Death of a Dwarf

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  Sheriff Forgo’s plan to create a defensive barrier near Fell’s Corner never materialized, for the sole reason that the goblin fighters were already inside the village. The orkus had, as Forgo guessed, come over the tops of the burrows and now were everywhere.

  There was hand-to-hand fighting in every direction, though as the lawman noted, the Halflings were acquitting themselves well. He saw Farmer Duck decapitate not one, but four goblins with one swing of his field scythe, while Nutylla Parfinn bashed a few heads in with an iron skillet from the kitchen of the Bumbling Badger.

  Dowdy Cray and Bog the Blacksmith took down more than a few monsters, Dowdy with a wagon axle that he’d fashioned into a spear and Bog with a wooden mallet that he wielded with terrifying accuracy. Together, they slew at least twenty of the enemy.

  “Sheriff, help!” Forgo turned to see tiny Minty Pinter riding on the shoulders of a goblin while thrashing him on head with a stick. But it wouldn’t be long until poor Minty would be shaken off and killed. A ball of silver flashed by and slammed the goblin between the eyes, rendering him instantly dead. The creature lay on the ground, with Minty pinned under his leg. Someone ran up to free him, as well as retrieve his spiked metal mace. He stood and locked eyes with Forgo, who was shocked to see Silas Fibbhook staring back at him.

  “Well on ya, lad,” was all Forgo managed to say, as the brawny Fibbhook ran off to engage more goblins with that mighty weapon of his. He had assumed that the smeltery’s foreman had run off and hid like ’ol Bindlestiff, but was grateful to see him out there, risking his life for his fellow Halflings. “Maybe that one’s not such a rotten egg after all. Whoa!”

  Swoosh!

  A blade nearly lopped his own head off that time, but the Sheriff snapped back to reality and took on the goblins who’d jumped onto the lane from a nearby burrow roof. The monsters began taunting him and making crude remarks about his mother. That was all that was necessary to get Forgo fired up and begin slicing the attackers with his own worthy sword.

  A few seconds later, the three orkus were dead or dying.

  “No one says things like that about my Mum!” he roared, already running down the lane to the next skirmish. Forgo knew there were too many goblins for the villagers to fight off, but good news came down the line—there was a fresh Dwarf force attacking from the north. He didn’t realize this was Crumble and Aramina’s battalion, but he’d take all the help he could get.

  The goblins sensed pressure on their rear flank and began fleeing. They were pinched between Forgo’s valiant Thimble Down fighters pushing up from the center of the village and the Dwarves bearing down from the West-Upper Down road.

  As the Sheriff looked towards the far end of Fell’s Corner, he saw the Dwarves break the goblin line, and one fighter in particular whoopin’ and hollerin’ as he descended on the frantic orkus fighters, hewing them left and right. Yet as Forgo soon learned, it wasn’t a he—it was a she.

  “Beware, Malachite Molly, ye beasties!” screamed Aramina Wump from the saddle of her war pony, both of them covered in armor and leather. “Fear my sword! Run from my mace because it will be the last thing you’ll ever see, goblin scum!

  With Crumble and Orli trailing her, Aramina was knocking heads off left and right, and the goblins ran in terror from her, breaking out towards the East, where there were woods to hide in. Soon, Dwarf and Halfling forces met at the edge of town, Forgo and the Dwarf she-warrior clasping hands as fellow warriors.

  “You are a marvel, Malachite Molly!” gushed the Sheriff. “I’ve never seen anyone fight so well. You must have killed fifty goblins.”

  “Seventy-five, at least!” boasted Aramina. “When Molly goes berserk in battle, I can’t control her—she enjoys her work.

  “Have you seen Dorro? He disappeared about a week ago with the girl Cheeryup Tunbridge. As a matter of fact, I haven’t seen Crumble or you around for nearly that long, too.”

  Aramina cackled loudly. “Oh, we’ve been on the adventure of a lifetime, but I bet ol’ Dorro would rather tell you of it himself. Last I saw him was in the Great Wood about an hour ago. He was acquittin’ himself well in battle and trying to quell the fires them goblin mischief makers had set. A fearsome look was on his face—that Mr. Dorro loves his trees and flowers!”

  “That he does, Aramina—I mean, Molly.” Forgo could tell she preferred that name in battle. “I hope he’s still alive. Minty, Dowdy, Bog! Come with me—we need to find the bookmaster.”

  At that precise moment, the skies finally opened up, and a thick, chilly rain began to fall on the battlefield. It would make the fighting harder, Forgo knew, but for the burning forest, this was a gift.

  If only they could find Dorro and the younglings before trouble found them.

  Counterattack

  Dorro could have cried with joy.

  His beloved forest was burning around him, yet out of the heavens, heavy rain began to fall and the wicked flames began to hiss and smoke. What could have been a disaster was now merely a few scorched acres of woodlands. Dorro knew the Great Wood would regenerate itself, and in a few years, thriving young trees would populate this blackened patch of earth.

  “Dorro! Dorro!”

  The bookmaster turned his head to see a handful of Halflings running towards him. It was Sheriff Forgo shouting his name, with Dowdy Cray, Bog the Blacksmith, and Minty Pinter behind him. Dorro was even more surprised when the Sheriff gave him a hug and lifted him off the ground.

  “I’m glad to see you, Winderiver! I was preparing for the worst,” laughed Forgo, setting the bookmaster down and clapping his mates on the shoulders. “This could have all been entirely much worse. Where are the children?”

  “With any luck, they’re still hiding in Mrs. Finch’s burrow in West-Upper Down. I don’t think there’s much fighting there—at least let’s hope not.”

  “The goblins have retreated, thanks to your Battle Dwarves and Malachite Molly,” hooted the lawman. “That she-devil has the strength of forty Halflings. Now I’m heading back to secure the village, while you retrieve your wards. By the way, where the heck have you been all week?”

  “That’s a tale for another day, Sheriff. Let’s say I’ve seen several wonders of the Northern world.”

  “Sheriff! Mr. Dorro!” It was Bog the Blacksmith, calling from across the battlefield. “Come quick!”

  In a few moments, the Thimble Downers were standing over the corpus of a fallen goblin, this one horribly disfigured, though whether it was caused by battle or nature wasn’t clear. Bog pointed at something on its body.

  “What is that hideous ball hanging about its neck? Is it flesh?” Neither Bog nor any of them were sure.

  Something was bothering Dorro. “Let me get closer. This doesn’t look right.”

  The bookmaster knelt over the bloodied corpse and began poking the fleshy blob with a stick. It was attached with a string thread through its middle. Dorro even found a bit of cloth and wet it with rainwater, wiping the front of the strange blob. He screamed and stood up, just as Aramina, Crumble, and Orli rode up.

  “Dear sweet Borgo!” he gasped. “Do you know what that is?”

  “I do, a-course!” giggled Malachite Molly, getting off her battle pony. “That be a Halfling head. I’ve seen a few in my lifetime. This here goblin-feller is wearing it as a battle trophy. Musta killed him not long ago, judging by its just-mildly putrid state.”

  Dorro nearly vomited, but held it in.

  “You know who it is, don’t you?” Aramina and the rest looked at him blankly. “It’s Professor Larkspur from the College of St. Borgo—the cad who stole the Ancient Dwarf documents from us!”

  “Why so it is!” crowed Crumble. “Serves that rascal right! I bet he scarpered out of St. Borgo with the papers and ran smack into the goblin host headed our way for battle. Pity the fool. You could say Larkspur’s flight from us was his last … lark!”

  Crumble and Aramina erupted into peals of mirth, while Dorro looked aw
ay in disgust. They were used to this kind of carnage, while the gentle bookmaster was assuredly not. Instead, he gathered himself together and prepared to go fetch Wyll and Cheeryup. Yet there were more yells from the far side of the pasture instead. It was indistinct at first, but soon a Dwarf scout ran up.

  “Woe is upon us!” he bellowed. “The goblins’ retreat was only a feint—they are flooding back toward the village in even greater numbers. We need every Dwarf and Halfling to come fight!”

  The group didn’t need to be told twice. They drew their weapons and leapt on tired ponies to carry them back into battle.