A Burg’s (Stramvárth) Tale

I stood overlooking the path down to Stramvárth once again. The clear night sky above had a thousand bright points of light scattered across it from horizon to horizon, marred only by the silhouettes of low ridges and mountains in the far distance and snow-frosted cliffsides laced with evergreens in the near. The stones and grasses beneath my booted feet swayed in the chill air, more scrub than anything, while heavy, large boulders dotted the hillsides around me. Despite the cold, my breath refused to fog beneath my mask and the dormant hardwoods stretched bare arms to the sky. Clouds drifted past with increasing thickness from behind me as a warning. The wind brought the smell of snow melted to rain as it passed.

I could see the sprawl of Stramvárth’s ruins from my perch on the hillside. This wasn’t my first visit to the place while in service to the Elderslade dwarves and Durin. I doubted it would be my last. This war wasn’t mine except for the goblins and trolls and other creatures involved still preying upon the Free Peoples. They needed stopping. The eastern side of the Misties existed leagues too close to my flesh and blood in the Dale-lands.

A pyre burned down in the ruins. Goblins had decided to camp there, according to the dwarf Horin, and needed routing. The dwarves of Annâk-khurfu had already spread themselves too thin. I had been one of several helping them take up the slack in their push to reclaim Gundabad. This shouldn’t be too hard, I mused darkly. They said the group was small. I can sneak in and slit their throats while they sleep. Nothing to it.

I stole shadow-like down the incline to do what I’d come to do, ever-conscious of the so-called Scout-master, Ausma, given our initial meeting. Despite the dwarf woman’s words, and her handiness with a dagger, she couldn’t sneak for anything nor could she have realized exactly how close to dying she had come by flashing a knife at my throat as she’d done. I still didn’t know how she’d even reached that part of me, given our differences in height. “I am Ausma of the Stout-axe clan. The Longbeard prince has named me Scout-master of his army,” she had greeted me. “This was a wise decision, I think, for I possess some skills that the Longbeards and Zhélruka do not.”

I had felt some modicum of faith rising in me that perhaps the overconfident dwarf might be worth talking to. “A harsh life in Mordor required those of my clan to learn how to evade the notice of our captors,” she had continued, to my surprise. Before I could really do more than feel it, though, she had blundered. “…and of course…”  At that point, she had produced a short dagger from somewhere to leave it an inch from my throat.

I hadn’t considered one of the dwarves would be as stupid as that. My hand had a knife in it without my conscious thought when I subconsciously noticed her motion. Even then, I had been slow. Too slow. The Scout-master had merely grinned while tucking it away. “…how to conceal our weapons and strike without warning,” she had finished.

I still held mine in my hand. Your overconfidence is going to end you one day, I had almost said. Instead, I had taken a deep breath. “Not the way to inspire trust in newly-met allies,” I had growled. “Do you always pull your weapons on them just to show off and prove a point or am I the exception to that rule?”

She had made a little dismissive noise. “You may think that is not an ‘honourable’ way to fight, and maybe you are correct—”

“No, I’m fine with it,” I had interjected drolly. “It’s my preferred method with actual enemies.”

She had shot me a sharp glare. “But slaves do not have such luxury,” she had finished with a hint of steel in her tone. “To my people, there was only survival, and the use of such skills proved necessary.”

“Your people aren’t the only ones in a situation that requires survival and those skills,” I had replied with as saccharine a tone as possible. “I’m living proof of that, sweetling.”

Her glare had been worthy of shriveling plant life. “If the prince would like me to use my skills to remove the foul Orcs from such a sacred site of his people, I am happy to oblige,” she had assured me with a setting jaw. I had opened my mouth beneath my mask to tell her that I hadn’t said otherwise, but she had cut me off.  “And you, Morchandir,” she had stated with a point at me, “will help me in this.”

I had finally eased my weapon back to its hiding place. That she hadn’t commented upon it meant she either hadn’t noticed it or hadn’t chosen to notice it. “Why not?” I had drawled as I’d slipped my thumbs into my belt while rocking back on my heels. “I find myself free at the moment from my hectic schedule of already agreeing to help you dwarves.”

She had rolled her eyes. “Let us begin…”

Of course, Ausma had told me that we would sneak to the main gates to scout it – and had then promptly left me the only one attempting the feat from the cover of shadows while she, instead, blazed ahead as if she had forgotten her own words. Once a dwarf, always a dwarf, I reminded myself even now.

Finally, close enough to see the crudely made tents and the crackling fire in its tripod shape, I found no sentries keeping watch and no bodies sprawled by the fire or inside the raggedy interior of the hide-bound shelter. The stench of goblin did cling to the place, however, making me wrinkle up my nose. Good, I thought as I continued toward the next campfire. Their lack of caution will spell their doom. I felt more than ready to slit some throats, especially after how the memory of my first meeting with Ausma left me rankled.

Only, this fire and tent lay empty, too. I frowned as I heard sounds from the raised stone architecture nearby that sounded very much like some form of revelry and, upon squinting away from the bright flames, finally picked out lanky figures that seemed to be the origin. It wasn’t until I approached the bottom of the stairs that I realized things weren’t as the previous scouts had believed: the goblins were all drunk to the point of ridiculousness. As I looked toward the top of the steps above me, I muttered, “No. No, no, I’m not going to handle this,” and promptly turned to walk away.

A screeching laugh came from behind me as my only warning. I wheeled around, drawing a knife – and promptly found myself bowled over as a goblin rolled into me from atop the raised stone platform. We fell together in a ball of limbs, stench, and curses. Mostly mine. I lost my knife in the process and wondered if I were about to be stabbed to death by the smaller goblin.

It blinked at me woozily and declared, “Ehhh? You not a goblin!”

“I’m an ogre, actually,” I grunted back, appalled at the rotten smell of its breath.

“Smell like Man-flesh,” it told me before grinning widely. “Bet you no drink goblin grog, ogre!”

I fumbled for one of my other knives and shoved at the smaller creature. “Gerroff!” I snarled. It did so and scampered clumsily up the stairs again, calling as it did, “Man came to drink!”

“Fff…..” I began, flopping my head back to the ground. With a sigh, I got to my feet and adjusted my mask slightly. Spotting the gleam of my knife in the dim fire light, I swept it up even as nine pairs of eyes peered at me in various stages of inebriation from above me.

“Ahhhh, ha ha haaa!” howled one of them in what sounded like mad glee. “Got you now, mask Man!” It pointed at me triumphantly with a wavering arm as if it couldn’t quite get me to stay still.

I sheathed the weapon and grunted. They hadn’t attacked me yet, Man or otherwise, and I had no idea why. Staring up at them warily, the largest of them, stockily built as well, told me, “Stupid dwarves sent you, I bets.”

I flexed my gloved fingers. “You’re not wrong,” I agreed. “You need to clear out.”

The goblin widened its sneering smile. “Make us! Challenges!” He turned and lifted his arms to the cheers of the other, smaller goblins as he moved out of sight the way he had come. I could only roll my eyes. Eru had it out for me. “This is punishment for being a murdering assassin and thief, isn’t it?” I asked under my breath as I mounted the steps. There were far too many of them for me to fight well, even in their state, without getting seriously injured. I would have to play this game of theirs and hope that they kept their word. At least, I consoled myself, if they don’t, they’ll be in no shape to keep anyone from offing them in their drunken stupor before morning.

I came to a halt at the top. In the center, upon a dais of stone, stood the semi-armored goblin leader cheering while around him, lesser goblins sat, crouched or slowly swayed in some form of mindless, inebriated dance. A fire sat to the left side while tents ringed the center and wooden stools, of a sort, stood waiting for pints of what I could only assume were alcohol. Goblin grog, as it had been called, probably from one of the kegs scattered about. One or two of the smaller ones dipped their tankards into the barrel to put the mugs sloppily atop the four stools.

They want me to drink that? I asked with a revulsion I hadn’t felt in a long while. “Drink!” taunted the leader from his position and the others hooted at me in utterly sauced derision. Another shouted something incomprehensible to me while a third laughed shrilly at my hesitation. I trudged to the nearest goblin and the waiting pint while a second goblin thrust a full mug into the hands of its companion across from me, sloshing it all over the creature’s hands, while it continued swaying and shuffling its feet. I knew the signs of a contest when I spotted one. That the goblins had them in much the same manner and fashion as Men and dwarves surprised me. You cannot be thinking of downing whatever concoction is in that tankard, a part of my brain asked me in horror.

With a wrinkled nose, I took it up in my hands and looked at my competition. I didn’t even know the rules of this game. First to get finished? Stay standing? Would they put a knife in me from behind while I drank? Another goblin stumbled over to us and sneered, “No head for drink! Can’t stand real challenge!”

That irked me. No goblin was going to call me a coward after the number I had killed in face-to-face combat. “I can. Watch and learn, oliphaunt ears.” I lifted a hand to peel off my mask so that I could drink and tucked it into my belt.

He cackled and lifted his hands. “Ready!” he barked out. I couldn’t back out, now. Down came its clawed hands as it shouted, “Go!”

I held my breath and started swallowing the foul brew as quickly as possible while the other goblin attempted to do the same. My stomach clenched. I kept going, finally breathing out through my nose slowly, and when I finished the pint, I slammed the empty thing home on the stool first. My whole body wanted to reject it for a few moments before I wiped my mouth with the back of my covered hand. Straightening, I wondered if it was poisonous to my system. Surely, you’ll find something to use as an antidote if so, I consoled myself.

The other goblin drank his pint far more slowly than I had, his entire body still swaying, and most of the drink landing on him rather than in him. Before he could finish, though, he pulled it away, slurred out, “Everything is spinning,” and let it fall from his hand. Moments later, he dropped like a stone.

I peered down at him. “That’s one, I suppose.” Only seven more and the leader to go, I noted with dread. I didn’t know how much more of the goblin grog I could feasibly stomach.

Turning to the right, I decided to take on the next goblin wanting to drink. Like the first one, he got a pint shoved into his hands by an unsteady companion and another was set out for me just after. I took mine up and waited for the… score-keeper? Time-keeper? Whatever role the other goblin had decided to play, at least. Up went his hands and, when they came down with the order to start, I never hesitated. I gulped the grog while holding my breath as much as possible to keep the horrid stuff from getting me too queasy with its taste and smell. We finished together, this time, and I had to clench my fist tightly around the mask at my waist to keep from becoming physically ill. I was so focused on holding in my stomach contents that I almost missed it when the goblin proclaimed, “Well, I’m done.” He barely made it to his tent before falling over.

Bloody well think I may be too before this is done, I worried with a belch that left an equally foul aftertaste. That’s two. Eru, give me strength…

A goblin behind me cheered in wordless, vicious sounds as he flailed his arms. I had no idea if he was too drunk to think straight or if that was his normal method of communication. I turned and moved toward him to find the pint already waiting for me on the stool before him. He made another sound and I stared at him for a long moment before asking, “Are you all…?”

“Yeeaugh!” he interrupted me with a cry that should have had froth along with it, and I stepped back slightly despite myself. “Yeah, never mind, then,” I finished and hurriedly drank the horrid pint at the other goblin’s say-so.

I fought the rising bile once again as he simply fell backward and then crawled toward his tent. “You win,” the goblin with me said. He had another pint in his hand, too, and drank from the swill within as he moved to the last stool.

“Why did I think this was an idea?” I asked as the first wooziness crept into my brain. I then recalled that it hadn’t been mine and decided that explained it. Only a bunch of sloshed goblins could have thought this was an idea at all, let alone a good one.

The last of my challengers stood mostly slumped and slopping his drink on the ground, muttering to himself as if dazed. The goblin at my side reached out and poked him with an “Ehh?” and then shrugged at me. “Go,” he told me and proceeded to race me himself. I drank mine without preamble this time. He may have finished first, but by the time I was done, my actual opponent had spilled most of his drink down his front. I’m not sure what he said as the tankard dropped from his hand, but it might have vaguely sounded like, “You win.” Or “blue fins.” Or “wooins.” Regardless, he crumpled and moaned pitifully.

The goblin with me staggered off to his place and I looked at the leader. He was… dancing. I think? I wasn’t entirely sure. Four more lesser goblins remained and, as if conscious of my tipsy hesitation, he bellowed, “Still not done!”

“Oof. Right.” But these last four goblins weren’t drinking. Nor were they dancing. I watched the closest one for a long moment as my head continued spinning harder when an idea hit me. I should use my newfound dominance, I decided. Simple, yet effective. Moving to loom over the goblin, I pointed at its tent with as forbidding an expression as I could manage. In the corner of my eye, I could see the goblin directly opposite stirring as if it had half a mind to obey as well. I was about to speak up when, like a child, the goblin groused, “Fine, I’ll go to bed!”

My arm dropped. How did that even work? I asked myself. And what in Eru’s name did they put in that grog they have? I slipped the mask back on and moved to the uneasy goblin to repeat the gesture as sternly as I could muster. This time, though, he just stared at me in confusion before ignoring me. His neighbor, on the other hand, replied to me as if I were a child by saying, “Yes, my bed is that way.” I looked between the two of them in confusion, myself, before shaking my head. That most certainly didn’t help the feeling of dizziness increasing in my head.

I had to do something fast for these last two goblins or I wouldn’t be in any state to face the leader. Was he even drunk? I stared at his dancing figure and figured he was. Turning back to the goblins left, I moved to the one I had confused and pointed again. Yet again, the goblin ignored me. With a growl, I tried telling him, “Go to bed!”

“You’re not my mother!” it shouted in drunken irritation.

“I hope not, because you look like your father!” the leader guffawed.

In frustration, I just waved goodbye at it as sarcastically as I could manage with the mental promise to kill it later when it made a final little sound and told me, “Good night!” as he grumpily retired. I had to stare at my hand for a moment before swiveling to the final lackey and waving toward it. Like the first one, it whined out a good night and crawled off to its tent.

“What in…?” I asked aloud, even more baffled and convinced that I had to either be dreaming or in the middle of a grand, cosmic joke that Eru had decided to play. “Why did it work?”

When I moved to confront the goblin leader, I felt light-headed and invincible to some degree. The remaining rational portion of my brain recognized this as nothing good. I glared up at him. Even my considerable height couldn’t quite match his superior high-ground. That annoyed me further.

“Yar,” he finally slurred at me, “what do you want, eh?!”

He swayed dangerously as I blinked. “You… don’t remember? I—”

He interrupted me. “Well, whatever it is, I’m not gonna give it to you!” He paused and squinted down at me. “Did you even tell me?” Before I could reply, he continued with a wave. “No matter!” He pointed a waving finger at my masked face. “You’ll have to best my dancing to get whatever you be wanting!”

“Your what?” I blurted, having expected a fight instead. Out of the many things that I could have answered with, that was the one I went with. I mentally kicked myself for a moment. Not my wittiest moment, to be sure.

He grinned down at me. “Can you squirm, worm?!” He laughed wildly at his own joke as if it had been the best one ever created.

“You want me to dance with you, you absolute…” I threw my arms up. “You know what? Fine. And when I win, you and your boys clear out when you wake up or you wake up dead, how’s that?” I set my hands on my hips. “At least I won’t be bleeding by the end.” My dignity may be dead, though, I added as an afterthought.

He wasted no time. He made a wiggling motion that I assumed was some form of dance he had possibly seen Free People doing at some point, then jumped, exclaiming, “Best that!” It was followed by a laugh. “You cannot defeat me!” I self-consciously did a little move that was that dance in reality, feeling like an utter fool.

He made a second move, a mockery of a dance, and I grit my teeth as the buzzing of my head broke my remaining hesitation. No bloody orc was going to out-dance me with stolen, corrupted moves that it thought were wonderful. I responded this time with a fancy jig of sorts complete with hands on my hips and then one in the air motioning, much to the goblin’s frustration. “Is this all you’ve got?” he tried to say while I danced.

I stopped and glared up at him. “Better than whatever you’re doing!” I replied.

He danced a third time and then a fourth. Feeling more relaxed, and quite a bit more confident, I performed a pair of dances I’d learned while on the road during my merchant guarding days, full of kicks and slaps to my heels. The last one seemed to impress and dismay the drunkard to the point of conceding. I’d had to rely on my burglar agility to make it happen without falling over myself. “Oof, you win,” he told me. “Ugh!”

“Off by morning!” I called to him as he stumbled off to sleep. I felt like I might be able to trip on invisible things, myself.

“Fine, fine…” he whined.

I stared after him. He might not keep his word. Something told me that he would, though. I doubted he wanted to face me again after the humiliation of losing his dance competition, Man as I was. I know I didn’t want to face him again for the same reason. “We will never speak of this again,” I promised myself under my breath.

I met my escort sometime later, after waiting out the tipsy swirling in my head, so that I seemed as calm and collected as when I’d come with him earlier. “They’ll move off by the morning,” I explained as we walked back.

He gave me an odd look. “You didn’t kill them?”

I shrugged. “I didn’t have to. I drank them under the table.” He gave me a surprised, and perhaps pitying, look that I waved away. “Don’t ask about their grog. It’s disgusting and I’ll go to my death-bed regretting I ever tasted it.” I paused. “They’re extremely drunk, however, and it should be fairly easy to get rid of them if needed tomorrow morning should they still be around.”

The dwarf chuckled. “Great work, Morchandir! You defeated the goblins, and without drawing your weapon?! I am impressed!” He clapped me on the back. “Let us return and report your success.”

As we walked the barely lit roads back to the dwarf-hold, I asked in morbid amusement, “Do you think I’ll get an award for bravery for swilling that brew of theirs?”

“If you survive until morning, you can ask the prince about it.”

Fear thrilled through me. “What? Do you really think I’ve been poisoned?” I demanded with growing alarm.

The dwarf laughed heartily. I glowered at him and, finally, he told me, “No, you should be fine.” He paused and, with a final smirk, added, “I hope.” I jerked my head back over at him and made a low grunt of displeasure, which made him laugh even harder this time. Idiot dwarves, I grouched silently. No wonder the goblins dislike you all.