Death of a Dwarf

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  It wasn’t long until Wyll Underfoot found himself sitting on the back of a shaggy brown-and-white pony, swaddled in blankets and moving with a convoy of fifty rugged-looking Dwarves, males and females alike. It was raining steadily, but the fresh air felt good to Wyll after many days lying in a musky cave, and he was hopeful about the journey north. He desperately craved a bath, but didn’t think it was polite to ask; he doubted Dwarves bathed much anyway.

  Every few hours, the convoy would stop and take a break. Orli would help Wyll down from the pony, but owing to his bitten-up leg he couldn’t hobble very far. Tarquin checked his wounds and spread a foul-smelling paste on them. When Wyll scrunched up his nose the first time, the healer said, “Horrible smelling, yes, but this balm has saved your life. Trust me.” After that, Wyll kept his expressions to himself; he didn’t want to seem ungrateful.

  The landscape grew progressively rockier as the band wended its way further north. The grassy planes gave way to boulder-laden fields with heathers and brackens providing the only bits of greenery. Maybe a stunted tree every once in a while, but a far cry from the lush trees of the Great Wood. And there was a steely wind that cut across everything, making the environment harsh and forbidding.

  Yet Wyll couldn’t deny the stark beauty of the land and the dramatic row of hills and mountains slowly rising to greet them. They were foreboding, yet drew him onwards all the same. This was the Northern Kingdom of the Dwarves.

  “Orli, when will we get to your home?”

  “In two days, I reckon. We must cross this rocky terrain and keep ever-climbing. This will bring us to Gildenhall, the majestic caverns of my kind. You will be dazzled by their beauty.”

  “Will we be able to ask about the black stones there?” Wyll still hadn’t forgotten about Thimble Down and its problems. “They might be able to tell us about the Grippe.”

  “We’ll ask for an audience with the Seer. She’s wise and knows all things, but is also crafty in her ways. We will need to be careful; only a fool approaches the Seer unprepared for her mischief.”

  Wyll didn’t ask more after that and slowly dozed off. He awoke to shouts several hours later. Rough hands dragged him off the pony and behind a big boulder; Orli showed up a second later.

  “Goblins. Lots of ’em. Apparently the buggers have been following us for a while and just launched an ambush. Don’t move—I’ll be back soon!”

  Wyll didn’t need to be told twice. He’d known how terrifying goblins were and was in no hurry to get into a tangle with that kind, much less an army of them. All around him black arrows pinged off the rocks while—along with screams and yells—he heard the sounds of metal hitting metal. He’d never been in a battle before, and it terrified him—it suddenly occurred to Wyll that he could die at any moment.

  As if to prove that point, he spied a goblin standing on a boulder not thirty feet from him, its black, beady eyes locked on his own. Like a specter out of a nightmare, the orkus crept towards him, avoiding Dwarf arrows and moving like a cat. Twenty feet, fifteen feet, ten feet, the beast came straight for Wyll, yet all he could do was lie there, unarmed and paralyzed with fear. Up close, the goblin was hideous to behold, a black, warty creature with rippling muscles head to toe and a deadly curved sword. Its teeth were yellow and black, pulled back in some sort of horrible smile as it prepared to slay him.

  “Arrrhhhhh!”

  A blurry figure jumped between him and the goblin, and began chopping away at the foe. The orkus laughed in its terrible way and slashed at the Dwarf, connecting with arm tissue, but the fighter kicked at the monster and knocked it off balance, causing it to fall to one knee.

  Sensing the opportunity, the Dwarf slashed hard on its sword arm and severed it completely. The goblin instantly produced a smaller knife from its other belt with the other hand and stabbed the Dwarf, planting it in his hip. The figure screamed in pain, but it only made him angrier and he executed a long, lateral arc with his sword. It caught the goblin on its neck and deftly separated head from body. The orkus’ body collapsed in a heap.

  The fighter spun around to see if his charge was hurt. “Wyll, are you okay?”

  “Orli, that was you? You saved me.” Wyll had never been so grateful in his life.

  “Never mind that now. There are many goblins—too many—and we must make a run for it. Can you stand?”

  “I’ll have to.” Wyll stood feebly and grabbed onto Orli’s arm. He saw that the Dwarf was also injured, but it didn’t seem to stop him. “Let’s go!”

  Together, Orli and Wyll hopped from rock to rock as the Dwarf fighters began to evacuate. Clearly, the goblins had been planning this ambush for some time and caught the Dwarf brigade unawares. There were dead bodies on the ground, Wyll noted, and they weren’t all orkus.

  They pushed towards higher ground, with goblins trailing them and arrows flying incessantly. As they went, more Dwarves fell behind, either injured or to fight to the death and buy their comrades time.

  Wyll and Orli struggled onwards and upwards until and a stray arrow caught Wyll in the leg, the same one mangled by the wolves. He fell, dragging his friend with him into the cracks between several huge boulders. They clung to each other, knowing that death would soon follow. But instead they heard music—or more exactly, the clarion call of a horn. No, many horns, blowing above them in the high rocks.

  Within moments, a torrent of bodies washed over their rocky crevasse, leaping from rock to boulder and boulder to stone, shooting arrows and hacking orkus heads and limbs from bodies, and crying triumphantly.

  “Dwarves!” shouted Orli, knowing that reinforcements from the Northern Kingdom had arrived. “We are saved!”

  He grabbed Wyll and dragged him up the rocks with incredible strength, until they had the vantage point to see the battle. From all above them, hundreds of fighters rained down the stony slope, killing any and all goblins where they stood. No quarter was given, even for those orkus foolish enough to attempt surrender. The Dwarves did not take prisoners of their kind.

  Within the hour, the battle was over and the body count grim. A dozen Dwarves had died, though it was matched by nearly two hundred goblins. As they would later find out, this had been one of the biggest goblin attacks in years, a coldly planned massacre, intended to drive the Northlanders back to their rocky lairs and leave the north open for the orkus to plunder.

  Around them, the fighters were discussing this massive goblin aggression and its ramifications upon their folk, but also binding up the wounded and preparing to ride home. A guard of some hundred Dwarves were also sent on patrol, in case more beasts were on the move.

  As Wyll and Orli soon learned, these were troubling times in the North.

  The Oilcloth

  Dorro was laying out a few items for dinner when he heard an expected knock on the door. He rushed over and unlatched it, opening it just enough for a small figure to slip into the Perch’s foyer.

  “Right on time! You weren’t seen, were you, Cheeryup?”

  “I think not—I’m getting pretty good at moving about in the dark. What’s for supper? I’m famished!”

  “Come this way, my dear.” Dorro toddled into his kitchen, making sure his window curtains were pulled tight and got to work. He’d found some nice trout fillets at the fishmonger’s and was preparing to sauté them with shallots, butterbeans, and diced turnips. As he cooked, Dorro made small talk. “So how was your day? Did you find the Pie Thief?”

  “Yes.”

  Dorro stopped on a heartbeat. “Don’t jest with me, young lady! I nearly had a heart attack.”

  “But I’m not jesting, Mr. Dorro. I caught him, lock, stock, and barrel.”

  Eyes bulging out of his head, the bookmaster croaked, “Well? Who is it?”

  “Gadget Pinkle.”

  “My former deputy? That tall, skinny bumpkin? He couldn’t steal a cookie dangling in front of him. You must be mistaken.” Cheeryup’s silence and small grin told him otherwise. “Fine—
out with it. How did that gangly, clumsy boy become the most notorious thief in Thimble Down history?”

  With that, the girl regaled him with her tale, how she tracked the Pie Thief and caught him that very morning on a bench in the village. By the time she’d finished, Dorro served up the fish onto some brown ceramic plates and set them on the table, along with mugs of cider. He held his cup in the air, laughing joyously: “A toast, to Cheeryup Tunbridge, the best detective in all Thimble Down!”

  Cheeryup blushed, but accepted the flattery graciously. “Thank you, kind sir.”

  “What is Gadget going to do, now that his career of evil has been curtailed by a little blonde-haired girl?”

  “I think he wants to focus on his work for the Sheriff—he has anxiety about the memory of Bosco. Apparently Forgo won’t let it go.”

  “I can see that, poor lad. What did he say about Bindlestiff’s missing papers?”

  “I have them.”

  “What? Cheeryup, dear, you have to stop frightening me like that. You have them?”

  “Yep.” She was smiling ear to ear now. “He led me towards the Meeting Tree, and then to that luv’ly old willow not fifty paces away. Gadget had hidden the packet in an oilcloth that he stuck in one of the cracks. It was about twenty feet off the ground, but if you saw the way that boy can climb, you’d understand—he moves like a squirrel.”

  “And?” sputtered Dorro.

  “And I shall fetch it for you, but don’t expect miracles. It’s in Dwarfish, an ancient form I’d guess.” She skipped over to her cape and pulled out the wrapped oilcloth. Cheeryup plopped it on the table and unwrapped its contents. Both thrilled and amazed at her accomplishment, Dorro pored over the pages intently.

  “This is far beyond me. I think it’s time for us to chat with our old friend, Crumble.”