Ylthorin's Dream, part 4

As the night fell across the province of Aztarum, the Beldem road echoed in the tiny foot steps of midnight walkers. They donned a very dark blue shade to blend in the night sky, their darkness matching the exact color of the night. Their bodies were concealed in dark blue cloaks, their faces in dark blue shrouds, and their hands in dark blue gloves. The night was never completely black, and thus all black cloaks would do is make them shadows in the forest. They were nearly invisible in this state. Even their weapons and gear were wrapped in dark blue fabric to conceal them from view.

They stayed along the grassy edge of the cobblestone Beldem road, which had been long ago cleared of trees for roughly 500 feet away from the road to prevent bandits from hiding. The midnight walkers held in their gloved hands torn dark green fabric, which they would throw over themselves if any unexpected passersbys were to be making midnight strolls of their own. Simulating grass and merely blending in to avoid detection.

The group was large, thirty walkers. It was hard to believe such a large group would be able to stay hidden for so long. But they proceeded quietly, not even a whisper from all of them. Calm and confident, they headed up the road to their objectives.

At a dirt path, the group split. Without even waves to acknowledge each other's departure, the group split into two groups, one of fourteen, the other of sixteen. The group of sixteen continued its way up the cobblestone road, while the group of fourteen made its way up the dirt path. The dirt path was perpendicular to the road, heading off into nowhere. After following it for a quarter mile, the dirt path turned sharply towards a tall hill, and led into a deep forest.

The group of fourteen crept into the trees, and walked through the forest alongside the dirt path. The entangling trees and branches gave them no concern, the bobbed their heads and jumped and ducked and weaved to avoid every branch, root, and stump that stood in their way. Keeping perfect pace, they made their way up the hill, until they seemed to be near the crest. It was here the forest lead onto a clearing on a flat piece of the hill. In the clearing lay a large, four story house. Jack Laddy's House.

The front of the house faced towards the Yeasenlen Heights, and all of the open windows and doors were illuminated brightly by torch light. Music could be heard playing, and three silhouetted figures all stood facing each other in a triangular shape, chatting, next to the front door.

Seven of the walkers kneeled down, and pulled their strung bows off their backs. The unraveled the long thin strands of dark blue cloth from the top of their bows down, pulling the long strands of cloth away and throwing them to the ground. They gently plucked at the strings to test their tension, careful to make sure they did not make excess noise. The other seven walkers began to unravel blue cloth from the hilts and sheaths of their swords.

These assailants were more than mere midnight strollers. They were Elf commandos, highly trained operators who were more than competent enough to handle such a simple task.

Having insured that they were ready to fight, the seven archers rose from their knees, and spread apart. They each nocked arrows in their bowstrings, keeping their off-hands forward and their strong hands gripped upon the butt of their arrows. They walked carefully through the woods, treading a soft path in their fighting stance, as the second team formed up and prepared to part ways with them.

At the helm of the second team was Ylthorin himself. In his waking hours, he knew he had been a part of this raid, but none of it made sense until he dreamt once more of sneaking through the woods behind Jack Laddy's house.

The swordsmen made their way in a single file line through the woods around the house, towards the rear. From this angle, they saw that the house itself had a majestic view of the outlying lowlands. From over the horizon, even the light from Hundon could be seen, a faint glow so far far away.

At the base of the house lay a stone stairwell, which led downward into the earth onto a wooden door. The leader of the team of swordsmen, more stout and confident than the others, waved towards the door. The seven commandos sprinted across the empty lawn towards the door, and began to stack around it.

A lone commando made his way down the stairwell into the doorway, and began to fiddle with its locking mechanism. As he produced a lock-pick and tension wrench, the commandos began to hear voices coming closer to them.

"I'm telling ye' Lassy, the orcs are nice enough people. All the damned lies you hear about them are all wrong talk by their Elven enemies. Did you hear him speak? It was beautiful. He was eloquent, and he knew of that composer you love, Ilya Trelayach. A real refined gentleman and a noble warrior!"

"Well I've known you much longer than him, Ovin. Although I will say, he's impressed me as a noble character far sooner than you have…"

"I took ye' to accompany me to this event as me darling fiancée, Loora, not to give me sass. I love ye' dearly, but sometimes, you're a pain in me ass."

Ylthorin himself could even hear the faint chuckle Ovin gave as he finished talking. The leader inched his body up to the corner, drawing a small dagger and readying his off hand to grab at someone. His heart began to pant, he feared they'd be spotted and the operation would be ruined.

The lady continued to speak, "So why'd you take me out here, into the shadows?"

Ovin replied gently, "Because dear, I've been waitin' to give to a kiss all night."

Ylthorin shut his eyes. They were very close. His back was pressed against the wall, a foot away from the corner. The two of them were facing each other right at the corner's edge. Ylthorin could see Ovin's back as he leaned forwards, and heard the soft sound of lips lovingly colliding.

FOOOOWWWWSSSHHHH! THOCK! THOCK!

Ylthorin opened his eyes and looked down to see the two bodies hit the ground on their sides. The darkness behind the house obscured their features, but they were still wrapped together in a tight embrace, and their lips still locked together in a lovers' pose. Arrow shafts were protruding from each of their temples.

Ylthorin exhaled a sigh of relief, and held his hand out beyond the corner with his thumb up to congratulate and thank the archers in the tree lines on their perfect shots. He then turned around and calmly walked back to his team. One of the commandos held his finger to indicate one minute left. Ylthorin nodded, and turned back around to look at the pair of corpses, lying there, dark silhouettes on the shadowed grass.

As he watched the bodies, a voice from the around the corner spoke, "What the hell? Why are you two lying in the grass?" The voice was Orcish…

Ylthorin turned around, his eyes opened wide, looking to his teammate. His teammate's eyes looked like a pair of milk saucers, wide and white. They both looked at each other, scared. They'd left the bodies lying there! Stupid, stupid, stupid!

The Orc's steps grew closer, and stopped. They heard his voice again, "What in the name of the Gods are you two doing here?"

FOOOOWWWWSSSHHHH! THOCK! THOCK! THOCK!

"Gahh!"

The Orc yelled out in pain as three arrows hit him in his upper back. He fell foward onto the bodies of his two human friends. His muscular arms scrambled as he began to regain control of his body after the sudden shock, and he began to claw at the ground wildly, trying to gain a hold. The Orc began to push itself off the ground as it tried to regain control. With great speed, Ylthorin sprinted towards the Orc, and dove onto him. The Orc was knocked over, and rolled onto his back with Ylthorin on top of his chest. The arrows in the Orc's back snapped, and he let out a cry of pain.

"Gaa- hmmmm!"

Ylthorin jammed his hand onto the Orc's mouth, muffling his scream. The Orc looked at Ylthorin angrily, his eyes closing slightly to form a sharp, piercing gaze as his nostrils raised in an angry snarl at the sight of his worst enemies. Ylthorin's eyes were still wide open, his heart pounding with fear. In desperate madness, he rammed the dagger into the Orc's neck, and pulled hard, ripping the throat. The Orc didn't even thrash, his body went limp as blood gushed out of the wound. Ylthorin pulled back, and rose to his feet, his breathing heavy and staggered from fear. This wasn't his first mission or his first kill, but that was a very close call.

Ylthorin stood there, breathing heavily for a few seconds, before finally hearing a
faint clicking sound. He turned around to see the other Elven commandos beckoning to him, the door was opened. One by one, they made their ways down the stone stairwell, into the basement below.

The strike team moved swiftly around the crates and barrels of food and ale littered around the floor in loose piles. The clusters of crates and barrels were stacked at random, seemingly placed and removed as was needed. Organization was notoriously absent amidst the wooden containers lying all about.

The room was noisy, as the vibrations from the party upstairs carried their way through the floor into the room and echoed off the dark stone walls. The floors creaked from the steps of dancers; the stale air rang with music and resounded into the ears of the Commandos. Still, no noise could deter them, their focus was more mental than sensual; their conscience devoted to the task at hand. The only impression the music gave them was of the seeming vulnerability of their targets.

Ylthorin reached the staircase leading up into the main hallway. He silently made his way up the stairs, in a partial crouch, stepping softly. As he reached the top of the stairs, he drew a wide silver file from his tool belt, and gave it a gentle polishing with the draping folds of his cloak while he crouched down.

He slid the silver file's thin body through the bottom crack of the door, illuminating the rooms beyond the door. Directly outside the door was a hallway, about six feet across. Guests walked back and forth through the hallway.

Ylthorin tilted the file right. To the right, 10 feet down the hallway was a kitchen, with kegs on stands and bottles stacked atop crates lined along the walls. Half drunken humans and Orcs passed tankards, pint glasses, and steins back and forth, filling them up with all sorts of brews.

He then tilted the file left. In the reflection he saw a dance hall, where humans and a handful of Orcs were dancing to a fiddler's jig, spinning around and drunkenly belting out the lyrics to some asinine song. Not good. A drunken Orc was more likely to go berserk, albeit more wildly.

He gave the signal, to his men by placing his hands over the hilt of his weapon, and drew it. His men followed suit, drawing their own blades.

Ylthorin pulled a small patch of cloth and a small flask filled with a light-green goo from out of his belt. It was known only as "Gnome Shit" to the elves. No one knew exactly what it, only that no hinge could withstand it once it was ignited. He placed cloth over the top of the flask and caught some of the goo on it, and then smeared it on the hinges and edges of the door and made thin streaks along the walls up to the hinges. Ylthorin folded the cloth, putting it away in his belt, and produced a match. He turned around, looking back to his masked cadres. He could see in their eyes, they were all ready to go. He felt the adrenaline flowing. It was time.

Ylthorin rubbed the match against the stone mason walls, and it lit up in a blaze. He placed the match against the wall, lighting the goo, and shut his eyes. The mixture quickly travelled, reaching the hinges and blowing them apart. The door's hinges were blown apart in instants. With a flash of light, the door flew in one large piece across the hallway. Ylthorin heard screams as the flying door hit a human, and crashed into the far wall of the hallway…