Death of a Dwarf

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  In the evening of the second day of travels, the quartet of Dorro, Cheeryup, Crumble, and Aramina were camped by the side of a wide dirt track that curved through the forests and meadows.

  According to his map, they were three quarters of the way to St. Borgo and would arrive the next day. It wouldn’t be too soon for him, either, as the concept of sleeping outdoors in tents completely eluded him; he much preferred the creature comforts of the Perch, and sadly, there were no charming inns along the route.

  The rest of the troupe, however, was quite merry, sitting in front of a fire and eating fresh rabbit or ducks that Aramina had hunted down for them. Dorro noted how lethal this Malachite Molly was with a bow, axe, or knife; deep down, he was more than pleased she had accompanied them on this journey through the wild. He wasn’t sure Aramina was the best role model for Cheeryup, but then reflected on the child’s own fierce nature and decided they probably weren’t that far apart in the first place. The Battle Dwarf even let Cheeryup help gut and skin their dinners, which Dorro found absolutely repellent, but the girl dove into the task with gusto.

  “Mr. Dorro, beggin’ yer pardon, what is your plan when we arrive in St. Borgo?” Crumble was happily munching on a crispy duck leg. “I bet there ain’t many Dwarves there.”

  “I would agree, Crumble. I posted a note a few days ago to the Inn of the Yellow Swan and am hoping they have reserved rooms for us. It’s right near the college, so the following morning, we can begin scouring the campus for a scholar.”

  “And you think you’ll find one so fast?” croaked Aramina, who was picking her teeth with a rabbit bone. “I can’t imagine there are many experts in Dwarf lore there.”

  “I would agree with you, ma’am, but I brought a small bag of coins to help lubricate the process,” said Dorro slyly.

  “I’m so excited. I can barely imagine a place where Halflings learn all day long,” chirped Cheeryup. “I wish we had a school in Thimble Down.”

  “So do I, young lady,” frowned Dorro. “It’s been weighing on my mind lately. It’s been decades since we had a permanent teacher in the village, and despite the excellence of our library, it doesn’t cover the gaps.”

  “I never went to school, young Miss, and I’m smart as a whip,” cackled Aramina. “Y’see, if I have five goblins comin’ at me, and I have only three arrows. Why it just takes a bit of arithmetic to figger out what to do.”

  “Pray, illuminate us with your math skills,” snorted Dorro.

  “I take one arrow and shoot it through the first goblin’s head, just to spook the rest of ’em. Then I take the second arrow and stabs another beastie with it before shooting it through the third. Then I take my last arrow and either do the same thing or try for a double-header, which is shooting two goblins sandwiched on one arrow. Them’s my favorites!”

  Crumble and Cheeryup laughed and clapped, while Dorro restrained himself from being sick, so appalled was he at her barbarism. In the far distance, a pack of wolves howled in the night, causing the bookmaster to squeak and look about him in desperate fear.

  “Wolves! We’re about to be attacked!”

  This only made his cohorts laugh even harder.

  “Don’t worry, Mr. Dorro. With Malachite Molly in your camp, you only have to worry about mosquitos. She can protect you from anything else.”

  “Actually, I wish dem wolves would come sniff around closer,” said Aramina seriously. “I need a new jacket, and there’s nothing better than thick wolf fur. Maybe, Mr. Dorro, sir, you’d let me tie you to a tree and smear a little duck blood on your clothes? That would them wolves in a jiffy. It’s all for giggles, of course.”

  “No!” huffed Dorro. “I am not going to serve as bait!”

  At that he stood up and marched to his tent, which he tied firmly behind him. He pretended not to hear Aramina, Cheeryup, and Crumble howling uproariously behind him.

  Professor Larkspur

  “Mr. Dorro, it’s even bigger than Water-Down!”

  Cheeryup was electrified as the band drove their cart into the center of St. Borgo, amid the bustle of Halflingdom’s biggest town. As much as they took in the sights, sounds, and smells of this burg, so too did its populace stare back in wonder, notably at the two strange creatures in the wagon—Dwarves!

  Indeed, upon occasion many St. Borgonians had seen a creature of the race of Men, and its most adventurous had perhaps spied an elf or gnome, but Dwarves were as rare as hen’s teeth. The grownups stared, the children pointed, and a few toddlers even burst into tears at the sight of Crumble and Aramina.

  Dorro directed Crumble to steer the wagon onto a small side lane and into a livery stable where his ponies and cart would be cared for during their stay. In a trice, they were back on the lanes, with a few boys hired to carry their luggage.

  The Inn of the Yellow Swan was nearby, and they were quickly checked in, despite some queer looks from the proprietor. He pulled in close to Dorro and whispered, “A-hem, sir, but errrmm, what are they?”

  As discretely as possible, the bookmaster replied, “They are Dwarves. Fine folk. Very upstanding.”

  The proprietor didn’t look convinced, but let them each have a room anyway, as he didn’t have many customers and quietly observed Dorro’s ready bag of coins. In that light, he decided to put up with the Dwarves if it meant buying new sheets for those rooms.

  It was mid-afternoon, and rather than nap, the troupe decide to explore the university town for a few hours before dinner. Perhaps they’d find a scholar to help them, which would dramatically improve Dorro’s state of mind.

  They hired a boy to guide them to the College of St. Borgo and show them the sights. The lad, named Billy, was fascinated by Crumble and Aramina and proud as a peacock to be their official guide to St. Borgo.

  “If you look down this lane, ladies and gennle’mum, you’ll see the original stone gates of the city, dating from 1104 A.B. They were strong enough to withstand the Goblin Invasions of 1434 and 1539, respectively. Both times, the strength and might of the Halflings armies prevailed and beat back the enemy.”

  At this, Crumble and Aramina tittered, but as Dorro suspected, there may have been a Dwarf hand in these victories that was underreported. Still, he shot them withering looks as if to say he’d brook their nonsense not much longer. Indeed, the two Dwarves were like silly adolescents, snickering behind their backs at many of the Halfling customs, fashions, and sayings. The bookmaster chose to ignore them.

  “And here is the Mayor’s House, a grand brick structure built in 1594, A.B.,” continued Billy, who turned out to be quite a knowledgeable lad.

  “As you’ll note, there are very few burrows in St. Borgo, unlike the villages of many Halflings in the kingdom. We were primarily a burrowed settlement until a few hundred years ago when the River Lilly overflowed and wiped out most of the city. It was then that the then-mayor, a chap named Lollo, charged the professors to come up with a new plan.”

  “As a result, they devised a plan to bring in tons of earth and stone, raising the whole city by two feet. They also added a huge swale around its perimeter to prevent any floods. To boot, all buildings and homes must now be freestanding. This gives St. Borgo its unique architectural style, which the swells at the college call the Borgonian Manner. It’s all pickles ‘n’ gravy to me, but that’s what they call it.”

  “Excellent, Billy, you really know your history!” applauded Dorro. “Did you go to school?”

  “Yes, indeedy, sir. All younglings in the town must attend school until the age of fourteen, or until they can write, keep a basic ledger, speak like a lord, and understand the basic principles of commerce. Then offs they go into the world of business and life; thanks to the college, they have arranged for hundreds of apprenticeships throughout the town and many of them turn into proper livelihoods.”

  “That’s wonderful. And what do you want to do when you grow up, Billy?”

  “Why, I’m going to be the Mayor!” crowed the boy, m
uch to Dorro’s delight. At that, Billy directed the troupe to the college campus and bade his farewell. The bookmaster gave him an extra coin for his pluck and wished him well.

  A few moments later the foursome had entered the gates to the College of St. Borgo and took in its grand, beautiful buildings, courtyard, and trees. It was like its own private city, a quiet sanctuary from the fervor of St. Borgo proper.

  “It’s absolutely beautiful,” said Dorro. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid?”

  “Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Aramina and I have a question.” Crumble suddenly looked quite serious.

  “Of course, Crumble—anything!”

  The Dwarf looked at his feet pensively and then at Aramina, who urged him onward. “It’s just this, Mr. Dorro. We come all this way to have those pages deciphered and learn more about the black stones and their properties. And that’s all well and good. But what about Wump? My brother is still dead.”

  “And my ex-husband!” chimed in the Battle Dwarf. “I once loved that old goat!”

  “Precisely, Mr. Dorro, meaning I hope we don’t get too side-tracked by your research. I do hope we find a way to cure your folk of the Grippe, but Aramina and I, well, we want—”

  “Revenge!” snarled the she-fighter. “I want to find the scum-weasel that offed my Wumpie and I’m going to flay the bugger alive.”

  “That is, after my brothers and I stomp the ever-breathing life out o’ him,” said Crumble matter-of-factly.

  “I want to cut his toes off!” Aramina nodded in agreement. “And pull off his fingernails, too!”

  Dorro looked taken aback at first, but then came to his senses.

  “Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have been swept away by the college and the journey and my own dreams. But listen: the secret of your black stones, I’m convinced, is related to the death of Wump. I know it in my bones! I don’t have any proof yet, but there’s something connecting the two. I beg your patience for just a little longer until we can translate the page and understand its contents.”

  That seemed to satisfy the two Dwarves. They didn’t say anything, but both nodded, having said their piece. Dorro led the others through the campus, periodically asking passersby for directions and if they knew anyone with a specialty in Dwarfish language and lore.

  Despite the stares and gawking, they were eventually directed to a mossy stone building with round windows and a sense of distinguished grandeur about it. A porter on the first floor pointed them up three flights of cut-stone stairs and down a long hallway. At the end of it, panting from exertion, Dorro knocked.

  “Yes, come in!” said a wizened old voice. “But you know, my office hours aren’t until next Tuesday—it says so in your syllabus.”

  “Excuse me,” coughed Dorro awkwardly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”

  “Visitors! Well, come in, come in. Let me take a look at you—Sweet King Borgo!”

  The ancient Halfling almost collapsed back in his chair at the sight of Crumble and Aramina. “We’re sorry to upset you.”

  “Upset me? No, I’m delighted! I’m Professor Taddeus Larkspur [gasp!] and this is the Department of Ancient Dwarfish. You two are Halflings, but dear sir, dear lady—real Dwarves in my very office. What a treat! Please stay for some tea.”

  The group sat around an old dusty table while the scholar rang for the porter via a system of pulleys and bells. Dorro sized up the old Halfling, who was every ounce the picture of academia. He wore a long black robe that was well patched and none-too-clean, while his face was profusely wrinkled. A pair of reading glasses teetered on the end of a longish nose, and his hair was graying and rather thin on top. His eyes were black and set closely together.

  “What, pray tell, can I do for you fine folks? I’m just so tickled that you visited me. Ankh snorf barrach sharg?”

  “And feargot shahl boorook to you, sir,” giggled Crumble. “For you folks, the professor and I just exchanged basic pleasantries and salutations. Honestly, my granddad spoke the ancient tongue, but I know only a few phrases. We modern Dwarves mostly speak in the Common Tongue.”

  “That’s a shame—I can speak it fluently,” boasted the professor, “But alas, I have no one to converse with.”

  “Don’t you have students?” inquired Dorro.

  “I’m afraid not. Honestly, no one visits me much anymore, and I haven’t had students for years. I conduct my research on Dwarf lore and culture, quietly and very much alone. It is my life’s work, but the fools here at the College of St. Borgo have chosen to ignore my gifts. But please, you haven’t told me your story. I’m so eager to know! And ah, there’s our tea!”

  The ancient porter brought in a cart and laid out a simple tea with sandwiches. It was meager fare, but plenty under the circumstances. Both Crumble and Aramina sniffed the tea and food and scrunched up their noses unhappily—both would have preferred frothy tankards of ale.

  “I am Dorro Fox Winderiver, the bookmaster from the village of Thimble Down. This is my young friend Cheeryup Tunbridge and our companions, Mr. Crumble and Mrs. Aramina Wump, known to her comrades as Malachite Molly. The former is an artisan in the craft of smeltery, while Mrs. Wump hunts goblins and protects our borders. We are very grateful to her.”

  Professor Larkspur’s mouth hung open speechless, but illuminated with joy. “That’s marvelous! Do you really hunt goblins, Mrs. Wump?”

  “Oh yessir,” said Aramina proudly. “I’m particularly gifted with axe throwing and have nine hundred and forty-nine kills to my name. I’m sure it’s much higher than that, but them’s the officially counted ones.”

  Then as politely as possible, she sipped her tea, pinky extended.

  “Our Aramina is being modest,” cooed Crumble. “She’s deadly with any weapon—axe, mace, hammer, sword, bow. Why, she could impale an orkus through its brain cavity with just an ordinary kitchen spoon.”

  At that, the two Dwarves croaked merrily, joined by Professor Larkspur who found the pair charming.

  “As I was saying, Professor, we are here to seek your help,” said Dorro, trying to keep the conversation on track. “We have a situation in Thimble Down that requires the assistance of someone who can read Ancient Dwarfish. There is currently a plague festering our village—the Grippe—and we aren’t sure if it is related to the Dwarfish activities in our smeltery.”

  “What can I do? I am a busy Halfling after all, and my work is of the paramount importance.” Professor Larkspur suddenly looked peevish.

  Reaching into his bag, Dorro pulled for the documents. “We were wondering, Professor, if you might be able to help translate these pages. They are in an older form of Dwarfish that my friends don’t understand. We were hoping you would examine them—and I would pay you for your time!”

  “Let me see!” Professor Larkspur verily grabbed the pages from Dorro’s hand. “Where did you get these? My word, I’ve never seen writing and drawing of this caliber before.”

  “They seem to have been a gift to the College from the Dwarfs of Gildenhall. But they were stolen years ago.”

  “Which is why I’ve never seen them! If this is authentic, it could take years to unravel.”

  “We don’t have years, sir. Please—time is of the essence. Halflings are dying from the disease that torments our village—as we speak.”

  Professor Larkspur’s eyes blazed across the ancient pages. “This could be the crowning moment of my career. But as for you, Mr. Durbo—”

  “Dorro, actually.”

  “Yes, Mr. Dorro. I can translate this fairly easily, yet you would need to leave them with me, at least until tomorrow morning. I promise to guard them with my life! I shall need a fee of ten silver pieces, too—for my consulting time, of course.”

  “Agreed! We shall meet you here tomorrow morning. And you will have a translation for us?”

  Professor Larkspur looked the bookmaster right in the eyes and reached out his hand.

  “From one scholar to another, I swear to you that I w
ill. Even if it takes all night, you will have it, sir. As soon as you finish your breakfast, come to me in all haste!”

  Confession

  “Did you hear the news, Minty?”

  “What, Dowdy?”

  “It’s the Grippe—t’was started in the new Hanging Stoat. Mungo used bad, rotten wood for the construction, and it was infested with disease. Think about it: the Grippe started not long after the Stoat was rebuilt!”

  Dowdy Cray, the wagon builder, had been telling Thimble Downers all morning about this latest theory, embellishing it more and more each time.

  “It gets worse, Minty. Farmer Edythe knows about it and covered up the bad news with her campaign for Mayor!”

  “No! That’s slander, Dowdy!” Minty was turning red under the collar. “Edythe and Mungo are friends of mine—and yours, too. I will naught ha’ ye libeling their good names!”

  “Fine, think what you want, ya fool,” hooted Dowdy. “But think about the timing. I swear it’s in the rotten wood!”

  In a huff, the wagonsmith stomped off down the street, leaving the tiny tinker by his cart full of wares. As he readied for departure, Minty heard more Halflings whispering about this rumor, impugning Edythe as running a dirty campaign for Mayor. He’d finally had enough and walked right over to the gaol to let Sheriff Forgo know. Yet as he got closer, he was sure the lawman already knew, as there were Edythe and Mungo giving him an earful.

  “I’m sorry, Edythe, but that’s not illegal!”

  “Spreading lies is not illegal?” Edythe was boiling mad. “We have it on good authority that Osgood Thrip, on behalf of the Mayor, has been buying drinks throughout the village and spreading this spurious rumor to anyone who’ll listen. And people are listening—I’ve been accused of being everything from a liar to a witch this morning!”

  “That’s politics, darling, and I ain’t got nothing to do with that.” Forgo put his hands on his hips in exasperation. “If someone is breakin’ the law, you let me know, but lying is perfectly legal. Bring it up with Osgood or the Mayor, not me. Now if you’ll excuse me …”

  Farmer Edythe and Mr. Mungo hurried off in a snit, knowing this was a big blow to her election chances. “That was a close one, Forgo.” It was Mr. Timmo, who had been quietly listening in.

  “Yeah, this place is spinning out of control, and the last thing I need is some of Osgood Thrip’s shenanigans.” The Sheriff was exasperated. “And in the thick of it all, Winderiver decides to go on vacation.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t necessarily say that …”

  “What do you know, Timmo? Tell me or I’ll clap ya in irons!”

  “He’s in St. Borgo.”

  “The capital? What the heck? And lemme guess, what vital piece of information has he withheld from me this time?”

  Timmo could tell that Forgo was going to blow his top soon.

  “He has the documents—Mr. Bindlestiff’s missing ones. And he’s going to get them translated.”

  Flailing his arms and rolling his eyes, Forgo was beside himself.

  “Why doesn’t that fool of a Halfling ever tell me anything? Of all the sneaky, backhanded tricks!”

  “Sheriff, I think time was of the essence. He left almost immediately upon discovering the pages, which were in Ancient Dwarfish. Dorro has sought out a professor at the College of St. Borgo and promised to return quickly.”

  “Do you have any other secrets for me?”

  “No. But judging by the face of the young man behind you, I’d say, he does. And with that, I shall bid you farewell.”

  Forgo spun around and saw his deputy, Gadget Pinkle, standing awkwardly by the gaol’s doorway.

  “Ummm, Sheriff, can we have a word?”

  “Don’t tell me yer quittin’ on me, Gadget! I have enough on my mind without having to find a new deputy.” Forgo walked brusquely past the skinny man-boy and into his office. He sat and groaned, knowing this wasn’t good news. “Out with it, Pinkle.”

  “I’ve been meaning to talk to you for a while, but here it is—I’m the Pie Thief.”

  Forgo bugged his eyes at the red-haired boy for a moment. Then he burst out laughing.

  “That’s a good one, Gadget! You had me going there. I was all prepared for bad news, but thank goodness—I needed a giggle.”

  But Forgo noticed the boy wasn’t laughing. He just stood there, looking at his feet. “Oh no, please don’t tell me—”

  “It started a few months ago, just for a thrill, Sheriff,” began the deputy, speaking slowly. “But I was really good at it; I mean, really good. I can steal just about anything, big or small. But I was caught and now chose to confess.”

  “Gub, gub, gub—you’re serious aren’t you?” Forgo was stupefied. “Who caught you, might I ask? Don’t tell me it was Winderiver!”

  “No, it was Miss Tunbridge. She caught me dead to rights.”

  “Yes, I know. Of course, she’s Winderiver’s protégé. And I’m sure she told Dorro—another reason for him to get out of town in a hurry.”

  “But Miss Tunbridge made me promise to turn over a new leaf, under penalty of, errmmm, force.”

  “That little slip of a girl threatened you?” Forgo was beginning to enjoy this.

  “In fact, sir, she did so and illustrated her threat quite vividly.” Gadget rubbed his sore back as the Sheriff chuckled. “I promise, I was gonna return everything I took. It was just a thrill.”

  “Fortunately, Gadget, I have way too many things going on to bother with you. Oh, I’ll punish you eventually, but this village is on the verge of chaos, and I need your help keepin’ it together. In the interim, young man, you will begin returning everything you stole. No, you don’t have to tell anyone, but I want everything back to its original owner, minus anything you ate. And if I hear of anything being stolen in Thimble Down again, I’m coming after you, deputy or not, and am going to toss your rear end in goal. Understand?”

  “Yessir. And thank you, sir. And—”

  “Gadget, shut up and get the hell out of here! Go return your booty and come find me later. We have work to do.”

  “Thank you, Sheriff! You won’t be sorry!”

  Gadget beamed with joy and dashed out of the gaol, verily dancing on air.

  “No wonder that kid was yawning so much when I hired him,” figured Forgo. “Gadget was up all night stealing the citizens of Thimble Down blind. I shoulda known!”

  Speaking of yawning, Sheriff Forgo put his head down on his desk for a quick nap. With all the commotion, he needed as much sleep as he could get.

  A few minutes later, he was happily snoring away.

  A Thieving Hand

  “Hurry, Cheeryup, we mustn’t be late!”

  Double-checking his beloved pocket watch, Dorro was anxious to meet Professor Larkspur. He awoke Cheeryup and the Dwarves at seven o’clock and rushed them through breakfast. The bookmaster wasn’t going to be even one second late for this important appointment.

  They reached the moss-covered building on the campus of the College of St. Borgo and pushed opened the door. Dorro was relieved to see the aged porter sitting in his little nook, pouring over ledger accounts and other pages.

  “Greetings again.”

  “Ah, you are the party from yesterday afternoon. Back so soon?” said the porter in his creaky voice. “How nice.”

  “Yes, indeed!” crowed Dorro. “We have an important appointment with Professor Larkspur, and I’m sure he’s eagerly awaiting us.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “But yes, we are most expected.”

  Dorro was getting a little irked and held up his silver pocket watch as if it was some kind of proof of their meeting. “We shall show ourselves upstairs if you don’t mind. This is not negotiable, my good man!”

  “Oh, I don’t mind if you go upstairs,” laughed the porter. “Go upstairs all you want! But you won’t find Professor Larkspur. Neither today, nor for many months.”

  He chuckled again and went back to rev
iewing his paperwork.

  “What do you mean he’s not there? Of course, he’s there! The scholar told us to come back this morning at this precise time.” Dorro was beginning to panic.

  “I can’t speak to that, m’lord. But as soon as you left yesterday, Professor Larkspur announced he was going on sabbatical—a long one—and wouldn’t be back until next term. He said he’d just made an important discovery in the realm of Ancient Dwarf culture and would be off until who know’s when. And that’s the truth, sir. If you don’t like that answer, ’tis nothing I can do about it.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, Mr. Dorro,” added Crumble, “But I think yon Larkspur stole your papers and is gone, hell or high water.”

  Dorro was about to burst into tears. “I knew I shouldn’t have left those papers.”

  “I say let’s go after ’im,” piped in Aramina. “Oooo, when we catch the old scunner, I’ll fix his wagon. Let’s see how well the thief does his readin’ and researchin’ with just one eyeball! Or maybe I could remove a few of his fingers—hard to turn pages with just a thumb.”

  She smiled her crooked smile, revealing a mouth of nasty brown teeth, some of them missing.

  “What are we going to do, Mr. Dorro?” cried Cheeryup. “Our journey is in vain! Those pages are lost.”

  “This is a tragic blow, I admit,” Dorro frowned, “But all is not lost.” Reaching in his satchel, the bookmaster fished around for a moment and pulled out some pages—they were nearly perfect replicas of the missing pages.

  “How did you get those?” the girl exclaimed in wonder.

  “I didn’t get to be bookmaster for nothing, my dear. Upon receiving the documents from you, the first thing I did was to hire Mr. Bedminster Shoe to make several precise copies. He’s a marvel! Doesn’t even speak Ancient Dwarfish, but his calligraphy is so fine that he was able to duplicate the nuances of their written language.”

  “Thank goodness you made a copy,” Cheeryup added.

  “Oh, we made a several copies, the rest of which are safely locked up in the rare book room of the Thimble Down library,” Dorro winked. “But that doesn’t solve our current problem—we’re still many miles from home and have little to show for our journey. The information in these pages is still locked in a mysterious language I can’t decipher, and the one-and-only expert at the College of St. Borgo has taken flight. I’m afraid we must go home in defeat.”

  “Beggin’ yer pardon, sir …”

  “Crumble, you don’t have to ‘beg my pardon.’ Just say what you need to, man!”

  Dorro was getting exasperated with his Dwarf friend’s endlessly polite nature.

  “It’s just that there is an alternative.”

  “That’s right, Mr. Dorro, there is a good ‘un!” Aramina was hopping up and down on her toes, excited by the same idea. “It will require a bit of a journey.”

  “That it will, but I can guarantee you the pages will get translated.” Crumble was looking at Dorro adamantly.

  “Well, out with it!”

  “The Seer! The Seer!” Aramina began a joyful little dance. “We can go home!”

  “Crumble, please explain.”

  “Y’see, sir, we can go north to our city—a magnificent place called Gildenhall—and speak with the Dwarf Seer, a lady of incredible mental facilities and intelligence. She understands the past, prophesies the future, and can change the present. The Seer will read your pages like it was for wee toddlers.”

  “How far would this journey be? I’m not sure we’re prepared. And is it dangerous?”

  Crumble continued: “I cannot lie to you, friend. It’s a good hundred miles to the Northeast, across the Wastes, and some of it is in open country where goblins and wolves ply their trade. But you have a purse full of coins, I’ve noticed, sir. With that, you could sell your wagon and buy four stout ponies. You two will need some warmer clothing and we’ll need to stock up on food. That said, it will take us four days to reach Gildenhall. And as for the enemy, we have one distinct advantage—Malachite Molly!”

  Aramina smiled bashfully and giggled, “Awww, Crumbly, you sure know how to flatter a girl.”

  “I’d put Aramina up again fifty goblins, and we’d still come out smelling like roses. We’ll make sure you get back to Thimble Down, too!”

  “Well Cheeryup, are you up for more adventuring?” Dorro looked at her earnestly. “This won’t be like a gentle canoe ride on the River Thimble. It will be hard travel through wild lands.”

  “We go,” said the girl firmly, “If Wyll can run off on an adventure, so can I!”