Of Archery and Stuff

[Draken]

My first (and maybe last!) fanfic...not very serious I'm afraid!

Part One:

I drew back the long bow slowly, smoothly. I felt the tension build in the bowstring, the smooth slide of the arrow shaft over my left thumb. Back I drew the string until it kissed my lips. I could feel the power harnessed in it. My left arm steady, I took aim at the tree trunk some fifty yards hence. With the slightest movement of the fingers of my right hand I let the string slip from my fingers. With a whistling rush the arrow arced away and slammed with a deep thud into the tree. Well, into A tree. A tree some way to the right of the one I’d aimed at.

“Sod it!” I shouted, throwing the bow down. “Bloody thing must be bent.”

“Hmmm.” A dapper figure clad in russet brown looked up from a set of parchments. “Bad luck old chap. You’re getting better though. Keep at it, eh?”

I glowered first at him and then the bow.

“Just my luck,” I muttered under my breath. But loudly enough, obviously.

“What’s just your luck, old bean?”

I sighed. “Nothing, Jacko, nothing…well…it’s just you read about this sort of thing all the time. Swirling magical vortex opens up, you step through it and wham you’re in Middle Earth.”

Jacko nodded. “Same here, though of course in my case I didn’t so much step as dive through in the bird.” He looked across, as he often did, at the crashed Spitfire up on the outcrop. “So…why just your luck, hmm?”

“Well the idea is you end up Minas Tirith or Rivendell or Edoras. If you’re a girl you get to shag Legolas, if you’re a bloke you screw Arwen.”

“Ah.” Jacko put on his wordly wise look, which was always irritating. “And here you are stuck in the Misty Mountains with some chap from your own history books.”

I managed a weak smile. “It’s not you. It’s just being so far from the action. And knowing I’d be sod all good if there WAS any.” I looked disconsolately at the long bow.

Jacko looked back down at his parchments. “It’s not all a barrel of laughs for me, old chap. There’s a war to win you know, and here I am in some fictional world. Not just that, but a fictional world that hasn’t even been published yet, as far as I’m concerned. It all sounds like the plot of some ludicrous story.”

We looked at each other uneasily and I cleared my throat. “Anyway…I suppose it’s not all dull. Sauron’s right hand will be stretching out and all that. This lot will need some help.” I nodded at the elves and dwarves arguing more-or-less good naturedly over which trees the dwarves could fell in the woods below their new settlement.

Jacko nodded while thoughtfully stroking his handlebar moustache. “I’ll say.” He looked up the valley to where the trees gave way to bare grey rock, with fissures and ravines set in deep, menacing shadows. “You say those peaks are crawling with Jerry, hmm?”

“Orcs, Jacko, crawling with orcs. Not Germans.”

“Ah,” he commented, not looking convinced. “Either way, these chaps really should move out from here. Sitting ducks, you know.” He looked warily at the peaks above us. “Never give the enemy the advantage of height.”

I shrugged. “This woodland is sacred to the elves. Those really big trees in the middle are mallorns, the northernmost stand of them, they won’t abandon them. The dwarves have set their minds on re-opening that old garrison of theirs from the Orc Wars and they’re a stubborn bunch.”

Jacko looked unimpressed by the logic. “And you found that from all those meetings you’ve been having with them?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Bloody good job they speak English, what?”

“Yes, well never mind that. The fact remains we’re not that far from the Moria gate and there’s a zillion orcs in there. If even a fraction of them head this way we’re right in it. We need to figure how to stop them, or survive, or both. Now you’re in the RAF and I once won a game of Diplomacy, we MUST be able to figure a decent strategy between us.”

Yet again he looked wistfully at the pranged Spitfire. “If I could get the Spit in the air again I dare say that would help.”

I sighed. “We’ve been through this before, mate. Even if we could fix her there’s no aviation spirit in Middle Earth.” I looked again at the plane. “Uh Jacko, where’s the undercarriage?”

“What? Oh I lent it to the dwarves, they want to tinker. You’re right about the aviation spirit of course old chap. But the guns are fully functional and there’s quite a bit of ammo left….”

[Draken]

Part Two:

We were interrupted by the ending of the council in the nearby clearing. The leaders of the two groups came over to us, their manner, as ever, cool in each other’s presence. Eredorn, the captain of the elves, gestured me to one side while Norri, the leader of the dwarves, made for Jacko. “Pilot Officer Jackson,” he rumbled. “Tell me more about the thunder sticks of which you spoke.”

“Thunder sticks old bean? I rather think you mean Hispano-Suiza 20mm cannon.…”

We left them to it. “A good council?” I asked Eredorn. “It seemed amicable enough from here.”

The elf smiled slightly. “Amicable enough. We have agreed that they may thin the woods on the upper slopes. It will aid the stronger trees there. And well we know they will need fuel for their forges – I fear we will soon be needing all the dwarven steel we can find.”

I knew he wanted to say more. “What is it Eredorn?”

“Our bearded allies had a skirmish with a party of orcs last night. Just over there, by that stand of cedar.”

“They’ve never ventured that far before,” I commented.

“They test our defences. I fear they will attack in earnest soon.” The elven warrior frowned. “And our friends refuse to join us further down the valley.”

I nodded. “No need to tell me. I’ve tried with Norri as much as you have. All I get is: these are the halls of our fathers and we shall not lightly abandon them again, no orcs shall ever pass our entrance gate… etcetera, etcetera.”

Eredorn sighed. “I don’t doubt it. However, the orcs don’t need to pass their gates. They can simply bottle Norri within his halls and move on to assault us.”

I looked down at the two cabins Jacko and I had made on the edge of the woodland, facing the valley that wound steeply down from the mountains. Well I say cabins, more like huts. Well, I say huts, more like bits of wood held together with rope. “Don’t worry Eredorn,” I grinned. “We’ll hold ‘em back from Fort Matchwood there.”

Eredorn permitted himself a smile. “Jesting apart, you and Pilot Officer Jackson are two extra swords. You should join my people in the woods. Your…erm…dwellings are too far from both ourselves and the dwarves.”

“Hey, I’m not overly attached to that leaky hovel. I can’t speak for Jacko, but that sounds a good idea.”

***

[Draken]

Part Three:

Jacko hummed and hawed about accepting the elves’ offer. He was perched on the starboard wing of the Spitfire, his much-scribbled-upon parchments strewn around him. He had borrowed some chisels from the dwarves and had used them to prise a couple of the aluminium panels from the top of the wing. He didn’t seem too interested in moving house, so I pressed him on the matter, to his evident irritation.

“Listen old chap, feel free to taking lodgings where you will. I just don’t like leaving the Spit.” I glowered at the aircraft. “Look Jacko nobody loves antique British warplanes more than me. I mean I’m a ‘Friend of the Canberra B(I)8’ in a museum somewhere. But you’re being far too sentimental….”

“Am I indeed?” retorted Jacko indignantly. “Listen, old chap, you may well have colour disc players and compact television and all those other things you talk about, but I know a thing or two myself, thank you very much. I’m very happy in my hut and I’m not abandoning the Spit to the Hun just yet, call me sentimental if you will.”

“They are NOT ‘huns’ they are ORCS!” I snapped.

“To use your own phraseology: WHATEVER!” he stormed, turning on his heel and marching off.

I hated falling out with Jacko. Firstly, he was good company. Secondly, he was the only person in Middle Earth who could play chess or shove ha’penny or conkers. But I’ve never been good at backing down so I just scowled, packed my meagre belongings and left, if not in a high dudgeon, then certainly in a middle-sized one.

***

[Draken]

Part Four:

As luck would have it, the attack happened that night. The first I knew about it was being awoken in my new quarters high up in a mallorn tree by a clattering of footsteps and shouting. I jumped up and slipped on my leather jerkin and leggings and snatched up the sword the elves had presented me with before (rather optimistically) slinging my long bow and a quiver-full of arrows over my shoulder.

Still not fully awake I stumbled onto the walkway that spiralled around the tree, the occasional elegant arched footbridge linking it with neighbouring tree dwellings. Those bridges were bustling with elven archers hurrying to and fro. I spotted Eredorn coming along the walkway I was on, speaking urgently with a grim-faced company of his warriors.

“Eredorn, mate, what’s happening?” I asked him, trying to buckle on my sword belt. “And do you have one of these in a 34 inch waist? Seems a bit tight….”

“War drums above us!” he replied. “And a dwarven horn sounded out then fell silent. The attack is nigh upon us, and I fear the dwarves’ watch posts have been over-run already.”

“Bloody hell, Jacko is still sulking in his hut!” I blurted. “We need to help the dwarves and get him out of there!”

Eredorn raised a hand. “My best archers are being assembled and sent to the far edge of the woods, there to offer what help they can. If the Pilot Officer still lives they will find him. But we will offer the dwarves our arrows alone – we are not clad in armour. It is not our way to meet in open battle. Let the orcs venture into our woods and we will slay them, but we will not take the fight into the open.”

“Just my luck,” I muttered. “Special Forces elves…OK, I’m going with them, Jacko’s a mate.”

Eredorn nodded. “Very well. Go with Findathil here, and may your arrows fly true.”

His lieutenant Findathil gestured me to follow him down the spiralling walkway, brushing past in his haste to descend. As I followed him I heard Eredorn calling after me. “To be on the safe side, could you stand a little way in FRONT of my warriors when you fire that bow?”

The company of archers numbered only a score, if you counted me (which they didn’t). As we hastened the half mile or so to the edge of the woods the menacing tattoo of the orc’s war drums, the clash of steel and the cries of battle grew louder. The woodland thinned and we drew close to the cabins. The night was clear and after the blackness of the woods the gibbous moon was bright enough to illuminate much of the surrounding landscape. The dwarven stronghold was out of sight around a spur, but a dark mass of figures could be seen at the bend of the river. Many were marching towards us. A couple of worryingly large shapes hulked among them.

“They are moving against us,” observed Findathil calmly. “I would suggest you find the Pilot Officer.”

I dashed across to the cabins. Or rather cabin. Jacko’s hut was still there, but mine had been dismantled and turned into a tiny square stockade. “Cheeky bugger!” I thought as I sprinted over. Jacko himself was standing by the new construction, looking totally impervious to the danger he was putting us both in.

“Ah hello!” he greeted airily. “How’s the new billet? Nice night for it, what?”

“Jacko!” I spluttered. “What are you playing at? Get your arse in gear and get back into the woods with me!”

He turned away and calmly pulled aside one of the panels of fencing he had turned my hut into.

“You flap too much, old son. Calm down and give me a hand, could you?”

I clapped one hand to my forehead in frustration. “Are you off your head? Stop faffing and run, NOW!”

Next instant I heard the familiar twang of elven bows and the rush of flights arcing not very far overhead. I glanced back at the woods. “Heck, steady on, lads! What are they shooting at anyway?”

Jacko peered around the stockade and looked faintly concerned. “Erm, at them, I think. Deceptively fast over the ground, aren’t they?”

I followed his gaze to see the first wave of orcs no more than 50 yards away. A few fell to the elven arrows, but the rest pressed on undaunted.

“Bloody hell!” I yelled wittily, un-shouldering the long bow.

“Yes, had counted on having a little more time,” agreed Jacko. “Be a good chap and hold the Bosch off a minute, would you?”

“Orcs! They’re orcs, NOT Germans!” But there was no more time for arguing. I moved into the shadow of the stockade, notched an arrow, aimed and fired. An orc fell…five yards to the left of the one I was aiming at, but hey, they all count. A further volley of elven arrows thinned the attackers’ ranks further, but then the survivors were upon us. I threw down the bow and drew my sword.

Findathil’s lads were playing a blinder, picking off orcs even as they got within striking range of us. But eventually a snarling orc reached me: I parried its swinging blow and countered, striking its small hand shield. Again it struck, but I dodged back and thrust, catching it on the shoulder. Hissing furiously, its grotesque face twisted with anger, the orc leapt at me…and straight onto a further thrust from my sword.

I heard a noise behind me. Whirling round I saw an orc sneaking behind to try and surprise me. My sword swung around and cut it down. A third orc popped its head around the corner of the stockade – next instant the head lay severed on the ground.

“Hey this is ok!” I shouted to Jacko. “This lot are pants!” Then I looked up. “Oh sh….”

[Draken]

Part Five (and last!):

A cave troll stood before me, a gigantic spiked club the size of a hatchback in its hand. Its growl made my insides rattle and I prepared to find out what sort of afterlife Iluvatar had in mind. At that instant the front section of the stockade fell open and there was a brief staccato booming that made my ears ring. Three fist sized-holes appeared in the troll’s broad neck, perforating it like a tear-off slip. With a look of bewilderment it shook its head, which promptly fell off with a snapping of tendons. The troll’s body, unencumbered now by its brain, turned tail and lumbered away quite adeptly, squashing two orcs flat before realising it was dead and crashing down to the ground.

“Tally ho!” cried Jacko. There was the thudding retort of more heavy calibre ordnance and a cluster of three retreating orcs splattered quite satisfyingly. “Take that you Nazi scoundrels!” shouted Jacko.

“How many times?” I complained. “ORC scoundrels!”

But Jacko was oblivious. He emerged from what remained of the stockade pushing a bulky contraption ahead of him. A stumpy barrel protruded from a jumble of ironmongery mounted on what I recognised as the Spitfire’s wheels. Grunting a little with the effort he pushed the device ahead of him like a handcart before setting it down, looking along the barrel and pushing a plunger in. The Spitfire’s cannon rattled and roared again.

The orcs and a further troll were fleeing in terror already, but the latter never made the safety of the spur: cannon shells ripped into it, almost cutting it in two. Jacko straightened and took a few deep breaths. “Bit bulky, but does the job eh?”

“I’ll say!” I concurred. “Need a hand?”

“Wouldn’t say no.”

We had hardly wheeled the gun any distance before Findathil and his archers were with us, the rout of the orcs and trolls encouraging them to break cover. “Truly this is great magic!” he marvelled. “Let us use it to aid the bearded ones!”

We wheeled the cannon around the spur and up the valley towards where the dwarves were at bay. True to his word, Norri had not let an orc pass his gateway, but massed ranks boiled around the outer defensive wall while trolls battered at the masonry. Word of our ‘thunder stick’ had spread among the orcs and no counter attack came our way: instead they tried to keep us at range, ranks of archers firing desperately at us. We trundled onto a broad mound, set the cart down and waited, hands over our ears, while Jacko took aim. A few seconds later the remaining orc archers were fleeing the broken remains of their comrades, while Jacko raised the sights and peppered the masses at the dwarf’s gateway with cannon shells.

With no further ado the orcs fled shrieking back up the valley. With an exultant cry the elves gave chase, firing arrows off as they ran and downing orcs by the dozen. The dwarves swarmed from their stronghold, battle axes felling orcs like saplings and butchering the one troll that stood its ground.

Jacko and I leant back on the cannon and left them to it. “Why the hell didn’t you tell me what you were up to?” I demanded.

He shrugged nonchalantly. “Wasn’t sure it would come off. But those dwarf chaps are top notch engineers. Wanted to test it out first but never got the chance. Still, it was alright on the night, eh?”

I nodded, looking into the workings of the cannon. “Much ammo left?”

He shook his head. “Fraid not. The Spit’s one failing: not much in the way of shells. Enough for one more scrap like this and that’s your lot.”

“Ah well,” I said. “I don’t think the bad guys will be back in hurry.”

A gurgling hiss nearby made us jump: I drew my sword as I saw movement behind us. One of the orcs knocked down by the dying troll had survived. I rushed back, sword drawn, and pulled the battered and bewildered creature to its feet. “Don’t try anything, face-ache,” I snarled, shoving it ahead of me towards the gun. Jacko looked at it with some distaste. “Ugly chap, don’t you think? Any use to us?”

I kept the tip of my sword a few inches from the orc, motioning it to sit. “Maybe. It might know something.”

“Mmm, worth a try,” murmured Jacko, stroking his moustache. “Bet he wishes he’d stayed in the Fatherland now, eh?”

I rolled my eyes. “For absolutely that last time, Jacko, this is MIDDLE EARTH. This is NOT World War Two. This is an orc, definitely, DEFINITELY not a German, ok? Now, you!” I kicked the crouching orc. “Are your lot planning any more attacks?”

It looked up at me, incomprehension in its black eyes. “Ich weisse nicht,” it grunted. “Sprechen sie Deutsche?”

[Nurvingiel]

I really enjoyed your story Draken, I hope you write a sequel.

Originally posted by Draken
His lieutenant Findathil gestured me to follow him down the spiralling walkway, brushing past in his haste to descend. As I followed him I heard Eredorn calling after me. “To be on the safe side, could you stand a little way in FRONT of my warriors when you fire that bow?”

Lol! This part was so funny. I loved your humorous accounts of the battles, they seemed realistic at the same time.

Two small notes on Dwarves: I don't think Elves would refer to them as "the bearded ones". It seems out of place. And, if you're referring to the Nori, that's one "R".

When is this set? I can't quite place it.

I also liked your humorous dig at "Mary-Sue" fanfics at the beginning, and the end of the story was great.

Keep writing (fanfics and otherwise)!

Cheers, Nurv

[Earniel]

Ooh, that was fun reading!

You've managed to put down two interesting and different characters in a reasonably short story. I like the continual orc-german-bickering especially down to the last line.

But shouldn't it be 'weiß' instead of 'weisse' and 'Deutsch' instead of 'Deutsche'?

Anyway, I hope that this won't be your last.

[Draken]

Thanks Nurv and Earniel!

It wasn't meant to be THE Nori, I just plucked a dwarvish sounding name out of the air. Same goes for the elves' names. As for my German, I was very lazy and couldn't be bothered to find that funny looking sort-of-B character!

Thanks for the advice re alternative names for dwarves, will see if I can find some better variants. The setting I had in mind I suppose is somewhere to the north of Lothlorien, on the Eastern slopes of the Misty Mountains, during the months leading up to the War of the Ring.