Death of a Dwarf
Page 8
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Precisely thirty minutes later, Dorro and a gang of Halflings stood in front of the gaolhouse. He directed one search party of Magpie, Gadget, Minty Pinter, and Bog the Blacksmith to search the south and west of the village to the river, while his own party of Crumble, Two-Toes, Flume, Orli, and Mr. Timmo would take the north and east, towards Upper-Down.
“Gentlemen, we are looking for a Dwarf,” said Dorro, stating the obvious. “He has dark hair with braids on either side of his face and a heavy beard. We don’t know what state he’s in, but as a Dwarf, he is very strong and could be dangerous. If you find him in a precarious situation, report back to the gaol, and a messenger-lad will come find me. Are we clear? Good. Let’s move out!”
Dorro tried to sound authoritative like Sheriff Forgo, but it just didn’t come out that way. However, his logic was impeccable, so no one questioned him, and the parties moved off to find their quarry. Each member was lightly armed with a club, knife, or short sword, as well as a leather jerkin over a shirt or jacket. A few even wore leather helms, though they looked rather silly.
Dorro’s group moved north through Fell’s Corner, the most obvious place to find a lost Dwarf. The nefarious neighborhood was home to various types of skullduggery, from gambling and drinking dens to burrows of ill-repute and thievery. They even climbed the grassy roofs of several burrows to see if Wump was hiding in any of the nooks and crannies of earth and trees in these forlorn spots (indeed, small trees often grew unbeckoned on the roofs of burrows).
As they searched, Dorro noticed that Orli was not his usual chipper self. No, he was indeed looking sullen and most definitely was not speaking to his father, nor making eye contact. Crumble’s earlier comment about a certain family matter the night before might have something to do with it; he filed that idea for later retrieval.
Having no luck, the group circled back out of Fell’s Corner and moved down one of Thimble Down’s main streets, filled with shops and taverns, buskers and beggars, kiddies and grandmas, all going about their daily business. Crumble asked if anyone had seen his brother, but came up with nothing.
“Where could that Dwarf go?” he confessed to Dorro on the side. “He never goes anywhere without his felt hat. I have a bad feeling that he’s no longer among the living.”
“Did anyone have cause to do him in?” queried the bookmaster, perhaps none too subtly.
“Wump? Oh, he always has adversaries for one reason or another,” mused his brother. “He has a good heart, I’d say, but a grumpy disposition—doesn’t seem predisposed to be kind to anyone and perhaps he is a tad selfish, too. And if there is gold or precious minerals about, he’ll be the first to dig ’em up. Wump isn’t a great one for sharing his bounty either. Sure, he’ll pay a share to the community, but the rest he hoards. A true Dwarf, that one!” He laughed at his own joke.
“Did he have any family?”
“Oh no, Mr. Dorro. Our Wump is a bachelor these days—he lives for his own pleasure and satisfaction. A bit of a loner, and intentionally so.”
The search party turned a corner and headed towards the smeltery, where they were to meet up with Bindlestiff. “And how did he get along with Orli? Was he a loving uncle?”
Crumble flinched, hoping that Dorro hadn’t noticed, though he had. “Oh, they got along fine until … well, last night. It was a Dwarf matter, though, to be honest, Orli did something wrong and had to be punished. I found it hard to do myself, so I let Wump do the deed. The boy is still sore about it—especially on his rear end!” The Dwarf laughed weakly, then he began to shake. “Oh, I hope nothing happened to my brother. He always meant well, he did!”
Dorro was mulling over this Dwarf matter when the figure of Mr. Bindlestiff came running out of the vast entrance to his smelting works, waving his arms. “Thank goodness you’re here, Sheriff Dorro! Come quickly!”
The portly man of business dashed off to the rear of the giant cavern that housed his industry. It was a long stretch of a hillock, but Bindlestiff knew the trail and climbed to the top, a sprawling hilltop of rocks, gravel, and scrubby vegetation, interspersed with enormous round metal chimneys and air vents. Naturally, it was smoky, but Mr. Bindlestiff seemed to know where he was going. Finally, he stopped on the edge of a ravine that dropped about thirty feet near the rear of the enormous hill. “Down there, Winderiver! Can you see!”
“See what?” said the lawman-cum-librarian, craning his neck. The four other Dwarves followed suit, peering through the drifting smoke.
“See that—right there, where Fibbhook is waving his arms like a lunatic,” cried Bindlestiff. “Look at his feet!”
Dorro finally saw something; it looked like a bundle of clothing, but instantly knew it was not. Crumble put his hand to his mouth and grabbed the bookmaster’s arm.
“It’s me brother, Wump. He’s dead!”
Missed Apologies
“Nurse Pym, what do you make of it?” Dorro, Mr. Timmo, and the band of sad, weeping Dwarves stood around the body of Wump, who was lying in a culvert on the earthen cap of Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works.
The chief healer and midwife of Thimble Down looked up from the corpus of Wump and said, “Yep, I’d say he died, all right!”
Thank you for the obvious, Pym, thought Dorro sarcastically, but actually said, “Your keen powers of observation continue to amaze us, Nurse. Do you know the cause? Was he stabbed?”
“No, there are no puncture wounds anywhere on Mr. Wump’s corpus. However—and this is the interesting part—the head and body have bruises all over ’em and I’d say, more than a few broken bones. So, for the moment, my gut is that the fellow died from a savage beating with a club.”
“Or rocks?” said Dorro quietly, out of earshot of the Dwarves.
“Yes, could be rocks, but why? A thick cudgel might do the trick just as well. I don’t see any broken skin, which jagged rocks would likely cause.”
“Why does he have that strange look on his face,” queried the bookmaster. “It’s quite eerie and unnerving.” And indeed, Wump did have a bizarre leer on his face—part fright, part smile, with his eyes wide open, as if he died in a state of nervous excitement.”
“I noticed that, Dorro, but I think it’s a natural spasm that happened at the moment of death. I’ve seen the strangest looks of rictus on corpus’ faces before—happy, sad, surprised—and you can’t read too much into it.”
“So, here’s what we know so far. Dead: one Northlander Dwarf. Cause: blunt-force trauma, probably to the head. Weapon: Unknown, possibly a thick cudgel, or less likely, a rock. Assailant: Unknown. Kin: Four brothers and one nephew, at least so far as we know. Now, I suppose, you may dispose the body.”
“We’d like to take care of his corpus our own way, using our Dwarf methods.”
Mulling it over, “Certainly, that seems acceptable, as long as it won’t cause any risk to public safely. You’re not going to burn the corpus, are you?”
Crumble seemed perplexed. “Well, of course we’re gonna burn it, you daft fool! We’re Dwarves! We burn anything we can get our hands on. But rest assured, we will take our brother Wump far, far outside your village and perform our farewell ritual in a place where no Halflings will be harmed.”
That seemed to satisfy the Sheriff Pro Tempore. “May I come along and observe? I promise not to intrude. And Mr. Timmo I’m sure would find it of great interest.”
Crumble glanced at his brothers skeptically, but said, “Yes—but don’t interfere! This is a sacred ritual and few, if any, non-Dwarves have ever seen it. Come—and keep your mouths silent!”
Dorro nodded and knew that it was time to withdraw, leaving the Dwarves alone to deal with their grief. “Timmo, let’s retreat to the gaol and compare notes. There are lots of things to discuss. And after the funeral, Crumble, what will you do next? Go home?”
“Don’t be absurd, Halfling. We will hunt down my brother’s killer and cut his still-beating heart from his chest while he watches helplessly.” But adding with
a grin, “At least, that’s what we usually do.”