The Warrior, the Halfling and the Ogre

A frantic battle finds a warrior paired up with an annoying halfling.

The Warrior, the Halfling and the Ogre

Running.

Breaths coming in short, stabbing gasps.

Nothing ahead and nothing behind, he was running blindly.

A tree whipped past, then a vine and slowly but surely the beast, which was before unseen, became a living, moving nightmare. Another vine whipped past, with it the echoes and whispers of the unforeseen horror in fast pursuit.

It mocked, crushing his pride, honor, loyalty, courage and hope into the ground like it were a worm, or a spider. It whispered tales and lies into his ears; lies that he knew might very well be truth. 

Whispers to which struck into his mind, into his soul and into his heart.

Another breath, another step forwards toward freedom, or was it backward? Who knew? Questions nobody could answer, for nobody was there, yet still, it chased. 

Water, splashing, and mud, mud up to his knees. Yet nothing could slow him down, for he would die of exhaustion before he would succumb, lie down, give in to the evil to which tracked him, continuously harassing and breathing at his heels. And still he ran. Unable to scream out, call for help, for the loss of breath, the stabbing pain in his chest and the blindness within his heart that would not give up.

Still it chased, still it breathed at his heels. What was this horror? What was this haunt? The answers lie within his heart, but every time he tried to open the chest, all he found were shadows, no answers, no way out, not even a clue to this evil riddle. All he needed was a chance, that was all he asked, but no voice came forth, who would he ask anyway?

All seemed lost. And still it chased, now breathing down his spine, the evil was almost upon him.

Yet still he ran, and still it chased. Then from nowhere there it was, in front of him, though he could not make out its form. All he could see was an eye, a huge bestial eye. He would never forget this eye, for it would haunt him until the end of his days, and even then it would follow deeper. 

He now saw no fear, for he had come to terms with the evil and horrible death that he was so certain to be dealt. No he saw no fear, for now he had nothing to lose, his hopes and dreams had been crushed like the smoldering ashes that now swirled about his feet, and with all he had left of his honor he drew his steel. 

He had nothing left, nothing to live for, not a hope in the world, but he would be damned if he would go down without a fight. 

Pulling the broadsword from the scabbard he wore from his hip, he saluted the honorable salute one warrior gives another in battle. 

Then there was the flash of steel, and the crunch of bone. 

Before he knew it, the warrior was lying flat on his back, he could see nothing but the great and evil eye, he saw himself a prisoner within it, growing smaller by the instant, then his sight was blinded. A noxious slime covered his face and eyes, the warrior could only guess that it was the beast’s drool. Then he knew that soon it would all be over.

********

Bishop Mon-Durgoth woke in the chill of the night. Startled by a high pitched scream, he reached instinctively for his broad sword, that never left his side. Even in the quiet hours of the night the young warrior would sleep so the blade was within an arms reach. He searched left, he searched right, and he looked up and down but not a creature was in sight. 

What light was emanating from the full moon was only lost within the cluttered leaves and branches of the tall aspens that hung far above the warriors head. 

The licking flame of the campfire revealed only a small portion of the clearance where Bishop had made camp for the night, but he sensed that he was alone. It was only then, when he had come to this conclusion, that Bishop had finally realized that the horrific scream was none other than his own. He stood for a few moments longer, listening intently, then finally calming his nerves Bishop, with a grunt, knelt upon one knee and rearranged his bedding. 

Placing his sword beneath his cloak, the warrior had not even settled for slumber when suddenly he heard a shrill scream in the distance. This time Bishop knew the scream was not that of his own and jumped to his feet ready for a fight.

********

It was late into the night and the forest was dark despite the full moon. During these hours was when the night creatures crawled, possums, owls and bats. 

But also crawling about the forest this night was another creature, sneaking from shadow to shadow, as silently as a ghost, and as quickly as a fox. He had one and only one objective in mind, to take back that, which was rightfully his, or so he proclaimed. 

Stepping over twigs and sneaking between bushes, ever so stealthy, Malingrad Thimblethumb closed in upon his goal, he would soon have his hands on his prize without his victim knowing any better. 

The ogre snored loudly, so loudly that as he drew near, Malingrad could feel the earth move beneath his feet. As the ground rumbled with each of the ogre’s snores, Malingrad halted his steps for fear that he would lose his footing, fall over, wake the ogre and thus becoming the ogre’s breakfast. 

Mal had finally worked up the courage to take another step forward, sneaking slowly again, one foot then the other. There it was, he could see it, another few light footfalls and the prize was his.

One step, then another. He hesitated, pausing just long enough to get his balance and steady himself before he would let his hands go to work. 

He started to sweat, fear began to take him. Malingrad looked at his hands as they worked themselves into a tremble. 

“Keep calm boys, come on we can do this,” his mind’s voice told his sweaty palms and trembling fingers. The ogre sniffed and shifted his gigantic tusked head.

“He can smell me,” Mal thought, growing more sweaty and terrified by the second.

“Snap out of it Mal,” he told himself again, “just grab it, once you have it you will be home free.”

“But what if he wakes?” he replied to himself in thought

“Bah,” he cursed, “he is too slow, I could out run him with one foot tied to the other.”

Malingrad finally snapped out of the gaze and shook his head. “I’m going crazy.” He told himself as he reached his hands forth towards the ogre’s pouch. His hands stretched out, arms extended, fingertips erecting, all towards the one goal, the pouch that concealed his prize. He was almost there, one more slip of the knot and it would all be over. Slip. Mal finally had his hands upon his prize, that which he had worked so hard to acquire, and it was now his. 

He quickly slipped the massive pouch into his backpack and was about to take his first step home, a step that would walk him into a new life, when he heard something. Malingrad knew that the ogre had heard it also, for the beast gave a huge snort as the land shifted beneath its body. 

The ogre didn’t even have to open his eyes to know where the intruder crept. He could smell him; the stench of fear was all so vivid. Then, like a flash, the ogre had his grip around the scrawny body of the halfling intruder. 

Malingrad let out a scream of horror as he felt the giant ogre’s hand wrap about him ready to crush him into mush. His breath ran short and his scream ceased, taking in air was difficult after that for the fist began to tighten its grip. Mal struggled and squirmed as best he could, trying to get his arms free, but all seemed futile. The ogre crushed harder and Mal felt his ribs crack and splinter slowly. The pain seared through his body and Mal gave one last desperate attempt to free an arm. Strength came to him, more than he ever thought he could harness. He pushed harder against the enclosed palm of the ogre, and its grip loosened a little. Mal then quickly slipped his knees up beneath his chin to perhaps guard his ribcage from too much further damage. Air came to his lungs only to be squeezed out again. He looked up at his executioner involuntarily whilst struggling for air, the ogre had a gleeful smile upon its pig-hide face. Malingrad managed to squirm again. His hands found something as the halfling looked up at the beast again, this time he looked with a purpose.

The ogre’s face still smiled but after a few seconds of examination, Malingrad saw the pupils in the bloodshot eyes of the beast dilate, its smile turned into a sneer of hatred as he could sense the pain shooting through the ogre’s body. The halfling twisted the dagger slowly to grate a larger hole in the center of the ogre’s palm. He felt his body being covered with the warm slimy blood from the gash, and the ogre released its grip, throwing Malingrad into a nearby log. Mal lied upon the ground unconscious, a large bleeding cut upon his forehead telling the story.

Satisfied that the halfling would not be escaping, the ogre drained the blood from his palm into a large cooking pot ready for the halfling stew he would most certainly be enjoying for breakfast. He then began to creep towards Malingrad. Rubbing his hands and licking his tusks, his mouth was uncontrollably drooling. The ogre had not eaten fresh meat like this in long days. He then knelt down to finish off his prey once and for all.

Bishop Mon-Durgoth raced through the bushes and trees; his direction based only on the direction from which he had heard the scream come from. That was over ten minutes ago, and he was not sure he would make it in time for the fight. 

Bishop was not an overly aggressive man, but he could not deny his skill in armed combat, fighting was all he was good at and thus he would sooner miss his mothers funeral than miss any fight. The warrior would often have to hold himself back from a fight sometimes, however, for a constant fear that he would lose the plot and do something he would regret for a lifetime. 

As Bishop raced on, he heard a few snarls and growls not too far ahead of him, then there was a large thud and Bishop raced harder. He came to a clearance and was immediately taken aback. There in front of him stood a huge ogre, larger than most he had seen, probably a military ogre by the looks of it, he thought to himself. Then Bishop noticed the halfling covered in blood, sprawled out in the dirt, and all the warrior saw was red. 

The ogre knelt down to finish the job on his breakfast-to-be. As he went to grab the halfling in his huge palm he heard a metallic sound. This was a sound that the ogre was very familiar with; it was that of a sword being extracted from its scabbard.

Bishop Mon-Durgoth raced down upon the ogre with its back turned, this foul beast didn’t deserve a clean fight face to face. As Bishop drew closer, the ogre turned realizing its foe, and made for a swing for the warriors mid-section. The blow sent the warrior ten feet backwards as he hit the hard ground in agony. 

Bishop gritted his teeth and stood defiantly to his feet once more.

“A foul blow you savage!” the warrior yelled at his enemy. Then screaming a war cry, Bishop closed on the drooling demonic beast. He raised his broadsword in attack, the ogre unsheathed its hacking blade then roared, they both closed on each other from both ends of the clearance, and the fight was on. 

A clash of metal threw sparks into the early morning air. The warrior and the beast remained locked, blade to blade, in a struggling battle of the strongest. The ogre pushed with its immense weight and finally forced Bishop into the dirt. Bishop saw the blade come down upon him, as he used what energy he had left to quickly roll to his left. The blade hit pebbles and dirt, striking with such force that it imbedded itself into the ground. Bishop realized his chance. Rebounding to his feet, the warrior gathered all the strength he could harness, then tightening his grip around the hilt of his broadsword, he made his attack.

Ogres aren’t typically a very smart race, and that did not exempt this beast. As he struggled frantically to free his blade, the ogre did not notice the human warrior making his approach from the flank. Before the dimwitted beast could do a thing it was already too late. 

Bishop swung the massive blade down upon the back of the ogre’s neck with as much force as he could harness. The ogre screamed in pain, but the job was not yet finished, as Bishop soon realized. The blade made a huge gash but the warriors intended infliction had not been accomplished. He hacked again, and again, the ogre roared and screamed horrifically as the scream faded into a gargle of sputtering blood. The job was almost done Bishop thought to himself and grinned a smile that would only be seen during a deathly battle. He made contact once more with the gigantic neck of the beast. There was a loud snap as the ogre’s spinal cord broke. The screaming gargle began to cease. Bishop giggled in ecstasy as he continued to hack and slash at the lifeless body. He could feel himself losing his grip on sanity, and saw what he was becoming, something that he saw his father become once, something he vowed never to become. He should have felt glad to survive such a duel, he should have felt some sort of remorse for the kill, but Bishop only felt annoyed that the fight had not lasted longer. Fighting, death and pain were nothing more than a drug to him, he craved it, he needed it, and he even loved it. 

As the half-crazed warrior lowered his broadsword, disgusted with himself, he realized he was drenched in the oily, murky blood of the ogre. Bishop then remembered the halfling. Walking over to the child like body sprawled out on the ground; he bent over and put the halfling over his shoulder. Bishop then carried him down to the water hole only a few minutes south. After washing the ogre blood from himself he rinsed the small body of the halfling in the stream then laid him down where they were to make camp for the night. The warrior collected sticks and paper wood and constructed a quick campfire for the night. By this time it was sun down and Bishop became hungry, leaving the halfling to slumber he took his hunting knife and scouted about the area. After catching his prey, a small rabbit he had captured and quickly broke its neck, Bishop settled down for his rabbit stew meal. Rabbit stew was his favorite recipe, 

‘Although not as good as Madam Marion’s rabbit stew,’ he thought fondly. Bishop slurped the remains of the stew down and made up his camp roll bedding. After checking on the still unconscious halfling, Bishop settled down for some sleep.

That night Bishop Mon-Durgoth dreamt, waking in the early hours again.

"What do they mean?" he asked himself before giving into slumber once more.