Paul, the Dwarf Ranger's feet ran swiftly through the underbrush, his breath in sync with his steps, quietly sprinting toward the edge of the forest. He heard the battle horns once again in the distance. Within moments he reached the forest's edge, looking out over the Eastern plain and the land of Dagobath, the river Dreyden running through its shallow central valley. His breath caught up in swift, separated drags and puffs, chest heaving under his light, brown-and-green leather armor, as he focused intensely on his search for the source of the horns he had heard just minutes ago. Finally, his eyes fixed on a group of Elven warriors riding on horseback over the edge of a distant hill. He sighed a breath of relief that they weren't Orcs or one of the tribes of men from the South. What are they hunting? he wondered silently. He scanned the horizon once more. Elves weren't known to go out on parade, and battle horns weren't to be taken lightly. Then he saw them: coming out of the South region of the woods of Goren, a pack of Orcs on the backs of beasts he'd never seen before, with razor sharp teeth and nappy fur, barely tamed and ferocious. That's their quarry, he thought to himself, stroking his long, braided black beard. He decided to kneel and rest while he watched the battle begin, arrows whizzing from the Elven company and hitting their targets with a distinctive "pop" or "thack" - some Orcs fell off their beasts, some beasts keeled over with a thud and a roar of pain. These Elves were definitely expert marksmen, never wasting a single arrow. Paul pulled a small spyglass out of his knapsack and inspected the Elven ranks to see where they came from. As he inspected their armor, which appeared to be gold or brass in the shining sun, he noted their banner was a light blue - Elves from the Eastern forest of Dar-Haman. "Hmmphh," grunted Paul, "How did they know to come here in search of Orcs? Even I..." - something stopped him. He heard a crack of a branch or twig behind him and quickly turned about to face none other than Dithandril the Blue Wizard. "Dithandril!" he exclaimed in a whisper. "What are you doing here?"
"Hunting Orc... with the help of a few friends," replied Dithandril with a smirk on his face.
"I see that!" torted Paul. "Why have they ventured out this far?"
"I'm not sure, but our friends from Dar-Haman will soon take care of them."
Paul was secretly ashamed of himself that he, a ranger, would be so easily snuck-up-on by Dithandril in the woods he often called home. But then, he was sprinting just moments ago. Ah well, he thought, but how did he know to come here? Wizards are uncommonly good at being in the right place at the right time...that's for sure.
"We need your help, Paul"
"My help? What for?"
"The ancient ruins of the fortress of Durien-Dolast have been overrun by Orcs and Goblins. It is now standing as an outpost of evil in our world, and it must be cleansed, completely destroyed if necessary. You're the only one's who's been there, and who knows the lay of the land. Would you help us?"
"A Dwarf Ranger, a company of Elves, and the great Blue Wizard? Together on an adventure of some sort? Are you quite sure about this?"
"Yes. Yes I am."
Paul sighed. "I feel a bit odd about the whole matter, Dithandril. Quests aren't exactly my thing, you know - I try to live a peaceful existence here, keeping watch over the Western Woods. If I'm gone, who will take my place?"
"There are others in these lands who have as keen an interest as you in watching over hill and vale, mountain and valley, wood and prairie... you would not be missed for long."
"I see."
Paul seemed deep in thought for the moment, then finally said, "Well, then, we best be off!"
"HaHA! I knew I could count on you, my friend! Now, let's go see what the Elves have found."
Paul looked back over the plain, seeing that the Elves had finished off the Orc troop with relative ease, no casualties to be found among them. They appeared to be searching the Orcish corpses for loot or some such thing. Dithandril and Paul made their way down, along the edge of the forest towards the Elves, and the Elven Captain rode out to meet them on his beautiful, pure white horse. "Greetings Dithandril! This must be Paul, the Dwarf Ranger!"
"Aye," said Paul. "That would be me."
"Has he agreed to join our company?"
"Yes he has, and we're lucky to have him," said Dithandril. "What have you found?"
"Mostly Goblin hooks, but I was surprised to find this among them..." - He pulled out a short sword with a black hilt and grip - this was not of Human, nor Orcish, nor Goblin manufacture, for certain.
"What is that?" Asked Paul.
"That, my friend, is not of this world," said Dithandril.
"It was made during the time of the demons of ancient times, weapons made to take our lands for the kingdom of Lucifer himself," said the Elven Captain.
"This does not bode well for us," said Dithandril gravely, "But we must push on to Durien-Dolast before more damage is done."
"Indeed. My name is Ondrius, Paul. I report to Lord Dalron in the Elven city of Magen-Shulam. He has personally endorsed this quest of ours, and has equipped our company well for our journey. Have you a horse?"
"Aye," said Paul. Paul turned, stuck two fingers in his mouth and blew hard, letting out a loud whistle. Down came running and whinnying a small brown horse, almost a pony, with a shiny, brownish blond mane and gentle eyes, but spirited and sprightly, from the forest edge to meet him. He gently touched her nose and whispered sweetly in her ear. "This," he said proudly, "is Eloha, my good friend and companion."
"She's a wonderful horse!" said Dithandril.
"Indeed," said Ondrius. "Shall we move along? Dithandril, your horse will be waiting for you in camp."
That evening, they set up camp at the forest's edge, burning the bodies of the Orcs and beasts on a bonfire, but, of course, doing their cooking over the smaller campfire set up near the horses. The smell, not to mention the taste, of burning Orc would turn any stomach. Paul shifted his weight often during the night's meal, not quite comfortable with the idea of eating with Elves, although they did offer him the best portion. Shorter and wider than anyone else in the company, he didn't feel he fit in very well, but he tried not to allow the rifts between dwarves and elves to get in the way of developing friendships. After all, as a ranger he was one of an elite few dwarves who ever left the mines and underground kingdoms of their birth. He had a different perspective on things than his mining bretheren. The night's conversation was centered mostly around the afternoon's battle and the mysterious black blade, but one Elf spoke up and asked Paul, "So, Dwarf Ranger, what of your adventures in the wood? Have you any tales to tell?"
Paul grunted and shifted his weight a bit again, then spoke up, "Well, lads, I've been up and down the Blue Mountains more times than I could count, hunting in the forests, keeping watch o'er things in general... as for adventures, I remember once taking a few of my kin on a trip around the Dark Swamp and into the Troll caves of the Misty Mountain's foothills, searching for treasure. We found a good sized chest-full, all told, and slew five troll, at that."
"How many of you were there?" asked an Elf sitting across the fire from him.
"Twelve of us, including myself."
"Impressive!" said the Elf, raising both eyebrows.
By next morning's light, the company packed up and left that place, heading up through the forest trail towards Durien-Dolast. Birds whistled, flitting through the air around them. Paul sighed, feeling right at home in the wilds as the group trotted along. He couldn't help but think about what Dithandril said about the strange blade - what kind of evil was waiting for them at Durien-Dolast? He didn't want to know, but he prepared himself in prayer, something that he had always done to keep in touch with his Creator, and unafraid of whatever might come his way. And if he ever was afraid, he knew Who was bigger than his fears. A bit of rain started to sprinkle on the company, and Paul heard Dithandril groan up ahead - he didn't like rain. Paul had to smile at that one. Even the great Blue Wizard had his soft spots - maybe that just made him a mortal like himself. The Elves, on the other hand, were a strange lot - apparently immortal unless killed in battle, and enigmatic - always mysterious in their motives.
At last, they came upon a great tree, its bark inscribed in ancient Elvish at about eye-level for a man. "What does it say?" asked Paul. "It says, 'Take the Eastern road to Durien-Dolast'," replied the Elven Captain. "We'll set up camp just over the next hill. We'll want to be well rested for the battle ahead. Durien-Dolast is only 12 miles from here." Everyone slept well that night, surprisingly - as the night watch heard sounds from the distant mountain fortress ahead - Orcs and Goblins screeching.
At last, they came upon a great tree, its bark inscribed in ancient Elvish at about eye-level for a man. "What does it say?" asked Paul. "It says, 'Take the Eastern road to Durien-Dolast'," replied the Elven Captain. "We'll set up camp just over the next hill. We'll want to be well rested for the battle ahead. Durien-Dolast is only 12 miles from here." Everyone slept well that night, surprisingly - as the night watch heard sounds from the distant mountain fortress ahead - Orcs and Goblins screeching.
...
[Paul dies at the end, saving his companions' lives and winning the battle at Durien-Dolast.]
[The elves sing this song at the end of the story:]
Over the moutains,
upon the hills,
and through the forests,
he took vigils.
That day we saw him,
at Durien,
Dolast bidding,
his blood to spill.
We will remember,
Paul the spry,
for he saved us,
and gave his life.
