“Nobody of consequence, yet nobody to be trifled with either,” retorted Grimmbros pausing briefly in his tracks to peer ahead. Somewhere before him, the owner of the voice faltered in surprise; this taunter was clearly not used to replies. Unable to see beyond the curve of the bridge, Grimmbros advanced, allowing himself a bit of a swagger, until he spied through the central arch, a large, muscular, green-skinned brute blocking the foot of the bridge at the far side. A dark loin-cloth trailed from this creature’s waist and a great horned helmet masked its face. Its hands and feet were bound in rough cloth wraps and a wickedly spiked mace was clenched in one great fist. It was the toll-collector. It was an oafe.

“Oh I say, sir, it’s a pleasure to meet you. And, might I add, I am most certainly a friend,” called a warm and now confident Grimmbros enthusiastically extending a hand of greeting.

“Is that so?” came the gruff reply. “That’s not what your little mates say. They say that you wanna duff me up good. And somefink about bashin my teeth all down my throat!” That bit sounded familiar to Grimm. “EBORE DON’T LIKE THAT!” bawled the oafe.

“Well, no, no you wouldn’t” Grimm began. But the momentum of Ebore’s abuse grew stronger.

“EBORE DON’T LIKE THAT ONE BIT. EBORE GONNA EAT YOUR FAT HEAD OFF! EBORE GONNA SMASH IT IN AND THEN WINKLE YOUR EYES OUT! ”

Grimmbros was stunned by the sheer aggression of this oafe, not to mention the immaturity of his threats. He had no idea what had gone wrong. His head filled with questions. Where were his friends? Had they both scarpered? Had they refused to pay the toll? Did the oafe eat them? Wouldn't have taken long. What about the ‘Renic Whistle’? Did it not work? Or was the oafe being truthful? Maybe it was like that old goat story, that sounded more likely: bought their own freedom by diverting all of the oafe’s attention onto good-old, reliable Grimm. Grimmbros had to act quickly.

He knew from past experience that there was simply no reasoning with oaves when they were angry and that he would have to take this one on or else pay the toll - he shuddered at that thought.*

“COME ON ! WHAT ARE YOU? SOME SORT OF BIG GIRL BALLET DANCER IN THOSE SISSY ORANGE TIGHTS?” Ebore bellowed, brandishing his rather pointy mace threateningly. This was a brute of an oafe. Yes, indeed, a big, green brute of an oafe! Grimm would have to disarm him: a task normally accomplished by one carefully-aimed blow to an oafe’s flattened, piggish nose, but Ebore’s shining helmet prevented such a tactic. Grimmbros flexed his muscles.

The oafe crouched low to the bridge. Nodding self-assuredly, Grimm grinned slightly from one side of his mouth, readjusted his beret, squared his shoulders and strode forward towards the menacing brute glowering at him through the central tunnel. Ebore edged back a little. Grimmbros sensed a hint of worry, clenched his fist and began running toward the oafe.

* The relatively ‘civilised’ oaves living in the vicinity of Tullgotha are known for exacting tolls above and beyond those required by the city authorities. Such personal perks are a source of fiendish delight to an oafe, aimed more at denigrating their victims in the most obtuse manner possible than at providing any form of material gain or monetary income. Tullgotha’s borders thus remained well protected.

Suddenly there was a two-way charge, both urgh-bane and oafe flung themselves into an almighty, titanic tussle. Dust clouds filled the air and the ground shuddered beneath as Grimm swerved and forced himself into close contact so that the brute’s mace was rendered useless. Bodies impacted and fists bludgeoned. There was a blood-curdling shriek heard amidst the confusion as both tumbled to the floor, locked in a deadly clasp. Tense seconds passed. Then, amid the grunting, there was a low, sinister laugh as one of the contenders gained ascendency. Grimmbros sprang back to his feet with graceful fluidity as the oafe let out another shriek. Stumbling to his own feet, the oafe barged heavily past Grimm and lumbered off along the bridge. He was running frantically now and pleading, “Please don’t eat me.”

Grimmbros thought that was just typical of oaves; just because the oafe wanted to eat every stranger that passed by, he assumed that every stranger that passed by would want to eat him.

“No, no my sad little chap, I beseech you not to eat me!” Grimmbros sarcastically called after the fleeing oafe. “Don’t eat me... let me go!” wailed Ebore. Closely behind him, in hot pursuit, could be heard the victorious laugh of Grimmbros: he was enjoying this. He chased the oafe, mocking him: “Haa ha ha. Come to me Ebore!” he called.

“Ebore gonna SPIT on you!” shouted the petrified oafe from over his shoulder, in a desperate attempt to offer some kind of ongoing offence, as feeble as it was.

“Come here EBORE,” Grimmbros continued to taunt, “Maybe I am gonna eat you, gonna gobble you up.”

As Grimmbros charged over the near side of the bridge, his feet thundering down on the slabs below him, a sudden, loud, grating crash was heard. A boarded-over section that was undergoing repair gave way and splintered beneath his feet. Grimmbros’ head was flung backwards as he went crashing downwards wedging tightly at about chest level. The frustrated urgh-bane struggled to free himself but had snagged the fabric of his suit and wedged his torso between the boards, leaving himself prone.

Ebore seized upon this unexpected turn of events. He swaggered back up the bridge as though this had been his plan all along and leaned low over his opponent. But just then there came another, even more thunderous sound, a sound which shook both the struggling Grimmbros and the gloating Ebore. Ebore reflexively gave a nervous glance in the direction of the sound and faltered visibly in his moment of victory. Razzles and Fürgůïn looked on terrified from the other side of the river as a huge creature, hideously burly yet female in form, came walking slowly toward the bridge with a large hammer grasped in one fat hand.* Grimmbros was trapped between the planks of the ageing bridge. Unperturbed though, he tried to regain advantage through intimidation of the distracted oafe: "Nothing but a minor hindrance,” he said, “I can still take you on. Come on; I’ll bite your lumpy green legs off!”

* Oaven society is primarily matriarchal since female oaves are, in general, larger, have more numerous extended families and are able to maintain the emotional impact of a good strop for a couple of generations. It just isn’t worth the trouble trying to wrest power from a massive, mood-swinging oaven hystericatrix and her family.

The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

“LUMPY ?” blurted the offended oafe, his eyes darting in uncertainty toward the figure at the foot of the bridge. He was clearly torn between pressing the advantage and some other far less-jubilant emotion.

“I‘ll show you lumpy - you weakling urgh-bane – you ain’t so tough now, is you?” he jibed in slightly hushed tones, as if not wanting anyone else to hear. Ebore was undoubtedly miffed at the arrival of the newcomer, yet still fancying his chances, he stared directly into Grimmros’ eyes and growled, “You don't scare me you fancy-dressed fathead!"

The other hulken creature paused beyond the bridge and called out in a deep voice with just a touch of cracked femininity, "Ebore! What are you doing? Why are you talking like that? Have we got company?"

Ebore blanched and briefly dithered, a deep dilemma crawling all over his face.

"Norris! My love!" he managed. He knew what she was planning. "Do it now," he thought, and with that, he gave one big thump on the top of Grimmbros' head, driving him clean through the bridge toward the river beneath.

Venturing as far as the edge of the bridge, Razzles and Fürgůïn felt almost faint at the sight of the hideous squatting oafe and the even more hideous Norris, not to mention the apparent loss of their one-and-only protector. Razzles was chewing the tip of his own beard in exasperation. Now how would they get away safely? Yet, whilst they helplessly looked on, Grimmbros flung one desperate hand back toward the bridge as he dropped, grasping for the trailing end of the oafe's loin cloth. His fingers just pinched the very tip, found a tenuous grip and, for a moment, he hung there suspended on the end of the unravelling fabric. Ebore tottered on the edge of the jagged hole in the woodwork of the bridge. It felt like time paused to savour the moment. The swaying oafe’s eyes widened.

As Ebore finally lost balance and tumbled headlong after Grimmbros, he noticed the enormous bulk of Norris begin to go floppy and sway unsteadily - she was swooning rather theatrically.

"Ooh... I suddenly feel all faint!" Norris warned. "I think I might... I might pass... out.”

"You shall not pass!" Ebore called back as he plunged downward through the broken boards. In a last audacious effort, as he fell, Ebore caught at the ragged edge of the hole in the bridge and dangled fleetingly, clawing at the shattered footway. Then, noticing Razzles and Fürgůïn wavering in trepidation on the far end, he hissed in genuine concern, "Fly you fools. Fly."

Then it was all over. The huge oafe disappeared through the bridge with a surprising cry. “Hellllp meeeee! Hellllp meee please!” came the drawn-out wail of a clearly petrified Ebore.

Landing with a loud ‘splosh’ in the river below, Ebore’s panic intensified and he thrashed about helplessly.

“What now blubber-boy ? Has your loin cloth come apart?” shouted the urgh-bane; Grimmbros knew that he had to keep his intimidation flowing - the oafe was surely in his natural element and would probably try to drown him.

“Oh! My… beret gone...” he spluttered while trying to keep as much water out of his mouth as possible.

“That really has… made me angry Ebore… and you will not like me… when I am angry… Ebore!”

Ebore however, could not care less about intimidation tactics, or berets for that matter, he was in a desperate panic: “Water’s cold... blub,” the oafe gargled in fearful confusion as he disappeared momentarily below the surface before heaving back up again. “Ugh... gulp! Urgh-bane... ooh... cold... cold! C... can’t... can’t swim!”

Grimmbros bemusedly trod water, a large grin gradually widening across his face as he watched the oafe struggle. “Oh, I say! this is an unexpected treat. Believe it? Oafe that can’t swim? Oafe ! Ha !”

“Hellllp meee! Hellllp meee, please!” cried a blubbering Ebore once again, swallowing more river than could be healthy, “My helmet’s making... head sink! Blurgh!”

Grimmbros found this unique peculiarity a true delight. “You live… a bridge… a river… but… not swim... kind of oafe are you?”

But Ebore couldn’t hear, he was beneath the water fully now, gradually turning upside down as the weight of his great horned helmet dragged him downward into the murky depths. His cries burbled through the current and Grimmbros could see his sickly green form tangling in among the river weeds as his arms and legs swished, small fish darting away for the refuge of the great bridge foundations.

Kicking off his boots, Grimmbros undulated in the current above the drowning oafe and found that he was struck by an even greater wave than that of the waters that assailed his powerful physique. A swell of mercy rose from deep within him and crashed upon the shore of his waterlogged soul. A compassionate wave of urghbanity. He peered at the sunken oafe. As pitiful and distasteful as he was, his hopeless plight tugged at Grimmbros’ heart and he could not resist its urging. With a sigh, the urgh-bane dived beneath the surface of the languid torrent that persisted in its unceasing attempt to take the life of the oafe and grasped Ebore by his chin.

With powerful strokes, Grimm heaved the oafe to the surface, and with his sodden loincloth gripped in his mighty fist, Grimmbros swung the oafe, hurling his drenched form to the nearest shore. With an ugly squelch, Ebore splattered amongst the flotsam and jetsam of the riverbank, face down in the mud. Exhausted from the ordeal, he spat out a long, loud gurgling sigh of exhilarated relief and a couple of tadpoles.

Back on the bridge, the two shaken halflings looked at one another, then at the disturbance in the churning waters and then at the prone figure of Norris, who had sunk to her knees in a faint near the foot of the bridge, breathing heavily. They edged closer, trying to hide behind each other.

“She's out cold! It is a she isn't it?" whispered Fürgůïn nervously, brandishing his wilting nettle bunch before him. "Don't you know first aid?" he added, nudging Razzles in the ribs.

"I'm not going to resuscitate her!" Razzles blurted, eyeing Norris' still-quivering, bulbous lips. Yet,

the tide of events was shifting: Grimmbros was in trouble. His heroics had left him feeling warm, despite the gnawing cold of the river, and as a result, he was unaware of the hypothermia that was setting in. His usually unlimited stamina was about drained, and his body, high on the euphorial bask of his embering adrenaline, was now sinking in final resignation, having exhausted himself in the saving of the oafe’s life.

Fürgůïn and Razzles began to realise that Norris might well be the only hope if Grimmbros was to be rescued and the quest continued. They could never pull the urgh-bane from the river and he looked now as though his suit was absorbing too much water to remain afloat. There was only one thing to do: they filled Grimmbros' beloved beret that had fallen off in the fray, with water, slapped it onto Norris and ran as fast as they could before she recovered. The creature gasped, blinked and slowly, slowly staggered to her feet. Realising what had happened and that there no longer appeared to be an audience, she hurried to the bank of the river and peered into the swirling depths.

Grimm might eventually have given himself up to the idea of some watery peace. Going under for, what he expected to be, the last time, he lifted his eyes to the surface. It was actually strangely tranquil here: beams of sunlight gently illuminating the waters in shifting shafts that faded into the depths, revealing curling fronds of river weeds and darting fish. Grimm’s heavy yellow and orange suit billowed around his waterlogged body. Without warning a large, podgy hand thrust into the current grabbing his own loosely-extended limb, he breathed, gulped and darkness swept in. The urgh-bane passed out.