. Using the momentum, he
slammed the pommel of his sword against the hilt of his long knife, thrusting
the blade even deeper inside the shaman’s neck. Sensing what would follow,
Garruk relinquished his grip and backed away.
The
Ranger grabbed the handle of his knife in reverse grip and wrenched it to one
side savagely before pulling it out. The orc’s head fell lopsided, nearly cut
cleanly off save for a small patch from where it dangled. Not taking any
chances, the Ranger yelled and brought his longsword down on the severed neck,
cutting the beast in half along the chest.
Wiping
the blood away, the Ranger sheathed his weapons and made towards one of the
empty wagons. He loaded the shaman’s body on the cart along with any weapons he
found. He would take the road back and load the rest of the other wagon too,
the one left in the middle of the path.
He
walked inside the tent and found a small altar there. Beside it was a small
chest and, with his skinning knife, he pried it open. Inside were a few jewels,
handfuls of gold and silver coins and a robe of fine silk. Clearly this was a
treasure meant for a prince or a warlord. The barbarians must have stolen it
and planned to exchange it for whatever suited their fancy. This treasure would
supply the Ranger with weapons and food.
It
took a few hours but finally the Ranger was on his way. He had found the horse
again: the poor beast returned to the camp of its own volition, only to find
the camp had been set ablaze and was now in ashes. The Ranger tied the wagon to
it and rode it towards the nearest town. Garruk accompanied him towards the
edge of the forest before trotting back amongst the trees.
The
Ranger made for the village, intent on showing the world his find. He had to
alert the High Council to the threat; the enemy was rising in the North.
A
storm was coming.
