[Rimbaud]

The Orcish Army of Gol Dulldor was becoming just a mite dispirited. Several hundred of their number had died before noon, and although the Itship had stopped for lunch, the slaughter had resumed and the carnage was quite terrible to see. As for the Itship, Merisuwyniel had broken a nail, the dragon was feeling sick, and Etceteron had momentarily fainted after swigging his entire flask in one exuberant gulp. Other than that, and a little weariness in their weapon wielding arms, they were unhurt. They continued to callously destroy the once proud Army of Gol Dulldor.

Halfullion’s fight had improved, by his standards. He had had a jolly good slaughter, and spitted quite a few of the scaly buggers, improving his mood tremendously. However his Doom lay heavily upon him, like a large jellyfish atop his head. As you can imagine, this was quite disconcerting.

He finally caught view of his Valiant Companions, and their new Entish allies. The sight stirred his heart and he attacked with renewed gusto. He thought of Gravy and his future in hairdressing and an amiable grin grew on his face, as he carelessly disembowelled a promising young architect orc named Dennis. He thought of fair Merisuwyniel and a keening grew within his heart and he greatly desired to see her.

He spotted Kuruharan and Vogonwe standing over a figure on the ground and he dashed towards them, slicing his way through like a knife through butter, or more aptly, a fool through orcs. The figure on the ground was Etceteron.

“Halfullion!” cried Kuruharan, selling an unarmed nearby orc a cheap replica sword for a stupendous sum, then chopping his head off anyway. “Good to see you broke free! How tremendously Heroic you are.”

“Heroes are as Heroes do,” said Halfullion, mysteriously. “Is Earnur hurt?”

“Nay,” snorted the Dwarf. “Drunk.”

“Ah.”

They fought back to back for some time as the shadows lengthened.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

An hour or more later and things took a different turn. A great cry went up. Through the ranks of orcs came a huge, lumbering figure, clearly computer-generated, but no less terrifying because of it.

“They have a cave-troll,” muttered Vogonwe, incorrectly.

Halfullion moved to before the great foe.

“No! It is suicide,” cried Vogonwe, hopelessly.

Suddenly, they were all there, all the Itship in one place. Merisuwyniel’s heart was torn asunder as she saw Gravlox in the distance urging his orcs on, and in the foreground, the manliest man of all men, Halfullion Gormlessar, facing down the gigantic troll-fiend. Etceteron awoke, blearily, and struggled to his feet, his sword sneering at him. Pimpi munched on an in-battle sandwich for inner fortification. Orogarn Two ran around picking off stragglers, somehow predicting with devilish accuracy where they would go.

Halfullion swapped a couple of blows with the great troll, as the battle stalled around them. All eyes were on this confrontation. The Thorns took this opportunity to swallow an extra couple of ranks of orcs, unnoticed. The Forest belched, in a rather unseemly fashion, but this did not deter the grand Gormlessar.

He had lost his helm, and his fabulous hair waved casually in the wind, awing all.

The troll shook himself with a great roar, and streamers of black smoke arose from its armour. The orcs had set it alight as a living weapon. They goaded the troll with pikes, poking the enraged beast towards Halfullion and his silenced companions. The fiery monster loomed above them, twenty feet tall at least.

The dark figure streaming with fire raced towards them. The orcs yelled and shook the ground with their stamping. Then Halfullion raised his whistle and blew. Shrill the challenge rang, and tinny, like the squeaking of several anemic mice out in the great field. For a moment the orcs quailed and held their ears. The troll ceased its advance. The Itship retreated further behind the seemingly fearless Halfullion. Then the sound died as suddenly as a flame blown out by a dark wind, and the enemy advanced again.

“Back!” cried Halfullion to his friends. “Back! This is a foe beyond any of you.” The Dragon had fallen asleep, satiated. “I must hold the entire battlefield.” His logic seemed spurious, but the others, feeling somewhat lethargic after a great deal of chopping and throwing, let it pass. “Back!”

The troll reached the Hero. Halfullion stood directly before it, leaning on the sword in one hand, but his other hand raked his gleaming hair, gold and streaming. His enemy halted again, facing him, and the smoke around it reached out like two vast wings. It raised its huge flaming club and it snapped, crackled and popped, like a well-known cereal, but slightly more terrifying. Fire came from the joints of its armour and it howled. But Halfullion stood firm.

“You cannot pass,” he said. The orcs stood still, and a dead silence fell. “I am a Hero of the First Order, wielder of the sword of Some Orc. You cannot pass. The dark fire will not avail you, Parody of Fiction. Go back to the Tower! You cannot pass.”

The troll made no answer. The fire upon it seemed to die, but a darkness grew around them as evening fell. It stepped forward slowly before him, and its wings were spread an improbable distance around it; but still Halfullion could be seen, glimmering in the gloom; he seemed small and altogether alone: blonde and erect, like a firm young sapling before the onset of an axe.

From out of the smoking troll a club came swinging.
Stumpy gleamed dully in answer.
There was a ringing clash and a great thump. The troll fell back and its club flew up in molten fragments. The Hero swayed on his feet, stepped back a pace, and then again stood still.

“You cannot pass!” he said.

With a bound the troll leaped right before him. Its burning armour hissed and cracked.

“He cannot stand alone!” cried Etceteron, waking fully, and ran back towards Halfullion. “Wylkinson!” he shouted. “I am with you, Gormlessar!”

“Grundor!” cried Orogarn Two and leaped after him.

At that moment Halfullion lifted his great fist, and crying aloud he leapt twenty feet high and smote the troll before him. The troll’s helm broke asunder and fell from its head. A blinding sheet of smoke and flame sprang up. The ground cracked beneath them from the force of the blow. Right at the troll’s feet it broke, and a chasm opened, orcs screaming as they fell within to their deaths.

With a terrible cry the troll fell forward, and its shadow plunged down and vanished. But even as it fell it swung a scimitar, and the blade cut deep into Halfullion’s torso, casting him clear, upon the ground before his friends and smashing him to his knees. He fell, sore wounded.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

The orcs howled and the gap in the earth closed, swallowing a great many of them. Yet now they were enraged beyond all fear and charged upon the Itship with utter destruction in mind.

It was every Companion for themselves in the chaos and they were separated anew. Halfullion struggled to his knees, blood pouring from his great Wound. Thoughts flashed through his mind; how he had been a fool, and how he loved Merisuwyniel, and how he could never be whole, and how he would never see her fair face to tell her. They cut him down as he knelt.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * *

As night fell, the Companions regrouped, sore grieved at their loss. They fought their way to hold the ground over his body. Etceteron knelt by the great, broken frame of the noblest Hero. He and Orogarn lifted him and moved him back, as the orcs retreated for the night. They carried him to the edge of the Entish Wood. There they laid him down; and now the night drew very close. Etceteron drew his sword Wylkinson, and with it he cut the bloodied armour from Halfullion; but fate was that day more strong, for Halfulllion was not quite dead, and the sword slipped as Etceteron cut the bindings, and Halfullion’s foot was pricked. Then he was aroused into a sudden wakefulness of rage and fear, and seeing one bending over him with naked blade he drew Gurl-Thang with a choking cry, believing that Orcs were come to torment him; and grappling with him in the darkness, he grabbed Wylkinson, and the sword twisted in his hand, and jumped to the hand of Etceteron again, and he slew Halfullion Gormlessar, by the sword’s fell will.

So ended Halfullion Gormlessar and it was upon the stroke of midnight of the first day of battle against the Orcs of Gol Dulldor. Even to this day, in Hero-Training Schools across the land, tales are told of Halfullion, and how it took three deaths to kill him, and how it was his own Companion that dealt death at the last. Fot it was writ in his Hero Contract that he had to die by the hand of a friend. It was that or be untimely ripp’d from somewhere or other, and that sounded nasty in the extreme.