by Pete Prown
* * *
“How bad is it?”
“Oh, about the usual.” Sheriff Forgo tightened his belt, looking at nothing in particular. “Yer basic disaster.”
“What happened?” Dorro was slowly catching his breath after the quick evening walk.
“Hiram Bindlestiff bopped Gadget on the head and escaped. Worse, I can’t find the Dwarves. They’re not in their burrow, nor at any tavern in the village.”
“You think they’re connected?”
“I think Crumble and his brothers—and Aramina—got wind of his escape and went out for a hunt. I’m fearing the worst.”
“But you warned them not to break Halfling law,” added the bookmaster.
“That was when he was in gaol,” growled the Sheriff. “Now that Bindlestiff is an escaped prisoner, I suppose he’s fair game. I don’t think they’ll adhere to the ‘bring ‘em back dead or alive’ adage, either. I’m pretty sure it’ll just be ‘dead, thank you very much.’”
“So where do we start?”
“Let’s swing around to the Hanging Stoat and loop around to the smeltery. But if they’ve taken Bindlestiff to the Great Wood, we have no chance of finding him.” The Sheriff looked irritated, as if he were about to throw in the towel on this particular career choice.
For the next several hours, Forgo and Dorro searched all over Thimble Down, in every tavern, down every lane, and all around the smeltery, including its roof. There was no sign of the Dwarves or Bindlestiff. Around two o’clock in the morning, they came back to the gaol, exhausted and grumpy. Forgo offered the bookmaster an extra cot in the back, but Dorro declined, preferring his own cot in the library’s rare book room, where he occasionally took naps.
Dorro was in deep slumber the next morning when he became aware of heavy pounding on the front door. He rousted himself and buttoned his vest while running to answer it.
“What’s the matter?” he cried, pulling open the heavy oak door. There, looking panicked, was none other than the deputy.
“Mr. D-d-d-dorro! Sheriff Forgo requests you meet him in front of the smeltery. Right now, if you please, sir!”
More than a few Thimble Downers smirked at the sight of the gangly deputy running down the frosty lane, while the bookmaster followed, still trying to button his vest and sleeves. The pair found the Sheriff, who appeared to be in conversation with a gentleman they did not know. As they drew closer, it became clear that there was something queer about this fellow. He did not move or react, despite Forgo’s obvious gestures. The true story was something altogether more sinister.
“Sheriff, what’s the matter?” gasped Dorro. “And who is this … Sweet King Borgo!”
The bookmaster covered his mouth to keep from being ill. However, Gadget lacked that particular self-control and was sick all over the lane.
“So you do recognize him, Winderiver, don’t you?” Forgo was clearly disgusted at his find. “It’s our friend Hiram Bindlestiff, dead as a doornail, as we figured.”
“What’s wrong with him? Why is he shining?”
“Our Dwarf friends left us a letter, most cunningly placed in Bindlestiff’s fingers, as if he were handing it to us. Shall I read it here, or do you need to go lie down? Gadget seems to be ahead of you.”
The two turned around to see Deputy Pinkle wan and passed out on the cold ground. “He may be a brilliant thief, but the lad has no stomach for gore. Anyway, let me proceed.”