Dealings in Dwaling
Ash, smoke and ruin. That is all that remained in Dwaling since it was overrun by cut-throats and ruffians. They took over the land as quickly as they came, driving honest and decent hobbits from their ancestral holes, forcing them to flee to the neighbouring town of Oatbarton. Those who witnessed their coming first-hand described the attack as highly coordinated, which was curiously uncommon for brigands. Any attempt to treat with the them was usually met with violence. Yet, the hobbits of Dwaling were proud folk by nature, and in their own quiet way they plotted to reclaim their homes.
Theuderic Perdiswell, a former resident of Dwaling; stood alone atop the hill overlooking the town. It was a grey, drizzly day and by no means a desirable time to be outdoors. The damp wind splashed against his wax cloak which he had wrapped about him. “Now” he said aloud, a look of sheer determination upon his aged face. “Now or not at all.” Theuderic descended the hill, walking sideways to prevent himself slipping upon the damp grass. Eventually reaching the pathway which led to the town square, he squinted ahead to see whether the entrance was guarded. To his surprise, it was not. Most curious indeed. He set forth at a brisk pace, though cautious and aware of his surroundings. A light was on in the nearest hole. As he drew closer, he could hear jeering voices with laughter. A fresh pang of rage washed over the older hobbit, causing him to clench his fists. “Calm, Theuderic. Calm yourself…”.
“Oi, oi!” bellowed a voice from the path ahead. Theuderic had now reached the entrance and had not noticed the man standing in the centre of the town square. “What ‘ave we ‘ere then? Another welcoming committee?” Before Theuderic could move, the man reached for his belt where a small iron horn hung loosely. Lifting it to his lips, he blew. The sound echoed throughout the square and roused the source of the voices within the near-by hole. “Lads! Lads, we’ve got ourselves a visitor!” One by one, several men emerged from the hole with crude weapons in hand. Clubs, whips and axes from what Theuderic could see, a sight that would have initially caused him to panic. But not this time.
“G-Good day, sirs!” he spoke, his voice breaking slightly from a mixture of rage and nerves. “I’m… I’m here-”.
“Speak up, you little rat!” heckled one of the brigands, laughing. “Speak up so we can hear you proper!”
“I’m hear to speak with the one you call Fowler!” said Theuderic, pulling back his hood to show his face to the brigands. Water dripped from his rain spiked hair whilst there was a brief silence.
“Fowler, eh?” Said the horn blower. “So, you’ve learned our names ‘ave you? That’s sweet, that’s very neighbourly of you indeed!” Some of the other brigands began to laugh, weapons resting at their sides. “What, you’ve come down this way to invite Fowler round for tea or somthin’? Is that it? Or would you prefer that he tanned your hide for waking him up?”
“I only… I only wish to speak with him!” shouted Theuderic, squaring his shoulders as he took a few steps closer. “He took something of mine, and…” he paused, “I want it back!” This was met with more laughter. One of the brigands even threw an empty bottle at Theuderic who evaded it just in time.
“You’ve got some nerve ‘aven’t you! Well, this might be your lucky day! Or, unlucky dependin’ on how yer look at it.” The horn blower turned to the crowd. “Fowler, you’re up!” A tall, rugged looking man stepped forward. The moonlight reflected from his damp, bald head as he glared at the hobbit with deep, dark eyes.
“I never forget a face” he said, ominously. “Oh no, I never forgets…” He brandished a dagger in his right hand, pointing it at Theuderic before adding. “You’re one of the hobbits I kicked up the hill, one I made squeal like a pig running from slaughter! Ha, how you ran!” He snarled at the hobbit taking a few steps closer. “You gunna run now, rat? Or am I going to make you squeal some other way?” Theuderic took a hesitant step back, but stood his ground.
“You took my grandfathers pocket watch” he said, firmly. “I want it back.” This was, unsurprisingly, met with more laughter. Fowler looked over his shoulder and shrugged, before turning back to face Theuderic. “You little brats amaze me, so you do. You’d risk gettin’ stuck over a pocket watch?” Theuderic glared at the man, a new-found courage mustering within him.
“Shall I take your reply as a no?” he asked.
“You can take it how you please, but I’ll be giving you something else to remember me by for my trouble.” Theuderic lowered his gaze, rage mingled with fear dancing within him. After a brief moment, he lifted his face and with it his arms. Fowler and the others laughed.
“What? Are you surrendering? You think I’m gunna let that stand? No, no I’m gunna rip you-” Fowler paused as he heard a yelp from behind him. He spun around, the others also turning their attention to one of their party who had fallen lifeless to the wet ground. To their surprise, a small axe was buried in the brigands back. “Wha- What is this?! Where did-”
“Gah!” yelled the horn blower, also dropping to the ground clutching another axe, imbedded in his side. Blood poured from the wound. “H-Help me!” he cried whilst the others frantically searched the dark square for the attacker, their weapons raised.
“Who goes there!” shouted one of the group nervously. “Come out and face us you cowards!”
“Where did that come from?” asked one of the ruffians.
“I think it came from over there!” said another.
“Well what are you standing there for! Go and find them!” Fowler yelled, turning back to face Theuderic once more. “You! This was your doing wasn't it!? You treacherous little rodent!” He advanced towards the hobbit who had lowered his arms. “I’ll cut you to pieces!”
“You’ll do no such thing!” bellowed a new voice, echoing from the darkness. Before Fowler could turn, he was met with a sharp and dreadful pain coursing through his leg. He fell to one knee with a yell, dropping his knife and clasping the undoubtedly broken bone. The last thing the ruffian saw was a club making its way with ferocious speed towards his face. It cracked against his skull spreading blood and fragmented tooth upon the ground as he fell. “You should have given him the pocket watch" said Remaric Malvern, staring down at the crumpled heap that was Fowler, before turning to face the remaining brigands who had not fled or were dead upon the ground.
“Where are you going!?” yelled one of the brigands as two of them broke away from the group. “Come back here! It’s just another Shire rat!” Remaric walked forward, adjusting his club into a two-handed stance. The young hobbit was calm and composed, rain dripping down his face and his chain mail glinting with the moisture. Theuderic remained behind with the defeated Fowler, watching the event unfold from a safe distance. The two brigands that remained rounded on Remaric, lifting their weapons and marching forward to meet him. The first swung his axe at the hobbit, who parried the attack. With his flank left open, he seized the advantage and swung his club against the brigands exposed ribs. There was a sickening crack, causing the villain to stumble onto his side. His comrade wasted no time in launching a second attack upon Remaric, attempting to stab the hobbit in the chest. Remaric reacted just in time and knocked the dagger aside with a downward parry, then angled the club sideways to jab the end of its handle into his assailants’ groin. He cried out in pain and fell to his knees, hands placed between his legs.
“Do you yield?” asked Remaric, raising his club ready to strike.
“Aye, aye! We yield!” said the brigand, his injured counterpart already fleeing to the square.
“Well, that’s a relief” said Remaric, resting the club upon his shoulder. “But as I’m sure you can understand, I simply can’t take your word for it.” The brigands looked up at the hobbit, his hands still placed in between his legs.
“Wha-” he spluttered, followed by a loud thunk as Remaric brought the club down upon his head. As his opponent fell unconscious, Remaric turned back to Theuderic who was searching Fowlers pockets.
“I’ve got it!” shouted Theuderic, pulling from Fowlers jacket a small but shining gold pocket watch. “At last! I’ll keep it with me at all times, I swear it upon my grandfather himself!”
“We shouldn't stay here long. These brigands were just watchmen, Dwaling has plenty more to offer and they’ll soon be heading our way.” Theuderic nodded, slowly climbing to his feet.
“It’s a sorry thing to have to flee from ones home a second time” he said, staring towards the darkened square. “How I long to return, to reclaim my home…” Remaric lowered his club with one hand and placed the other upon Theuderic’s shoulder.
“In good time, my friend. With the right amount of resistance and enough courage, we’ll soon drive these villains out for good.” Theuderic turned to Remaric and extended his hand. He smiled and shook it.
“I suppose you’ll be wanting some form of payment for your heroism?” said Theuderic.
“That won’t be necessary” said Remaric. “It’s against my nature to deny a fellow hobbit in need.”
“Spoken like a true hero” replied Theuderic, laughing as he placed the golden pocket watch within his waist coat. “Well, half a hero at the very least.”
“Half a hero is better than none" said Remaric, as the pair made their way up the hill back towards Oatbarton.
