Goblin War

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  The next hour was one of pandemonium, as figures dashed to and fro from the library in alarm and rancor. Sheriff Forgo was among the first to arrive, bellowing and flailing his arms in anger in front of the porch.

  “Who the hell ordered this—the Mayor? I won’t allow it in my town.”

  “You have no choice in the matter, Forgo.”

  “Who’s gonna stop me, you slick weasel?” The Sheriff brandished his fearsome fist, not for the first time. “You?”

  “No.” Hamment smiled. “They are.”

  At that, a half dozen big Halflings emerged from the entrance. Forgo recognized them immediately; they were ruffians from Fell’s Corner, all nasty pieces of work.

  “What’s going on here, Shugfoot?”

  “The Mayor, in his infinite wisdom, foresaw your disloyalty in this matter and thereby formed a militia to protect the library from outside meddling. They are official servants of Thimble Down who report directly to the Mayor. I would advise you to keep your distance.”

  Forgo looked at the rabble and knew even he couldn’t tangle with these goons. “This isn’t over, Hamment—not by a long shot.”

  The lawyer began examining his fingernails distractedly. “Who knows, Sheriff? Maybe the Mayor will change his mind if business picks up at the taverns and businesses he has vested interests in. Anything’s possible.”

  “You are pond scum, Shugfoot.”

  As much as he wanted to slug the barrister, Forgo knew he was defeated and stomped off in disgust.

  In his place came the figure of Darwinna Thrashrack, who was simply livid, despite looking smashing in a teal winter ensemble with a wool collar and matching cuffs and hat. She walked right up to her colleague at Shugfoot, Thrashrack & Grumbleoaf, standing only inches away.

  “Hamment, have you lost your senses?” She stared at him with her blazing green eyes. “This is illegal, underhanded, and purely vile—even for you.”

  “Darling Darwinna, this is just business. Don’t be so petulant—I’m just doing my job,” purred Shugfoot. “The library is a valuable asset for the community, but is being wasted by a Halfling who is a criminal. We’re thinking of the fine folk of the village in this matter; it’s for the greater good.”

  “Oh Hamment—you are such a clever fellow.”

  The lady lawyer stepped even closer to her colleague, a subtle hint of allure in her eyes as she put her hands tenderly on his forearms.

  It was at this point Darwinna dug her fingernails through his fur-lined jacket into the flesh of his arm, tighter than a vise, to the point where Shugfoot turned white and nearly screamed.

  “But if you think I’m going to let you commit this evil crime, you half-wit, you’re sadly mistaken. I will use every tool at my disposal to destroy you and the Mayor. Are we clear … darling?”

  Shugfoot didn’t reply, largely because he was about to lose consciousness, but then Darwinna Thrashrack retracted her talons and departed.

  The attorney drew his first breath in about a minute, crying out in pain and looking to see if she broke the skin on either arm. This was not the way he hoped this would play out. Hamment saw the goons standing behind him, smirking.

  “You’re not paid to gawk, you animals!” he screamed. “Get back to protecting the library—that is if you want to get paid!”

  In a huff, Hamment Shugfoot stomped off, the triumph turning in a personal fiasco.

  What just happened here? He wondered to himself distractedly. Darwinna was supposed to rush into my arms—not break them!”

  The Chamber

  The first thing Dorro noticed was the stench. It was a putrid combination of sweat, sooty smoke, mold, and rotting things that jarred him awake.

  He opened his eyes—or at least thought he did—but was surrounded by darkness. Then there was the pain; a throbbing ache in the back of his head.

  The bookmaster was disoriented and wondered what fresh Hell he’d been sent to. It slowly came filtering back … the storeroom, the goblins, and then blackness. From deep inside the pit of his stomach, churning anxiety gripped Dorro as he realized he was now a prisoner.

  “Are ya awake, my sleeping pretty?” There was a movement in the darkness. “Ah, yer stirring. Good—time for work! I already put yer pal in the slave chambers.”

  Dorro felt himself being hauled to his feet by powerful hands. He tried to take a step, but then wobbled and fell over.

  “Right, we did give a smack on the head, didn’t we? Shame about that.”

  The hands—leather paws, more like it—grabbed his head and pulled it backward. Dorro felt some kind of hot, fetid broth being poured down his throat and gagged reflexively. He choked down the rest, trying to find his breath.

  “There, good as new!” said the voice in the dark. “That’s our special grog. Nuthin’ like it—mother’s milk to us. You’ll be feeling fresh as a daisy in no time.”

  The flavor was disgusting, a dark-berry taste with what must be absurdly high levels of alcohol; it burned his throat to the point of nausea. Still, Dorro noted, he felt a tingling in his toes and feet, as the hot brew sped through his body, and remarkably, his head felt clearer and sharper. The pain in his head lessened and he began to sense flickering light in the distance.

  “Where am I?” he gasped.

  “You’re here, ya fool,” laughed the hideous-sounding voice. “Home, sweet, home—the caves of the Bones ‘n’ Blood clan, the fiercest fighters in all the mountains. And yer our new cook.”

  “You aren’t going to kill me?”

  “Har! Sure, we might! But only if you don’t make our stomachs happy.”

  There was some guttural barking to their right, as the creature dragged Dorro towards the light of torches and a central fire pit.

  The two goblins began conversing in their harsh language, reminding him of the exchanges between Grimble and Braâch. He wished Grimble were there right now—he’d know how to save Dorro; sadly, the bookmaster’s dear goblin friend was perhaps two hundred miles away in a distant village of elves. He felt a sob welling up, but stifled it.

  Dorro looked upward as the outline of the cave came into focus. The smoke from the fires wafted up through the rocks, presumably to some distant point above where it vented into the open air. Elsewhere, he noticed stalactites and stalagmites protruding from the rock, as well as chasms that dropped to who knows where. The Halfling didn’t want to find out.

  “You’ll be wanting to watch your step, little mouse,” snarled the goblin, as if reading his mind. “We’ve lost a few of your kind to misplaced footfalls before, as well as a few others who leapt to their doom for some stupid reason. Can’t imagine why—our cave is one of the nicest in all goblin-kind.”

  “How long will you keep me here?”

  The orkus again croaked in pleasure, as if Dorro was the funniest fellow in history.

  “Why fer-ever—you belong to us now! What part o’ that ain’t clear?”

  As they moved closer to the fire, Dorro saw the goblin for the first time; this was the first creature he’d spoken to in the storeroom, a muscly brute with an uncannily good grasp of the Halfling tongue and a good, if bizarre, sense of humor and irony. He laughed at whatever Dorro did, as if he were a clumsy toddler learning to walk.

  “You’ll work until you drop—that’s the way here. There are others and you can stay with them during your rests. Otherwise, you’ll wait for us to bring in meat we capture or steal; you turn it into something that we like. We’re partial to eels, rats, foxes, ’n’ possum. Understand?”

  “Otherwise, what?”

  “Otherwise, we don’t needs ya and we gets rid of ya, half-witted Halfling.”

  The enormity of Dorro’s predicament dawned upon him. He was truly at the lowest ebb of his entire life, one that made the horrors of Fog Vale seem like a holiday camp.

  “Now, since yer the new feller, you can go to the cook’s chamber and rest up. But soon enough, you’ll be fryin’ up fresh stoat flesh for us a
nd it better be good. For yer sake.”

  The goblin grabbed Dorro’s arm and led him into the dark, the bookmaster stumbling in a daze through smoke and flickering flames that danced on the cave walls. He shoved him through an opening whereupon Dorro promptly banged his forehead on a low ceiling.

  “Oh yeah—duck!” teased the creature as it loped into the blackness.

  More hands tugged at his sleeve, but these weren’t rough. He realized they belonged to Halflings, many of whom offered soft words of encouragement as he curled into a ball and began shaking uncontrollably, fear finally getting the better of him.

  “It’s alright, mate—gets more tolerable after a while,” said a male voice. “It ain’t like home, but we’re alive. Just don’t try to escape; they don’t like that. We’ll tell the other one when he awakes.”

  He pointed to a curled up figure on the hard ground, snoring away blissfully. It was Amos, Dorro knew.

  A woman’s voice chimed in.

  “‘Tis true. You may think you can sneak out, but some have tried and you don’t want to know what happens when they got caught. It’s better to say here, luv, and do your chores. The beasties mostly leave us alone so long as we cook.”

  A third fellow added, “I miss seeing the skies and listening to the birds. The only thing you won’t get used to is the sight of the goblins eating their supper—they eat everything, bones ‘n’ all. As long as we get the fur and scales off, they’re happy as magpies and leave us be.”

  Another voice chimed in, “Say … you ain’t from Thimble Down, are ye?”

  Dorro sat up, “Yes! Yes, I am! Who said that?”

  “Just me—I once lived there and thought you looked familiar. I was Otis Jones, from Fell’s Corner. You’re that fancy librarian feller, ain’t ye?”

  “Yes, I’m Mr. Dorro—you know me?”

  The bookmaster grabbed the Halfling’s hand and clasped it tightly, happier to see him than almost anyone else in his entire life. “Thank you for remembering me. You don’t know what it means, really!”

  “Glad to see you, too, sir—a friendly face as it were,” said Jones. “But we need to be settling down soon. The goblins like us to be quiet after a spell, so they can sleep before their daily hunts. Don’t go ambling off by yerself or nuthin’. You don’t want them to catch you in the caverns alone. It wouldn’t go well for you if they did.”

  Dorro gulped at the thought.

  Clues

  “Look Wyll—Mr. Shoe gave this box to me!”

  Cheeryup was excited and tugged on her friend’s sleeve. They were holed up in her toasty kitchen, eating blueberry muffins her mother had baked that morning, staving off the cold weather outdoors.

  “Pay attention and stop stuffing your mouth for one single moment!”

  “Sawrry, Cheer-yup,” mumbled the boy, his mouth filled with baked blueberry goodness.

  “Mr. Shoe stole a few boxes from the archives before he was evicted from the library yesterday. He thought there might be some useful information in here, so let’s get busy. And stop eating!”

  “Sawrry….”

  “Don’t apologize—just start reading, you goose.”

  Cheeryup opened the first folio and started looking at ancient letters, some in familiar Halfling and others in incomprehensible ancient script of Havling. The two worked for an hour until Wyll piped up.

  “Look! I found something in our language about the heartwood. It’s dated from about ninety years ago.”

  The slight fellow began to read.

  Philosophical Observations

  on the Nature of the Heartwood

  by A. Mumpfort

  scribe, Thimble Down

  The Heartwood is a wondrous thing in our parts, perhaps a bit of legend, but very much alive in the Great Wood near Thimble Downe.

  I have heard rumors of it from the local folk in this village, but often without specifics. Sometimes you’ll find Folke in the taverns toast each other’s health, uttering, “To the Heartwood, good sir!” or some such.

  Similarly, if a new mother carries her Wee Bairn into town, another mother might stop and offer a blessing such as “May she be protected always by thy Heartwood.”

  As I’m new to this hamlet, I’ve inquired often about the strange word—heartwood?—but to little avail. Often, the townslings just titter, as if my question bespeaks of a naiveté or Sheer Foolishness.

  Other times, I’ve heard a fellow boast, ‘T’was out in the Great Wood today and espied the Heartwood hisself,’ to which he gets Clapped on the back and heartily congratulated.

  So is the Heartwood a sprite, a magical Pixie, or some such? Are there Spirits in the Great Wood, specifically concentrated around the Meeting Tree, that special place of the Halflings.

  ‘Ere three days ago, I spoke with a traveling merchant who referenced the Heartwood more as an object than a personage. He claimed it was the heart of the Great Wood that sometimes takes on the form of a Halfling, as well as that of Wilde Animal, be it owl, fox, or bear. I fear it a Myth, but a popular one.

  Still, I am Curious—what if there is a being in the Woods?

  If so, I should very much like to spy it for Myself.

  —A. Mumfort

  June 17, 1632, A.B.