Being the continued record of Applecider Bolingbroke, for debriefing & delineation by the Honorable Bounders at the Hunt’s conclusion (these methods are not in the Rubric) ...
* * *
“We has before us, gentlemen,” I says, “an Opportunity Most Rare an’ Exceptional ... I do believes we could access the Gobbo caves uncommonly easy-like.”
“Go on ...” Mister Halros were listenin’, cautiously.
“We gots here some Gobbos what nae be in need of their sartorial means anymore. We gots a couple o’ Gobbo-sized creatures what can screech up a racket when they wants to.”
“One who certainly can, at any rate,” Lance says, drily.
“Think of it!” I were improvising, but the essentials were there. “Two screechy Gobbos out in the Wood, armed with a paralyzing Gook. They meets a Green-Hood, an’ waylays him.”
“They take the Man to the Goblin encampment,” Mister Halros were pickin’ up on the theme. “Bound, perhaps, with a simple slip-knot under one hand. One that might come off if you look away for an instant – clumsy half-wits.”
“At camp, they insist upon hiding him in the cave, for secrecy.” Lance were mulling on a Plot Twist. “Then once inside, the knot comes off –"
“Whop any real Gobbos nearby us – Bob’s your uncle, Matilda’s your aunt – We gots free run o’ the place!”
Lance glanced at our Green-Hood. The Honorable Bounders' Rubric dinnae include askin’ a bloke ter feign captivity. Mister Halros (rather to our surprise) approved the maneuver almost at once. He muttered somethin’ about things they’ll nae teach you in Ranger-training, but t’were his vote what sealed the deal.
Lance an’ meself proceeded with our transformation.
Livin’ out every Hobbit-child’s dream we rolled in dirt, smearin’ mud all over our faces, till we was grubby as pigs. Screechy Gobbo clothes smell riper than Barrow Brie. An’ their helms be the most uncomfy headwear I ever wore. But as our curly hair would give us away, we grit our teeth, wrapped big hankies ‘round our heads, put the unwieldy helms on, an’ armed ourselves for the foray.
The result were a SIGHT, if I do say so. No denyin’ that lookin’ each other over, we laughed like Tweens at the absurdity – So did Mister Halros: We stood there, an’ we laughed an’ laughed. – Probably ter cover fer the apprehension. This were the maddest idea I ever had, an’ thar be sayin’ somethin’ ....
* * *
We tied a simple slip-knot a few times, an’ Mister Halros got comfortable with the wrist motion he’d need ter snap it. From the Gobbo remains, we "bloodied" 'im up a touch fer effect. Knives under his cloak, with his hood pulled up to make him appear deprived of vision, he set off, affecting an unsteady stagger, as if he’d been nicked with a dose o’ the Gook. Lance carried the Green-Hood’s bow like a trophy, in easy reach of him, an' me his sword.
Cackling with raspy screeches, we prodded the Big Lad through the forest with pokey spears.
All were going splendidly.
So naturally, stands ter reason it all flew apart at once.
* * *
We’d rounded a bend in the Wood. An' we were JUST within sight o’ the elusive Gobbo camp, when the song of a nuthatch trilled from some ways off in the thick o’ the forest.
“Anárion help us ...” Mister Halros twitched at the sound of it. “... Hurry.”
“What do?” I mumbled, between cacklings. The forest were full of birdsong.
“Rangers.” Mister Halros kept his voice low, an’ urgent. “The camp’s under surveillance!”
“... Oh my giddy aunts, and we’re ... Goblins with a captured Ranger in tow.” Lance kept his cool enough to whisper, but he doubled the pokey-rate with his spear. “They’re coming to rescue him!”
The real Gobbos, at the edge of the encampment, by now had spotted us. An’ they were coming out with many a proper screech to meet us.
Then – from the opposite direction of the nuthatch – came the song of a hermit thrush.
Halros swore. “Take my arms, pull me,” he hissed. “Get us inside: RUN!”
The first arrow flew from the foliage as we neared the barricade. The shot were a long one, but it struck ground only a few feet behind us.
T’were our own enemies what saved us, paradoxically. Gobbos swarmed all around us, yipping, pawing at our prize, an’ pointing at figures moving in the trees. Desperate to save their fellow, nearly a dozen Big Folk in Green Hoods suddenly burst from the forest with weapons drawn, an’ raced fer the Gobbos.
Half the Gobbos charged.
Half went into retreat.
Lance an’ I shoved Mister Halros into the middle of everyone, lettin’ the mob sweep us forward. We surged over the threshold, an’ heard furious bellows of despair from the Rangers outside in the Wood, as the crude log door slammed shut behind us.
Lance, Halros, an’ I rode the surge of Gobbos all ‘round us: We swept through a makeshift open-air “cookery” made from a hodge-podge of crude tables, small keg barrels, GIANT SPIDER CARCASSES ...... an’ crackling fires, over which boiled more pots o’ Gobbo-de-Gook.
Toward the back of the camp, a fissure in the very hillside led into what looked to be an abandoned mineshaft. The walls of rock rose up, an’ the arms o’ the earth were all around us.
We was inside the caves.
* * *
Mister Halros stumbled in the dull light. But we Hobbits be second only to Beardie Dorfs in matters of bein’ at home underground – Lance an’ I kept our bearings, an’ kept ‘im upright in the hectic throng, until the tunnel widened a bit, giving onto a more open cavern.
A couple scruffy excuses fer Big Folk sat in the smoky lantern light. An’ I knew one of ‘em.
Will Tuffin – The ringleader o’ the cretins Lance an’ I drove off Dwaling last winter!! – had a new job, apparently: From what we could see, he were now caretaker o’ the Underground.
“What the devil-?”
Yanking back the hood of our “catch,” the miscreant gaped. Then ‘e burst out laughing, sprayin’ spittle everywhere.
Halros (no more expectin’ Tuffin than the other way round) could nae help ‘imself: He head-smashed ‘is former captor so hard the thug toppled over backward.
Tuffin lurched to ‘is feet an’ grabbed up a knife – Lance an’ I both lay hand to our weapons fer a terrifyin’ instant: I thought we’d have to blow our cover an’ spoil everything – But fer the second time in as many minutes, our own enemies interceded for us:
Screechy Gobbos were swarmin’ around us, all yipping “Tak! Tak! Tak!” (which I guess were Gobbo for “Attack” ... meanin’ the Green-Hoods outside the encampment).
“Grimclaws and spitfire!” Tuffin bawled, slapping down his knife an’ pickin’ up a sword. “GET BACK OUT THERE AND WARD THEM OFF!! NO ONE gets near the Trove!!” He an’ his thug mates then proceeded to cat-herd as many Gobbos as possible back up the tunnels, pausin’ only long enough to glare at Halros.
“Give him to the Queen.”
* * *
