Alsherok

The night was very dark. The moon was almost invisible, obscured by the branches of trees and by the heavy clouds overhead. Nothing moved. Then something did. A thin humanoid figure slowly moved across the small clearing, disappearing into the bushes on the opposite side without a sound. More shapes followed, quickly turning invisible in the cover of the bushes once again.

Garan paused again, and the other elves stopped behind him. The tracks on the ground were made by heavily booted feet, and Garan, with his enhanced vision, could still see traces of heat made by the wearer, marking the tracks as minutes old. A crashing in the brush just ahead confirmed his thoughts. There were orcs out there somewhere. Elves didn't make those kinds of tracks, and the only humans around were back to the west. He made a few quick gestures, and the other elves fanned out around him. Selith and Legandir, the two other fighters of the group, took up positions just behind and to either side of him. Directly behind him was Taril, the group's mage. The three warriors loosened their swords in their sheaths, readied their bows, and disappeared once more into the bushes.

Grak hacked his way through the bushes. The forest in the middle of the night wasn't where he wanted to be. He wanted to be back in the newly captured Shire, with his grog and some nice roasted pork. Instead, he was out here in the woods, leading a patrol. Vourk was an idiot, even if he was the king. There weren't any elves out here. Hadn't the orcish armies slaughtered all of them that they had encountered? Hadn't they crushed the supposedly invincible forces of the Graecians, and conquered the Shire, putting it to the torch? No, there weren't any elves out here, not at night like this. Vourk was an idiot.

Garan pulled an arrow out from the body of the lead orc. The patrol had stumbled upon them suddenly, and the elves had been forced to fight. The orcs, surprised and confused, had been quickly routed. The elvish force hadn't even been wounded. Dragging the bodies into a hollow tree, the elves faded back into the bushes, and quickly vanished from sight.

It was light now. The clouds were heavier than ever, blending with the smoke from a thousand campfires to create a dark gray haze overhead. The bushes parted slightly, and a green-painted face peered out at the scene thus revealed. Spread before the forest were the ruins of the occupied Shire. Though ruined, it was not deserted. A huge orcish camp was randomly sprawled throughout the ruins, with no regard for the order shown by civilized armies. In the dim light of the dawn, Garan could see a huge, seething mass of orcs; cooking, fighting, raping, burning. Calming himself, Garan settled down to watch. It was going to be a while before he could do anything about this.

Night fell once more. It had been a fairly uneventful day for the elves. Most of the time was spent sleeping or staring out at the orcish army. Sleeping more than watching. Orcish entertainment ran to the brutal and barbaric side of things, and although the elves were strong, none of them really wanted to watch that sort of thing. Uncramping unused muscles, the elves quickly slid from their trees and went into action. Garan waved his troops to follow, and then quickly moved into the outskirts of the orcish camp. Sentries were almost nonexistent, but those that did exist were either avoided or quickly knifed. In this fashion, the elves moved silently through the camp, emerging in front of a large tent. Two massive orcs dressed in chain mail and carrying huge swords blocked the way. They were also very much awake. Pausing in a burnt-out doorway, Garan motioned to Taril, who whispered a couple of syllables and made a motion with his hands. The two big orcs slumped over, fast asleep. Their swords hit the ground with dull thuds, and the orcs themselves keeled over into the tent with a loud jangle of metal.

Garan froze then ducked back into the house, motioning the other elves to do the same. If orcs came out now... But none did. Motioning Selith and Legandir forward, he followed, Taril bringing up the rear. They quickly paused next to the tent flap. This was it. No turning back now. They would most likely die, but it was all in the service of the Confederation. Garan opened the flap.

The scene inside was disgusting. Straw pallets lay scattered about, each with an orc sleeping on it. In a huddle in the corner were some naked, bruised halfling women, dead. Bones and bits of half eaten food lay scattered everywhere. Garan grimaced, then entered. Moving to the nearest orc, he pulled out a knife, covered the orc's mouth, and calmly slit it's throat. Around him, the other elves were doing the same. Most of the orcs were dispatched in this manner, but then Selith's knife hit metal. One of the orcs was wearing some sort of collar. Selith changed his grip on the knife, but too late. The orc flashed awake, and kicked Selith between the legs, who grunted in pain and fell backwards. The orc clambered up, screaming something in the guttural tongue of his kind. Legandir quickly threw his knife, which buried itself in the orc's chest, killing it instantly, but too late. Orcs were clambering awake all around them and grabbing weapons. Garan's knife found another orcish throat, and he quickly drew his sword. The surprised Selith buried his knife in the chest of another orc before being decapitated by an orc from behind him. Legandir traded blows with another orc, then dispatched it with a thrust to the heart. Garan quickly parried a massive swing from the last orc, then calmly dispatched it with a slash across the throat. The elves quickly moved forward, ripping the flap to the back of the tent open, and rushing in, swords ready.

Vourk, king of all the orcs, awoke with a start. Someone was fighting just outside his tent. Who would dare try to assassinate him? He had guards, but best to be careful. Reaching beside him, he quickly pulled on his chain mail and grabbed his sword, standing just in time to see three elves rush into the room. He picked one with a sword, and launched a massive blow that staggered the elvish scum, bringing it to its knees before him. A proper position, he thought, just before chopping the arms from the elvish assassin.

Garan was having problems. The orc king had just killed Legandir. Just him and Taril left now. He motioned to Taril, who widened his eyes for a second, before he launched into a frantic stream of words and hand motions. Garan quickly ducked beneath a slash from the orc king, and brought his sword up, opening a slash on his opponent's arm. He parried the next thrust, but his counterstroke was parried in return. He raised his sword again, but too late. The orcish king's thrust caught him in the chest, and he crumpled to the ground, his vision turning dark before turning very bright again for a second as Taril's fireball exploded, turning his world to light.

The mage looked up from the globe of crystal before him, his eyes heavy with fatigue and pain. He motioned to a soldier next to him. "They have succeeded. It is time. Ready the troops." The soldier quickly left without a word.

The next day, the sky dawned dark and cloudy. The combined armies of the west fell upon the orcish hordes in an epic battle that would be told and retold in story and legend for ages to come. In a day of fire and lightning and steel, the orcish horde was routed, and the few survivors fled east to build up their strength before coming west once more.

The soldiers moved through the ruins, heaping bodies in piles to be buried or burned. Occasionally, a band would come across a charred circle in the middle of the wreckage, but none would enter it. They knew what had happened there. Suddenly the clouds broke, and a ray of sunlight shone down, and the ashes shone brightly. The light was painful, but none could look away.