"Gorbag part 4" by Erik Jensen

As the night had passed quietly, the dawn came soaked in rain. The pale grey entered through the open door; Gorbag had left it open the night before to let some of the humid summer warmth be cooled somewhat by the draft. Gorbag had been sitting motionlessly for a few hours now. He felt his body struggling to repair the damage done to it. His punctured lung had been sealed off and the burning in it reminded him constantly of the rebuilding. One nostril had been closed by coagulated blood and his right arm was locked in position to avoid any movement that might tear open the wound in the shoulder and upper right torso. His breathing was no longer as laboured as it had been, but it was shallow and much faster than usual. His stomach had threatened to turn all night, but it had respectfully obeyed his need to remain quiet. All the cuts on his hands, legs and face had stopped bleeding, and they all gave off a dull ache that followed the slow, powerful beat of his mighty heart. He had smelled the presence of a pair of shadow elves. They were circling the place, but reluctant to enter into the open or to approach the building. They had seen the grave of their kinsman.

Darenya had lost a lot of blood, and she judged that her lower ribs were broken or bent. She shivered slightly even in the warm weather. Her skin was unusually pale and she was incredibly thirsty. She had a splitting headache and like Gorbag, her breath was shallow and she felt nauseous. Unlike him, her heart beat quickly and faintly. Blood was all over her from her chest down, and her hair had cakes of blood in it.

As hopeless everything had conspired to be, relief finally came. It was not an hour after sunup when first Darenya and later Gorbag noticed a clear, beautiful male elven voice calling for Gorbag. The voice sounded happy and fearless, reminding Darenya that there was a part of the world where the sweet summer rain was seen as a blessing, a part where there was no fighting and worrying on such a beautiful morning. When Gorbag heard the voice he stirred. He lifted his left arm and banged it on the wall, just once, before returning to holding his legs up.

The arriving elf was of the sylvan kind. He had long wild red hair under a grey cloak that kept the rain out. He had bare chest, showing off his athletic figure. His leggings were brown deerskin pants and in his belt was a scabbard with a long, slender elven blade. His face was grinning and he was running steadily, quietly and gracefully through the forest towards Gorbag's clearing, a smile in his keen green eyes. When he heard the sound of Gorbag hitting the wall he stopped dead in his tracks and he drew his sword. He quickly scanned his surroundings with a very serious look on his face. He quickly disentangled himself from his cloak. He let it fall to the ground and he disappeared into some bushes.

Here, the birds he had befriended long ago heard his mental calling, and a few of them defied the rain and came to him, telling him of the shadow elves in the forest. He whispered a few words of thanks and sent the birds off. He reached into a belt pouch and pulled out an unstringed bow. There was no way the bow could have been in the pouch, but there was no doubt he pulled it out from there. He quickly stringed the bow and took a quiver full of arrows from the pouch and strapped it to his belt. Then he sat quietly for a moment, studying the signs of the forest. He quickly guessed where one of the shadow elves was in cover, and he could see by the attitude of the enemy where another must sit hidden. He shifted position a few times and saw the two shadow elves, now no longer aware of his exact position. He lifted his bow, aimed and shot it in less than a second. The target shadow elf heard the sound and ducked - right into the shot. The arrow passed right through his skull and hammered into a tree trunk, going several inches deep. The other shadow elf shot an arrow at where he guessed the deadly arrow had come from before he shifted position, but at this point the sylvan elf had already moved on.

The two elves circled each other, hoping for an opening, guessing and estimating each other's position. They climbed the trees and slithered like snakes in the tall grass and among the bushes. A normal man standing in the middle of it all would have noticed neither of them. Suddenly, they sighted each other at the same time. Both raised their bows and shot. Both shots were uncontrolled and unconsidered, and both hit where the opponent's heart had been a fraction of a heartbeat earlier. Both dropped their bows, drew their slender swords and ran forward. They moved and jabbed and blocked and dodged and struck swiftly, dancing back and forth. None of them held their ground when pressed the least, and the red locks of the sylvan elf and the black hair of the shadow elf was thrown through the air in their martial dance. Circling each other they kicked and struck at each other, neither ever loosing the supernatural grace and balance of their kin. Their swords never locked, and both fought defensively enough that they suffered not the slightest cut. The fight continued for an unknown period, each second fraught with breathtaking danger and rain-wet steel; finally the stamina of the sylvan elf proved greater. The swiftness in the shadow elf's movements slowly drained, and finally he was forced into a pure defensive fight, as a flurry of attacks from the sylvan elf came in a burst of incredible speed. The conclusion finally came when the sylvan elf forced three stone hard blocks and then locked the swords. The shadow elf was pressed backwards, and as he withdrew his sword, the sylvan elf punched the hilt of his sword to the shadow elf's face, dazzling him for the incredibly short time required to bring the blade back and stab the shadow elf through the base of the throat.

Victorious, he withdrew his blade and wiped it on the garment of his fallen foe. He retrieved his bow and cloak and ran quickly to the clearing, an arrow on the string. His keen ears heard the sounds of breathing from the storage house and he entered warily. His eyes fell on the wounded Gorbag and he lowered his bow, a look of shock on his face. Turning to Darenya, with an angry look on his face, he pointed an accusing finger at her and asked incredulously:

"What have you done to my orc?!"

Darenya could hardly speak, but she had nothing to say at any rate. Instead a few grunts from Gorbag in the orcish tongue restrained the sylvan elf:

"Shagarr tazloc ko-noktahr, Nokar." Nokar looked at Gorbag, and sadness replaced anger on his face. He grabbed Gorbag's canteen from the large backpack on the ground and helped the orc drink. He soaked a corner of Gorbag's red cloth and used it to clean the blood from his friend's face with quick, efficient and somewhat rough sweeps. Once done he turned to Darenya. She started when he turned, feeling more miserable than ever. His face was still not very kind, but his eyes had lost the deadly sheen they had carried the first time he looked at her. He took a vial out of his magical pouch and uncorked it.

"Here. Drink it all. It tastes bad, but it'll help replenish your blood volume." He helped her drink with far gentler handling than he had used for the orc. The drink was clear but slightly bluish. It tasted like dirt, but Darenya knew that few magical concoctions tasted sweet, and she drank it down. Nokar put the empty vial back in his pouch and studied the cuts on her.

"I'll have to take off your shirt. What's left of it, anyway." His voice was gentle and low, but he spoke very clearly, carefully pronouncing every word. She nodded weakly. She was not the squeamish type to begin with, and her dignity wouldn't have been helped much by the shredded bloodied shirt she was wearing. She felt heartened at being aided by an elf, and the magical drink she had been given had restored a little warmth and her heart rate had slowed. He carefully removed her shirt, careful not to break the wounds open as the cakes of blood adhered to both garment and wound. He studied the wounds and carefully felt them with his fingers. His hands were not those of a warrior, and they bore no trace of his training with the bow or sword. He noticed the broken ribs and the bruises in the stomach, carefully tracing them as well. He then turned his head to Gorbag.

"Do you have any fresh salves?" Gorbag, whose wounded form seemed to radiate a renewed inner strength, nodded his head slowly.

"Zurgasz roht narctoth." Nokar walked into the storage and returned shortly with a small silver box. He produced a jar with a clear liquid almost as thin as water. She smeared it on Darenya's wounds and let it sit for a while. Then he used a piece of clean cloth from his pouch to wipe it off, and with it came all the unnecessary cakes of blood. The remains were four surprisingly clear cuts. He then applied a thin line of a different salve. It was darker and far thicker.

"Can you feel the warmth?" He smiled as he looked at Darenya, and his voice was warm and caring, all traces of anger was gone. Then, as if he remembered who she was, he looked away. But Darenya did feel the warmth. It was almost as if the wounds were working to patch themselves up from the inside. She was surprised that Nokar used no stitches in the treatment, but she was confident in his choices. The salves were probably magical as well as the bluish drink. She had never witnessed anyone using magical cures so indiscriminately. Magical cures were treasured and usually held back until there was no other option.

She felt herself being lifted and placed gently on the cot she had woken up in prior to her attack on Gorbag. Somewhere in the back of her mind she noted that Nokar was apparently very practiced in carrying people to bed, and the tiniest smile came across her lips. Nokar covered her in a soft blanket and told her to get some sleep. Then he returned to Gorbag.

"The shadow elves have probably guessed why you are here. I killed two scouts. I'm sure they'll come in full numbers within three days. We need to get you back on your feet." Gorbag listened attentively and nodded.

"I'll give you three drops of troll blood and then I'll be off for a little while. You need some solid food as soon as you can keep it in you. Get as much rest as you can. The shadow elves will not dare come in here with three of their comrades dead." While he was talking, he produced a vial with a black liquid in it. He opened it, and quickly let three drops drip into Gorbag's waiting maw. Then he quickly corked the vial again and secured the cork with a small metal device. Gorbag gulped the drops down and obediently closed his eyes. Nokar smiled at his friend and whispered something in an elven tongue. Then he turned and ran off to find meat for the black orc.