Fopdoodles on the Beach

 

The old knight made it to the beach, and he had managed to lure the majority of the gargs after him. The queen's caravan should have enough soldiers to defeat those that stayed back.

It helped that he had learned enough of their language to goad them with taunts like "come along, ya cream-faced loons" and "I'm over here ya crusty fopdoodles."

They spread out in an arc, and he noted their caution with a smile. He would be nervous too if a single adversary appeared ready to take on ten others. They would be wondering if he had special powers. Gargs were superstitious about that stuff.

When they seemed to regain their composure and began advancing, he whistled long and loud, piercing the sea breeze and echoing off the cliffs a mile away. It was a warbling call that made good use of his youthful skills as a shepherd directing his dogs.

The gargs stopped again and began muttering to each other. He caught their words for "uncanny" and "not right." Then one pointed and cried "yarkdanch!" their word for dragon.

He raised his sword and whistled again. He heard an answering bugle behind him. Then a second. And a third.

He lowered his sword as the gargs turned to run. The sand was soft, and they would not reach the berm and scraggly trees in time.

For fun, he chased them. It would make a good story at a tavern one night. "...then there was that time I chased ten gargs off the beach..."

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