Death of a Dwarf

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  Some hours later a silhouetted figured entered the large entrance at Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works. No one paid much attention to the Halfling at first. Yet he started to cough—not the sick type of cough, but the I want your attention right now kind. Finally, that progressed to a few utterances of “Excuse me!” and, last, a defiant “I want to see Mr. Bindlestiff. Right now!”

  A few of the workers stopped their toiling and looked around to see who would deal with this intruder. A shadow advanced from out of the cavern’s depths. “Who wants to see Mr. Bindlestiff? And do you have an appointment?”

  “My name is Dorro Fox Winderiver. And no, I have no silly appointment, but I demand to see Mr. Bindlestiff anyway.”

  “Oooo, we demands it, do we?” snarled the gruff voice. “I could toss you out of here onto your backside, but I’ve been instructed to make nice with the populace of your fair hamlet. Let me see if the proprietor is in. Stay put.”

  At that, the big Halfling disappeared back into the flickering light of the forges and fires within. A few minutes later, he reappeared with a short, chubbier fellow, this one finely dressed with well-combed mutton chop sideburns. “What seems to be the problem, sir? I’m a busy Halfling and don’t have all day for lollygagging.”

  “Lollygagging?” croaked Dorro. “Why, Mr. Bindlestiff, we have a certain amount of feasible evidence that you and your smelting operation are poisoning our village and environs.”

  “Oh really, Mr. Winderover? What so-called feasible evidence do you have?” Bindlestiff had heard this kind of complaint many times before, in other communities where he had established his smelteries. He’d learned how to deal with the complainers—firmly. “I run a respectable business that’s been endorsed by your Mayor. And provided many jobs for your residents, yet you come in here to tell me I’ve done a heinous thing. How dare you, sir!”

  Dorro typically didn’t like confrontation, but this time his dander was up, notably on the news that Wyll and Cheeryup had brought him. “Half this village is coughing due to your black miasma, and some of our elderly residents have even died.”

  “I said proof, Mr. Wander-Rooter, not foolish hearsay,” barked Bindlestiff in return. “Do you have scientific facts?”

  “My nephew and two witnesses found perhaps thirty dead fish in the river today, and they had no signs of violence upon them,” fumed Dorro. “They died of poison in the water! And in the Great Wood, hunters are complaining that most the game have left. You can give Thimble Downers all the jobs you want, but how will they work if they can’t eat?”

  “I’ve listened to enough of this hogwash, Wanda-Rigger. Get the heck out of my smeltery or we shall smelt you!”

  A red and flustered Dorro raged back, “I shan’t leave until I have satisfaction. I want answers and proof from you that your business is not delivering black soot and death to our residents and animals.”

  “Fibbhook, our esteemed guest wants ‘satisfaction.’ Please remove him from our premises and give him some. Good day to you, Mr. Waddle-Riddle.” With that, Hiram Bindlestiff turned on his heels without saying goodbye and disappeared back into the black heart of the cavern.

  “I’m not going anywhere,” snorted the resolute Mr. Dorro, folding his arms and jutting his chin out for good measure.

  “That’s what you think, Guv.” With that, Fibbhook swiftly grabbed Dorro’s right arm and twisted it nastily behind his back.

  “Arghhhhh!”

  “Is that enough satisfaction for you, Mr. Dorro—y’see, I remember your name,” hissed Fibbhook in the bookmaster’s ear. “I remember all the putrid lowlifes that threaten my livelihood. Now, we’re going for a little walk.”

  The foreman tightened his grip on Dorro’s arm, causing the bookmaster to cry out louder again. “You’ll pay for this!” came the bookmaster’s empty threat as Fibbhook pushed him outside and shoved him to the hard-packed lane. For good measure, he kicked up a cloud of dirt from the roadway into Dorro’s face, causing him to choke and sputter.

  “Next time, little one, bring a knife, so we can fights proper-like,” said Fibbhook, bending over Dorro and addressing him like a child. “If you do, I can knife and gut you legally—in self-defense—and that fat, stupid Sheriff can’t do anything about it. I haven’t killed anyone in a while and, y’know, I do believe I miss it!”

  Slowly, the bruised Halfling turned and began trudging back towards the library, where he could clean himself up. Out of the corner of his eye, Dorro saw something else, just in the shadows of Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works. It was for only a second, but yes, there was no question about it. He saw Crumble and the other Dwarves with whom he’d chatted so amicably the other night. But today, they stood by and watched him get thrashed.

  Worse, the Northlanders pretended they didn’t know who he was.

  The Pinch-Thief

  The Sheriff’s head felt as if it were going to explode. All morning, Thimble Downers had been assailing him at the gaol with details of the items stolen by the thief. Mrs. Fowl had just lost two more shepherd’s pies, and Dowdy Cray had lost an axel, two oak wheels, and a steering board.

  Poor, ailing Mrs. Tunbridge was heartbroken that an intricately beaded dress had been taken from a rack right inside her burrow. It had been intended as a gift for a young girl about to come out in society, and had taken one hundred hours to make.

  About twenty-five Halflings filled Forgo’s office, all of them shouting and making a ruckus, while his deputy, Gadget Pinkle, using parchment and a lead pencil, was furiously keeping track of the missing items. The ruckus subsided when Osgood Thrip entered the room, looking fit to be tied. “This is outrageous!” he fumed. “I’m holding you personally responsible, Sheriff.”

  “You too? Good grief!” moaned the seated Sheriff, his face buried in his hands. “What did he get?”

  “My gold-plated inkwell! Right off my burl writing desk. The impunity of it all!” Thrip bellowed for another few minutes, but Forgo ignored him, concentrating on more relevant matters, such as who would do this and how could they hit so many targets at once. It was inconceivable that any one criminal could be so proficient; perhaps it was a gang working Thimble Down over. Whatever the answer, the crook or crooks were brilliant in their execution, and Forgo had nothing in the way of clues.

  “Well?” barked Osgood. “Are you just going to just sit there like a buffoon or are you going to do something? This pinch-thief infiltrated Thrip Manor and committed a crime! My poor Lucretia is not well, you know, and this has set her over the edge.” (Indeed, Osgood’s wife was not completely balanced, as we’ve learned in the past.)

  “The only thing that’s going to bring in this thief—or perhaps, thieves—is having him caught in the act or offering a reward. I would suggest we talk to the Mayor about coughing up a few gold pieces, and I’ll write up a few wanted posters. Gadget can distribute them around the village taverns.”

  “See that it’s done, Forgo—or else!” Osgood grimaced and turned to leave, but stopped cold. There, standing in the doorway, was his frequent nemesis—Mr. Dorro.

  “I’m sorry to hear you’ve lost something to this nefarious crook, Osgood,” said Dorro with cold courtesy. “I’m afraid that I’ve been victimized as well. Twice, in fact.”

  “Well, that’s your problem, Winderiver,” and out strode Osgood Thrip, verily pushing Dorro out of the way.”

  “Charming as always,” purred the bookmaster with rueful sarcasm. “Mr. Pinkle, you may write down the following items that have been purloined from me: one basket of Candleberry apples, one basket of Green Gem apples, a jug of last year’s apple brandy, and two freshly baked apple-crisps.”

  “That’s all?” croaked Forgo.

  “Hardly, my dear Sheriff. “We’ve also had several books and scrolls removed from the library. You may find it interesting that they all have to do with thievery. Apparently, our thief stole books about thieving in order to become better at it. It’s quite uncanny. Got that, Gadget?”<
br />
  The red-haired deputy was scratching away furiously. “Yessir, Mr. Dorro. A right shame, that is! It’s like we’re teaching the villain to become a better villain!”

  “Very astute, young Mr. Pinkle. Forgo, I think you have yourself a very promising deputy here.”

  The deputy blushed a color of pink that clashed horribly with his fiery locks, but there was nothing to be done about that. The lad’s grin, however, was worth a hundred gold pieces.

  “Folks, you’ll have to go home now. We have all your information, and honestly, I don’t see how this can continue without anyone seeing anything. Keep your eyes open and let me know if you see even the strangest little thing. It could break this entire case wide open!”

  At that, the grumpy victims shuffled out the door, muttering to themselves, but also clearly titillated to be involved in a real case involving a real thief. They would surely tell their friends and neighbors about it all day and night.

  To help with his headache and growling gut, once alone, Forgo sent Gadget out to get him some grub from the Bumbling Badger. He was further instructed to go to the stable and give his pony, Tom, some fresh oats and a bucket of water.

  “Now what, Dorro? I’m stumped, and frankly, I’m not feeling so well at the moment.”

  “You don’t have the Grippe, do you? We can’t afford to lose you, Forgo.”

  “I’m fine, I’m fine,” lied the Sheriff. “But we need to catch this crook—it’s out of control.”

  “Our next step is perfectly clear, dear Sheriff.” The lawman looked up bleary eyed. “We need to set a trap and a damn good one at that!”

  “Okay, I’ll tell Gadget and begin to set things up. You, of course, might have a plan …?”

  Dorro paused. “Forgo, I wouldn’t tell Gadget about it, nor shall I tell Cheeryup or Wyll. We trust these young folks, but we don’t know whom they talk to. For the moment, let’s hold this between ourselves.”

  Forgo nodded groggily in agreement. “In the interim, Sheriff, you should take a nap and see Nurse Pym. You look like death!”

  No sooner had Dorro had uttered these words than he instantly regretted them.

  Dwarves in the Perch

  His mind sifting through the day’s myriad of events (and nursing more than a few bruises, courtesy of that ruffian Fibbhook), Dorro lay in his study, contemplating the cooling weather outside.

  If the temperature drops past freezing soon, it could stop the Grippe in its path, he reasoned. Warmth tends to spread contagions, while cold moves them indoors. So if the Grippe is caused by Bindlestiff’s smelting and borne by the warm winds of early Fall, a sharp, frost might greatly reduce the infection rate.

  Unfortunately, as he looked out the window, it was yet another splendid Autumn day, not quite cold, not quite warm, but just perfect for a germ to travel anywhere it liked. He was jolted by the sound of a firm knock on his door. As far as Dorro recalled, he hadn’t been expecting company. Rising from his favorite settee (the one he used exclusively for reading and napping), he crossed to the front door and opened it with some suspicion.

  What he saw was the last thing he expected. For there on his stoop stood six serious-looking Dwarves, all of whom were gazing back intently at him as if expecting something. Finally, Dorro came to his wits and spoke first. “Ummm … greetings, Crumble and friends. What, errrmm, brings you to my neck of the woods?”

  “We are here for our tour, Mr. Dorro,” said Crumble. “Just as you requested.”

  “I did?”

  “Yes, certainly,” continued the leader of the Dwarf band. “You invited us the other evening at the Hanging Stoat, where we enjoyed some degree of jocularity. You must recall.”

  “Ah, yes … yes, I do,” feigned the bookmaster. “A tour of the Perch, of course!”

  “And by tour,” chimed in Wump, who had dark, braided hair and a thick matted beard, “we assumed that meant with luncheon included.”

  “Which is why we have brought some fresh bread,” said Two-Toes, who possessed bright yellow hair, and one assumed, fewer toes than he had possessed at birth.

  “And fresh apples,” added Flume, a portly Dwarf with rosy cheeks, holding a number of fine apples in his outstretched scarf.

  “And some pipe weed,” giggled Magpie, the one who giggled the most. “I hope you like dwarfish tobacco, Mr. Dorro, sir. I tried yer Old Nob variety, which was potable, but dare I say—ours is better.”

  “Ooo, much better,” the Dwarf brothers all crowed at once, before they all broke up laughing. Dorro didn’t know what to make of their strange jokes and inside banter, but decided to give up and get on with the tour. And, as he reflected later, he had invited them over for a visit, but had stone forgotten the appointment.

  “Please come in, gentlemen. And try to wipe some of that mud off your boots, if possible.” But Dorro saw that it was no use—these were Dwarves and dirty by nature. He would have to put his normally fastidious nature on hold for the day and let his guests stomp around his beloved burrow. “Welcome to the Perch, in any case.”

  Suddenly, the entry to his home was filled with loud oooo’s and ahhh’s, as the quintet of Dwarves pointed and gestured at all the fascinating features.

  “Them’s be real, quality iron nails holding them beams together. Must be from a dwarfish forge, I’ll bet,” gloated Wump.

  “Oy, Crumble—look at that trim work. Ash. Oak. Figured maple. Quite masterful!” fawned Magpie.

  “Note all them rounded windows and door lintels. That’s Dwarf work, no doubt!” Two-Toes speculated.

  Crumble himself didn’t say anything. He just looked around, raising and lowering his bushy eyebrows like they were attached to a pulley, and slowly stroking his long brown beard. Dorro, for his part, was lapping up the compliments like it was his birthday, loving every second he heard a kind word for his home. (He was rather vain like that, but perhaps you knew that already.)

  Realizing that the tour might work out well after all, he began, “This burrow was built over one hundred years ago by my grandfather Lorro, who named it after the fine view it commands of the River Thimble. He carved it out of this hillock with the help of a few local Halflings, though his diary did note that he’d traveled widely as a youngling and met Dwarves along the way. Whether they inspired the construction of this burrow, I cannot say, but there you have it. He also planted the fine apple orchard out back.”

  “We already know that, Mr. Dorro,” said Flume. “Where do you think we picked the fine apples we brought you?”

  Dorro groaned inwardly, but remembered these were Dwarves and not used to the etiquette of Halflings, such as not to pick their special apples and deliver them as gifts. Ugh!

  He continued, “Here to our right is my study, where I conduct my correspondence, read, and take my daily naps—two if possible—on that elegant settee. Now, please, Mr. Two-Toes, don’t sit on my settee, please!”

  But it was too late; Two-Toes had toddled across the small room and hoisted his rump up onto the cushions. To Dorro’s everlasting horror, he flopped around and laid himself out into a recumbent position, with his filthy boots on the cushion and his filthy hair on an intricately stitched pillow. The bookmaster almost gagged, but decided to carry on stoically. He was brave like that.

  Dorro moved the Dwarf clan back through the chambers of the Perch, showing them hidden closets and cozy bedrooms, stopping for a long time in the washroom, where they inspected the privy and tin sink’s faucets, pipes, and spectacular running water. Indeed, they were amazed at this technology, and each agreed, “… it was Dwarf work. No Halfling could have thought of this.” Dorro rolled his eyes, knowing perfectly well it was Halfling work, but forged onward.

  The tour ended up in the kitchen, where the Dwarves took time to praise him directly, as Dwarves and Halflings are kin when it comes to their favorite hobby—eating.

  “Look at them copper pans! Beautifully maintained, Mr. Dorro,” cooed Two-Toes, though he whispered to Flume on his right, “… though
clearly made by our folk.”

  “Look at that cutlery! From the finest steel, no doubt!” exalted Wump, though thinking to himself, No question—we Dwarves made ‘em.

  “And what knives! You could flay a troll’s hide off his back with one of Mr. Dorro’s paring blades” cheered Magpie, “Much like own of our own, fine knives,” he added for good measure.

  A moment of awkward silence followed the Dwarves’ oaths of admiration, which Dorro finally understood to mean, “When do we eat?”

  “Would you gentlemen like some luncheon, dare I ask? I don’t want to hold you up from you other appointments,” teased Dorro, knowing all too well the answer.

  “Boys, let’s set the table!” belted out Crumble, his brothers springing into action, putting out plates, napkins, cutlery, and preparing the minuscule amount of food they’d brought.

  Fortunately for all involved, Mr. Dorro’s kitchen was ready to go at a moment’s notice, and he too jumped into action. It was fortuitous that he’d spent the morning preparing a thick squash-and-goose soup to go with his supper, but now redeployed it for his ravenous guests. He called for Two-Toes to bring the sliced bread they’d brought and toast the pieces in his clay oven for a few minutes. They’d slathered the tops with butter and raspberry jam to go with the soup.

  “Now, Mr. Wump, if you wouldn’t mind, in that pantry there, you’ll find a small keg of ale labeled Dorro’s Draught, and ceramic mugs hanging on the walls. I think you can take it from there.” Wump’s eyes glistened with excitement. “You’ll also find some aged cheeses and sausages. Be a good fellow and bring some of them along. Magpie, perhaps you can help your brother.”

  The two Dwarves leapt up and retrieved the tasty goods. Within five minutes, Dorro and his five guests were seated on benches around sturdy oak kitchen table, taking in the spread of soup, endless rounds of toast, cheeses, pork and beef sausages, chutney and pickles, apples, and large mugs of ale. Again, the bookmaster noticed the Dwarves passing around a small vial of liquid and putting a few drops into their cups. He finally decided to call them on it.

  “Crumble, might I ask—what is that nectar you pour into your cups?

  “Ah, that’s belladonna,” replied Wump nonchalantly.

  “But isn’t that poisonous, or, at least, enough to make you ill?”

  Flume chimed in, “Not for a Dwarf—we’re made of sterner stuff. We add a few drops to your Halfling ales to, ahem, enhance the experience.”

  “I’m not following you.”

  Noted Two-Toes, “Your beer is too mild for us; now, a good Dwarf Stout has the kick of ten mules behind it!”

  “So you’re increasing the alcohol?”

  “Not really,” confirmed Magpie. “Belladonna adds a more dreamy effect to the beverage. It makes it more powerful, but also makes our brains do funny, loopy things.”

  “So it’s more like a medicinal affect … interesting,” posited Dorro. “Might I try some?”

  “No!” shouted all the Dwarves in unison.

  “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to use up your supply.”

  “Not at all, Mr. Dorro,” added Crumble diplomatically. “But friend, you are a Halfling and we are Dwarves—not the same at all inside. What toxins we can more than handle would make you very sick. Dare I say, our belladonna extract might kill you! And that, certainly, would make this excellent dinner end, errmmm, most awkwardly.”

  “Ah, now I understand you completely, and thank you for the explanation. Now, before the soup gets cold, let’s tuck in!”

  What transpired over the next half hour defies description, but when five Dwarves and a Halfling sit down for luncheon, there isn’t much time for conversation. Bits of soup and bread and sausage and cheese were shooting all over the table, while frothy ale dripped from chins and beards until the floor was sopping wet. Dorro knew he’d be cleaning for the rest of the day (and heaven knows, how long for the settee’s cushions and pillows), but was surprised to learn that Dwarves are also adept at cleaning up and, once the meal was completed, the brothers set to rapid work and the kitchen looked relatively back to normal in no time. Magpie even swept the halls and bedrooms of dirt the Dwarves had trekked in, while Two-Toes took the settee cushions and pillow outside for a good clapping, creating a small dust cloud outside the front door.

  Afterward, the six new friends sat quietly in the kitchen, smoking Magpie’s excellent Dwarf tobacco in their long, earthen pipes. It was at that moment that Dorro chose to ask a delicate question. “You know, gentlemen, I had an incident yesterday at Mr. Bindlestiff’s smeltery. I was, how do you say, roughed up by the foreman, this vile Fibbhook. And, I saw you there, observing the incident. I’ve wondered why you didn’t—help me.”

  The Dwarves suddenly became very quiet, uncomfortably so, and the five Northmen eyed each other nervously. It was Crumble who finally spoke up. “Ah yes, that ‘incident,’ as you say. That was most unfortunate. We do understand your point of view, Mr. Dorro, but maybe not your approach. Like good Mr. Bindlestiff, we are creatures of business, and you entered his workplace essentially to insult him and his toils. That fact that you got roughed up could have been predicted even before you entered. In Dwarf terms, you let your emotions get the better of you.”

  “You don’t think the black fumes from the smeltery have anything to do with the Grippe or the diminishing of animals and creatures in our forests and waterways?”

  “That is not for us to say, Mr. Dorro. We have been forging metals and ores for centuries in our own lands, and have not lost animals, nor have our folk fallen sick. We Dwarves spend our lives surrounded by smoke, fire, and rock—it’s our way. Not sure about your folk, but there it is. The two may be related or just strange coincidences.”

  “And you don’t think Bindlestiff is up to anything crooked or holding back any pertinent information about his forge?” queried Dorro again.

  Crumble looked the bookmaster in the eye. “Mr. Hiram Bindlestiff is a Halfling of business, and he pays us regularly. For a Dwarf, that is a sign of honor and integrity. I don’t know about your birds and fishies, but he is a sharp and astute gentleman. And if you got poked in the eye for insulting him in his own place of business, so be it. I’m sorry, Mr. Dorro, but ’tis no business of ours. Nor yours!”

  Inwardly, Dorro felt insulted, as if his new friends had thrown him under the wagon. But a twinge of guilt crept up his spine. In his heart—he knew they were absolutely right. And worse, he probably he owed Bindlestiff an apology.

  Speechifying

  The next day, Thimble Downers were again gathered on one of the lanes, this time to hear official speeches from their mayoral candidates. The Mayor was a known quantity, but Farmer Edythe was the wild-card, bringing her unknown notions into the campaign. Again, the obligatory wagon was rolled in and an obligatory lectern mounted on top.

  Dorro strolled up with Wyll and Cheeryup, as well as Orli, who had only light duties at the smeltery assisting his father and uncles. Indeed, Crumble thought it wise for the boy to get to know these Halflings as part of his education. It would be good, he reasoned, to understand the Southerners’ strange ways as Orli grew into a mature Dwarf.

  “Do you elect your leaders, Orli?” asked Dorro.

  “What does ‘elect’ mean?” said the beefy Dwarf boy.

  “You know, when the majority of the populace vote to elect a leader. The candidate with the most votes wins.”

  “We don’t live in villages like you; we live in a vast network of caves and caverns. We have a few leaders—we can them Torkae—but no one votes for ’em. Every once in a while, an interloper challenges the leader to a contest. Aye, they throw rocks at each other until the one that’s weakest and most bloodied retreats into the deepest caverns and never returns. He lives in shame until the day he or she dies a horrible, lonely death. Pretty straightforward, actually.”

  “That’s terrible!” cried Cheeryup, “I thought you were a nice boy, Orli.”

  Mildly offended, the Dwarf countered, “I
didn’t invent this ritual. Us Dwarves have been pickin’ Torkae like this for thousands of years, and it has served our people well. We don’t judge yer silly elections where people stand on top of wagons and blither endlessly.”

  “Good one, Orli!” laughed Wyll. “I think you just lost your first debate, Cheery.”

  “Did not!” screeched the girl, and she stomped off into the crowd, her bright yellow hair whipping about angrily.

  “What did I say?” ask Orli.

  “Oh nothing. Cheeryup is a smart girl, a’course, but she doesn’t like to lose an argument. Your points were perfectly valid, and there was nothing she could do to outflank you. Well done, sir.” Wyll shot out his hand and shook hands with the confused Northern boy, but their attention was diverted by the moderator on top of the wagon.