Goblin War

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  Two figures stole through the frigid darkness towards the library. They scarpered up a ladder they’d hidden earlier and edged along a bit of protruding timber that marked the second floor. They were twenty feet off the ground—a dangerous height—and if one of them slipped, death could be instantaneous. But nothing would deter these two shadows.

  “Careful, Wyll!” Cheeryup wasn’t sure this was such a great idea after all. One bit of ice and one or both of them could fall.

  “You worry about yourself—I’m a regular billygoat, I am,” boast the twelve-year-old boy.

  At that moment, Wyll missed a footfall and nearly dropped, but grabbed a bit of windowsill and managed to stay up.

  “Some billygoat, Wyll!—I said, be careful.” Cheeryup was getting angry, but reached for the latch of the window and it swung up. Both knew it had been broken for years. “Come now, push me up.”

  Wyll grabbed a bit of his friend’s leg and hoisted her as much as he could as Cheeryup scrabbled for a hold. A bit of fumbling and she was in like a cat; turning fast, the thin girl spun around and grabbed the boy’s hand and pulled him in as well. The friends sat in the darkness of the gallery, gasping for air and knowing the hard part was just beginning.

  Speaking as quietly as possibly, just the merest hair above silence, Cheeryup whispered into Wyll’s ear, “There’s probably one or two of the Mayor’s ruffians downstairs. Every footstep will echo throughout the library. We have to be completely silent and invisible.”

  The boy just nodded mutely.

  With moonlight to guide them, the two crept across the gallery towards an archive of books and scrolls. If Bedminster Shoe knew what they were doing, he would have locked them both in the Perch, but he was across town at the Hanging Stoat, hearing the dastardly plans of the Mayor and Osgood Thrip.

  “Here! Look in these boxes.”

  Like mice in the dark, Wyll and Cheeryup began opening wooden boxes carrying vintage documents and scrolls.

  “What are we lookin’ for?” begged the boy.

  “I don’t know—just make sure it’s about the Great Wood.”

  “But I can’t see nuthin’”

  Seconds later, Cheeryup struck a matching, alighting a candle taper, just enough to allow them to read a few words here and there.

  An hour elapsed as the younglings leafed through various folios, always mindful not to make more noise than necessary. Cheeryup was sure she’d find something, but it was Wyll who made the discovery.

  Gently elbowing his friend, the boy passed a page to her, an ancient piece of vellum. The girl scanned it until Wyll pointed out a faint word on the page: Heartwood.

  Cheeryup’s eyes opened wide with excitement and even more so when he handed her a second page; it seemed that the folio he was holding had a trove of useful pages. She knew it was time to cut and run, but they froze at a new sound in the darkness. It was a creaking noise, like that a ladder would make if someone put weight on it.

  There it was again!

  Both children broke into cold sweats and Cheeryup was alert enough to blow out the candle.

  “Hullo, me luvlies,” said a rotten, malevolent voice. “Havin’ a nice time up ‘ere? Yer Uncle Bert’s come to take you to meet the boss!”

  “Run, Wyll!”

  The two leapt up, and dashed towards the window. Cheeryup squirmed through and looked back for her partner in crime. There, standing near the folio, was the muscly brute holding Wyll by the collar.

  “Ya dint think ol’ Bert was so quick, didja? Why, I won the Harvest Festival running race three years in a row as a lad—fast as a rabbit, me mum always used to say. It’s always helped me outrun that tub Sheriff Forgo in me middle-age.”

  At that, the ruffian burst out guffawing, as Cheeryup saw there was no point to running and crawled back inside.

  “Don’t hurt him—he’s just a boy!”

  “Awww, the lil’ urchin can take a bit o’ the rough stuff. My pappy used to slap me around a bit and did me worlds o’ good. Makes me tear up just thinkin’ about it,” sniffed the goon.

  “I agree, Mr. Bert—you can never have too much of the rough stuff,” at which she delivered a stunningly painful kick to his shin.

  The big Halfling yelped in pain and tried to double his grip on Wyll, but the thin wisp of a girl landed a second kick to his other knee, one that bent Bert in half and caused him to let go.

  Ooof!

  “Run, Wyll, quick! Down the ladder!”

  They started down, but saw another bully headed up already.

  “Grab ‘em, Wilko!” bellowed Bert from the gallery, still bent in agony. But his time Wyll took action and simply let go, falling like a sixty-pound bag of sand on the ruffian’s head, sending Wilko sprawling on the ground.

  Quick as mice, Wyll and Cheeryup sprinted to the library entrance and flew out the doorway in the cold winter’s night. They ran and ran until breathlessly stealing into the Tunbridge’s kitchen, as Cheeryup’s mother was just pulling a fresh tray of raisin muffins from the oven.

  “Perfect timing, you two. Here, have something to eat. Where have you two rascals been anyway?”

  Wyll and Cheeryup looked at each other furtively.

  “Oh—just larking about, Mother. Playing games in the snow,” lied the girl.

  The boy smiled back but then grinned even broader. As Cheeryup hung up her jacket, Wyll noticed her quickly sliding the folio of antique letters behind a decorative wooden chest.

  The break-in had been a success!

  Mother and Son

  “Dorro, finished your tea? It’s too lovely out to stay cooped indoors like hens. Let’s go for an amble and I’ll tell you more about the raid. It was quite a soiree.”

  Saoirse wrapped the bookmaster in a swatch of wool and put him in an open basket, which she slung around her neck.

  Stepping into the snowy expanse outside her house, Dorro peeked back and saw her house as a conglomeration of wood, boulders, and earthen, but clever arranged to be a home with windows and a chimney protruding out of the earth-clad roof.

  Fit for a giant, he mused.

  “Now, what was I saying? Oh yes—the attack.”

  Dorro interrupted, “This might be a silly question, but how did you fit into the goblins’ tunnels? They seemed quite cramped.”

  “The good thing about orkus is that although they can be clever at times, they’re also slow learners. You would have thought by now they’d have realized that there’s a large tunnel into their warren on the North side, but seem to forget every month or two.”

  “By this route, Truckulus and I creep in while the beasties are at rest—usually towards dawn when they’re done hunting and plundering for the night. Even their guards fall asleep.”

  “That does make things easier, doesn’t it?”

  “Indeed. Last night, Trucky and I waited in our customary spot until we spied the guard crawl back in the mouth of the tunnel and nod off. We waited another hour until we noticed the first glimmer of dawn over the snow-capped mountains. That was our cue.”

  Dorro was full of questions, as well as mildly nauseous from being jostled about in the basket. “Were you armed?”

  “Yes of course, you little titmouse. You don’t walk into an orkus nest with a plate of biscuits! I had my hammer and short blade, while the boy had his axe and a net. We don’t love to fight but it’s good exercise for us folks with big bones.”

  It seemed to Dorro that the she-giantess was describing a lovely game of lawn tennis rather than a violent military expedition.

  “Once the gobblers had retreated, we crept into the tunnel—despite our size, we can be quite stealthy if we like.”

  Saoirse was enjoying the tale, whipping her hair back for dramatic emphasis. Even with the cold, she only wore her rough canvas dress, and seemed to love the frigid mountain weather.

  “Of course that didn’t last long. One of the nippers awoke as we passed and emitted a horrible warning cry—well, at least unt
il I whacked the fiend with my hammer. He didn’t say much after that.” She winked at Dorro for theatrical effect.

  “Did the other creatures hear the screech?”

  “Hah! Surely they did and within moments, buckets of the beasts were streaming down the tunnel. You might think this was dangerous, but you’ve never seen a giant in a battle. It’s a thing to see.”

  The Halfling was beginning to wonder if Saoirse was completely sane or not, but decided not to press the issue. After all, he’d already met Malachite Molly a few months earlier and knew about that unusual breed of ladies who loved battle and blood and all that muck.

  Dorro, of course, preferred a quiet afternoon at home, reading a good yarn or puttering about in the garden, though he himself had killed a ferocious goblin or two in the Battle of the Burrows last fall.

  “Apparently you were triumphant, my good lady!”

  “Indeed we were. With Truckulus chopping heads and myself hammering foes, we tore into the enemy with full battle-lust upon us.” Saoirse eyes glistened at the memory. “Unfortunately, we lost count after fifty dead goblins apiece.”

  “Were you wounded?” asked Dorro, trying to keep the conversation moving and hoping he wouldn’t annoy her in any way.

  “Oh, the little buggers pinged us with a few arrows and sword cuts, but giant skin is like thick stone—nothing penetrates more than a scratch. It feels like irritating flea bites to us.”

  “We finally broke into the main chamber and the head goblin came out to challenge us, a new feller named Böckram. Big, nasty looking gent. Truck wanted a go at him, but I reminded him it was mummy’s turn, so I squared off with the brute.”

  “Sounds terrifying.”

  “Terrifying?” mocked Saoirse. “Terrifyingly fun, you mean! Böckram gave me a couple of reasonably competent jabs, I admit, but I caught him on the side of the head with my hammer and kicked him into the gut. The monster went down, but quick as a bird, leapt on my back and tried to slit my throat with a knife. Can you imagine the nerve?”

  Dorro swallowed. “Ermmm, no I can’t for the life of me, ma’am.”

  “Quite right you are! I merely tucked my chin in and flipped the chap onto his back. He wailed in terror!”

  “Did you spare him?” begged the Halfling.

  You’d have thought he’d told the giantess the wittiest limerick in all history, as she doubled over laughing.

  “Oh you are a tease, Mr. Dorro! No, of course no—I smacked him on the head with my hammer and dispatched him with the knife to the heart. He was dead in seconds. With Böckram gone, the rest of his troops fled, leaving Trucky and I victorious. We found your Halfling kin, who were terrified at our valor.

  Nevertheless, they followed us out of the caverns, whereupon we freed them and sent the prisoners back to Fog Vale, though I admit I snatched you up for my own. One of them asked for you, but I’m afraid I told a little fib that I couldn’t find you.”

  “Was he a scruffy, bearded fellow with particularly bushy eyebrows?”

  “How did you guess? A friend of yours, I assume?”

  Dorro smiled. He was pleased that Amos Pinchbottle had been rescued and sent back to Fog Vale. If you had ever told him that he’d become fond of that dirty, foul-mannered miscreant, the bookmaster would have laughed, yet incredulously he enjoyed the chap’s company, despite Amos’ foolish ways and the poor choices he’d made in life.

  “… and here’s my dear boy now. Truckulus, sweetheart! Mummy is here!”

  She waved and hooted off into the woods. Moments later, Dorro felt the ground shake as a large being lurched towards them. “Here he is—did you find some edibles for us?”

  Dorro looked up and saw another mountain of a creature, this one something akin to a young adult in Thimble Down terms. As his mother had noted, Truckulus seemed of a brooding disposition, with unruly dark hair and matching circles under his eyes, and scruffy, adolescent patches of whiskers on his cheeks and chin.

  “I found rutabagas, celery root, winter leeks, and a brace o’ coneys that I snared in a trap. We can have a stew,” said the boy sullenly.

  “Lovely, son. I’ll add my bread from this morning. Oh, my manners—Truckulus, meet Mr. Dorro, the Halfling. He’s quite pleasant company.”

  The boy half grunted, half nodded.

  “Now son, be nice to our guest. And as for my bread, Mr. Dorro, I can bake because when we raid the goblin caves, we also gather provisions, which were originally from Fog Vale, I’m sure. So my loaves are made from your flour—I suppose we’re stealing it but still, we giants must eat.”

  “That’s understandable, m’lady—we have plenty at the farm. I’m a bit of cook myself and saw the supplies just last week. No one will starve from lack thereof.”

  Thwock!

  Something ricocheted off a nearby tree, startling the trio. Then a rock came sailing through the air and hit Truckulus on the noggin, making him howl in pain.

  “Orkus!” shouted Saoirse, dropping to a crouch as more rocks sailed over their heads. “I suppose they’re a bit upset with us, what for stealing their prisoners and killing that rotter, Böckram.”

  “What do we do, Mother?” Truckulus held his hand to his face, which Dorro saw was swelling rapidly. “They’re surrounding us—look!”

  And truly, even Dorro became aware of the goblins in the periphery, all fanning out in the snow-covered forest, a dense, rock slope of trees and boulders that would make a quick retreat difficult. They were pinned down and losing any chance of escape.

  “Truck, take Mr. Dorro and get down behind that big stone there. Keep your knife handy in case one or two of the beasties gets past me. Mummy’s going hunting.”

  At that, the bookmaster saw Saoirse gathering rocks in the hem of her dress and scuttling off towards the enemy, her eyes blazing with battle-lust. It didn’t take long for the din of battle to rise.

  Dorro looked over at Truckulus, who was miserably rocking back and forth, trying to forget the spot where the stone whacked his skull, and tried to make light conversation.

  “So, your mother—quite a fighter, eh?”

  “She does well enough,” mumbled the boy. “Watch—.”

  Dorro looked up towards the sounds of skirmishing and saw Saoirse about fifty paces away. She was throwing rocks with incredible accuracy, knocking goblins dead where they stood.

  Yet the battle was fierce and other orkus were shooting black darts at her, which seem to annoy the giantess more than anything else and make her even angrier.

  “Arrggghhhhh!” she roared and charged at a pod of goblin archers.

  Saoirse fell upon them and began throwing them this way and that, bodily picking each one up and heaving them against tree trunks and boulders with a sickening crunch.

  “You stay away from my boy!” she bellowed at the retreating beasts, still tossing rocks and picking off stragglers at a distance.

  Almost as quickly as it began, the skirmish was over and the giant returned to the tree, her battle fever subsiding.

  “Oh dear, I seem to be perspiring awfully,” Saoirse said in a dainty voice, as if she’d been overexerting herself in the garden rather than tearing goblin attackers limb from limb. “Perhaps I’ll take a bath ‘ere we return home. How’s the eye, sweetie?”

  Truckulus lowered his hand, revealing a black-and-yellow welt on the side of his face and eye, drawing more motherly affection. “Here, pack some snow on it as we walk home. After my bath, I’ll put a berry tincture on it and more ice. Those nasty brutes hurting my lil’ Trucky!”

  “Mother—please, do not call me that.”

  “I’m sorry, sweet boo-boo ‘kins. I’ll try to behave,” said Saoirse sheepishly.

  “Mother!”

  “That, too? Oh, it’s so difficult to be a parent.” She picked up the basket and began heading back to their home in a safer part of the wood. “Do you have children, Mr. Dorro? Or am I being too nosy?”

  The Halfling smirked.

  “There’s nothing to t
ell—I’m a lifelong bachelor without any natural children. But recently, I’ve welcomed a long-lost nephew into my life and it’s made a world of difference.”

  “In many ways, I’ve come to regard Wyll as more than my heir; he’s the closest thing to a son I’ve ever had and I’m very proud of him. So, yes, I can understand the concern you show for Master Truckulus. If goblins ever came after my Wyll, I’d fight them … tooth and claw!”

  Saoirse laughed gaily as they meandered their way down the slope and towards the comfy house, there to forget the day’s violence and enjoy a quiet dinner and thence to sleep.

  The Exiles

  The following morning, Dorro awoke on his straw bed and remembered where he was. For a moment, he thought he was home in the Perch, but that dream was dashed instantly.

  The previous evening, Dorro, Saoirse, and Truckulus had repaired to this house where the lady giant had prepared a satisfying supper of rabbit and root vegetables, as well as more of the wine she fermented herself. It was rather good, the Thimble Downer noted.

  The floor shook briefly, alerting him that Saoirse was awake and preparing breakfast; at least he hoped it was she and not her sullen boy. The bookmaster didn’t really trust him, not one bit.

  “Good morning, Master Halfling.”

  The giantess was toasting up slices of bread in her fireplace and set them out with fresh creamy butter, jam, and stout cider to help break their fast. Dorro hadn’t enjoyed these kind of creature comforts since his days at the Perch—which seemed years in the past instead of weeks.

  “This is delicious, Saoirse—you are gifted baker,” he said, nibbling on a tasty chunk of toast slathered in butter and raspberry preserve. “I could go back to sleep after breakfast!”

  “You do make me smile, friend. It’s nice to have someone to converse with,” she mused. “My boy isn’t much for chit-chat. How come you to be at Fog Vale, if you don’t mind my asking? You don’t seem, a-hem, the criminal type.”

  Dorro sighed in agreement, pleased that someone had noticed that fact. For the next half hour, he regaled Saoirse with his legal drama and exile, letting it all pour out and even shedding the odd tear or two. It was a cathartic experience that left Dorro exhausted, but relieved. For her part, the giantess was a good listener and nodded supportively in all the right places.

  After dabbing his eyes and nibbling another bit of buttery crust, he asked, “And why you, dear lady? What could make anyone exile you and poor Truckulus?”

  “That, young Dorro, is yet another epic saga,” sighed Saoirse. “Let me tell you a story ….”

  The she-giant looked wistfully out a small, crudely crafted window, one of the few in their home.

  “My husband was called Gruftang. He was a learned giant and a good provider, but he had a falling out with his distant cousin, Broog, over something petty, yet it was enough to convince our tribe to send our family away.”

  “What could have been so inflammatory as to cause something as grievous as exile? Seems a cruel and callous punishment.”

  “Broog was obstinate and thick-headed, as giants are often wont to be. And he, in particular, wanted nothing to do with learning—for him, it was all about maintaining the old ways of our tribe. Learning seemed like poison to him and he wanted it eradicated from our kind, aside from the Elders.”

  “Who are they?”

  “Simply, the wisest of our clan who serve as arbiters and judges in our most serious matters. For outside of their gifts for reason, Broog felt that the role of all others were to work for the survival of the tribe: hunting, cooking, making giantlings, and rearing them into adults. For Gruftang and I, however, that was not enough—we both craved to better our minds, not only for ourselves, but Truckulus as well.”

  Dorro gulped. “But then something bad happened, I guess.”

  Saoirse looked like all the light had left her eyes. “Broog convinced the Elders that my husband was somehow responsible for a period of poor hunting in the mountains and that his use of logic was a curse upon us. Of course, it was nonsense, but the clan members were hungry and needed someone to blame. Broog took advantage of that and had us cast out, and thus we left, bearing our young Truckulus and looking for a new place to call home.”

  “Along the way, in a cave deep within the mountains, my poor Gruftang fell ill and died in my arms. Bereft of a husband and father, Truckulus and I found our way here and have lived in this spot for perhaps two of your years. We built this home ourselves and created a life—of sorts.”

  “What could the disagreement been over?”

  “Oh, you know boys. Broog said my husband was too much of a bookworm and didn’t contribute enough to the tribe in terms of fighting our enemies. Gruftang was more interested in teaching the younger giants to read, but such ideas were considered radical—giants aren’t supposed to be bright and clever. Just strong and brave and ready to fight.”

  “So Broog undermined him and turned our elders against us, saying Gruftang was soft and would ruin our bloodlines. It was foolishness, but the elders’ word is our law and there was nothing to be done about it. We were banished.”

  “And with no community to join? That’s terrible.”

  “No one likes giants, Dorro—not your fellow Halflings nor goblins, trolls, gnomes, or Men-folk. The only beings who deign to share our company are Elves and dwarves, who kindly share goods and trade with us. Sadly, they only stop by on rare occasion, when their hunting parties come to the mountains.”

  Dorro was not mollified. “Your story and mine are strangely similar, m’lady. Both of us have been unfairly wronged and sent far from our homes—perhaps it’s no coincidence we met.”

  “I like that sentiment, Dorro. It’s very sweet and kind of you, and yes, perhaps we were supposed to meet, though I have yet to understand why.”

  The bookmaster furrowed his brow and thought on the matter. “I wonder if we can help each other return to our respective homes. Though I know not how.”

  The giantess looked pensive for a moment.

  “I worry about things, Dorro. The goblins haven’t challenged us openly for quite a while and I fear they will not forget yesterday’s battle and the death of Böckram. I’ve long thought they might try to launch warfare upon us and try to be rid of us for good. I fear that day is coming soon.”

  “What are your alternatives? You and your son can’t stay here.”

  Saoirse became quiet. “Truckulus and I don’t agree on the matter—truly, we don’t agree on much. I think you’re an honest fellow, Dorro, and I’d like to honest with you. My son thinks you could be a bargaining chip for our safety.”

  “A bargaining chip?” The Thimble Downer didn’t like the sound of this. A shiver sailed up his spine.

  “Truckulus says we could buy a few months of peace by giving you back to the orkus as their slave, which is unfathomable to me. This will not happen.”

  Dorro gulped. He knew the boy’s baleful stares were not meant kindly, but hadn’t been prepared for this; he would die before submitting to life with the goblins again.

  Saoirse continued, “Of course, we could just give you back to the guards at Fog Vale and be off again, searching for a new home. You’d have the chance to finish your sentence, but you could be kidnapped by the goblins again.”

  “Is there no other course?” begged Dorro.

  “Yes … we could go East.”

  “East?”

  “To the home of the giants, our folk. You could venture with us, for no other reason than to avoid the beasts, as well as your Halfling prison masters.”

  Saoirse chose her words carefully. “You would see a world you’ve never seen before—indeed, I would guess that no Halfling has ever been to a giant village in the mountains.”

  “But what of your exile?”

  The giantess sighed loudly, shaking the table Dorro sat on. “If Truckulus and I go, we are returning to challenge Broog to a fight. If victorious, a battle to the death would restore our honor and our right t
o live among our kind. Conversely, we could die—.”

  It was at that moment that Truckulus entered the room; clearly he had been listening at the doorway.

  “Mother, how can you tell our secrets to the Urk-bäg?” he raged.

  “Urk-bäg?” asked Dorro. He was fairly sure it was not a flattering term, likely something equivalent to “lowly bug.”

  Saoirse barked at her son in a low, droning voice—the language of the giants. They railed at each other for some moments, which to Dorro felt something like an earthquake. The entire house shook. Finally, the mother shrieked at an impossibly loud volume, causing Truckulus to stand mute—livid, but bound by some code unbeknownst to the Halfling.

  “I put it to you again, Dorro. Would you have us return you to your prison at Fog Vale, or come to an unknown doom in the East? Neither are the answer you seek, but that’s all I have to offer.”

  The bookmaster was torn. His obvious answer was to go to Fog Vale and be more wary about goblin attackers. But even the prospect of being taken hostage again gave me shivers.

  I could never live like that, he mused. If I was kidnapped again, I would jump into one of the orkus’ fiery pits and end it all. I would!

  Dorro stood and faced Saoirse. He bowed low and arose again.

  “M’lady, I accept your invitation and will voyage to the East. I may be venturing to my death, but it is my best course, even though I shall likely never see my friends, my home, or my nephew again. At least, I will die a free Halfling, neither slave nor prisoner.”

  The giant woman looked down up him with gravity and pride.

  “I believe you have made the correct choice, Dorro. If we’re to die as exiles, then we’ll leave this world together—as friends.”

  At that, she extended her hand and the Thimble Downer rested his entire hand on one fingertip.

  A silent promise was made.

  Darkest Deeds

  “Can it be true?”

  Darwinna Thrashrack rushed into Mr. Timmo’s shop, looking less than her impeccable normal self. “I can’t believe Hamment would stoop so low!”

  “It’s true, sadly enough.” Sitting in a corner, Bedminster Shoe’s head was hung low in shame. “We had no warning. One minute we were enjoying our breakfast at the Perch; the next, we were out in the snow with a few clothes stuffed in a bag.”

  “How did it happen?”

  “There was a knock on the door not an hour ago. When we opened it we found the Mayor’s private thugs were standing there—the same ones as from the library. They barged in and said we had five minutes to grab our things or be arrested for trespassing.”

  “This must be illegal!” plead Timmo.

  A door slammed. “I don’t know what’s legal and what isn’t anymore.”

  The conspirators looked up and saw a grim Sheriff Forgo in the door frame. He held up a piece of vellum. “It’s a copy of the legal writ from last night, signed by the Mayor and witnessed by Osgood Thrip.”

  “Give it here, Sheriff,” snapped Darwinna more forcefully than necessary. “I’m sorry, Forgo—please.”

  The barrister scanned the document carefully and passed it along to her fellow solicitor, Tiberius Grumbleoaf, who arrived just behind Darwinna.

  The big Halfling squinted as he read the handwriting and just as quickly put the paper back on the table. True to form, he opened his leather-bound book and began scrawling something of which only he knew.

  “It’s legitimate,” said Grumbleoaf, not looking up from his volume. “Both Darwinna and I are experts in contract law and it appears valid, at least according to the new laws the Mayor has cooked up of late.”

  “At present, gentlemen, I fear we are not living in a village bound by the rules we know; there are loopholes the Mayor and Thrip are exploiting, no doubt abetted by Hamment Shugfoot. They’re conjuring up fresh rules to serve their malicious intent.”

  Darwinna Thrashrack cocked an eyebrow.

  “Not to put too fine a point on it, but there’s nothing we can do about it. Those scoundrels are twisting the laws in a perfectly valid manner, particularly because the Mayor is also our magistrate. In hindsight, it was perhaps unwise to intertwine the roles into one personage; I’d say we are being soundly outwitted.”

  Forgo snorted. “Outwitted by that idiot of a Mayor? Hah!”

  Timmo chimed in, “The Mayor may be a rancid individual, Sheriff, but he’s crafty and clever. How do you think he’s remained our elected leader for so long?”

  “I could kick myself,” added the lawman. “We had the election in the bag for Farmer Edythe last fall, but we let the Mayor win so we could squeeze the school wages out of him. This is his revenge.”

  There was a sob in the room, emanating from none other than Bedminster Shoe.

  “My school! First I lost that and now Mr. Dorro’s home. I’ve failed everyone.”

  Wump!

  There was a loud boom in the room, making everyone jump; even Darwinna squeaked like a mouse. Into the void, the sonorous voice of Tiberius Grumbleoaf filled the space in the back of Mr. Timmo’s shop, much like a foghorn in a storm.

  “I am vexed—quite vexed indeed!”

  The barrister snapped the half-moon reading spectacles off his nose and glowered about the room.

  “I have heard quite enough about our Mayor and his legerdemain for skirting the rule of law. I cannot stand by and let him and Thrip run roughshod over our village. And don’t even get me started on Hamment Shugfoot, that smug, greasy weasel.”

  “Tiberius!” Darwinna pouted. “You can’t say that about Hamment—he is our beloved colleague.”

  “We’ll see about that, my dear. I have so far resisted deploying certain legal machinations that may affect the political climate in Thimble Down, but enough is enough. If I am able to bring certain actions to fruition, it many shake this village down to its very foundations. To my mind, it’s the only way to restore peace and order—and, above all, legality!”

  Everyone in the room exhaled, even the terribly shaken Bedminster Shoe. It was quite a sight to see this normally quiet and placid Halfling worked up, like a blast furnace in the blacksmith’s shop, finally heated up for the day’s work.

  “Do you really have something up your sleeve, Tiberius?” asked Darwinna in her sweetest voice. “This is no time for showmanship.”

  “Showmanship? Pah! My good lady, Tiberius Grumbleoaf does not deploy mere parlor tricks. Now listen up and listen good.” He paused for dramatic effect, lowering his voice to a barely audible tone.

  “Here’s how we’ll do it—”