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Old 01-13-2004, 02:41 PM   #122
The Squatter of Amon Rûdh
Spectre of Decay
 
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Sting

The irritable mutterings of the Lord Orogarn Two faded into the forest and the Fallowship of the Things was once more free to discuss matters of great import. Instead, however, they elected to spend that time discussing the folly and unwarranted effort implicit in aiding their companion's financial endeavours. Apart from a brief lull, in which they joined forces to quell Vogonwë's attempt to recite his work in progress The Quest for the Holey Purse, they had adopted a policy of disagreeing violently over small details until events should conspire to force their collective hand.

Events, however, are conspirators that would have made Guy Fawkes give it up as a bad job and take up gardening instead. Also it is unwise to beard a shepherd of trees in his own forest, however far he may have fallen into petty thievery. Skinflint could yet cause trouble in a large, mean way, and he had allies of whom the mightiest of their company knew nothing; and of whom they would have wished they knew nothing even if they did, in fact, know something.

The rambling paragraph and our heroes' conversation were both cut short by a sound both great and terrible. From the dark and rotten heart of Canned Corn there came a mighty 'Hoo-OOO-oom', a sound that was part martial glory, part comic flatulence; a sound that made all who heard it involuntarily begin to tap their feet. It resounded around the clearing in which they stood, and suddenly was accompanied by the rhythmic whispering of ancient leaves and the steady drumming of great feet in the mould of autumns long past. Earnur let fall the taper that he held to the bowl of his pipe, and his face was ashen. 'They are coming.' he announced, in a tone that promised that 'they are leaving' would have been a far preferable alternative.

While some of his companions were babbling semi-coherent questions, others were dithering weakly and Vogonwë was trying to find a rhyme for 'like a clucking bell', the mighty Lord of Dun Sóbrin proved once more the mettle that had won for him the Keepership of the Demented Stoat. Stowing his fragrant herbs and sable pipe about his noble person, he swept out his mighty blade and began to walk slowly and impressively beneath the eaves of the Forest. Shieldmaidens, elven or otherwise, might defeat him at archery, might rescue fellow heroes and correct him on points of grammar, but this was his hour: the hour of the classic annoying hero and the hour of the Warden.

'What? Already?' Grralph was clearly perplexed.

'It does not take a herdsman long to gather his flock, no matter how blackhearted they be,' intoned Earnur manfully. 'You hear the calls of the herds of Skinflint: the Slíd Huorns of the Hepcatarchy! No-one may aid me in this: I must face this peril alone.'

Although this comment was clearly both illogical and untrue, the uneven notes of blaring horn-calls were certainly intimidating. Even if it did seem to invite the tapping of feet and the wearing of pork-pie hats, the swinging time it offered was on the end of a rope, and its dance was that of death. Earnur's companions stepped gravely aside, holding back their sniggers until he had passed, such was the gravity of the situation.

Even as Earnur strode manfully from the clearing he became aware of a great heaviness about him. The silence was deafening, announcing that the sound technicians of the scene had completed their simple arithmetic and yielded place to the demented chorus in which Mayhem would take lead vocals. Suddenly a dark press of gigantic figures surrounded the sable figure, and he became aware of a dampness about his hands that was more than perspiration. A faint smell of oil reached his nostrils.

I'm sorry wheedled a metallic voice in his mind's ear. Please don't make me go in there! Telstar's* last creation shouldn't have to die an axe's death!

'Peace, my blade!' answered Lord Etceteron, and his voice was of adamant. 'I hear the cry of battle in my ears, and no blade, no matter of what lineage may gainsay me!'

I hate you, squeaked the sword, and silently began to hum a lament.

Now Earnur could make out the figures that surrounded him. Like great trees they were and yet unlike, for he sensed the malice in their hearts and saw the golden horns in their Entish boughs. Silently and deliberately they began to move forward; the path behind him vanished and the circle of foes closed slowly about him.

***

Meanwhile, Kuruharan and Chrysophylax were discussing their companion's mighty deed with the Fallowship.

'I told you before: the odds are twenty to one and I can't accept your glasses as collateral.'

'Coo?'

'Don't flutter your eyelashes at my associate. The odds are the same for you as for anyone else... Ouch!'

Chrysophylax seemed involuntarily to have singed his partner's breeches.

'And those odds are thirty to one, of course. Naturally I'll accept that rotting bag of dead newts.'

Already a small pile of weapons, coins and assorted knick-knacks had built up beside the great leather-bound ledger that lay across the Dwarf's knees. This looked like being a good day: to lose two irregular customers was favourable, but to profit from it was a benison unforseen in even the most optimistic business plan. When the rhythmically inclined foes had finished with the hapless heroes, all that would remain would be to strike some sort of a deal and sell them as much linseed oil as he could lay his hands on at such short notice. From the woods there came a great trumpeting and clashing that set even his feet a-tapping, and Grrralph was already dancing up a storm, throwing out divots in all directions, his feet and legs a blur. When silence fell it brought with it a pall of disappointment, as though a long-expected party had been rained off.

***

Earnur leaned against a fallen bough and wiped the sap from his blade. All about him there were pieces of bark, forsaken branches and sawn-off stumps. Amid the confusion could be discerned the glint of gold where the mighty instruments of the Slíd Huorn Hepcatarchy had been abandoned. Not a single one of them would return to the deep woods of Paléd'danse whence they had sprung, for they had faced the mighty army of Dun Sóbrin, and being overwhelmingly outnumbered he had triumphed.

Even as he contemplated the field of battle, his eyes were drawn to a large clearing that had been opened by the passage of Skinflint's herd. Within stood a large wooden building, and upon its homely façade was writ the mighty legend: Sethamir's Livery Stable and Second-Hand Musical Instrument Emporium. The Lord of the Off-Colour Sword turned back to the field of honour and his eyes were agleam.
___

* A renowned Dwarven smith of great skill, whose hammer is said to have rung upon the anvil with a fell music

<font size=1 color=339966>[ 4:05 PM January 13, 2004: Message edited by: The Squatter of Amon Rûdh ]
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