Pools of Darkness - James M Brown [10]
Crawling through the mud on his belly and then on hands and knees, Ren made his way to the brush near the orc's tree. He was grateful for the rain and thunder that hid the sound of his movements. Rising to his feet but keeping low, he cautiously approached the guard, planting each foot solidly so as not to slip in the mud.
The orc had chosen his position well. His post overlooked the north end of the valley and was in view of two other trails leading to the camp. Had it not been for the rain, Ren would have been an easy target.
The ranger was within thirty yards of the orc when the mud gave way under his feet and he fell with a loud splash. The orc leaped to its feet with bow in hand. It nocked an arrow before Ren could react.
Too late the orc learned a lesson about soggy bow strings. They behaved a lot like wet noodles; neither hurled killing arrows very far.
The look of surprise on the orc's ugly face as his arrow hit the ground at his feet was nothing compared to the expression on his face when, a moment later, Ren's two-handed sword cut him in half. Ren's blood was pumping at his brush with death.
The ranger grabbed the arrows from the orc's quiver, ran through the mud to his war-horse, and drew out his longbow. Ren wasn't as skilled with the longbow as other rangers. In contests, he'd seen skilled bowmen hit discs of wood hurled up in the air one hundred and fifty yards away. Ren could never hit such targets from more than seventy-five yards. The orcish arrows he had stolen had to fly only one hundred yards, but their targets were stationary and much larger than a four-inch circle of wood.
The ranger's bow strings were coated with beeswax and were safely dry inside a pouch. Ren knew they would be effective for a short time, even in the rain. If his plan failed, the warrior had nothing to lose. He ordered Stolen to follow quietly, then walked to the ridge.
The storm was at its worst. Lightning shattered the sky, thunder rattled the valley, and rain poured down in sheets. The ranger peered down the hill and discovered a clear line of sight to the orcs as they huddled together in clumps. Partially sheltered by a white oak, Ren launched arrow after arrow into the small army below. He hurried the attack to prevent his own bow from becoming useless and to give the impression of multiple archers confronting the army.
The effect of a black-feathered orc arrow arriving out of nowhere and thunking into the chest or leg of another orc was more than Ren could have hoped. Like a swarm of angry bees, the orcs screamed and began drawing weapons. Ren knew the only thing orcs hated as much as dwarves and humans were other orc tribes. As the arrows landed amongst them, the creatures naturally assumed they were being attacked by some other orcish tribe in the valley. Ren saved the last few arrows for the hill giants. These stupid beasts quickly decided they were being double-crossed by the orcs.
In moments, monsters were fighting with monsters and the valley was a swarm of battling giants and orcs. As Ren fired the last arrow, he worried about what to do next. If he rushed down to free the captives, it might distract the orcs and giants and force them to join together. If he stayed on the hill, he might be too late to save the dwarves.
Ren watched the struggle. The half-orcs made short work of the smaller orcs, and the battle quickly switched to half-orcs against giants. The swirl of melee moved to the south end of the valley. The orcs were hampered by the mud and the stream cutting through the valley, but the giants barely noticed these obstacles. Every strike by a giant crushed an orc warrior. The giants had to suffer dozens of orcish blows before teetering into the mud.
Ren saw his opportunity. Mounting