The ambush spot was perfect, Ryn'taer reflected as he began the climb to a spot atop a boulder that looked down onto the road. This road that stood in front of him was part of the network of intertwining and connecting trails quickly becoming known as 'The Trail of Anguish'. It was just what the elven trained ranger had looked for.
The road meandered between a pair of rocky hills that were perfect for triggering rockslides and offered a windbreak, so Ryn'taer's arrows woul dfly true, without any hinderence from the winds. A stream babbled merrily beside the trail and some trees had taken root and grew into adulthood between the two hills, soon to run red with the blood of evil men, this offered a perfect chance to apply some of the cruel traps that the Du'ellofar had taught him. The ground was rocky and hard to traverse for the horses ridden by the Tiran oppressors. This spot would go down in legend as the beginning of the fall of Tiran.
Ryn'taer was angered by the great show of both belief and abandonment by his elven tutors. On his right hand he felt a great sense of pride that he, of all the other rangers, would be selected to begin the deniable fighting with Tiran. With his left, however he felt a great sense of fear, hostility and abandonment from his elven friends, how could they expect him to destroy an dentire caravan of heavily armed Slave masters? His hands were shaking, until he heard the distance rattle of wagons and the rythmic beating of Tiran drums, suddenly, the ranger's hands stopped shaking and he was perfectly still.
Duke Tyrani La'fyete sat in his luxuriously upholstered carriage, contentedly munching on grapes, as he watched the rolling plains and hills of Southland go by his window. A cool breeze wafted through the inside of his vehicle, propelled from fans held by newly appointed slaves, as a great bowl of ice slowly melted and kept the inside of his carriage cool. Yes, life was good for the Duke.
"My liege." A mounted man interupted "We are coming into the pass, we have to slwo down, or the horses will fall on the rocks."
"Very well" The duke replied "But we must make it to a village by nightfall, Commander. Do not fail me."
The great Tiran warrior dismounted and tied his mighty warhorse to the side of the Duke's carriage, as he did the helmet he wore glinted in the sunlight, disguising the distinct twang and flight of the elven arrow. The arrow glided silently through the air, before it pierced the neck of the warrior and bloodied the inside of Duke Trani's carriage.
Suddenly, the slave caravan erupted into action. With well trained motions, the guards closest to the slaves took up their swords, hatchets and axes and moved towards the chained prisoners. Elven arrows flew from on high and crashed with mighty shrieks into the backs, chests and heads of the executioners and soon, none dared to approach the prinsoners. The duke was unceremoniesly dumped from his carriage, as an arrow flew from the hill and hit the ground under the horse's hooves. The beasts reared and bucked, before galloping off into the distance and leaving the duke where he had fallen in the dirt.
Upon the hill, Ryn'taer pulled back another arrow and let it fly, this time he missed and the arrow buried itself between the legs of Duke Tyrani, who scuttled off into the shelter of a nearby supply wagon, his robes turning a sickly brown color from the dirt.
Ryn'taer smiled, as the Duke coward into a corner somewhere, to hide, while his men fought and fought they did. A group a ten soldier charged the hillshide that he had taken his vantage point on, but they did not get past the traps set into the trees. Three of the executioners were caught in a single trap, when a spiked log was tripped, via a small trip wire. Their blood patterned the tree behind them, as they cried and howled to their respective gods for help.
Ryn'taer was tired of sitting and watching the fight unfold, so he unstrung his bow and sheathed it across his back, before he pulled the mighty sword of his father and rushed down the hill, jumping from rock to rock. On his way by, his sword flashed and a rope was cut, that held a great landslide from rushing down, blocking the exit from the valley in a thunderous roar. The elven trained ranger did not hear the great howl of the falling stone, however, he had retracted his thoughts and now ran on sheer instinct and elven intuition alone.
As he came onto the flat, level with the caravan, a group of men took bows frmo their backs and began to fire on him. Whirring projectiles noisily flung at him were easily parried with long graveful swipes of his sword, the arrows flying away from him in all directions. His steps were quicker then that of a normal man and his endurance was greater then any ten and the Tiran soldiers suddenly found they had chosen the wrong route to go home and most did not live to regret their mistake.
Two heavily armored Tiran soldiers ran at the Ranger, their great broadswords held on high. One made a great effort to lop Ryn'taer's head from his shoulders, but the angry ranger ducked easily under the blow and stood straight, his sword glittering in the bright sunlight, as it drove deeply into the stomach and through hardened metal to bite into flesh and bone. A great spurt of crimson gushed from the mortal wound, as Ryn'taer pulled his sword free and moved to engage the second soldier, but that man had begun to flee in terror. From his back, Ryn'taer took an arrow and, timing his move perfectly, her threw it as you would a throwing knife. The arrow bit into the plate armor and felled the slave merchant where he stood.
"Kill him! It's only one man!" Duke Tyrani cried, as he grovelled in the dirt behind the supply carriage.
"Only two of you will leave here, this day." The ranger yelled in primal exhultation "Only two will survive to tell the story of I."
Deep inside the ranger's mind, to his horror, he found that he enjoyed the bloodshed. He loved the stench of the fear and anger and frustration, loved the weight of his mighty sword in his grasp and loved the sheer taking of life. The human mind of the Ranger was terrified by this, but, in his state of meditation he could do nothing to control the body and out of his state he would be merely an average swordsman. He had no other alternative, but to allow this dark side of himself free to cause death and destruction.
The sword of his father blocked an incoming axe of it's own accord, but Ryn'taer Toro'eth was the one who pulled his sword back with enough strength and cunning to pull the axe from the soldier's grasp and then swipe the blade across his face. A crimson line was traced across the soldier's face and the man cried, as he realised that he could no longer see and never would again. Dropping to the dirt, the man cried out in pain and fear. Only to have the Ranger kicked him in the forehead with enough force to drive the man backwards off his feet, to lay unconscious in the dirt.
A line of soldiers approached the Ranger, their pikes down and their helmets protecting their faces. They advanced like a wave of civilization, the very meaning of industry and the two forces, Nature and Industry clashed together in a fury none had seen before. The ranger kicked, punched and used his sword to devastating effect. Each time the line of soldiers believed they had an opening, the mighty sword of Ryn'ntar would block it in a great whir of air and death. One by one the line of five soldiers fell to the vicious attacks of the elven trained Ranger. The last attempted to flee, but the Ranger launched himself in a diving tackle and caught the Tiran oppresor behind the knees, bringing him down in a painful heap, as the furious might of 18 years of elven tutiledge fell over him. Ryn'taer grabbed ahold of the helmet the soldier had on and planted his boot upon the neck, before, amidst a gut wrenching cry, the Ranger pulled back with enough force to snap the neck of the warrior inside.
The resistance had ended with the fall of a mighty line of soldiers and now Duke Tyrani weeped openly, as he threw himself upon the ground before the still blood crazed Ranger. Then, there was a great cry of triumph from the lines of chained slaves, one that was greater then the cries of anguish or of terror, but one of hope and gratitude. It was probablly heard in the Eff'ngham castle five hundred miles to the north. It rocked the king of Tiran with all it's collected fury.
