Krusk breathed deeply as he moved through the shadowed trees past the orc chief. The dire boars that the warriors rode explained the pig stench. The warriors themselves looked as though they lived in a swamp and never bathed. As soon as Krusk was certain he was ahead of the column, he picked up his pace. The caravan obviously considered itself to be in friendly territory, because no orcs scouted ahead of the train of unfortunates. Gray skin glistened as Krusk ran to get far enough ahead to gain the time he needed. He found what he hoped for where the road bent to follow the curve of the mountain. The slope shielded him from the sight of the leading warriors.
Better yet, it allowed Krusk to work in the center of the road without being seen. The barbarian pulled a fistful of small caltrops from his pouch and scattered them across the road. He threw handfuls of loose earth onto them until they were lightly buried, then sifted road dust through his fingers to conceal the darker dirt. Krusk chuckled harshly to himself, remembering the time he watched a line of mounted knights dissolve into a frenzy of rearing horses and frightened riders upon hitting a similar line of caltrops during the Battle of Iron Wood.
He quickly climbed the slope of the hill and plopped behind a convenient tree. Krusk strung his powerful longbow, a masterpiece of polished bone crafted especially for him as a gift from his great friend, Tahrain. Krusk ran his hand along the bone and remembered how Tahrain had shared a special secret about this bow. The bone came from a mighty one-eyed stag in the forests of the Phostwood, the largest such animal Tahrain ever saw. Tahrain insisted that the stag foretold Krusk's destiny. Krusk didn't understand then what Tahrain meant, but he wondered now. Until today, no animals, enemies, or monsters with only one eye had threatened the barbarian. Ultimately, Krusk cared little for prophecies and less for mysteries. The bow shot true and hard, and that was all that mattered.
Krusk breathed a small oath for the late Captain Tahrain. He nocked an arrow, its razor tip carefully blackened with soot to prevent telltale glints of light. He tentatively tested the pull of the string. The tension felt good against the taut muscles of fingers and arms. Krusk relaxed and rested against the bole of the sheltering tree until his well-trained ears again heard the snorts of the boars, the clanking of the slave chains, and the creaking wheels of the wagon loaded down with loot taken from the slaves themselves.
Krusk watched the caravan come around the curve. The slope of the mountain slowly revealed the riders in front. He quickly picked out the leader of the orcs by his size and prominence, as well as the valuable necklace swinging from his neck. The green stone glistened in the sunlight as though it had a life of its own. Krusk pulled back on the bowstring. He held the mighty bow in tension and waited for the leader to advance in front of the unwavering arrowhead. His muscles strained against the weapon's pull. Slowly the leader's dire boar plodded up the road until it stepped gracelessly upon the spike of a caltrop. The enraged monster reared in fury and panic. Finally, Krusk exhaled with a satisfied grunt and released the string. The feathered shaft winged toward the massive orc, even as the warlord struggled to control his angry, fighting beast. The arrow sailed past the sparkling necklace and sliced through the edge of the orc leader's leather armor, nicking bone and cutting enough muscle that Krusk could see the warrior's left shoulder sag immediately. Then, even as he nocked his second arrow, he smiled in grim satisfaction as the lieutenants on the leader's right and left fought to control their suddenly, simultaneously rearing mounts.
Another arrow flew. This time, the hidden archer was truly gratified by the result. The shaft passed completely through the chief slaver's neck. Even with blood spurting from the exit wound, the warlord bellowed orders and waved an axe one-handed. He might have survived had he not lost his balance and slipped from the boar's back to be trampled under the slashing hooves of his own mount and those to either side of him.
Krusk didn't have time to admire his handiwork or listen to the crunching of his victim's bones through the enraged squeals of the boars. One of the lieutenants managed to maneuver his mount out of the caltrops and regain control of it and now was sending men up the hillside toward Krusk's position. Krusk unleashed another arrow, but it missed its mark as the bellowing lieutenant thundered back down the line issuing commands to his underlings. Krusk was already striding toward the nearest pile of rocks, rapidly slinging his bow across his back in exchange for his greataxe.
He hurdled the rockpile easily, greataxe in hand, savoring the weapon's perfect heft once again. He waited against the sheltering camouflage of the rock. His body tensed like that of a large cat, lacking only the impatient tail, as he watched five orc guards rush up the hill toward the tree where he'd been. One guard ordered the others to fan out and sweep the area. Before they could respond to the order, Krusk struck. He bounded from his hiding place in the rocks and felt the satisfying crunch as his greataxe hewed effortlessly through the midsection of one of his foes.
Three of the guards were so unnerved that Krusk easily evaded their feeble javelin thrusts and axe strokes. The more experienced sergeant stepped behind Krusk and hacked so fiercely with his axe that Krusk's mail shirt cut into his back, but the hardened links held against the softer edge of the crude weapon.
A red mist clouded Krusk's eyes. It was neither pain nor daze. Trees and rocks faded into the background so that only the bodies of his enemies stood out. The idea of danger dissipated, too. He was aware only that he needed to kill and that targets were all around. Krusk spun rapidly upon the orc behind him. The greataxe sounded a macabre dirge for its victim as it whistled through the air to rip through the orc's ribcage and more vital areas.
Krusk wrenched the weapon from that victim and turned to face the others. One javelin nicked his hip and another whistled by his ear. The orc with a greataxe swung with all of his might, gouging Krusk's side.
Krusk bellowed but didn't stumble. The bellow was anger, not pain. His axe split the orc's skull. The two survivors had tentatively pulled their own axes from their belts, but seeing their friends hewed down by single blows, they turned and ran for less treacherous environs. As they routed back down the hill, Krusk snatched his longbow and fired a missile. Death claimed one j more of the fleeing guards, but the other was well into cover before Krusk could nock another arrow.
The red mist subsided and suddenly Krusk felt the searing pain in his side. Already light-headed from loss of blood, he knew that he, too, must leave the battle. Though he had reduced the guards around the caravan and brought down their leader, he would have to finish the job later.
Krusk watched the orcs break camp from the safety of a tree j near the road. He was amused to observe that another guard had snatched the necklace off his former commander's corpse and proudly wore it around his own neck as a symbol of power. The half-orc vowed that he would remove that necklace from the vain orc's corpse before the day was over. Krusk admitted to himself that he didn't know how much longer the slave train would follow the road, but he thought he'd have another day to continue harassing the caravan and thin down the ranks of the guards before they arrived at their destination. His side still plagued him, but he i knew he could move when he needed to.
It was a fresh day and the orcs moved with new confidence. They no longer risked having their mounts wounded by hidden caltrops. They drove some of the slaves up the road ahead of them to trigger any traps. The lieutenant who assumed leadership after his commander's death still rode on his dire war boar. The other lieutenant rode in the cart with a scowl on his face. He had been forced to put down his war boar when it hit the caltrop and went berserk. Riding in the cart, he felt humiliated. His only source of pleasure was determining a myriad of situations where he might eventually slit the throat of his ambusher as surely as he had ended the life of his berserk mount.