Goblin War

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  “Tut, tut, little fellow! Wait up, sleepy bumpkin.”

  Dorro’s eyelids fluttered open as he bolted upright. “Who said that? Hello?”

  “Why, I did, small mouse. Who do you think is talking?”

  The Thimble Downer scrambled off his bed and spun around—he still couldn’t see the source of this deep, sonorous voice.

  “Am I dead? If so, you can just tell me. I expect I am dead; that would make the most sense.”

  “You are a bother for a chap who thinks he’s dead.”

  The huge voice laughed, shaking the floor Dorro stood upon. “I see you’ve had something to nibble on. Is there anything else I can get you, shortbread?”

  The bookmaster pulled up indignantly. “You know, I’m rather tall for a Halfling. I’m five-foot tall!”

  There was more mirth from above.

  “Oh I see—you’re a giant of the species. My apologies.”

  “Why can’t you come out of hiding, Mr. Mystery? I would like to see whom I’m addressing.”

  Dorro felt this wasn’t an unreasonable request.

  “Mister? Good gracious, you are an amusing little-big Halfling, as that’s who I guess your kind are. And my dear, I’m not hiding—in fact, I’m sitting right behind you.”

  At that, Dorro heard a shuffling sound—more of a boom, really—and spun around. Something that he thought was a large piece of furniture began to move and realized that two of the huge table legs were real legs and the tablecloth was the hem of a rough skirt.

  He looked up and saw a very broad, round face staring down at him, one at least fifteen feet higher than he. Dorro thought very quickly and made a prudent decision—one of unconditional surrender.

  “My dear lady, how could I have been so foolish?” he said with the utmost deprecation. “My ears must have been playing tricks on me, as you are clearly a most charming and beautiful creature, and with such a melodic voice, too.”

  “Hah!” snorted the giantess. “You are a flatterer, too. But pray—continue ….”

  “I simply wasn’t expecting to be in the presence of such an enchanting one such as you, and highly educated, too. Your collection of books is most impressive!”

  “You read?”

  “Indeed, madam—I am none other than Dorro Fox Winderiver, bookmaster of Thimble Down, a village to the distant West. Books are my passion.”

  The giantess smiled again. “A learned Halfling. I am surprised; the ones we usually rescue are rather rough and uncouth—simple country folk who are happy to be free of their goblin slavemasters, but otherwise not offering anything of great philosophical value.”

  Dorro was more than perplexed by this conversation. Certainly, he’d had many odd and downright weird encounters in the past few years, but at the moment, he was discoursing with a lady giant and an educated one at that.

  “My lady, how is it that you come to be here? I was a prisoner of the horrible orkus, if only for a few weeks until you rescued me. Am I your prisoner now?”

  The walls verily shook from the woman’s laughter. “Oh, you do amuse me, Mister … did you say Dor-Fox-o-River?”

  “Dorro will suffice for now. It’s easily confused by strangers,” replied the bookmaster with his customary conceits.

  “Dorro, eh? So be it. As to your question, my good fellow, you are not my prisoner. I plucked you from the others because you looked different. I don’t know what it was, but I thought to myself, ‘Saoirse, this chap looks fresh to Fog Vale and might have a good tale or two to share.’ You see, my son and I live here alone and we’re always happy to hear a new story. Ours is a lonely life.”

  “My head is spinning with questions, though you did give me one answer. Your name is Saoirse. And your son is—?”

  “Truckulus. He’s out in the woods foraging for our supper and should return anon.”

  She paused. “I’m actually not telling the truth—really, he’s peeved that I brought you to our home. Truckulus is very protective of me and perhaps a little jealous. He’s of a sullen disposition, no doubt related to our solitary life. I think he regards you as competition for his mother’s attention, which of course is ridiculous. The little fool is my world, my universe; I love him without reservation. Do fledgling man-childs among your species act so rashly?”

  Dorro thought of his nephew Wyll Underfoot for an instant and smiled, “Indeed they do! I’m sure our kinds have much in common. Can I ask why you rescued me?”

  “First I must sit, Mr. Dorro. I’m still weary after the raid.”

  The giantess Saoirse dropped her bulk onto a wood-backed chair, causing it to groan under her weight, which the Halfling estimated to be twenty-five stone or more. Dorro could see her more fully now—she was not, as one might expect, an over-sized brute, but instead a perfectly nice looking lady, with brown hair, a broad face and nose, broad shoulders, and a kindly smile.

  Conversely, the Halfling decided that he wouldn’t like to see her angry—that would be frightful.

  “Now, you have many questions. Come sit up here with me where can talk face to face.”

  Saoirse reached over and gingerly picked the bookmaster up, much to his terror—he shrieked, but she was gentle enough and bade him sit on a wooden box that held the table salt.

  “You see, Dorro, the orkus live in the same mountain range we do, though we stay on the forested side and they, the rocky scree and dark, smoky caverns below. We try to stay out of each other’s way, but sometimes we bump heads, so to speak.”

  “Goblins are very territorial, are they not? I can’t imagine they willingly share the land with you.”

  “You know something of our scaly friends? I’m impressed. Certainly, they’d like us dead or gone—or both—but we giants are made of sterner stuff and they would have a great deal of trouble trying to oust us.”

  She brushed her hair back casually.

  “For our part, we detest their internment of your Halflings, even if the ones in Fog Vale are felons and criminals. When the spirit moves us, we spring a raid on their caves and retrieve as many as we can—admittedly, for a bit of sport and excitement. Most we send back to the farm at Fog Vale, but you looked interesting enough to talk to and, in truth, you are quite amusing, Dorro.”

  “Of course, if you want to return to the penal farm, I shall take you, but I’m hoping you’ll stay here for at least a little while. Our lives are terribly dreary and your fresh company would be welcome.”

  Again, Dorro did some quick calculations, as not to incur the wrath of this giantess. “Why of course, dear lady, I shall be happy to stay on as your guest for a spell.”

  “Good. Now, let me tell you about the attack as I make us some tea. This one was particularly gruesome and bloody ….”

  Like Mice in the Dark

  Sheriff Forgo couldn’t believe how quickly things were spiraling out of control. The Mayor and his dogs Osgood Thrip and Hamment Shugfoot had in essence rewritten the laws of their fair village and were now acting with impunity to pillory the estate of Dorro Fox Winderiver.

  In absentia.

  Once again, the Mayor—acting as head magistrate—communed a hearing at the Hanging Stoat and, on this night, the tavern was filled to capacity with villagers looking for gossip, entertainment, and as many ales as they could quaff down in an hour or two. He was particularly unhappy on this evening, as his nose remained swollen and hugely red from the ceramic mug someone had heaved his way last time.

  “Call to order! Call to order!” he whined while banging the gavel—to add insult, someone in the back shouted “The Mayor stinks!” to the delight of the crowd.

  Darwinna Thrashrack, decked out in cozy pink winter wear and an ermine stole about her neck, sat moodily at a table, serving in her role as the legal representative of Dorro’s estate. At the next table was Shugfoot and Thrip, both of them grinning like ferrets on the prowl.

  “We’re gathered today,” continued the Mayor, “to discuss certain legal provisos related to
the Winderiver estate.”

  “Objection, your honor!” cut in Darwinna, her eyes afire. “There are no legal provisos related to his estate—everything is in full legal compliance. Why are we here?”

  The Mayor shot Osgood Thrip a quick glance. “Perhaps you’re not aware, counselor, that there have been recent changes in the laws of Thimble Down as pertaining to the right of criminals to own property.”

  “That’s absurd, my lord,” she shot back. “There are no laws regarding this on the books.”

  “If I may,” said Hamment Shugfoot, “I don’t think my esteemed colleague yet knows about the new enacted addendum passed last night—Section 54c—within our local statutes. It notes that a criminal convicted and exiled from the village cannot own property or assets.”

  Darwinna was horrified, but leapt on the opportunity: “Fine—then, as of last night, convicts cannot own property. That has nothing to do with Mr. Dorro, who was convicted over a month ago.”

  “Except …” said the Mayor.

  “Except what?”

  Hamment chimed in again.

  “Except, Barrister Thrashrack, that the new law was created to be retroactive to the first day of the New Borgonian Year, starting January 1st. Which means Mr. Dorro is indeed culpable under this new ruling.”

  “That’s illegal!” shouted a voice so loud it shook the Hanging Stoat to its foundation.

  The Mayor grabbed his gavel and banged it five times in pure anger.

  “How dare you, Sheriff Forgo, question the merits of our legal system? I could have you gaoled for contempt!”

  “Sit Forgo,” said Darwinna, trying to stay calm. “My lord, the Sheriff’s outburst—though unwise—does have some weight. This ruling seems arbitrary and without legal merit.”

  At this the Mayor smiled. “Well, barrister, if you’d like to contest it, you may file a legal complaint and put it on a referendum before the villagers of Thimble Down in the next election.”

  “But—” the attorney exhaled in defeat. “… that’s two years away. Dorro’s estate could be whittled down to nothing in that time. It’s not fair!”

  “Sadly, Barrister Thrashrack, it is now the law and we must follow due process,” said the Mayor stone faced.

  “You may file your complaint, but as of this minute, the estate of Dorro Fox Winderiver is forfeit and property of the village of Thimble Down. We officially shall seize his library and hillock-home—the Perch—all for the betterment of our townsfolk.

  Darwinna raged in fury, “You can’t take his home—his heir and nephew still lives there!”

  “It has already been decided, young lady. The magistrate has spoken!”

  The Mayor banged his gavel again, but it was buried in the roar of the villagers erupting into pandemonium.

  Many knew this was a heinously illegal act, but others thought it was fine that the high and mighty Dorro Fox Winderiver was brought low and shamed. Chairs were tossed and fists were thrown—the Sheriff and his deputy Gadget Pinkle were in the thick of it, trying to restore order, while Darwinna Thrashrack gathered her papers and bustled out the door. Her mind was reeling.

  This won’t be the end of things, Mr. Mayor. I will have my legal revenge upon you and your cronies Thrip and – she gasped – Hamment , whom I never thought would stoop so low. I will make your restitution in this matter particularly painful, Barrister Shugfoot.

  The only salvation in this horrific moment was another heavy tankard of beer that someone tossed high over the crowd, cracking upon Hamment Shugfoot’s well-coifed head. No one knew who threw it, but some thought it was a fellow that looked much like the quiet, mild-mannered Bedminster Shoe.

  Of course, no one believed that for a second.