CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Long and lithe, four pointed eared humanoids advanced towards the dwarf and his hogs, accompanying mycelia quivering. He had snuffed his torch, but it was apparent how late the gesture came. He did not want to fight elves. Mind wracked, he snapped to Funguayou, it only shrugging, its own eyes distracted. So the dwarf shot his tired hands up over the boulder, cover it was, and called for mercy. He expected an arrow to fly--instead, the elves addressed him.

“Maintain those hands, hog boy!” called a voice.

“Thass right, and ‘ave your hogs put they hooves up likewise,” came another.

“‘Ow is he supposed to do that?” a third asked.

“Brothers, quiet. You!” the fourth declared with force. “We smell your animals, boy. Come peacefully if you do not wish them or yourself harmed.”

Cautiously, the dwarf craned his neck past cover to glimpse the situation: three bows, one focus. Ducking back, he demanded the lowering of their arms.

“And what sort of bargaining chip do you deploy, boy? Make this easy on yourself and step out. We are interested in clearing caves of infestation, not murder.”

The dwarf reminded of the ravine shootout.

“Tha’ was you?” admitted an astonished elf. “Cannot believe you survived.”

“No order was given,” continued the leader. “But, of interest, this one’s he who first loosened his arrow. And he’ll apologize.”

“Right. That wuz me, sorry and all. Not erryday sompin attempts to cross the chasm.”

“I assure you that came from his heart. Now step out, will you?”

The dwarf peered down at his companions for support and discovered Funguayou had fled. Indeed, its presence could not be identified anywhere--but, glancing at the mushroom capped corpses littered about, the dwarf sympathized. Waspig, in its place, offered a reinforcement by means of sharp exhale. But he could only stare at that which sprouted out his pet’s head. So the dwarf bent down and commanded it stay. Waspig knew nothing of this, and he realized he hadn’t taught such a trick. Despite the circumstances the dwarf still celebrated the reuniting of he and his creature--the idea of the elves responding gravely at first sight of the fungus stalk, that a future of training Waspig could be mercilessly snatched away yet again, scared him stiff. The dwarf grew agitated thinking once more of his newly made friend’s flee, suddenly then filled with inspiration. Shifting slow off the ground and onto Waspig, the dwarf directed his pet to fly back the way they came, the rest of his party soon flapping behind in mimicry of their leader. The lack of footsteps stayed the elves suspicions until far too late, the dwarf having since descended well on his way back towards the ruins of his own making; his own corpses. Though the darkness created many issues, three of them lost within the tunnels. Indeed, the dwarf’s new headcount came to four: Waspig, a wild haired hogsect, the tall but awkwardly slim one, and Funguayou. Funguayou? The dwarf surprised himself reaching out to grab his fungus as if it would bolt otherwise. The being complained immediately, berating the dwarf for his lack of charity. He gave in and released the captive.

“Hey, but we share no hard feelings, don’t we?” asked Funguayou. “You understand how they’d treat the likes of me. Didn’t expect you to go and make the same choice, but I’m guessing it’s to do with Waspig. What’s that? Obviously I know its name. Have you forgotten so soon? Now listen, you made the right call. They’d likely’ve skewered the poor thing the same as they’d do me. Oh, well all that on the table now--what do you make of it? You’ve a plan, buddy?”

The dwarf thought he’d shake his head yet remained still. He really didn’t want to fight elves. He looked over the wreckage caused days ago, the corpses stagnant but nonetheless unpleasant. Maybe they’d congratulate him on their slaying. Hollowness was inevitable, but it seemed a choice alternative to the skewering Funguayou stressed. The dwarf looked over the shingles that remained up in contrast to the many more floored. Some roofs appeared thatched. While Waspig bore still his strap, the bowl of sap had since been removed and nearly depleted by COOKING lessons. He rushed over to confirm whether leftovers survived and, pleased, the dwarf set about climbing and removing straw.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 24”

Funguayou approached the cooking site after its abandonment by the dwarf. It drew close to the still crackling flames and knelt close, utilizing their aid in lighting packed herb. It turned round and realized the company of the two other remaining hogs. Though it hadn’t yet informed the dwarf, the pigsect sporting wild locks now sported too the name Bathiel; the squeezed large sibling, Pistol. It knew other names for the survivors--of course, if they survived. A large inhale wrestled the lungs of the funguay-dwarf offshoot, strange organs they certainly were. The dwarf watched all this with curiosity, further set about dismantling the shanty town. He wondered what the cottage funguay would think of all this. Funguayou coughed again.

“ATHLETICS SKILL INCREASED TO 25”

Regrouped, the five disguised themselves in the darkness. Waspig took command of Bathiel and Pistol, the three smuggled under where the health potions had been found. Funguayou maintained a cozy position behind barrels yet smashed. The dwarf waited himself dead center of the assassin’s cliff. Their eavesdropping officially began the moment shuffling elven feet stirred rock and dust from above. Soon, the band approached, took to the edge one rank at a time from lowest upwards, the captain last, his view simmered. His eyes as well blinked, a stirring of color smothering his iris, an observation even possible from so low and afar. The dwarf wondered where their torches were.

“Getta load of all these ‘uns. Wuz it really ‘im?” asked the lowest ranking elf to the highest.

“Course not, yesse how shortan stubby ‘e wuz?” interjected their mutual middle.

“Course he did, ya mean. Did you see that bloodied mitt?” came the highest.

“Brothers,” reminded their leader. “Though Doetrieve speaks correct. This carnage can be of no other’s.”

Temptation lead the dwarf to consider poking his beard just a hair. But the blessing bestowed of those eyes yet capturing him would be squandered were he to tempt the gaze again. So he remained frozen, concentrating solely on catching the elvish language so casually his own.

“Can’t believe we lettem get away. Can’t believe ‘e bolted!” shouted an excited elf--again the bottom of the totem.

“Well? What’s we gonna do, brother, sir?” asked the middle ranking elf.

“Maintain this post, one of you will,” arrived his answer. “The rest of us will sweep. After, another post at its mouth. Two of us can cover the ravine end to end.”

The dwarf sweat.

“However,” continued the captain. “I regret the circumstances forcing these theatrics. I have no intention of arresting the dwarf.”

“Dwarf, brother, sir?” asked Doetrieve.

“What! No one informed me ‘e wuz a dwarf of all things!” came an exasperated greenhorn.

“You mean you di’n’t catch ‘is beardan bald?” asked, for reasons different, an equally exasperated officer just above him. “Your mother never read you the right stories growin’ up.”

“Hoh, Giltgrief, why don’t you leave ‘er out from this afore I forget the fairy tale boy and find a different target for me shaft,” boomed Doetrieve in defense.

At this, Giltgrief snickered. His opposite grew red. Their commander cleared his throat.

“In any case, no one will be loosening any bows,” he affirmed. “The Ponderous Tree will wish to see him.”

The dwarf pondered this himself in silence. His immediate thoughts drifted to first a large oak tower alive and soaring beyond its siblings; then, an individual possibly similar to strung out gas station shoppers he’d witnessed many of on occasion. More importantly, the dwarf released the straps of a burden he felt had crushed his lungs, its weight crashing imaginatively behind him: they weren’t going to try to have him killed. He wanted to trust this. He with unbelievable affirmation did not wish to fight the elves.

The dwarf unstashed himself and came out from cover...

An unbelievable radiation of gold danced from leaf to limb to grass and cone as the elves exited the highest tunnel of the cavern, their feet avoiding ever having tread among the bones of their brothers. Behind them, a wave of tiny winged creatures emerged from the cave rapidly into the thick shade offered by a majority of the vast green forest. Finally came the dwarf and his hogs, three, Funguayou’s trace unseen. So he, Bathiel and Pistol strode out one after another. Then came, of which the elves had declared enormously strange, Waspig, his mushroom outfitted with sap stuck straw, meekly trod out from darkness. The dwarf wasn’t sure whether to decide on hat or deformity but, thankfully, they never asked.

The exit lay surprisingly near the vast ditch still stretching on from side to side, a new appreciation for it found in the dwarf. He thought about the sole survivor, that dripping with mud wolf nowlikely fending for itself alone. Taking aside an elf, he asked of their species.

“Uh? I dunno. Mudkips I reckon.” And of his Waspig: “Whate’er you like. I call ‘em swinesects, or jus’ hogs. Sowsmith calls ‘em mother, don’tcha Sow.” At this, Sowsmith’s face turned red, and he looked at his feet strapped in sandals. His torso and legs both came covered by one all encompassing fabric, one large darker colored sash crossing diagonally, the outfit seeming somewhat like a bathrobe, the dwarf theorized. Sowsmith’s gi glistened in marine blue, Doetrieve and Giltgrief’s green. Only the captain contrasted monochrome, his clothes chalk white. Ribbons tied the gis together and, blowing together as brothers in the wind, his--the captain’s--hair danced longer in the wind than any of his three subordinates. He bore one bow and one blade, and from his neck hung a talisman. This struck the dwarf funny, thinking of his father and the corroded cross often worn. Eventually he, ogled, returned the far shorter peerer’s gaze with a glare. The dwarf dropped his eyes, wondering how he’d appear in their strange elven clothing and what color he’d like it. Waspig oinked, mushroom bobbing incognito.

The group--that is, the dwarf, the four elves, Waspig and two Waspig-likes--retreated away from the unending cliff face and towards, as the dwarf came to learn, elven civilization. On their way more and more trees began to distort into the shape of shrooms, dozens of wooden webs supporting roofs flared green. Still regular oaks and such as the dwarf knew growing up remained in vast numbers. Massive, dominating variants continued to reach up into the heavens holding firm a ceiling, its expanse left to as much imagination as the great ravine. Small ponds and creeks began to spring up and about, and more species of insects introduced themselves to the dwarf and his beard. Soon a path of dirt woven with miniature vines, a pattern spiraling out forwards invitingly, twisted into their treading. The party assumed this road and, thirty minutes of hiking after, arrived at the imposing wooden gates of what the elves immediately confirmed as home. The captain waved, two more of his blue men appeared, and the gate gradually allowed the guest, his pets, and the newly made, jagged-eared friends to enter. Passing, the dwarf reflected. These weren’t thin church doors.

Inside, a row of girthy trees and other obfuscating vegetation outlined an amorphous shape eclipsing a canal running beneath the settlement, bridges of trunk and vine overhead. Topology ebbed and flowed, rose and fell, a variety of homes atop it all making use of the large quantities of stalks of the earth--sugarcane. Many mixed wood and rock with the chartreuse binding agent creating solid cane foundations of which second and third stories came about, and others took to solely one material, their homes hanging high a few levels in ATHLETICS away. The water eventually ran into a lake of which neighbored a beach alive with elven activity. Many other villagers took to the streets still intertwined with vine, young children with ears just as sharp scattered about nets in hand. And everything seemed so much greener here than possibly anywhere the dwarf had ever seen before--and his farm during the summer broiled in legitimate emerald. He somewhat felt nauseated.

“The Ponderous Tree,” spoke the captain loud, “is deeper within the woods. But tonight, as the sun will soon fall, you and your pork will be put up in our fine care. Sowsmith,” he said, turning to Sowsmith, “will ensure a proper feast be fed in honor of our wronged guest. Will you?” he added. Sow saluted and took off. The captain continued: “Doe is my second-in-command, you will be in good service as he escorts you to your quarters for the night. I advise you make use of the facilities available--relax yourself. When the sun decides dusk Doetrieve will come for you--that will mean our meal. Understood, dwarf? Doetrieve?” Doetrieve saluted. “I unfortunately will not be joining you,” admitted the elven leader. “I will undertake informing The Ponderous of your arrival. No need for such visage--I bear the responsibility proudly. We will meet again soon, dwarf.”

The captain bowed and dismissed himself. Doetrieve drew up to the dwarf and at once led him and his four legged followers to a glass walled, leaf topped hotel of such immeasurable quality the dwarf was not so sure he hadn’t taken an arrow after all. Shown directly to his room, the dwarf entered with swinesects in tow, a corner overflowing with cushions and pillows as offering towards Waspig and co. The dwarf managed his way past the sudden forming commotion of rapid wing fluttering and into the connected bathhouse, a tub sealed in polished wood sporting smoking water the dwarf dared approach and, rewarded, soaked and shut his eyes as soon as inclined...

“Dwarf. Awake? Hello. Dwarf.”

Awake, the dwarf splashed his pruned body up out from the bathhouse and into the nearest towel, wrapping his form for the first time since blanketed beneath a mossy roof. Pounding rhythm continued with further calls of the dwarf’s name, but he’d not especially left the trance his heavy dream had brought him under, and so his operating came mechanical at best. Dried off, he pulled a drawer open and obtained a gi of his own. But his arms couldn’t fit, and the thing wouldn’t really wrap around his body. The dwarf realized the elves had not made any special comment towards his nakedness, and only then considered he had, in fact, in this elven settlement, spotted several elves just as shameless. This reddened his face only just recovered from the steaming.

“Dwarf. Dwarf. Dwarf. Les go, alright. I’ve to barge in?”

Nude and sprouting hair from ear to toe, the dwarf drew back the sliding door. Some time later he, his pets, and Doetrieve entered the dining hall assembled on the bank of the lake, boats and crafts drifting lazily. Elves, clothed and indeed naked, cluttered the area with a striking similarity to his family’s vacation destination, its beach pecked with holes bearing towels. But nowhere near as fantastic could they, his family, have ever eaten, the wall of crystal soon all around the dwarf glittering a pulse of saturated colors upon both water and diners. The dwarf took his seat in a corner to which a few bowls decorated the floor, pigbugs left loose on the elven equivalent of kibble. Doetrieve waved over Giltgrief and the two dined with their stout guest. More seats soon filled, and a variety of courses came served by wide eyed tall legged waitresses, the dwarf feeling like a spectacle, redness returning. The food consisted of a variety of grilled vegetables and mushrooms--some breaded--and noodles and warm broth and in fact breads not disagreeably unlike corn. The dwarf ate with such warm joy in his heart he at once felt back at the farm table with both mother and father present, a distant feeling not quite lost. The waitresses, skipping by with platters heavy, began then serving meat. The undeniable scent of roasted pork filled the air and long had the dwarf already guessed at the source when a plate garnished in stinger slid beneath his beard. While the festivities around him glowed, he sat at a table with his father on the other end, a bowl of burnt slop served with a fork and snoring drunk.

“‘Ow you hangin’ there little ‘un?” asked Giltgrief. “Face seems a shade grade, dunnit?”

“Gilt’s right, git he is,” agreed his higher ranking officer. “What, don’t eat pig just cuz you’ve some yer own ‘uh?”

The dwarf agreed with Giltgrief, excusing himself from the table and staggering along until kneeling and vomiting into the water, a vibrancy of colors splashing and swirling with his bile. A couple of elven women baring witness began expelling pork back into their plates, and a waitress slipped on a smidge across the floor sending her into the water with thirteen dishes and seven mugs of beer. The entire dinner plunged into chaos as the dwarf recovered and continued his exit, Waspig, Bathiel and Pistol behind. Before long the group returned to the fine hotel, and the dwarf sealed himself back within the broiling tomb...

“Dwarf! Open up at once.”

Awake, the dwarf splashed his pruned body up out from the bathhouse and into the adjoined living quarters, soaked. Pounding rhythm continued with further calls of his name, and he’d not half recognized the voice until the dwarf’s door burst out from its hinges against glass, Doetrieve and his captain entering among stray shards. The latter immediately addressed the dripping mess before him:

“By the order of The Ponderous Tree, you are under arrest.”