No twigs were snapped, nor ferns crushed as the squad of elven archers raced through the forest. Fennis, the squad captain, leapt over a moss-covered log, his long hair swishing across his shoulders.
“Make haste!” he yelled at his squad. “We must reach the border before the orcs do.”
Hearing the hiss of water cascading over rocks, Fennis stopped running, shouting with glee. His squad had reached the border that was Bu-blue River. No orcs could be seen between the trees, or crossing the rapids. There was still hope.
Fennis signaled to the others to take cover behind blueberry shrubs near the riverbank. The elves obeyed, their cloaks of stitched oak leaves allowing them to vanish into the shrubbery.
Droom, droom, droom beat the orc war drums, the stretched skin being slapped somewhere along the opposite riverbank. Pig-faced orcs peeked out from behind willow trees, with weeping branches dangling into the river.
La-dub, la-dub, la-dub beat Fennis’ heart. He prayed to Ludalar, the orchid goddess, prayed that King Flower-tower would arrive soon to defend the border of his kingdom.
Thwack, thwack, thwack. A pine tree trembled under the blows of an axe.
The elves pressed barbed arrowheads to the corner of their eyes, to wet the iron with their tears. All elves believed that tears of grief were poisonous to the one holding the axe that felled the tree.
Nocking tear-stained arrows to their bowstrings, the squad awaited their captain’s order to shoot.
The murdered pine tree toppled, the banks on both sides of the river catching its fall. An explosion of broken branches was its last hurrah.
The orcs cheered when their Chieftain jumped onto the felled tree, a string of mummified elf ears swinging around his neck. He snarled, his pink snout glistening with mucus, drool dripping off his curved tusks.
The war drums beat faster, the big orc dashed across the makeshift bridge, powerful muscles bulging under putrid green skin. Fennis shot an arrow at the Chieftain who deflected it with a swing of his battle axe.
Dozens of orcs followed their Chieftain across the river, axes raised above their heads, rusty chainmail hauberks jiggling.
The elves released their taut bowstrings, every arrow let fly, an instant kill. Dead orcs dropped into the river, the rapids sweeping them downstream, bouncing the bodies off every rock along the way.
The Chieftain leapt off the felled tree, his bare feet crushing ferns that grew in elven soil. He swung his battle axe, shattered an arrow before it could pierce his heart.
More orcs swarmed across the bridge. Only half of them made it across under the barrage of arrows. The Chieftain charged, his roar crumpling his snout. An arrow struck his thigh, yet still he ran, eager to wet the blade of his battle axe with elvish blood.
“Kill as many orcs as you can!” shouted Fennis to his squad. “Make our king proud.”
The onslaught of snarling, snuffling orcs would overrun the elves in five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . Slinging their bows over their shoulders, the elves whipped out their daggers, braced themselves for hand-to-hand combat.
Boom, boom, boom. The ground shook, the ferns and shrubs shivered, the interracial combat came to an abrupt halt, so both sides could stare at the one-ton mass of hulking muscle and fat, covered in brown shaggy fur, that raced along the river on four paws. Those with tusks whimpered, while those with pointed ears rejoiced.
The approaching grizzly bear was as big as a wagon and heavy enough to crush a wagon if it were to sit on one.
“Groffengruff,” Fennis whispered, closing his eyes and sighing.
“Groffengruff,” the Chieftain growled, his snarl exposing the full length of his tusks.
The war bear roared, fangs long enough to rip an orc’s face off. His chunky paws slapped the forest floor as he ran.
Between the war bear’s shoulders sat King Flower-tower in his silver scale mail that shimmered with its own supernatural light. Ruler of the elven forest, his royal blue cloak billowed out behind him, the velvet hem scattering azure rose petals. Upon his blonde head, he wore a crown of flowers. Lavender, daffodils, lilac, all of them stacked so high that the crown resembled a tower.
The Chieftain rolled his shoulders, bent his knees, his balance just right for when he started swinging his battle axe. Groffengruff bellowed, globs of saliva flung out of his mouth. He hurled himself at the big orc with the same speed of a boulder tumbling down a mountain slope.
The elves held their breath. The orcs squealed. The Chieftain spread his arms wide, inviting violence.
Splish-splash. Sunlight glinted off the glistening scales of plump salmon that launched themselves out of the river, clearing the rocks and cascading water in a single bound.
“Groffengruff,” yelled King Flower-tower. “Don’t you dare.”
Oh, the war bear dared all right, pulling a sharp right turn away from his opponent and scrambling after the leaping salmon.
The elven king slipped out of his saddle, bouncing off the war bear’s broad shoulder. Cartwheeling through the air, he plunged belly first into the river.
His paws gripping the rock shelf with water gushing over it, Groffengruff swung his head, jaws opened wide, snatching a salmon out of midair.
“Huh?” snorted the Chieftain, one eyebrow raised at the feasting war bear.
Grasping the salmon between his front paws, Groffengruff tore off chunks of pink flesh with his teeth. King Flower-tower jumped to his feet, slipped and almost fell on slippery rocks. His tower crown of flowers had become a curtain of flowers covering his face. Tearing the limp crown off his head and tossing it into the water, he straightened his back, raised his chin.
“See that fish.” He pointed at what remained of the salmon that had yet to make its way into the war bear’s gullet. “That’s what Groffengruff will do to you if you don’t leave this forest.”
Eyes unblinking, upper lip curled into a sneer, King Flower-tower placed his hands on his hips, glowered at the orcs while water dripped off his scale mail, and river weeds clung to his drenched hair.
The orcs flinched when Groffengruff snapped salmon bones with each bite. They shuffled from foot to foot, fidgeted with their chainmail, glanced at each other, glanced at their Chieftain to see what he would do.
The Chieftain rubbed the back of his neck, a human gesture at odds with his oscillating nostrils in his piggish snout. He backed away from the water while snarling at King Flower-tower.
Fennis had eyes only for his king, eyes bright and twinkling. He smiled, applauded his King. So, dashing. So brave. So fierce. With the king present, the orcs had only two options: to be slaughtered on elvish soil, or run squealing all the way home.
A salmon leapt out of the water, slapped the king’s face with its swishing tail as it glided past.
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