The game was a close one – 2 to 2 in the last few minutes of the second half. The Man, that’s how she thought of him since she had not bothered to ask his name, proved an adequate tactician, despite the fact his actual skills were a bit rusty. He relied on the brute power of his Uruk team to crush any opposition as they drove to the goal.
What he hadn’t counted on was the speed and agility of the Hobbit dance ensemble. Their collective footwork was brilliant, their teamwork superb. Added to that was the admirable work of the Wargs who worked as a precision unit in the goalie position. The Man groused about this unfair number of net defenders, but recanted his criticism upon being silently encircled by the three, their lips curled up in wolfish smiles. Instead, he drafted two Orcs to assist the lumbering Uruk.
It was a bad choice on his part. It cost him the game. The three jockeyed for position round the small goal perimeter and the inevitable fight broke out, as the Uruk sought to maintain his birthright superiority over his lesser brothers.
Play stopped, as team-mates joined in the fray – Uruk against Orc. The ball, now completely forgotten in the general ruckus, was quickly secured by two Hobbits. ‘Just run a few short drills to keep it moving, mates,’ Pio called out to them, as she waved Bethberry and Child over. ‘Either of you two ever played soccer? She motioned to one her teammates to pass the ball to her, stopping it dead with her foot. She nodded toward the opponent’s goal, asking them if they’d like to kick the scoring point.
The melee at the Man’s goal continued, as Bethberry and Child both denied any physical knowledge of soccer technique, but Child reached into her requisite leather pouch and pulled out an interesting treatise on the
'Dynamics of the Free Kick'. The two poured over it, discussing it in as much detail as one can beneath flickering torchlights on a dark night in Gondor.
‘I believe we have the gist of it now, Piosenniel,’ the two shield-maidens of the soccer field cried in unison. ‘Set us up!’
Pio ran the ball down the field passing back and forth to one of the dancers. Bethberry and Child followed closely. At a signal from the Elf, the two got into position. Pio passed the ball to Bethberry, who in turn passed it to Child. As one born to the art of futbol, Child stopped the orb dead with her foot and got into position. Her right leg swung out to the side and the inside edge of her large, hairy foot struck the ball brilliantly.
Too late the three bruised goalies saw the deadly arc of her foot, as Pio’s clear voice rang out across the field.
‘That’s it, mate! Bend it like Beckham!’
The final score was 3 to 2. The opposing team stood about in a daze, hands on hips, looking dejected. Pio clapped the Man on the back. ‘Better luck next year. Gather your team, I’ll treat them to some drinks.’
Pio smiled as she sent Azhnog in through the delivery door to bring out three barrels of the Green Isle’s finest. The pockets of the Innkeeper were deep, he wouldn’t miss them. The Uruks made themselves useful punching out the tops of each cask and handing round full mugs of the dark, foaming brew.
She looked round the muddied, mucked up field that had once been part of the Hall's manicured landscape. The thought of what Mithadan might make of this carnage crossed her mind briefly, but she shrugged it off knowing he would come up with some way to mediate any ensuing conflict with the King.
‘Drink up! There’s a full day ahead of us still. Plenty of time to get in trouble.’
Pio fingered the round, glowing red bauble that hung on a slender cord about her neck, a souvenir from Cormallen just one short year ago . . .