by Pete Prown
* * *
Not twenty minutes later, their world had been turned upside down. Instead of a goblin retreat and victory, the remaining Dwarf and Halfling fighters were pinned down in the village, surrounded on every side by goblins. A second battalion of orkus had lain hidden in the forest while the first wave engaged the Dwarves, but upon the deceptive “retreat,” they regrouped and counterattacked in insurmountable numbers.
“Keep your eyes on the roofline!” screamed Forgo in the pounding rain.
With their incredible agility, goblins were able to scale burrows and sneak around their sod-covered tops for surprise attacks from the rear. More than a few Thimble Downers had been taken down by arrows in the back. Then just as fast, the enemy disappeared into the rainy mist. It was an impossible situation, and blood ran down the lanes of Thimble Down as Halflings, goblins, and Dwarves died alike.
It was turning into a nightmare, Forgo knew.
“I hope that Mrs. Finch has the wits to escape and take the children westward,” fretted Dorro. “But I fear just the opposite. She will keep them there until the goblins have conquered us all. Then they will be killed or enslaved. And I don’t know which is worse!”
The bookmaster looked up as Bog the Blacksmith dragged an injured Dowdy Cray away from their skirmish line. Dowdy had a black arrow in his shoulder and was so pale that he didn’t look like he’d make it through another hour.
Forgo’s face was grim, and even the normally gung-ho Dwarves looked morose, Malachite Molly among them. The joy of combat had left her, and her expression said all—this fight was lost. While she and many of her fellow Dwarves could escape, the chances of a full evacuation of the villagers was slim at best. Aramina knew many were about to die.
“Crumbly, why don’t you, Orli, and yer bruvvers pike outta here and make for the river? I’ll come find you in a few hours after I collect a few more goblin scalps.”
“Don’t speak false to me, Aramina,” said the Dwarf. “I know you all too well—you will stay here until a bitter goblin arrow takes your last breath.”
“I just don’t want you hurt, Crumbly,” she replied, big salty tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “Sure, Wump was my husband, but he’s dead and we were never right for each other in the first place. That’s why he left me. But you’re different; you’re special to me. I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt … or worse!”
Crumble didn’t say anything, but instead pulled Aramina close to him, knowing the end wasn’t far off. Arrows were flying so thickly above them that it was hard to see what was sky and what wasn’t.
Suddenly, they noticed something else. There were arrows and spears flying in the other direction. The fighters realized they were surrounded and this crossfire would ultimately kill them all. Yet new cries arose, and while the Dwarves and Halflings huddled down behind the barricade, big creatures overran their position and leapt straight over the barricade.
A few thought these were mountain trolls coming to finish the job, at least until someone shouted, “It be Men!”
“Naw, can’t be!” croaked Aramina, sticking her head up from Crumble’s embrace. “But it is! Them’s Men-folk or my name ain’t Malachite Molly.”
Further down line, yet another surprising word was heard: “Elves!”
Lo and behold, sleek, grey-clad warriors ran past them, firing off arrows by the score and issuing commands in their strange tongue: Arvath toola cath malka to mere! Parth amen forsooth tarka!”
Dorro, Forgo, Crumble, and Aramina jumped up with the elves, Men, and the rest of the Dwarf and Halfling fighters to join the battle.
With the brawny males and strapping females in the lead, the Men-Folk began chasing the goblins down the lanes of Thimble Down, while the lithe elves leapt up on the burrow roofs and slew orkus hiding there. The carnage was unspeakable.
Thus, the battle turned yet again. The orkus were soundly routed, slain at the hands of this strange alliance of Halflings, Men, Dwarves and elves. A few goblins had dashed into the Great Wood, but according to eyewitnesses, didn’t make it far.
“You should have seen it!” crowed a Dwarf fighter who dashed in from West-Upper Down. “The very trees of your woodlands joined the battle and crushed the fleeing goblins like bugs. Oak, birch, ash, and maple alike—each one smashing the beasts with their branches before returning upright as if nothing had happened at all. And directing them all was a weird little Halfling. A tiny old one with wrinkly skin and—”
“… a floppy green hat,” said Dorro, finishing off the sentence. “That would be Dalbo Dall.”
“Don’t be daft, Winderiver,” snarled Forgo. “How could trees squish goblins? And what does Dalbo have to do with it?”
“Remember, Sheriff, we don’t know everything about this world of ours,” continued the bookmaster, thinking upon the words uttered by Crumble as they rode into battle. “As strange as it sounds, I think this rumor is entirely accurate.”
“But what about the elves and Men-folk? Why are they here, and how did they know the goblins were upon us?”
“It’s a long story, Forgo, but sometime, ask me about our protectors. And about our role in the Wide Green Open we live in. We Halflings are not quite as alone in the grand scheme of things as we like to think.”
The Sheriff merely put his hands on his hips and looked at the bookmaster foggily.
“Wha—?”
Pages of Science
The quiet of the Autumn afternoon fell on Thimble Down, and it couldn’t have come soon enough. Most villagers were exhausted from the onslaught, a saga that would go down in Halfling history as the Battle of the Burrows. It would be recounted in local pubs as the greatest moment in Halfling history, save perhaps the legendary Rebellion of Borgo.
Yet, it wasn’t all glory and valiant deeds. Many burrows and establishments in Thimble Down had been damaged or destroyed, lanes torn up, windows and wells smashed, and more. Worse, there were the dead.
According to Nurse Pym, fifty good Halflings from the village or thereabouts had been slain, among them Bindlestiff’s foreman, Silas Fibbhook, and Poe Stitchwicket the shepherd, both of whom had taken poisoned darts and expired before Pym could get to them.
Many were reeling with the news that their dear friend Farmer Duck had been felled by a goblin’s sword. (Despite his surname, he lamentably hadn’t done so fast enough.) This was a particularly hard blow for Sheriff Forgo, who had known Duck from his boyhood days.
While tears were shed for the fallen, the living were tasked with removing the corpuses of goblins and Dwarves, of which there were too many to count. Forgo estimated that there were well over two thousand dead goblins alone in the entire battle zone, stretching from Thimble Down to West-Upper Down, and many more in the Great Wood strangely crushed to death.
They also learned that the Village of Upper Down proper had been fully razed, though fortuitously, many of its residents had escaped prior to the onslaught.
On the home front, the villagers remarked on acts of bravery, such as Osgood Thrip taking out many of the enemy with a bag of silver coins he swung like a mace. Or Bog the Blacksmith carrying his injured pal Dowdy Cray to safety; the wagon driver had taken a tainted arrow to the shoulder, but would recover.
The Mayor, to no one’s surprise, fled into hiding, yet Thimble Downers everywhere were talking about the stout heart of Farmer Edythe and how she hadn’t lost her cool during the fight. It wasn’t lost on anyone that she stood up for Thimble Down while their sole elected official ran off and left them for dead. If the Mayoral Election had been held that moment, Edythe would have walked off with it, and as it stood, she would be in good standing when the proper contest was held in two weeks. Still cowering in the woods, the Mayor wallowed in his cowardice, knowing that the election was all but over.
Many Thimble Downers were milling about in front of the gaol, looking for loved ones. Among them was a certain bookmaster, who suddenly appeared out of the throng.
“Sheriff, I know we�
�re all still very much recovering, but I need to convene a meeting as soon as possible.”
“Are you daft, Winderiver?” Forgo looked like he was about to take a swing at the bookmaster. “We have hundreds of bodies to bury and much of the village to rebuild. But of course, when the exalted Dorro Fox Winderiver wants a meeting, he usually gets it, doesn’t he?”
“Actually, yes he does, my good Sheriff.” Unlike the lawman, Dorro was mildly amused, but still needed to drive the point home. “Forgo, I have the results of the Seer’s translation. I know what causes the Grippe. We can stop this illness right now!”
Forgo rolled his eyes, but as usual, caved into Dorro’s idea. “Fine! I’ll get Gadget on it. How that boy survived the battle without a scar, I’ll never know. Probably hid in a cider barrel for most it.”
Satisfied, Dorro laid out his requirements for the Sheriff, who simply grunted and groaned with each request.