“Ye know. Lassie, sometimes I reckon fate has it in for me! Y’know what I mean? Findin’ an Elf, in this burned piece of land? What’s and Elf doin’ her an’way? They’ve got no trees here. Perhaps... Aye, perhaps he got all sad ‘n’ the like, methinks he was goin’ to the sea but got lost? He’s not exactly bright, from what Breezelooker told me.”
The goat offered nothing in response, save for a low huff. Regardless, the Dwarf continued, laying down on the stone.
“Oi, don’t give me that attitude! I don’t remember his name! Cadmus, Cedor... No... Dunno. An’way, the manlings said he was ‘round here somewhere, let’s see...”
Dalbran retrieved his crossbow, and took to scanning the Orc camp. It was a horrid thing, really, the tents hardly more than a twisted array of bone and stretched cloth.
“Aye, aye, rite they were, ‘bout thirty of ‘em. And look at that! Call that a trench? That’s no trench, ye silly buggers, I’ve seen Goblins dig deeper trenches. I reckon It’d hardly cover me beard if I jumped into it!”
Again, a huff.
“Oh, yer rite, maybe gobbos DID dig it. It’d explain it’s all crooked. Hard to dig with those pesky wee eyes of theirs.”
Dalbran’s sight landed on the eastern edges of the camp.
“Huh, look at that. Something’s movin’.”
Something indeed, did move. In fact, it was a jumbled mess of mud and dirt, the odd leaf slapped here or there to mask its shape. Even from this distance, he was sure, that there was a young, silly Silvan, creeping alongside the camp.
“Aye, seems we’ve found our elf, Lassie! Rite, ye uh....” He turned to lay on his back, and looked over at his steed. “Ye stay here, don’t try and get into too much trouble, aye? Don’t want yer hooves getting' all dirty, now do we? Just cleaned them last night.”
Lassie stared back at him, the goat’s mouth moving and chewing aside, nibbling on a few withered blades of grass.
“Well don’t give me that look! No, absolutely not up for discussion! Yer not goin’, no, I don’t need a crazed ol’ goat runnin’ ‘bout and makin’ a mess! I’ve got to shepherd an elf; I’ve got enough things ‘twined in me beard as is!”
With that, Dalbran nodded, returned the crossbow to his back, and slid down the rockslide into the camp.
***
“With her hand and songs of old, mithril steel and hoard of gold! Thumpurumpurururum....” The Dwarf sung to himself, though he was never accused of being a quiet or timid singer.
“Over here, foul-skins! I’ve a wee present for ye!”
Thump, thunk, clatter and clang.
The Orc fell beneath his feet, then rolled into the shallow trench, face down.
“Alrite, Dalbran Gurnisson.” He rolled his shoulders back, neck tilting aside with a crack. “Time to go to work.”
It took the Dwarf a good fifteen minutes to find his way around the camp. As it often was in his line of work at that time, one could see a tall, ginger crest bobbing amidst the tents and supply-crates, then a roar, perhaps a song if he was in the mood for it, before the ordeal would come to a bloody stop, usually with an Orcish corpse slumped at his feet.
This time, however, things went a little different. Where Dalbran expected the roar of roused Orcs to come rushing at him, he heard... a fiddle. It was not some slow, beautiful tune, wrought by a skilled hand, but a quick, almost jabbing sound. To Dalbran, it seemed more akin to a quartet of talentless geese bellowing a sorrowful tune, rather than a deft hand of an Elf. Regardless, this certainly piqued his interest. He waddled along, through the camp, towards the source of that, to him, most horrid sound.
He found what he expected. Four Orcs huddled around a tiny figure below, their hands clutching crooked and jagged blades, and ones Dalbran deemed to be of very poor make.
“Seems the foul-skins have been employin’ drunk, blind smiths again.” The Dwarf noted lowly, and drew his axes. He judged a hearty leap would suffice, getting him from the rocky overlook down into the pit where the Orcs were. His feet shifted, a few steps backwards, before he hurled forwards again, axes joined above his head.
“Oooooooo! Baruk Khazad! Khazad Ai-Menu!”
He laid into them like a smith’s hammer. They did not suspect him, though, focused rather on the Silvan that they cornered int a wall. Either way, Dalbran dispatched one with ease, one axe digging into the thing’s side, the other delivering a swift end across the neck. The other turned, alerted by the slaying of their comrade, and joined the fray.
Dalbran roared a deep, guttural laughter, the sound rolling deep in his throat, like thunder striking his beloved mountains. A parry, a dodge, then another axe keenly placed between the Orc’s ribs. Blood swept through the air, coating both friend and foe, as the Dwarf continued his tally. His next assailer caught him unaware, a blade digging between the chest plate and pauldron. Familiar burn came forth, and Dalbran repaid his injury twice over.
One foe remaining.
The Dwarf turned to look for the last of the pack, finding him soon enough. Leaving his packmates behind, the Orc decided to fell the Silvan instead. That damned, crooked Orc blade rose above the head, poised to strike, yet the killing blow never came. With a lunge, Dalbran swung the hooked ends of his axe into the thing’s back, forcing his foe to turn aside, then pulled, driving the Orc to his knees. Or, more importantly, Dalbra’s eye-level. With a meaty crunch, the Dwarf’s brow met the Orcish head, shattering nose and bone alike. The thing reeled back, clutching its bleeding face, before an axe plummeted down, and split the skull in twain.
A moment passed, the Silvan, all drenched in black blood and thick mud, pointed a worn filddle bow, as if attempting a defence.
“Put that away, lad. Ye’ll poke me eye out.”
Dalbran placed his axes down to their belt-loops, and crossed his arms as he looked at the Elf.
“Dalbran Gurnisson, at yer service!”
He bowed, crest swaying and nearly touching the mud-ridden ground.
“Ga... Galtharian.”
The Silvan must’ve been in shock still, but slowly lowered the weapon-instrument down.
“Well... that won’t do, no way I’m rememberin’ that name.”
The Dwarf tilted his head aside, thinking, eyes squinting to discern the Elf’s countenance.
“Arite, Gal, what’re ye waitin’ for? Come on, Wutelgi, I don’t have all day, time to go!”
And thus, the pair crept out of the camp. Well, Galtharian did, anyway. His newly-found Dwarf companion waddled openly, already grumbling and urging the Silvan to hurry up.
He was right about one thing, though. Fate did have it in for him, for as it turns out, the Silvan would never leave his side. Nor would Dalbran leave his, but you’ll be hard pressed to make him admit that.
