THE ELF AND THE DWARF
By Evan Cole.
Ilsbeth and the ambush:
The path, no more then a span wide at best, meandered
through a lightly wooded area of a large, much denser
forest. Only the slightest tinge of golden yellow
indicated the approaching change in season, the sun, as
if to delay this change, beamed a pleasant warmth upon
the land. The mandatory slight breeze that no true forest
was without, sent only the occasional leaf plummeting
towards an early start on the approaching winter's task
of decomposing. The breeze would have been considered
freshening, were it not laden with a stench so vile it
could only permeate from a member of the greenskinned
races, or perhaps several ten-day-old corpses. To be more
accurate it permeated from a group of greenskins. Twelve
orks in total were concealed in hiding places along
either side of the path, but we -along with the unlikely
pair- will get to them shortly.
"Got to be at least," the deep voice of the
dwarf paused, several audible sniffs issued from his
considerably large, bulbous and reddened nose, "eight
or nine of them" he concluded. After considering his
companion's statement briefly, the other traveller also
tested the aromatic evidence of the ambush that lay ahead
and being possessed of a finer olfactory palette was able
to improve on the initial diagnosis.
"There be at least a dozen if there be one! T'crafty
swine must 'ave come through the river to try and lessen
their stench." The elf's voice had a musical quality
that wasn't lessened by his uncouth words.
"Well perhaps if you'd not destroyed this nose with
that armour polish you call drink I would have noticed
that too!" The elf's face lit up like a Gnome in a
barrel of Greek fire oil at his smaller companion's
displeasure. They continued at their accustomed leisurely
pace, the elf taking slightly shorter then normal strides
so as not to unduly weary his smaller companion. The
dwarf looked up towards the sun and knowing full well the
answer, asked the question anyway, "How long before
she springs their trap?"
The "she" the dwarf referred to was the woman
they were following. Having picked up her trail deeper in
the woods earlier that day the pair had tracked her ever
since, certain that she would end up imperilled faster
then, well.... a lone traveller lost in the woods! They
were both impressed when her trail had led to the path,
the path would in turn lead to the road, which naturally
would lead to a township, they assumed she was from that
town. How she had come to be in the middle of the woods
was as yet a mystery to them both.
Moosher Pigsnout turned at the approach of his lookout.
"She's comin' boss, she's comin'!" the lookout
reported formally.
"Good, go an' get ready." The warped snout that
had inspired his name gave his voice a quality not unlike
a pig being strangled, the inordinate amount of slobber
that issued from his maw occasionally made it seem as if
the strangulation were occurring underwater, it also
meant that his leather jerkin was slightly cleaner than
the other orks, at least in the area beneath his chin.
Around him the orks began to stir, eager to get their
task completed and already looking forward to the reward.
The task itself was not unpleasant either, at least from
their point of view. Moosher looked once more at the
human who payed them, he sat his horse, a nervous
chestnut mare, some distance further back in the forest,
waiting for them to complete his task. A pleasant thought
crossed his mind -not a great distance for it to travel
by any means- and he could not help but grin, perhaps
this time, after the man had had his way with the woman
and had produced the gems, they would kill him and eat
his horse. He knew from experience that once Relstad was
done with the woman it would be their turn, glancing
around at the motley crew of orks, each with their own
personal sheen of disease greasing their pustulant sore
ridden hides, he assumed it likely several would have
their way with the horse too.
It had been a rather trying day for Ilsbeth. When she had
awoken in the middle of the forest that morning she had
not lost her composure. She had seen her father's maps of
the region enough times to know that she merely had to
head south until she struck either the road or the river
and then it would be a simple matter of following either
one to the west until she arrived home. She had not lost
heart when she repeatedly tore her nightgown; even the
scratches she had suffered had not deterred her. However,
being a lady of considerable breeding and manners, she
simply had no choice but to faint when she was confronted
by the pack of slobbering green monstrosities that burst
out of the bushes lining each side of the path. Promptly
she swooned, overcome by it all. Collapsing to the grass
at the edge of the path she tucked her legs up to her
stomach forming a neat little ball, she was, after all, a
lady of breeding, collapsing in a heap with legs and arms
akimbo simply would not do.
Moosher had hoped she would at least offer token
resistance, disappointed he grunted his command, spraying
slobber in the process, "Grab 'er an' let's get back
to da camp." The pleased look slid off his face to
nestle amongst the spittle on his jerkin, as a lilting
and high-pitched dwarvish battle cry split the air like a
bolt of lightning splits a tree.
"AAGGHM GONNA CUT YER' 'EADS OFF AT YERR KNEEEES!!!!"
No single exclamation mark could do the blood curdling
ferociousness of the cry justice, despite the musical
nature of the voice it had issued forth upon.
Amongst the orks, for whom a fear of dwarves was genetic,
panic did not set in when the battle cry sounded, nor did
panic set in as they turned to face their most hated of
foes, readying their weapons. Panic did not set in at the
strange yet undeniably horrific sight hurtling towards
them along the path. The suit of plate it wore could only
be of dwarven construction, there were simply too many
spikes for it to be otherwise. The massive double-headed
battleaxe raised above its head implied a painful death
like nothing other then a dwarven double-headed battleaxe
could. It was even charging in the manner of a dwarf: axe
raised high, spiked helmet leading the way. Still,
despite the convincing argument the armour, axe and
spikes put forth, it was simply too big by half to
qualify as dwarven.
Panic still had not set in when Moosher, who had risen
through the ranks of orkdom due to his considerable
intellect and subsequent grasp of tactics and planning,
broke from his initial confusion and with great
conviction and much flying spittle ordered the counter-charge.
"GET 'DEM!" he roared and immediately began
enacting the new plan, which was to retreat post haste,
that he had conceived while the possible-dwarf had been
closing. Moosher was indeed smart, for an ork and had
accurately surmised their chances of victory, nonetheless,
at his bellowed order the other eleven greenskinned and
leather clad orks raised there assortment of weapons
grunted or squealed their own hatred and moved to engage
the axe bearing creature of metal and spikes that was
nearly upon them.
Hammertime Ironfist Rocksmasher's mighty axe had almost
begun its first lethal descent when panic finally set in
amongst the orks. It wasn't the marauding elf in dwarven
plate that broke their nerve, instead, it was the dwarf
some twenty odd yards behind the elf, perched upon a four
foot high wooden platform aiming an unmistakably elven
longbow at them that broke their resolve. Or rather, it
was the three arrows he had already loosed that now
struck their separate targets
- three of the first four orks that were engaging the big
dwarf/elf - simultaneously. Two of the orks dropped
instantly, uselessly clutching the arrows that protruded
from both the front and back of their necks, the third
ork flew backwards three feet and snapped the arrow,
lodged high and just to the right of its centre chest, as
it rolled to a stop. The left and right sides of the
fourth ork explosively parted ways as, without slowing
his charge, Hammertime cleft it lengthwise in twain and
leapt through the convenient and widening gap between the
previously combined halves. Easily flying over six feet
he landed in a crouch before the next ork, which swung
its hand axe timidly at the space he would have occupied
if standing. Casually he brought his axe around to his
left side readying his next attack.
After his fanciful first volley Windsweptglade
Trueofheart relaxed atop his perch and settled into a
more comfortable pace, only firing when an easy target
presented itself. Another two orks lay dead on the ground,
the shafts of three arrows neatly pointing skyward from
both by the time the dwarf completed his next attack. He
had begun by effortlessly slicing from left to right
through both shins of the ork, then he had half risen and
spun a complete turn to the right to duplicate the slice,
this time cleaving through the torso, he then completed
his rise and once more spun to lop off the ork's head,
which in turn flew upwards several feet all the while
spinning its own turns to land with an arrow protruding
from each eye some distance from any other segment of its
body. Taking a brief moment to regain his balance after
the double spin attack, Hammertime glanced about taking
stock of the battle as another ork succumbed to arrow
wounds.
Three orks remained alive, they were fleeing towards the
cover of the forest as an the first arrow appeared in the
back of one, then another, a second arrow apiece quickly
joined the first in the backs of each ork and they began
to fall. Almost casually Hammertime raised his axe back
over his head arching his back like a bow, he snapped
forward and with an audible grunt send it hurtling end
over end towards the final living ork. The axe struck the
ork in the middle of its back, driving it, limbs trailing
to either side, into a large tree were it hung lax,
pinned to the thick trunk, over half the axe completely
concealed within its body. No more then two score
heartbeats had passed from the first battle cry to the
wet thunk of the axe lodging in the tree.
Relstad watched his plan crumble with an expression that
was a mix of disappointment and intrigue upon his face.
Calmly, as he loathed rushing, he turned the horse and
headed deeper into the woods before heading to intercept
the road the path the ambush had occurred on would
eventually join up with. The lack of resolve the orks had
shown was what disappointed him but after all, they were
only orks, any number of them infested the woods and most
would eagerly perform his bidding in return for one of
his gems. When first he attempted to recruit the orks
they had shown no interest. That rapidly changed after he
secretly released an infestation of Razor Flees into
their territory and demonstrated the stones ability to
relieve the insanity inducing itch the flies mere touch
invoked. Several inter-tribal battles had been waged for
the right to serve him and earn the stones, which quickly
became the only currency the orks valued. It was the
heroes of the day that intrigued him.
"An elf that fights like a dwarf and a dwarf that
fights like an elf" he pondered aloud as he cantered
the horse towards the township. Only time would reveal
the inaccuracy of his last statement.
Ilsbeth awoke wrapped in a cold weather cloak. She was
laying near a merry little fire and feeling considerably
less ravaged then she had expected. Glancing about she
could see no signs of even a single ork. What she did see
was unsettling enough. The parts of the picture added up
but the whole was incorrect. There was a dwarf and an elf.
One wore a spiky suit of armour and bore a large axe upon
his back. The other wore woodsman's leathers and squatted
next to the fire slowly turning several game birds as
they sizzled and spat appetisingly above the flames. An
elegant bow and an equally impressive quiver of arrows
were no more then a step from him, a strange assortment
of wooden planks and poles rested beside that. She was
nearly overcome once more when the shorter one, hearing
the growl that emanated from within her, closed the gap
between them, bowed deeply, extended his gloved hand to
her and announced in a deep voice that he was the elf,
Windsweptglade Trueofheart and further went on to
introduce his taller spike clad companion as being,
Hammertime Ironfist Rocksmasher the dwarf. Clearly her
eyesight had been affected by her ordeal but good manners
were as much a part of her life as breathing so she
smiled graciously, accepted his hand and replied sweetly,
"My name is Ilsbeth Rydalmere and I am for evermore
indebted to you both. That is, I assume I am only sitting
here as a result of your kind sirs having saved me from
those wretched beasts."
to be continued...
If you read this I'd love to hear any feedback you have
at all, good, bad, abusive or otherwise. My email address
is: evan.cole@jcu.edu.au
Thanks. Evan Cole.
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