Clang! Smack! Thump!
The noise of battle echoed all around them, as the spectators roared the combatants on and the harp player strummed away with a fast-paced song adding to the ambience, and that strange man stood on the wall kept trying to sell suspicious slabs of meat from his muddied backpack.
It was the final of the tournament, with Sergeant Kildwin and Daphne going blow for blow with one another.
It hadn’t been the best turnout, but Furley had been impressed and surprised with the determination of his fellows in the Company, and of their calibre and ability they possessed in fighting when under the cosh. Anastasiar, arguably the surprise package of the day, had smashed through a Hobbit (although, on paper, that hardly sounded challenging but the little guy was indeed rather capable) and then taken Daphne in an action packed round robin, before bowing out against the Sergeant without shame and everything to be proud of.
Her new counterpart and newly betrothed, Amaken, had smashed his way through both the Sergeant AND the Commander in the heats, before Daphne had knocked him out in the semis, but he had also impressed and Furley looked on at their members with pride. Each and every one of them looked closer knit by the day, and though they were trying to knock one another’s heads off, they had done it very sportingly.
But here they were at the end of it all, with Daphne hammering at the Sergeant, who seemed off-form almost like a badly weighted dice wobbling its way across a roulette board, and the Sergeant taking blow upon blow, aiming counters which Daphne side stepped so flawlessly. Where did this side of her come from?
Internally, he allowed himself a grin as he saw the majority rooting against the beloved Sergeant. After all, everyone loved an underdog. The Sergeant was getting more and more heated, wilting under the pressure of her relentless onslaught, as she stabbed past his shield and really took it to him.
Then Furley’s head almost throbbed as he felt a sense of déjà vu; the Sergeant had howled in rage, and gone for his patented finishing move.
His head was travelling straight toward her skull.
And missed.
Furley’s jaw dropped, watching him stumble as she capitalised, driving him to the floor, sword at his neck, and the Sergeant was forced to yield.
Furley cheered.
The crowd went nuts.
The harpist jeered the Sergeant from some previous musical riff-off beef they had between each other.
Harold the pig was ecstatic with excitement and yelped for his mistress!
Grinning at the success of the tournament, and the joy it gave them all, he watched as the Commander presented her with one of the finest daggers he’d ever seen, but that note that they’d all received the week prior still burned in his pocket, and as the noise died down, he addressed the Company.
“Well done! Well done, all! What a tournament! And congratulations to Daphne, our winner!”
The crowd went nuts again. Damnit. Chuckling, he knew he had brought that interruption upon himself. As they finally died down, he addressed them once more, now conscious more than ever of that crinkled parchment burning in his pocket.
“I must say, I am remarkably impressed with you all. But this tournament had another reason behind it. You know we have ambitions to expand, and we are looking to push our influence and indeed secure more contracts further along the East Road, beyond the Misty Mountains into Rhovanion. My friends, we must look to Dale, and all that lies in-between it to establish a foothold in the East”.
They seemed reasonably excited by that, but then he paused. That’s when he felt the paper once more, and chewing his lip, he knew he had another proposition, but it may be too much to ask of them all.
The note Deorla had left them all, saying she was leaving. But her words before she had departed troubled him, and he knew where she was going that she was in serious peril. It was no coincidence he had made designs to expand to the East whilst that was her destination and she faced such a hard, dangerous road ahead, and he knew that she may have need of them as they had need of her. But he couldn’t demand it of them, and he knew he’d have to convince them to go and couldn’t command or force any of them that would be unwilling. This is why he knew he had to choose his next words carefully, whilst their fervour was at fever pitch.
“Commander Altheric and Sergeant Kildwin have been watching you all in order to better train you as a unit. They have been tasked to find us the safest route possible to the East. They will select any who volunteer among you and two parties will set forth, one over the Mountains and the other around the Mountains to the South to scout the most suitable passage for us all”.
Sighing to himself, he knew it was now or never. Reaching into his pocket, he pulled out the parchment and held it aloft.
“I have, in my hand, a piece of paper. From Deorla. Stating that-”
“Who the ‘eck are you? Identity yourself!” the Sergeant interrupted, and as they all looked at who on earth he was addressing, they beheld a man, staggering as fast as possible to their position.
“Is this the Company of the East Road?” he asked, with a thick southern accent. “I need to speak with Furley. It’s Deorla. I was part of the same party as her that, rode, East… through the Mountains. With General Dorvarun. Ambushed. We were ambushed. We. Agh! So many dead. De… before, I fell. She said to”
And then the man passed out.
