The forest soon grew into the valleys of Balder to the northwest of Irongard, and the men carrying loads of armor and even heavier tales of the things they did not do weighed the small army down. The terrain had lost its rockiness and the green hues deepened with the dark earth beneath them. An array of vegetation sprung up from the cool earth shadowed by the canopies of trees, and the soldiers had camped in a sunny glade within a ring of ancient oaks and ash. It had been a couple days since the the first skirmish with the Orcs, and the men were crossing into the edge of the lands of Balder from the southeast. Dalmar had, upon occasion, found himself scaling a tree or two to scout the surrounding area and sighting possible parties of Orcs, but the world revealed nothing but a vast sea of leaves and branches in each direction. An occasional distant mountaintop poked through the thousands of floral umbrellas, and the sight of the sun bathing small clusters of tiny birds and butterflies were enough to make Dalmar enjoy the fleeting moments of this duty within the regiment. Dalmar became quite adept at climbing trees, and soon scaled the limbs and branches at the tiny lizards and snakes cling to the centuries of dendrites. Often, Dalmar would catch himself daydreaming while roosting twenty or thirty meters in the air with the sun in his face and the warm summer breeze in his long brown hair. Only when the wind had picked up did it remind him with a tossing of his hair into his eyes that it was time to keep pushing. They soldiers were already behind schedule, and the captain continuously reminded the men that they had lost valuable time with undue laziness. But after a rather uneventful few days, Dalmar had once again found himself at the top of a great tree scanning the emerald horizon.
Dalmar stood on a great branch of the mighty ash tree, holding on as the breeze blew the tree back and forth. He held one hand over his eyes to shield his vision from the strange breeching of the sun into his life once more, and he peered with his hawk-like eyes for signs of other parties in the area. Indeed, after several days of marching in tiresome terrain, Dalmar spotted a number of campfire several kilometers to the southwest. Dalmar's neck swiveled to cover the entire horizon, and upon second look, Dalmar also noticed a thin dust cloud further to the west. Dalmar couldn't be sure who or what created the dust cloud, but he was sure that a party iof being were traveling through the expansive forests of Balder. He stood at the top of the trees and watched the hazy cloud turn within itself and swirl into its own center high above the trees. Dalmar thought the area where the dust cloud originated might be the edge of the forest, or rather an edge. Having stood above the waiting men for about thirty or forty-five minutes, Dalmar looked down at their anxious faces as they rested from their march. He could tell they were ready for his report. The men wanted to know if their fates were to be met with more fighting and anticipation of the Captain's orders. Dalmar shimmied back down the tree, hopping from one side another until his feet struck the earth flatly. He brushed the tiny filaments of wood from his beard and face, and wiped his leggings and armor clean of the moss dust falling from the tree. Making his way through the resting men, he quickly found the captain leaning against a fallen tree with his helmet resting beside him while the captain smoked a pipe.
"What say you, Dalmar?" the captain greeted.
"Several campfires to the northwest and a large dust cloud like a moving group of soldiers to the far west" Dalmar answered.
"Damn!" the captain fired back and his tapped his pipe on the ground to extinguish its sweet smelling smoke. "How far between the dust cloud and the campfires, man?" the captain barked.
"Roughly three or four kilometers" Dalmar replied.
"And how far between us and the campfires?" the captain responded sharply.
"Right around five or six kilometers. Are the campfires..." Dalmar hesitated as he saw the frustration in the captain's eyes as he rose and put on his helmet. "...Are those campfires the fires of the men that we are trying to meet?" Dalmar asked of the captain.
"Hard to say right now, but if they are, indeed, then we must try to get to them before those Orcs get to them. There's little doubt that their scouts have seen their campfires. Get your things, Dalmar. I want you to ride ahead and scout the area ahead of us. And be quick about it. If you make it to Thorfinn's men, wait for us there. Now, go, and godspeed, Dalmar. Fly! Like the wind!" The captain strapped his word to his side and mounted his horse like a flash, pointed to Dalmar and to the horse beside him. Dalmar ran to gather his gear and weapons, and ran back to the waiting horse. He quickly jumped on the horse, and with a quick kick to either side, Dalmar was away through the forest on his own and heading in the direction of the campfires. It had been some time since Dalmar had ridden a horse, and he found himself clinging to the rocking beast like a child. He quickly regained his abilities, and soon brought his bow around his body's front and maneuvered his quiver into way of easy access. As he flew through the darkened earth, he came upon a wide footpath where the grass and greenery had been trampled recently but the movement of men. Tiny articles of domestication had been discarded along the way - pieces of paper and a few bits of burlap. The footprints of men could be seen heading in the direction he was riding as he slowed down to scout the area before entering the open areas of the pathway. Yes, indeed. They were the footprints of men. He was sure of it now, and he eased across the footpath, careful not to draw the attention of unsuspecting eyes. His eyes and head moved from side to side, looking up and down the pathway for any signs of people or Orcs. For a moment, even time seemed to slow as he intensified his gaze, and as he squinted he saw two people traveling away from his heading northwest along the path. Dalmar moved slowly into the covering of the forest once again, but hesitated as he thought about the old man and what appeared to be his daughter traveling into the jaws of death that await them when they become discovered. Dalmar bit his lip, and weighed the pros and cons of helping the old man and his daughter. It wouldn't take that long, and he could rid his conscience of this dillemma once and for all. But then again, he and the men were already behind. There wasn't much time to lose. If he was too late, the men might get slaughtered at the hand of the enemy. Who could say that the Orcs didn't see them, or that Thorfinn's men didn't see the dust cloud made by the Orcs? These questions tore at Dalmar like a thorny vine, and he grit his teeth and spit. "Well, Dalmar, you got your mind in a rut here. Tied it up real good haven't you?" he thought to himself. In fact, Dalmar knew what he was going to do even before he crept back into the forest. Dalmar turned his horse around and crept back into the pathway. Kicking the sides of the horse once again, he galloped up the pathway towards the old man and the girl.
"Get off the path! Go back! Go back to your homes!" Dalmar shouted at the two. As he neared the old man and the girl, he tugged at the reins slowing his steed to a trot. The equine clopping on the soft earth of the pathway caused each of the two travellers to turn to meet Dalmar suddenly. First the young girl, dressed in a dull yellow cloak, turned to meet Dalmar with a smile, her red locks bouncing with her lusty steps. She touched the old man on the shoulder and whispoered something to his ear, and the old man began to turn. Dalmar's eyes fell upon the old man in the dingy blue cloak. Time slowed down once again, and piece by piece the old man's face appeared one yellow eye at a time until his pig-like features were revealed. Dalmar stopped his steed and reach for his quiver with lightning speed, but before he could reach the top of his first arrow he heard the familiar sound of an arrow's flight. A burning pain hit Dalmar in the back of the shoulder as the arrow struck him through his quiver and into his back. Dalmar cried out as he fell off his horse. His eyes glassed over, and his own tears began to blur his vision slightly as several other Orcs stepped out of the nearby foliage, each equipped with bows and quivers of arrows. He could feel his blood seep from his wound as it began to swell around the shaft of the arrow. The point of the missile jabbed him in the shoulder blade, and struck his entire back with pain as he writhed on the ground. The girl in the yellow cloak knelt down beside Dalmar whispering softly to him as she shushed his heavy breathing. "Shh, don't struggle, or it will be worse for you. Lie still, farmboy." she said. Her touch was golden, but Dalmar's confusion would not let him relax. He reached for his sword in desperation. As his hand grasped its hilt, the old Orc belted out a strange word, "Bataochgrah!". That was the last thing Dalmar saw or heard that day.
Invino Veritas
EOF
6/19/11
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