by Pete Prown
* * *
“Sir, will you kindly put me friend Burko down! Sirs!”
Mr. Mungo was beside himself. A gaggle of Dwarves had entered the Hanging Stoat not fifteen minutes earlier and had gone from table to table demanding to know who had killed Wump. So far, they had punched three Halflings in the nose; opened a window and bodily thrown Farmer Duck outside; and were presently holding Burko Soames, the miller, by his ankles while waving a sharp dagger in his face.
“I don’t know nuttin’, Mr. Dwarf!”
That only made things worse, when said Dwarf informed all that he was in fact a she. “My name is Malachite Molly and this is my battalion of goblin slayers! And you rabble will tell us who killed my Wumpie or we’ll gut ya all!”
“Madam, please put poor ol’ Burko down!” urged Mungo. “Mr. Soames is a quiet gentlemen who grinds flour in Thimble Down and only comes in here for a wee tipple now and again.”
Aramina dropped Burko on his bum and crowed, “Yes, that’s what we need—some stout rope to tie some folks up and squeeze ’em till they tell us the truth. Now, you fat, lazy barkeep, get us some of your best ale. Here’s a coin for yer troubles.”
In the air she flipped something, which Mungo snatched—he knew it wasn’t a coin, but his experience told him that it was gold, and by the weight of it, a very solid bit at that. “Oh indeed, please have a seat, and we’ll bring you some drink and pork chops on the double. Here, Dimple, snap lively!” He motioned for his assistant, the burly boy named Dimple Hognoddle, to start fetching food and drink for the Dwarves.
Presently, Crumble, Magpie, Two-Toes, and Flume joined them at the table, and it was a merry Dwarf gathering. Still, Crumble cautioned his former sister-in-law, “Aramina, dear, I do think you’ll get more cooperation out of these creatures if you don’t beat them or hang ’em by their ankles. They’re not like goblins—you can reason with them. Believe it or not, they do possess a basic amount of intelligence. On par with a woodchuck or well-trained house cat.” (One would have hoped that Crumble was jesting, but he was not.)
“I know only one way to interrogate, and that’s by the tip of my blade,” spat the she-Dwarf. “No one kills my kin and lives to tell about it.”
“We will find the culprit and extract proper … ah … restitution from him.” Crumble smiled in a way that meant something far darker. “But really, what’s with this Malachite Molly nonsense? You’re our Aramina—such a pretty name.”
“Thank you, Crumble—you always were a sweetie. But honestly, do you think I can ride into battle with that name? Do you think my banshees want to call out, ‘Beware you goblins! Beware of Aramina!’ or worse, ‘Look out … here comes Mrs. Wump!’ No, no, no, we can’t have that. I needed a good fightin’ name, and that was a good one. Me grandmum used to call me Molly back when I lived in the mountains, and Malachite is one of me favorite stones. Young Wumpie gave me a necklace of the green stones once, and it touched me heart.”
“I see.”
“Rest assured, Crumble, there’s not a goblin or troll in the Northland for whom the name Malachite Molly doesn’t put the fear of death in ’em. They well know about the savage beauty with the double-edged battle axe. A bit of a legend, I am,” boasted Aramina, looking at her fingernails and feigning modesty, albeit poorly.
“I wish my Orli was here to meet you,” added the Dwarf. “He’s off on a ramble at the moment.”
“I bet you gave him a good hidin’—that’s what usually sends ’em packin’ for a few days.”
“Yer quite right, Aramina. He got a tannin’ a few days ago, and we exchanged words again yesterday. I figure he’s fit to be tied by now. The lad has a temper like … like Wump!”
“Oh be still, my beating heart! Orli sounds like a lovely boy, especially if he’s grumpy like Wump. I did always find that trait rather alluring, don’t you know.” Aramina leered again, like a fox sneaking into a chicken coop.
The door of the Hanging Stoat banged open, and in strode Sheriff Forgo and Mr. Dorro. They walked right up to the Dwarves.
“Now, didn’t I tell you not to make trouble?” Forgo was angry and had his hand on his cudgel. He knew this gang of Dwarves could rip him limb from limb, but he wasn’t going to show them any signs of fear or weaknesses. In his mind, you only fight strength with strength. “Now, you leave these folks alone. You wanna talk to them, fine. But you can’t toss them out the window. Understand?”
Talking a slurp of her frothy beer, Aramina said, “I don’t usually apologize, Sheriff. In my line of work, it’s just easier to hack someone’s head off. But seeing as we’re guests in yer village—and on the counsel of my former brother-in-law—we will be more pleasant from now on.” Another big gulp. “I am sorry.” [Burp!]
“There we be, all friends again!” laughed Crumble. All the Dwarves now began knocking back their tankards and diving into the plates of pork chops, brown beans, and kale that Dimple had finally served up. Once again, Dorro noticed them passing a little vial and putting a few drops of belladonna into their drinks to kick it up a notch in strength.
“Say, Crumble, have you seen Orli about?” It was Dorro, finally speaking up. “My Wyll hasn’t been home since last night, and frankly, he’s rather cross with me. I don’t expect he’s off with Orli somewhere in the woods, do you?”
The Dwarf frowned and crossed his arms. “Actually, it makes perfect sense. If yer lad is angry with you and mine with me, they must have left together. That’s what a Dwarf would do.” Around the table of chewing, burping, and snorting Dwarves, they all nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid they ran away. Wouldn’t be the first time for young Orli.”
“Oh dear—nor the first time for Wyll. It’s a bit of a habit, actually. That boy is so headstrong, just like his dear, departed mother.”
“That further binds the boys together,” added Aramina. “They’re growing boys, surrounded by males, and without the balancing strength of a mother. That makes ’em surly and more prone to strike out on their own.”
“If Orli has done this before, Crumble, how long ’til he comes back?”
“Usually a month or two. Once for six months. You never really know, but he’ll turn up, trust me.”
These words crushed poor Dorro, who already regretted many of the things he’d said to his nephew. If only he knew that Wyll was a mere mile or two away, hiding in a cave on the River Thimble, he’d feel much better. Instead, Dorro felt nothing but cold guilt for being a poor guardian.
“Come, Mr. Dorro, all will be fine,” reckoned Crumble, twiddling his thumbs. “The boys will either come home for their respective punishments or they’ll go away and make their own lives. Either way, we’ll see the measure of the grownups they will be come. Running away from home is a character-building exercise.”
Again the Dwarves all let fly various snorts, farts, burps, and nods of agreement, but poor Dorro, in comparison, was simply miserable.
Wanted
“What’s this? What’s this I hear?” An indignant Hiram Bindlestiff half dragged the Mayor to the table where Dorro and Crumble were sitting and demanded answers. “Did you just say that your lad Wyll has fled with the Dwarf boy?”
“So? What it’s to you, Bindlestiff?” snorted Dorro, pulling himself up to his full height of five solid feet tall and looking down his nose at the insufferable pair.
“Why it’s everything, Winderiver.” The smelting mogul was positively gleeful. “See Mayor—I told you!”
The Mayor shrugged. Dorro still didn’t see what Bindlestiff was prattling on about. “What is everything?
“Just this: my man Fibbhook caught those boys at the smeltery, along with that bratty girl they follow like puppies. They were sneaking around the stairs by my office just a few days ago. At night!”
“They were merely getting a tour from Orli.”
“Oh really?” crowed Bindlestiff. “Well, one of your Dwarf friends was here at the Stoat the other night and let slip to some of my workers that they had caught the you
nglings that very same night, just after they broke into my office. Do you deny it?”
Crumble stared at his brothers—he knew one of them had too much ale and blabbed, but there was nothing to be done. The die was cast, yet he said nothing in their defense.
“Your silence is as good as proof, Dwarf!” triumphed Bindlestiff. “Ah look, there’s Sheriff Forgo. Forgo! Over here, man!”
The Sheriff slowly ambled up, already knowing that this wasn’t a good scene. “What can I do for you gentlemen?”
“Just this, lawman. We have proof that the Dwarf boy Orli and Winderiver’s lad broke into my office. And my office was subsequently burgled, and valuable papers stolen from my vault.”
“Well, it’s not exactly proof,” drawled Forgo slowly.
“It’s probable cause! That’s all I need” roared Bindlestiff. “Mayor, do something!”
“I’m afraid he’s right, Sheriff. As Mayor and chief magistrate of Thimble Down, it’s my official duty to instruct you to arrest those boys on sight.”
“And that bratty girl!” chided the fuming smelter.
“Yes, I’m afraid Miss Cheeryup Tunbridge must also be brought in for questioning, Sheriff.”
“She’s but a wee girl, Mayor,” pleaded Dorro, though to no avail. He looked to Forgo as if this were some sort of cruel joke, but saw the grave look on his friend’s face. “Please, Mr. Bindlestiff, these are just children!”
“They are thieves and scofflaws. I expect to see wanted posters up around Thimble Down by daybreak, Forgo, and that little witch in your gaol. Are we in accord, Mayor?”
“Make it so, Sheriff. This is out of my hands.”
About the table were a quite a collection of sad, miserable faces—Dwarf and Halfling alike. Except for one who was grinning quietly to himself.
Little, however, did the gloating Bindlestiff know how lucky he was. Were it not for the presence of the Sheriff, several folks, including a handful of Northern battle-Dwarves, would have leapt up and thrashed him within an inch of his life. It would be doubtful he would have smiled after that—nor been able to for several months.