A Brief Mountain Skirmish

Thraingrim paused at the top of the valley, and sniffed the air uneasily. Smelled like elves, sure enough. “Those confounded Rangers,” he thought testily. “Good fellows, it seems, and tough… but asking me to come here?” And he started the long hike down into Rivendell, carrying a desperate request from the men back at the lake, looking for the Ranger’s Captain said to be stopping there.

Sometime later he met success when he located the Ranger poring over some maps in a back guesthouse. The man was quiet-spoken and courteous, yet also curiously compelling. Thraingrim was surprised at his own willingness to help this tall stranger and take his return message, perhaps to even aid his cause. Stumping along towards the long trail back, he heaved a sigh when he saw the high valley walls in front of him. “Only a fool tucks his beard in where it don’t belong!” he grumbled to himself, and not for the first time. 

“Thraingrim, you ugly old buzzard!” he heard with a start. He turned to see a welcome dwarrow figure close by, and yelled “That’s no bothersome elf, by Mahal! Horik, is that you?” “Aye, and I am at your service”, Horik replied. “Though I find myself in need of asking for yours!”

“It is a great relief to see a sensible person after rubbing elbows with all those elves, lad! I am keen for some solid dwarrow adventuring to be sure”, and Thraingrim was delighted when Horik asked for his companionship on an expedition into the mountains, where he’d been hired to hunt a particularly loathsome goblin. Horik mentioned that the creature’s name was Gargle or some such, and headed off to complete the contract negotiations.

While he waited Thraingrim looked towards the great snow-covered peaks north of them, and with the prospect of sharpening his blade on a few goblin-necks he found he didn’t mind the thought of a hike up the slopes at all. Horik quickly rejoined him, leading a fine riding goat and a shaggy pony he managed to wrangle from his contacts. Thraingrim mumbled into his beard a bit when noticed Horik kept the goat for himself; but the pony proved to be willing enough, and nimble.

With the mounts under them they made quick time up into the mountains. Thraingrim let the pony have its head and for a time pulled ahead, enjoying the cold mountain air. They stopped for the night at a mountain camp, sharing ales and a smoke with the worthy dwarrows stationed there. By late the following morning they were near the goblin’s excuse for a lair, and Horik took the lead, reciting the description of the correct path under his breath.

They found some brush thick enough to tether the mounts and hopefully conceal them from goblins and other hungry creatures, though the goat did not help their cause by enthusiastically chewing on every thorny branch with its reach.

Horik pointed them up a steep trail, and drawing axes and nocking arrows, they headed up. They could smell the creatures before they came upon them, and Horik scored the first blood of the day when his well-aimed arrow dropped a scout. Thraingrim yelled his approval and charged ahead, swinging his axes in all directions. They soon found a rhythm, with Thraingrim hitting hard from up close and Horik using deadly marksmanship to pincushion the goblins without also piercing his companion. 

“Whoever this goblin bandit of yours is, he sure doesn’t keep a very good quality mob around,” Thraingrim remarked as they cleared their way through the final few creatures below the last campfire they could see. Horik laughed, “Your axes fly like hot blades through butter, my friend!” “Oh ho, and your bow sings like a battle horn, Master Horik!” retorted the other dwarrow with a chuckle. “And if I am not mistaken, that big beast by the fire is our quarry, at last!”

They wasted no time but charged the last few yards, taking the goblin chief unawares. The big creature had obviously won his status the hard way, and he proved to be formidable indeed. But no goblin, chief or no, could long withstand the two determined dwarrows, and with a final scream of rage he fell with his head neatly parted from his shoulders.

Horik then set to collecting his proof of kill and pulling arrows back out of their foes, while Thraingrim carefully cleaned his axe blades and settled in for a smoke. He noted, “This old fellow looks much better without his head!” as he absently patted his pockets, looking for any fried batwings he might still have laid by from the Fayre.

“Horik, lad, we should have dedicated this fellow’s neck to Mother Kveltrid! She mighta baked us up something special!” Horik straightened up from the last of the bodies and shook his head, saying “Nay, Master Thraingrim! There’s a lady what prefers dedicatin’ her own necks, don’t you know!”

Roaring his appreciation, Thraingrim followed his companion back to their mounts and the long ride home.