It was quite lengthy, and Og was the only brother who could read it easily.
Written at The Bruised Bollocks
Dear Og-Grim-Dog,
I hope you are enjoying your ‘retirement’ from dungeoneering. I thought you might like to hear our news from Mer Khazer.
The big story is the escape of Gurin ‘Fuckaxe’ and his dwarven friends from Toff’s cells. There was a night-time break-in and all six dwarves were sprung. It turns out there was a seventh dwarf loose in the city—Seven Dwarves! I guess we should have known!
‘I don’t get it,’ said Dog. ‘Why should we have known there were seven dwarves?’
‘I don’t know, Dog,’ said Grim. ‘Probably an elven joke. They have a weird sense of humour. Carry on, Og.’
Gurin and his friends left the city, no-one knows where to. I’m not really sure what to think about it, but a part of me is glad that Gurin got away.
The adventuring life hasn’t changed that much. There aren’t any dwarf heroes anymore, which makes things a bit more challenging. The dungeons aren’t quite as ‘soft’ as they were, either, now that the fake orc raids have stopped. But the Bureau is still the same. Assata and Sandon talk darkly of ‘dealing’ with it. They send their love by the way, as does Brother Kane.
I had a chilli burger and fries at Sheev’s today and thought of you. Hence the letter.
Well, that’s it from me. Smell ya later,
Raya S
‘So, Gurin escaped, eh?’ said Og. ‘I’m with the elf. Not sure what to think about that.’
‘Good luck to him, I say,’ said Dog.
‘It was nice of Raya to write us,’ said Grim. ‘The human lands are a confusing place. All those people running around, trying to live their busy little lives. And all of them with just the one head each. Makes me think it must be lonely. Makes me think—’ Grim paused. Ogres didn’t do emotions, but a strange feeling had come over him. ‘Makes me think I’m lucky to have you two for company.’
Og and Dog nodded, clearing their throats awkwardly.
‘Yes, well,’ said Dog gruffly. ‘Listening to that letter made me hungry. How are we doing for bones?’
‘I think we have plenty,’ said Og. ‘Come on, Grim, let’s take a look.’
Grim got to his feet. He took a step towards their pile of bones in the corner, but then stopped.
‘I don’t want to,’ he said.
‘What?’ Dog demanded. ‘You fancy fresh meat tonight?’
‘No. I don’t want us to spend the rest of our lives at the bottom of this dungeon, gnawing on bones. I want us to go on more adventures, while we still can. Alright, maybe we’re not suited to being heroes. Maybe it’s too soon for three-headed ogres to be accepted. But that doesn’t mean we have to stay down here. Hiding from the world.’
‘Hiding?’ demanded Dog. ‘I’m not hiding from nothing.’
‘Alright, Grim,’ said Og. ‘If it’s adventures you want, I’m game. After all, it’s you who has to do all the walking.’
‘What do you say, Dog?’ Grim asked.
‘I won’t have it said I’m holding us back from a fight. Let’s do it.’
Og-Grim-Dog put their possessions into a travelling pack and put their weapons on their belt. They left their cavern. They walked past rooms full of goblins, who peered at them suspiciously. They stopped to say goodbye to Queen Krim, Sovereign and Despot of the Black Orcs. Then they left Darkspike Dungeon behind them and went into the Great Outside.
THE END OF THE MIDDLE
The Recorder made his final flourishes. The Flayed Testicles was deadly silent, save for the scratch of quill on parchment. When he was done, he opened a pouch and sprinkled sand onto the fresh ink.
The three heads of the Landlord, and the many heads of his customers, stared intently at the small form perched near the bar. Seemingly oblivious of their attention, the Recorder shook out the stiffness from his hand and then rubbed at his sore wrist.
‘Well?’ the third head of the ogre demanded, his patience exhausted. ‘I shouldn’t have to remind you that your life, and the life of everyone here, is at stake. Do you claim that those marks you have made on your pages accurately portray our story?’
‘I believe so,’ said the Recorder with confidence.
Some in the Testicles relaxed a little, but others knew better. For their Landlord had yet to give his approval.
‘Then we have only one question,’ said the third head, a sly smile on his face. ‘The tale we told tonight wasn’t the most glorious episode in our lives we could have shared. But you could say it was the most important. If you are truly a master of your craft, you will know why we chose it. Why did we really start in the middle?’
The customers of the inn frowned at one another in confusion. Why did their Landlord begin the story of his life at the middle? It had been a strange decision. In the quiet and peaceable realm of Magidu, stories always started at the beginning and carried on until the end.
‘Because,’ the Recorder replied in a clear voice, ‘this was the moment when you chose to live. The moment when you chose danger and adventure over safety and familiarity. Thus, all the infamous deeds of Og-Grim-Dog can be traced back to your time in Mer Khazer: to your decision to leave your dungeon; to a letter written by an elf; to the friends you made.’
The Landlord stared at the Recorder for a while. The customers of the inn could see different expressions on his three faces: they could see disappointment and respect and relief. Finally, the middle head spoke.
‘You are wise, Recorder. Wiser than you seem. And you have earned the right to record our story for posterity. Same time tomorrow?’
‘Alright,’ said the Recorder, who began to pack up his equipment.
‘You’ll like tomorrow’s story,’ said the first head, a vicious looking grin appearing on his face. ‘No more Mr Nice Guys.’
END CREDITS
The customers of The Flayed Testicles spilled out onto the streets, ready to stagger back to their homes. As the fresh air hit them, a wave of relief struck with it. They had made it out alive.
Then the shadow of the Landlord loomed in the doorway behind them. Reluctantly, they turned to look.
‘And a nice review wouldn’t go amiss,’ suggested the ogre.
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