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THE ABDUCTION OF LADY ROWENA
CHAPTER 3 BOROMINDEL ROWANWOOD
A little halflin' be a-wanderin' through the forest in the hopes o' findin' adventure as well as his way. The he be bored out o' his gourd be certain and be desperate enough for a bit o' diversion. He has but spent three complete cycles o' Ashrun, the Fifth Moon, holed up in his ancestral home, the Anglerstone Warrens. Three whole months o' nothin' but food, wine, and bed, o' nonstop partyin', gossipin', and socializin'. And ideal life for a halflin', no doubt. Heaven even.
Oh, aye, me friends, it be heaven indeed for most o' us, methinks. But this one, you see, be no ordinary halflin'. He be cravin' the uncertain, rough and tumble life o' the wanderin' rogue, seekin' his fortunes where the Fated Ones would have it. He lon's for the restless nights spent under the open sky and for those spent in monster-filled caverns and dungeons. It be in his blood after all, he be fond o' sayin'.
Verily, Boromindel Rowanwood, son o' Pitterpatter Rowanwood, Head Papermaker o' the Anglerstone Mill, be cast from a different mold. Har! Har! Reminds me o' me dear departed Uncle Eornis; he never could say no to his wanderlust and many a tale did he make until that fateful day his itchin' feet be a-takin' him to wanderin' into the gapin' mouth o' a Leapin' Musk Saurus o' the Gallopin' Muck Swamps.
It was not his idea, however, his goin' home. He was quite content, indeed, with his lot in life, being the scoundrel that he be, but his sainted mother had called for him and like the good son that he be, he came. Wendel Moonhowler, the Anglerstone Chief Cheeser had invented a most fetid type o' cheese that proved quite popular amon' the neighborin' tribes o' gnome who were all too willin' to part with their hard-earned gems for so delightful a fare. And Wendel, that kindly old soul, was possessed of a most generous heart and had pledged that all the proceeds from this new cheese, which by the way, he has so magnanimously called the Anglerstone Edam, be shared amongst all the members of the clan. Good times were at hand for the Anglerstone halflin's.
Unable to stand such inactivity, adventure-wise that be, any longer, Boromindel decided to leave and rid himself o' the ennui that had been eatin' away at the very core o' his soul. He had heard o' the abduction o' the human they call Lady Rowena, beloved o' all the Gathered Lands. Now there's an opportunity that ever did nip him on the nose! He would go to Cromby Towne, the nearest human settlement he knew of and find out all he can about the nefarious deed.
Possessed of high spirits and a glint o' mischief in his eyes, he stole out o' the Warrens gleeful-like under the cover o' darkness, for he so despised long goodbyes and a-feared that should he try to say farewell to his good mother, she would go and guilt him into changin' his mind and into stayin'. Such was the power o' all mothers over their lovin' sons, especially amongst the halflin'-kind.
Ah, but it had been years, it be, since he was last home and the lay o' the land, it be seemin', had drastically changed since, so much so that he soon went and got himself hopelessly lost.
And that be how Boromindel came to be a-wanderin' lost and befuddled in the Kobold Forest, beratin' himself and bangin' his head against the bole o' many a tree for doin' such a fool thing as gettin' lost, in the very forest o' his childhood years o' all places.
Though it be but mid-afternoon, he be thouroughly disgusted with himself and be nigh well close to givin' up, when all o' the sudden, the sounds o' battle be a-reachin' his pointed, sensitive ears. Bugger me for a hornswaggled fart if he be not the most excited little feller you ever did see! Delighted to no end, he hurries through the forest lest he be too late, past the many trees that to him appeared like giant redwoods and oaks, past the bushes and the undergrowth that be towerin' over him like moss-covered boulders.
Ah, but too late be what he be. He be still but some distance away when what does he hear but the gurgling death cry o' a man cut through the throat and the wild victorious growlin's and screechin's o' orcs and goblins.
Boromindel be a-skiddin' to a halt then, confused and alarmed. As well he should be! Orcs? Goblins? In the Kobold Forest at that? Hah! See if any decent folk don't but be a-turnin' on their heels there and then and be a-goin' back the ways they came and be pretendin' that they had heard nothing and that nothin' out o' the ordinary be a-happenin'. But Boromindel be what he be and he goes creepin' forward, cautious-like, sneakin' from tree to tree, tippy-toes, until finally, he be a-reachin' the one tree he be seekin', the one that would afford him the best concealment and at the same time the best vantage point from which to survey the carnage that was sure to be there.
He takes a peek and lo! what does he see but the most gruesome scene he ever did saw. Dead bodies, gutted and hacked and otherwise despoiled, be a-laying everywhere, strewn, they be, about two wagons overturned by the side o' the road, like wilted vegetables discarded in the market. Orcs, several o' them, be a-squabblin' and a-screechin' at each other as they greedilly searched and scavenged among the bodies for loot.
Towards the east, disappearin' deeper into the forest, he be espyin' goblins, all laden with heavy, bulgin' sacks thrown over their bony shoulders.
Oh, what a terrible, twisted turn o' events this be! Boromindel be scandalized, shocked, horrified even! He be a-crouchin' there, ogle-eyes and speechless. So much blood a-seepin' into the ground, corruptin' it with the nightmare and violence o' malice and greed. So much death. Ah, and the looks on the faces o' those poor murdered souls, the maddenin' blankness in their glassy eyes.
It be too much for the little halflin', his heart a-burstin' at the seams. Somethin' must be done about these evil beasts. They must be stopped. No more must innocent folk be waylaid and killed. Justice must be done!
His path thus decided, Boromindel quickly takes stock of this his dire situation. It be takin' no genius to see that he be at a great disadvantage. Of the orcs, there be five and of the goblins, there be three. Now, he could probably take two orcs, though I be highly doubtin' it if you be a-askin' me, but five be simply too much. His best bet then be the goblins. There be fewer o' them and 'sides, they be heavilly encumbered and thus can be easily ambushed.
Quieter than a cat on the prowl, he stalks after the retreatin' goblins, not an overly difficult task for not only where the goblins be preoccupied with thoughts o' loot and feastin', they be makin' noisy progress, far too much din to hear the halflin' followin' after them. He has not gone far, however, when the sounds o' a man screamin' in wild vehemence and hatred be a-reachin' his keen ears.
He pauses. It be a-comin' from the direction of the orcs and the carnage that once was a merchant caravan. He could hear the man clearly. "Die! Die! Die!"
There be a screech then, an orc by the sounds o' it.
Grim images flood into the young halflin's mind, his ripe imagination gettin' the best o' him. In his head, he be a-seein' a crazed man or a dwarf, perhaps, attackin' the orcs despite their numbers. Or maybe it be a surviving merchant who, upon seein' the murder and defilement o' his friends or family or both, had snapped with grief and gone amok. There can only be outcome from such a situation then and it will not be pretty.
Confronted thus with such a development, Boromindel immediately dismisses all notions o' ambushin' the goblins. The stakes have just been raised. Turnin' abouts, he breaks into a run, puttin' his dagger away and unslingin' the short bow that be hangin' from his shoulders. He be a-glancin' back then at the easy trail left by the slow-moving, encumbered goblins and reckons that he can find them again later.
It did not take him long gettin' back and soon he be a-peerin' from the gnarled trunk of an elm tree. What he saw confirms his fears. Sure enough, there be a man, no wait, an elf, perhaps a half-elf by the looks o' him. Sword drawn and wildly wielded, he be engagin' the orcs in mortal combat with complete disregard for his safety and with the vehemence o' one driven far beyond the brink o' sanity. He be a-screamin' vile threats at the orcs, tellin' them how they were goin' to die, lookin' as if he would thoroughly enjoy sinkin' those white teeth o' his into their greasy throats. Boromindel shudders.
Two o' the orcs has already fallen. One be havin' two arrows sproutin' from its body whilst the other one be lyin' on the blood-soaked ground several yards from the half-elf, so positioned that it be unlikely that the man be havin' anythin' to do with its death. At the least, the orc seems to be dead; it be not movin' in any case and the others seem to be behavin' as if the man had killed it. Boromindel be puzzled then for, to boot, there seem to be not a mark on that one, leastways, not one the he could discern.
Boromindel hastily pushes his confusion to the back o' his mind. There be time enough for that later. Oh, that be for sure, provided o' course our wee little hero here be survivin' this here ordeal, har! har! He be a-fittin' an arrow into his bow then and aims. He hesitates. There be a big chance that if he misses, he might hit the very same deranged soul he was tryin' to save. This be a-fillin' him with grievous concern for he be sure that such a misdeed would be too heavy a burden for his conscience to bear. But there be no choice in the matter for if he goes and does nothing, the man would surely be killed. Shruggin' and hopin' for the best, he be takin' aim once again only to notice two more people further down the road, both with weapon's drawn and comin' at a run to the aid o' their companion.
The halflin' hesitates anew. He be decidin' then to wait and see what happens next. He watches as one o' the orcs throws a rock at one o' these men and hits him on the shoulder. Cursin' the man be tryin' to return the favor with a disembowelin' slash o' his sword but misses miserably.
Just then he realizes that not one o' these people has a bow or a crossbow and yet there be that one dead orc lyin' the ground with two arrows stickin' out o' it. Shakin' his head, he refocuses on his objective and aims his bow and arrow at one o' the orcs. To his dismay, he be findin' that he could not get a clear shot at the beast. Not without riskin' hittin' one o' the men anyways. Bracin' himself, he waits for his chance.
The third man, a gaunt-lookin' human, tall and lanky and dressed in a dark-stained knee-length robe, enters the fray. This man, he buries his weapon, a footman's pick, into the chest of an orc. But the orc be far from undone. It tries to impale the man with it rusty sword and would have succeeded too be it not for the mad man, who gleefully takes advantage o' the orc's distraction and be loppin' its head off.
The second man, the one who got hit with the rock, assails anew the orc he be facin' with a vicious double-handed downward slash, ahr, but again the orc be a-provin' itself a touch or two faster than him. It be a-leapin' to the side and the man then be cuttin' naught but air.
Boromindel then be hearin' the familiar whistle o' an arrow in flight. He turns his head in time to be a-seein' yon missile shootin' from the trees to strike the orc this second man be facin'. Squealin', the orc falls down to its knees. The arrow then be quickly followed by another but misses by a minute fraction as the orc fell and instead be buryin' itself into the side o' one o' the wagons.
So, the halfin' thinks, there is a fourth one. The mystery of the arrow-riddled orc is solved at least. But what of the other one, the one with no discernible wounds?
He be a-shakin' his head then, beratin' himself for the foolish little twit that he be. Stay focused, man, he tells himself, else you'll your chance.
But the chance he be waitin' for did not come. "Drat!" he exclaims in frustration. He has hoped to do thin's in the proper guerilla stryle but it be seemin' that he would have to join in the battle himself if he were to get any piece of the action at all. Puttin' away his bow, he then hefts his spear with both hands and braces himself for the charge o' his life.
But wait! What's that?
Boromindel gives a start. Did he just see something move in one of those wagons? Yes, there it is again. Wait a second, there's also something, or someone, moving in the other wagon. Survivors perhaps? A merchant or two, quivering in fear for their lives. Yes, perhaps that is it...
But then he be noticin' that the door o' one o' the wagons had been ripped off. Not forced open or kicked in but ripped completely and thrown aside like broken crockery. Literally. There it be on the ground, several yards away.
Everythin' becomes clear to his utmost horror. Wide-eyed, he then be realizin' that not one o' the poor dead merchants had been killed with a sword for all the stains he saw on the orcs' weapons. Now sword could have reaped so much blood and gore. No. Those men be ripped and mauled to death! Thorn apart like so much confetti, like, like those one o' turkey dinners his mother serves every Spring Feastin'.
Mauled to death! The poor halflin's vivid imagination then be a-runnin' wild on him and buildin' awful horrifics out o' the evidence before his eyes. He could almost hear their tortured cries as they were slowly torn asunder by whatever fearsome beasts that be in the wagons, the cracklin' o' their bones, the rippin' o' their flesh with awful jagged claws. Har! Har! Har! I be swearin' he be the funniest thin' you ever did see; wild-eyed he be, gawkin' and sickened by his notions, and turnin' green about the edges.
He shudders. He thanks the gods that halflin's be good at the arts o' hidin' and steels himself to act, more scared that he thought he could be. Surprised, he realizes that his longin' for the safety o' his burrows, for those borin' parties, and tedious company, just about then, has undergone a severe boost in intensity.
And for good reason! Mauled to death!
He be settin' down his spear then and takin' up anew his trusty short bow, notin' with manic mirth that in the span o' a quarter hour, he be switchin' from one weapon to another several times over and be not involved in yon scuffle at all.
"Watch out!" he be hollerin' at the top o' his voice, which if you be askin' me be quite surprisin'-like a bit loud for the likes o' him. He quickly moves to get into the best position from which pick off one o' the potential "Maulers" into a pin cushion as soon as it emerges.
Bracin' himself against a tree stump twice his size, he looks up only to be surprised, his mouth a-droppin' open into a perfect "O". What manner o' perverse coincidence be workin' here? For lo! The door to one o' the wagons has opened while he be in transit yet and a frantic-lookin' orc has jumped out and perchance be fleeing straight in his direction.
Before he can do anythin' else howevers, the air be shattered by the most horrendous his sensitive ears ever did hear and the other wagon be seemin'ly explodin' into dust and splinter. And out be stridin' a slaverin' ogre.
