Goblin War

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  “Amos? Amos Pinchbottle! This is me, Mr. Dorro,” whispered the bookmaster as he tiptoed through the dim, candlelit entryway.

  “Step back, bookmasher!” drawled the sloshed assailant. Mr. Shoe was still in his clutches and his skin was as white as the snow outside. “One step more and Bedminther Shoob gets it!”

  “Amos, I just want to talk. Do you know that I killed someone today? I accidentally killed my friend, Dalbo Dall.” Dorro couldn’t believe the words coming out of his own mouth, but it almost felt good to confess. “I didn’t mean to kill him, but it just happened. So I understand, Amos, I really do.”

  “So it’s true—the great Dorro Fox Windy-river is a ruddy murderer, jus’ like me. Glad to have you aboard, mate! Now they can hang us both from the Meeting Tree, side by side like the best o’ friends!”

  “Amos, we don’t hang criminals in Thimble Down. At the very worst, we could be sent to the eastern frontier. And furthermore, we would be tried by a jury and, who knows, perhaps exonerated of all charges.”

  “Maybe I should go with Forgo to the gaol. I am mighty tired and a nap before the trial sounds good. What do you think, ol’ Beddy Shoe?”

  Bedminster, still terrified, nodded slowly. Amos began to relax his grip on the teacher and scribe, but just then, a there was a series of loud bangs and crashes in the rare book room behind them.

  Boom! Ker-plang!

  “It’s a trap, you lying, rotten Winderiver!” screamed Amos as he tightened his knife against Bedminster’s throat. “This was the plan all along—pretend to be poor Amos’ friend while that fat Sheriff snuck through the back window. Well, I’m too fast for ya!”

  The door to the rare book room clanked open and out stepped Wyll and Cheeryup, both coughing from the mounds of dust they’d stirred up. Their plan to surprise Amos and free Bedminster Shoe was dashed the moment Wyll’s foot caught the edge of a book shelf and sent it crashing to the floor. Both looked absolutely morose.

  “We’re sorry!” cried Cheeryup. “We didn’t want to hurt anyone. We just wanted our friend Mr. Shoe back. Please don’t hurt him, Mr. Pinchbottle!”

  “This is getting ridiculous!” replied Amos angrily. “Shoe, your job is done—I don’t needs ya anymore.”

  With that, he shoved Bedminster Shoe across the room and into a wall, where he collapsed in a heap. Then he propelled himself across the room at terrifying speed, shoving the young ones back into the rare book room and heading straight for the front door. For good measure, he took a swing at Mr. Dorro and caught him on the side of the cheek, knocking the bookmaster to the floor.

  Amos laughed manically as he vaulted through the door to freedom. To his regret, he forgot to check what was on the other side of the entryway.

  “Who you callin’ ‘fat,’ you drunk skunk?”

  Much to his surprise, it was Sheriff Forgo and, more precisely, Sheriff Forgo’s fist, which slammed into Pinchbottle’s nose with electrifying force, knocking him backwards. The criminal fell over the prostrate Mr. Dorro, who squeaked in pain beneath Amos’ bulk. In a moment, the Sheriff was upon the crook again, delivering three sharp blows to his face and head that resoundingly knocked Amos Pinchbottle out.

  “Yer lucky I don’t do the same to you, Winderiver!” shouted a livid Forgo, as he hauled Amos’ body off the pile. “I should smack you senseless for that stupid act.”

  Rising to his own feet, the wobbly defended himself, “I only did what I had to, Sheriff. Those children mean everything to me!”

  Both looked at Wyll and Cheeryup who had stepped out of the toppled book room; Dorro dashed to them and clasped them in his arms. Angered as he was, Sheriff Forgo also felt a pang of jealously at the sight. If only he had someone he loved that much and loved him back.

  Just as fast, he pulled himself out of the reverie and grabbed Amos Pinchbottle by the collar even tighter.

  “How ‘bout we take a little stroll over to the gaol and I lock you up for a few days—or maybe weeks? And I apologize in advance if I punch and kick you a few more times before the night is over, but hey, everyone has a leisurely pastime. Mine is pounding criminals and scofflaws into the dirt. Now move it, scumwad!”

  Unbeknownst to him, a number of crows, ravens, and jackdaws in the hemlock above began paying off their bets, cursing the fact that the big Halfling had failed to off the skinny, pale one.

  Yet others were ecstatic, pocketing their winnings and heading back to their rookeries to celebrate, eat a few fermented grubs, and take a richly deserved winter’s nap.

  The Solicitors

  Several days passed as Forgo worked to restore peace within Thimble Down. The events of that one horrible day had rattled the entire community and many were still shocked over the death of Dalbo.

  The Sheriff could do little to quell the gossiping and spurious comments about Mr. Dorro, but there was nothing to be done. The bookmaster had been allowed to go home and collect his wits, but Forgo had advised him that a formal trial was to be held the next Tuesday. He even heeded Osgood Thrip’s advice and sought out the advice of a solicitor, something he’d never done in all his years in Thimble Down. It brought Dorro no joy and felt a cold cynicism growing in his heart.

  On the previous Thursday, the Halfling walked down the snowy High Street—much of it lined by windowboxes decorated with fanciful greens and bright red, yellow, and orange holly berries—but he was fully aware of his fellow villagers staring and whispering scandalous things. He stopped in front of a well-groomed burrow with large windows and green-painted panes, and took a deep breath. Dorro looked up at the sign.

  Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf

  Solicitors-at-Law since 1713, A.B.

  He entered a welcoming interior, where a blue-enameled iron stove delivered delicious amounts of warmth. The anteroom of the firm’s burrow was richly appointed with leather-clad seats and settees, polished tables, and a silver tea service that must have cost a fortune.

  Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf could well afford it, as their skills were sought out by the most lucrative clients. Accordingly, the lawyers changed an arm and a leg for their work, billed meticulously by the quarter-hour.

  The bookmaster hesitated and grew apprehensive; he suddenly turned back towards the door and made to leave when a sultry voice purred behind him.

  “Aren’t you the famous Mr. Dorro? You are, aren’t you. We’ve been expecting you.”

  Dorro turned and faced one of the most ravishing ladies he’d ever seen—Darwinna Thrashrack, solicitor-at-law. Not only was her voice beguiling, but she had luminous green eyes, nut-brown hair, and a perfectly shaped face and mouth. Well-respected gentlemen often turned into spineless jellyfish the moment she passed them on the lanes, much to the ire of their wives and fiancés. She was also tantalizingly unattached, which only made her more desirable.

  “Are you just going to stand there, Mr. Dorro, or are you going to shake my hand?”

  “Errrr, sorry. I am Dorro Fox Winderiver, as you, uhhh, already know.”

  The bookmaster was completely tongue-tied in Darwinna’s presence and cursed himself for it.

  “I was, errrmmm, popping in to see if your firm could help me with my little problem.”

  Thrashrack smiled in return. “Of course, dear friend, we’re here to help. Sadly, your little problem is somewhat of a large problem but we’ve dealt with those, too. Why don’t I bring you to meet my colleagues and we can explore the options, yes?”

  She ushered Dorro deeper into the burrow, which was fitted out with several formal chambers that served as offices for clerks and lawyers alike. The desks were littered with documents, stamps, inkwells, and feather quills.

  In truth, one frequent visitor was Bedminster Shoe, who as village scribe would visit to get signatures on legal documents—wills, death decrees, birth certificates, and land-sale agreements—the stuff of legal commerce.

  “What kind of tea can we get you, dear Dorro?”

  “Anything with mint w
ill do fine, thank you.” He was nervous and keenly aware that the further he stepped into the chambers of Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf, the more gold would departing from his bank account.

  Nothing was free here—not even the tea.

  “And here we are,” cooed Darwinna, ushering him into a swank meeting room with an oval table in the center made of figured walnut and encircled with elegant chairs. “Mr. Dorro, I’d like you to meet my colleagues, Hamment Shugfoot and Tiberius Grumbleoaf.”

  The dapper Shugfoot sprang to his feet and grasped Dorro’s hand. “Our bookmaster! What an honor it is, sir. I do so empathize with your plight; I’m sure the firm can help.”

  Hamment Shugfoot turned to the next partner, a heavyset, balding fellow with wire-rim reading glasses and sharp, small eyes. He seemed to be scribbling something in a leather-bound book of his and not paying attention. “And this is Tiberius—.”

  Grumbleoaf, true to form, stayed in his seat and merely grunted a form of greeting.

  Shugfoot continued, “Our Tiberius isn’t one for much of the social graces, but he has one of the keenest minds around. Ignore that infernal book of his; he’s always writing in it, probably every dashed word we say. Keeps the damned thing locked up, too, so we have no idea what he scrawls. But there again, it’s the price we pay to have the Great Grumbleoaf on our side.”

  Dorro was quite aware what a slick package Hamment Shugfoot was—suave and charming, his fox-like eyes often darting in Darwinna Thrashrack’s direction. Surely, he was as smitten by her as everyone else, Dorro figured.

  “Now, to business!” interjected Darwinna and they all sat. A clerk breezed into the room with a pot and tray of tea cups and laid it down, departing just as quickly.

  “The case at hand is the accidental death of one Dalbo Dall, late of Thimble Down. Mr. Dalbo was of no fixed address and owned no property as we know of. Yet, on Saturday last, he was struck by an arrow reputedly shot by our own Mr. Dorro and tragically killed.”

  Dorro gulped at the description, still in disbelief that he had killed the gentle wanderer.

  She continued: “The Mayor—who also serves as the magistrate of Thimble Down—has insisted we take this to trial, despite the accidental nature of the incident and depositions from both Sheriff Forgo and Nurse Pym as to the non-criminal nature of the act. Dorro, that means you didn’t mean to do it.”

  He nodded, transfixed by the words coming out of Darwinna’s mouth; it was now all becoming very real to him. There would be a trial, there would be a verdict and, possibly, a substantial punishment.

  The bookmaster thought of his modest fortune, which had sustained him these many years. A costly legal battle and fine could deplete him of his gold reserves and change his life forever. His mind wandered to his beautiful home, the Perch, overlooking the River Thimble and its lush garden and orchard.

  If he were to go bankrupt, he might have to sell out and find a small burrow somewhere in town. Or perhaps he’d move into the library itself—true, he did own the building. Either way, the whole thing saddened him immeasurably and he started fidgeting with the silver buttons on his vest.

  “Do you understand that, Dorro?”

  “Umm, yes, I do—I really do,” added the glum fellow, his voice weak. “Will I be imprisoned a long time?”

  “Oh dear, that decision is a long way off,” chimed in Darwinna. “Wouldn’t you agree, Hamment?”

  “Oh yes, my good fellow! As you know, I’ve been retained by the Mayor to represent the village of Thimble Down in this matter, but even so, your trial will be a fair one and you do have some compelling evidence. I must admit, even as the prosecutor, I can’t deny the evidence of accidental death. A goodly fine, perhaps, but prison seems unlikely, unless I’m terribly mistaken. What do you say, Tiberius?”

  For a second, the quill of the beefy Grumbleoaf stopped moving and he looked up over his tiny, gold-wire glasses.

  “Harummph! A gaol term—pah! Wouldn’t think so. That would be petty revenge. But we must go through the process and the next few weeks will be unpleasant, Mr. Winderiver, I grant you that. It will get much worse before it gets better.”

  “Tiberius has also consented to be the truth-finder in this case, Mr. Dorro,” continued Darwinna. “I will be your defending solicitor, while Hamment prosecutes. Tiberius will be weigh all the evidence and make a strong recommendation to the magistrate on his view. In our history, the word of the truth-finder is compelling and often sways the case one way or another. And Grumbleoaf is about as fair a Halfling as you’ll find in all the counties.”

  “Hruhmmph!” coughed Tiberius, though whether that was a laugh or an objection, Dorro couldn’t say. Either way, he better knew the lay of the land, as Darwinna Thrashrack continued to explain the judicial process to him and what to expect.

  As Grumbleoaf had aptly noted, he realized, it would surely get worse before it got better.

  The Cell Next Door

  Dawn broke clear and crisp across Thimble Down.

  Dorro rose early, peeking out his front windows toward the river. It hadn’t frozen over, but would soon. There were already slabs of ice floating on the frigid water, while a few brave ducks and geese wandered by the shore, looking for their breakfast.

  Dorro lit a fire in his kitchen’s grand oven and began baking muffins, more to take his mind off his woes than anything else. He minced a few of the apples stored in his larder since Fall—Flitwycks, to be precise—as well as conjured up a batter of flour, corn starch, sugar, cinnamon, butter, cloves, sow’s milk, more butter, and an egg or two.

  He mixed the tart apples into the batter and put them in a well-greased muffin pan that Mr. Timmo had made for him many years earlier. It was large enough to accommodate twenty-four muffins, minus the one he would gobble down immediately after removing it from the oven.

  Thus when Wyll awoke and Cheeryup knocked on the front door, there would be twenty-three glorious, tasty apple-cinnamon muffins awaiting them for breakfast.

  “Deese arr reely guud, Miffer Durro!” said Cheeryup, mid-chew, a few hours later. Wyll nodded in agreement and made a sound that came out as, “Yefferee, Urnkle.”

  Dorro was pleased, but his mind again became agitated. His life had been one spent pursuing his own personal interests, thanks to the commendable wealth left to him by his parents and grandfather Lorro, who had planted the ancient orchard from whence these apples had come.

  Certainly, there had been challenges and none more so than in the past year when Wyll had come into his life unexpectedly, but still, his adult years had been largely blissful. This was different—his current predicament could mean the end of that contemplative life.

  After breakfast, both Wyll and Cheeryup gave Dorro hugs as they cleaned up and told him things would be alright. He wanted to believe them, but still felt uneasy. It was in that frame of mind that Dorro verily leapt out of his chair when there came a loud rapping on his front door.

  “Who might this be?” he asked. “I’m not expecting anyone on this cold morning!”

  Dorro turned the knob and pulled, only to find a shivering Gadget Pinkle standing there. “Come in, deputy—you’ll catch your death out there!”

  Gadget gladly entered and, as with all visitors, craned his neck around to take in the splendors of the Perch—it was surely one of the nicest burrows in all Thimble Down.

  “Have a muffin, young friend.” The deputy grabbed one and thanked the bookmaster, but his face was grave. “What news have you for me on this day?”

  “It’s not good, Mr. Dorro. I’m afraid you need to come with me.”

  “What? The trial isn’t for days!” Dorro was beginning to panic. “Sheriff Forgo said I could await the proceedings at home in peace and quiet.”

  “And so it was, Mr. Dorro, but the Mayor overruled him. Last night, he and Osgood Thrip came to the gaol with a Writ of Detention, officially remanding you to custody on this date. In short, the Mayor wants you to await the trial in the gaol where Forgo can watch
you. He thinks you might make a run for it, beggin’ your pardon, sir.”

  “That’s outrageous! How dare he?” The bookmaster began turning red and flustered. “And what if I don’t come? Then what?”

  “The Writ says that your refusal would be an admission of guilt. Worse, the Mayor said he’d order the Sheriff to forcibly bring you in. Here’s a copy of the Writ, if you want to read it over.” Gadget opened his shoulder bag and pulled out a parchment page.

  “Oh never mind! Give me fifteen minutes and I shall pack a few belongings. Wyll, I may need you to bring over some personal items later when I think of them. I want you to pack as well—you’ll be staying with Cheeryup and her mother for the duration. I’m sure she’ll understand and I will reimburse her for your room and board. You might as well take the muffins, too—I shan’t be eating any more.”

  Wyll and Cheeryup were as mortified as Dorro, but said nothing. They just wrapped their arms around him and clung tightly.