Misfit

Chapter One

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Third Age 2789
March 20
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"I'm gonna gut you like a squirrel, Ranger scum!" screamed the guttural voice of one of the Orcs crashing through the afternoon forest. Their target kept ahead of them as effortlessly as a deer, a brown-and-green blur standing apart from the foliage around him only because of his mane of copper hair.

The Ranger easily dodged the throwing knife his enemies hurled at him, laughing impishly as it buried itself in a tree. It was almost as if this hunt was nothing more than a game to him—which, in his eyes, it somewhat was; his job was to lead the Orcs straight into the Ranger ambush awaiting them half-a-mile ahead.

To goad them on, he ripped the knife out of the tree as he passed it and tossed it back at the Orcs, calling out: "That's only if you catch me—and if your chasing skills are anything like your knife-throwing skills, you're dismally incompetent!"

His reward was a furious bellow behind him, and a fresh shower of weapons—all of which missed him as he leapt over a fallen log and between two closely-grown trees, which shielded him from the blows. Chancing a moment to turn around, he saw that only half of the original two-dozen Orcs were still pursuing him—which, in this situation, was something of a problem, but he would have to deal with it later—his assailants were still far too close for comfort.

He would have to do far better than this to get to the checkpoint alive, he scolded himself.

He scanned his surroundings in search of anything that could be of use. There—a low-hanging willow branch dangled up ahead of him, which he reflexively grabbed and shimmied up as quickly as he could, a task which his small, wiry form and natural aptitude for climbing lent very well to.

In no time he had hoisted himself onto the thick, supple bough the vine hung from, and he allowed himself a moment to catch his breath; his heart felt like it would pound right out of his chest, and his jerkin was drenched with sweat and black Orc blood—compliments of the battle he had fought with them prior to the chase.

A hard, loud cackle pierced the air below him; the group of Orcs had discovered him in the tree, and a spray of arrows whizzed up to meet him, which he only narrowly avoided by pressing himself up against the trunk of the tree.

He prepared to leap to another branch to continue his mission—the ambush wasn't far now—but he stopped. He could easily dispatch of the Orcs now and go back for the rest of them afterward. After all ... having seven less Orcs to deal with would give the Rangers an easier job, and give Culfin quite the feat to boast about.

"Lookee here, boys—we've got the blasted bowman treed!" one of the Orcs jawed at him, hoisting its thick body onto a branch and putting its sword between its teeth.

Culfin laughed, laced a vine around his waist to secure himself to the tree, and drew his bow. "And what makes you think that will make it any harder for me to kill you?" he countered, fitting an arrow to the string. He pulled it back and aimed at the foremost Orc, who had nearly reached the top of the tree.

Surprisingly agile for such hulking creatures, he mused. Unfortunately, his distraction compromised him—his arrow streaked past the Orc's ear and buried itself in the ground. Culfin swore loudly—prompting a spill of laughter from his enemies below—and shot again, this time hitting his target right between the eyes.

The Orc fell backwards, dead, but Culfin's mishap had allowed the second Orc to reach the top of the tree before Culfin could shoot him down.

The creature roared in triumph and swung at Culfin with its rusted sword, but he danced easily out of the blade's range and plunged his arrow into the Orc's neck. It wobbled there stupidly for a moment before Culfin shoved it off the tree, and it tumbled down with a gurgling squeal that ceased abruptly once it collided with the ground.