Goblin War

by Pete Prown

  * * *

  He slammed his fist on the oak desktop—his conscience simply couldn’t stand it for another moment. For months, he’d buried his instincts deep inside, leaving them to fester. No longer.

  After crafting a note with pen and ink, the big Halfling leapt from his chair and opened a nearby cabinet. From within, he pulled out a leather jerkin, which he donned quickly, followed by a shirt of chain mail, a helmet, and a number of weapons—a short sword, and a shield, and his favorite ash cudgel.

  The Thimble Downer glanced at the note lying on his desk. Some would misunderstand it and think he’d run away, but he knew this was the right thing to do. He went outside to find his pony waiting for him, the beast laden with saddlebags of food and other provisions. The Halfling mounted and urged the creature onto one of the quiet lanes leading southward out of the village.

  After a few miles, he tugged on the reins and turned dead East. He had a mission to fulfill and nothing would stop him on this cold winter’s night—there was a friend who needed his long-overdue help.

  “Giddyap!”

  The pony snorted in the cold and, together, they disappeared into the darkness.

  Truckulus

  Dorro listened to the snores of the giants around him.

  They were encamped not far above Fog Vale, trying to get some rest before inevitable confrontation with the orkus; it was ironic, the bookmaster thought, that it would all be decided here. In all the thousands of square miles in the Grey Mountains, it would be here that the goblins would launch their attack, close to the prison farm where his woes began. The fellow couldn’t sleep as restless thoughts plagued him in the dark.

  I can’t leave the prisoners there. They’re rapscallions and villains by the dozen, but many are from the Halfling home counties like me, Dorro fretted. There’s about to be a terrible battle here and quite likely, Fog Vale will be sacked and its inmates slaughtered on the spot.

  The Thimble Downer didn’t know what to do. For all he knew, the snow-covered woods and screes surrounding them were full of monsters waiting to kill them in their sleep. But he was still bothered by the thought of the ignorant prisoners below. His mind flashed on poor, hapless Amos Pinchbottle.

  Amos will die, the silly fool, and badly, too. And what about Saoirse?

  This particularly troubled him as he was terribly fond of the giantess and didn’t want her injured either. Frankly, Dorro wished this whole bother would disappear and he could go back to the Perch and cook Wyll breakfast, as he did every morning. Thoughts of scrambled eggs, sausage, and slices of warm, buttery toast came into his mind unbidden—he pushed them away, his stomach aching with the memory.

  Down the forested, rocky slope, the bookmaster knew the Halflings of Fog Vale lay asleep, blissfully unaware of the tragedy about to befall them, and it was at this moment that Dorro decided where his loyalties lay. He was a prisoner and owed no allegiance to Bill Thistle and his gangs of fierce goons.

  Yet …

  He crept through the encampment, as if moving through a maze of shells of enormous tortoise shells—the lumpen forms of sleeping giants on the ground.

  At last he found Saoirse and Truckulus by a large sycamore tree, snoring up a storm. Dorro was amazed that their ruckus hadn’t brought the entire goblin army down upon them. The bookmaster looked upon the giantess and was pleased she was asleep—using the skills of stealth possessed by any good Halfling, he bent over and gently kissed her on the cheek, so lightly it would only been perceived as a gentle breeze.

  “What are you doing?”

  Dorro froze in his tracks. “Where are you sneaking off to, rat?”

  Behind him, the Thimble Downer became aware of a looming shadow, but he had already recognized the hissing voice—Truckulus.

  “I ask you again, Halfling? If you are off to betray us, I will kill you where you stand.”

  “Young sir, I’m s-s-s-sorry to have awakened you,” stammered Dorro. “I was merely off for a stroll. ‘Tis such a lovely evening ….”

  “You lie poorly, little one.”

  Truckulus had moved in closely and spoke in a quiet, but threatening voice. “I could kill you right now and no one would be the wiser. Even my mother, who seems fond of you, despite your low breeding.”

  “Low breeding? I’ll have you know the Winderivers are a distinguished family in my part of the world,” he huffed in a whisper.

  “To us, you are an inferior creature and a bane to the giants. Why do you think we call you Urk-bäg?”

  “I have no idea.”

  “It means that you are a sub-species,” sneered Truckulus. “For a giant, that means you are on the same level as a toad or salamander. To me, you’re a bug that should squished for bringing dishonor to our kind.”

  “I don’t know why you hate me. I didn’t do anything to you or your mother.”

  Dorro could hear the youth growling in the dark; he was venturing into dangerous territory. “I can’t understand why my mother tolerates you— Urk-bäg!”

  The bookmaster paused. “This isn’t about me at all, Truckulus. This is about your mother. You’re jealous of our friendship!”

  “How dare you, worm? Don’t you dare mention her!” The shadow grew loomed over Dorro. Then a hand grabbed him around the neck and began squeezing.

  “I … can’t … breath ….”

  “This will be easier than I thought,” said the youth. “Like stepping on a beetle ….”

  Dorro was beginning to lose vision and blackness was closing in. He heard something crashing in the periphery and then he was dropped violently onto the ground, gasping for air. He sucked in a lungful heaving his chest. Someone was fighting nearby—had the goblins attacked?

  The bookmaster rolled over just as a massive foot landed where his head had been.

  Indeed, all the sleeping giants had been roused, torches were lit, and many faces were looking about angrily in the night. But they didn’t see goblins—no, there in the dim torchlight was the grappling forms of Truckulus and Saoirse bashing each other mercilessly on the snowy, rock-laden terrain. It was a horrific sight to Dorro, especially as he was still trying to find his breath and still his pounding heart. Yet he could not be silent.

  “Stop! Stop now, I say!”

  To his surprise, that’s what the mother and son did. They paused and looked about, their faces bruised and bleeding.

  “It’s not worth it, Saoirse! He’s your son,” pled Dorro. “You should forgive his impetuousness—his hatred for me only comes from his love of you.”

  “But … but—” The giantess was shocked and looked at Truckulus. “Why do you hate him?”

  “Because he’s not my father! He’s a filthy mouse, nothing like the great Gruftang, yet you give him respect as if he were. My father is dead!”

  Illumination broke upon Saoirse as she realized the weight of his words. “Nothing will replace your father, but ….” She looked at her friend. “I won’t lie; the Halfling reminded me what it was like to have a mate whom I could talk to. He is special to me.”

  The giant also looked around at the others and saw their expressions—like Truckulus, they wanted nothing more than to be rid of Dorro, by death if necessary.

  “My lady, I think I can solve this problem.” The voice was small and solemn.

  “I’m leaving.”

  “What?” Saoirse’s eyes flared wide. “You can’t—there are orkus everywhere.”

  Dorro moved closer to her and touched her hand. “Saoirse, I was leaving when Truckulus found me; he acted out of love—perhaps jealously—but it came from love. I’m going back to Fog Vale to warn them of the impending battle. It’s a duty to my kind. Just as Truckulus wants to protect the giants from outsiders, I must do my part for the Halflings.”

  The giant drew gasps from her kinsfolk when she put her arms around the Thimble Downer and hugged him. To them, it was an unnatural act, but the two friends didn’t care—they loved each other and had to say goodbye.

  There
were tears running down their faces as she spoke. “It’s the right thing to do, Dorro. I will miss you and your strange, funny ways.”

  “I don’t make friends easily, but ours will remain special. It was almost like ….”

  The bookmaster didn’t finish the sentence. So wrapped up in his life and career in Thimble Down, Dorro never had the inclination to find a wife, but Saoirse brought out feelings he didn’t know existed. It warmed him to learn that he actually had such sensibilities, but both knew such an attachment was beyond reason.

  Neither, however, did they have time to think upon the matter, as the wider situation was spinning out of control.

  “Dorro, get into the basket; I’ll take you to Fog Vale myself,” said the giantess firmly. “There is no time—after this ruckus, the goblins are surely massing nearby. Our element of surprise has vanished.”

  The giantess found the basket and strapped it around her neck. “Get in.”

  Surrounded by menacing giants and a rising army of orkus, the Halfling leapt into the unusual conveyance. Saoirse leapt up and motioned for two others to join her. They slipped into the snowy underbrush and began working their way downhill, as silently as possible—at least for giants.

  Dorro was returning to Fog Vale.

  A Cold Return

  Dorro was skirting along the edge of a snowy pasture, hoping not to run into orkus who might retake him prisoner.

  His flight down the scree had been harrowing, as Saoirse and the two other giants skirted goblin patrols and the odd troll or two. Their goodbye had been brief, as the giants needed to return to their camp and prepare for battle. And now Dorro was alone on the dark, bleak night, wondering what to do next.

  There!

  The Halfling peered into the gloom and saw a bit of fence marking the boundary of Fog Vale.

  If I haven’t gained too much weight, I might be able to slip through the rails. C’mon Dorro, me lad, suck in your gut and squeeze!...

  Happily, the fellow was able to get through easily, as he hadn’t had a square meal in months and was surely much thinner than his former self.

  (His friends in Thimble Down probably wouldn’t have recognized him—and urged him to eat a lamb ‘n’ pea pie and an entire blueberry crumble, in order to fatten him up.)

  Dorro slipped behind a leafless crabapple tree and began working his way through the orchard towards the Overseer’s hut, where Bill Thistle lived. The closer he got, the more Dorro realized he didn’t have much of a plan, other than just blurting out that the orkus army was about to attack. Either way, he didn’t have time to dwell on that fact as his whole scheme crumbled in an instant.

  “Oy! Who’s there?” shouted a hoarse voice.

  “Is it a goblin? Club ‘im to death!” bellowed another. “Bash ‘is brains in!”

  “No, please, I am one of you!” hollered Dorro in defense. “I am here to help you.”

  “Look Barney—an escapee.”

  The first guard grabbed Dorro by the arm and pushed him to the ground roughly. “I caught the bugger!”

  In a trice, the two goons grabbed the Thimble Downer and began hauling him towards the lean-to hut, throwing a few punches and kicks along the way for good measure. The one called Barney kicked in the door and they threw their prisoner to the floor.

  “Look what we caught, Boss! A sneak-rat tryin’ to escape!” they hooted. “Should we toss ‘im back over the fence and let the goblins have their fun?”

  Dorro heard heavy boots trudging towards him, making the floorboards squeak.

  “Who is it? Flip the rat over. Oh-ho!....”

  The bookmaster knew he was in trouble.

  “So it’s Mr. Windy-Pants come home for a reunion. Did ja miss me, sweetie?”

  At that Bill and his henchmen burst into laughing. “We thought ‘jus had been taken by them goblins, but nah, you were off for a lark in the woods. Was it fun? Are you all rested up?”

  Dorro knew he had very little time. “I was taken by the goblins. I escaped!”

  “Hah! No one escapes from the orkus. The only way to be free of ‘em is through death. Considering that you’re here and ain’t dead leads me to think yer just a liar.”

  “I’m not, Bill! We’re in great trouble. There’s a huge goblin army about to descend on Fog Vale. They have trolls, too!”

  The Thimble Downer was in a panic.

  “Oh, how convenient. You run away and then come back with a cock ‘n’ bull story about some army. To my eyes, I promoted you to head cook, giving you a cushy spot at Fog Vale, yet you still scarpered away. And now that you’ve been in the Grey Mountains for a few weeks, you’re realized how good ya had it here and want to come back. Aw, ain’t that swell, fellas?”

  “Bill, trust me—I’ve seen them! They’re ….”

  Dorro wasn’t able to finish the sentence as Bill kicked him hard in the stomach, knocking the wind out of his lungs. Moments later, he was being dragged away again, violently.

  In short order, the Halfling was thrown on a hard floor and heard the clank of a gaol-cell door slammed shut behind him. Lying there and trying to find his breath, the Thimble Downer looked at the ceiling and wondered how it had gone so wrong. This was not how it was supposed to go—Bill Thistle was supposed to have heard news of the goblin and troll forces, and beat a quick retreat out of the Vale with the prisoners.

  “I see ya’s come back—did ja miss yer ol’ pal, Windy?”

  Dorro groaned, not just from the bruises on his face and body, but from the sound of the person speaking. He knew it all too well.

  “Hello Amos,” he gasped.

  “Aye, ya remembers my name—Amos Pinchbottle, yer ol’ bosom buddy! I’m touched, really I am. Where ya been, Windy?”

  The bookmaster rose to his feet unsteadily and found a stool to sit on in the dark cell. “I’ve been with the giants—the same ones that freed you.”

  “Well, yer still a prisoner! Ya ain’t too good at this, is ya? Har!”

  Amos started laughing and hacking at once, slapping his knee joyously in the adjoining cell.

  “Amos, stop acting like a fool for once!” snapped Dorro. “We’re all in great trouble.”

  “I already know that, Dorro, me bucko. That’s why we’re in gaol.”

  “By the way, why are you here, Amos? I thought you loved life in Fog Vale?”

  “Oh I do, I do! But one night, a scunner named Jasper Willy stole blankets from my beloved cousins Woodsy and Barker so I punched him.”

  “You’re locked up for punching another prisoner? I can’t imagine that’s a terrible sin around here.”

  Amos Pinchbottle smirked. “Well, I punched him about forty-two times and tossed the rat-bastard through a glass window. Broke his arm and a few teeth, though Bill Thistle said I’m being gaoled more for the bother of replacing the glass than beating up Jasper. I felt bad about the window, I did.”

  Dorro rolled his eyes. Only in Fog Vale, he thought.

  “Seriously, Amos, we’re in peril. The goblins are about to attack and kill us all. And they have trolls. Doesn’t anyone care around here?”

  Amos Pinchbottle looked thoughtful for a moment.

  “Eh—could be worse. At least it will be a bit o’ excitement before we be dead—can’t ask for more than that, Windy. I’ve been runnin’ me whole life, from one bit o’ muck to the next.”

  “Really, ol’ Amos is gettin’ tired. If it’s time for me to check out, fine by me. Bit of excitement, some flashes of light, and then it’s time for Mrs. Pinchbottle’s baby boy to leave this ruddy world behind. Now if you don’t mind, me friend, I want to grab a few more hours of sleep before the end of the world. Nighty-night!”

  At that, Amos Pinchbottle curled up on his cot and slipped off to slumber, leaving Dorro Fox Winderiver alone and helpless. The end was drawing near.

  Heartwood of the Forest

  “Mr. Timmo! Mr. Timmo!”

  The door of the metalsmith shop banged open and two bolts of lightning shot through.


  “Oh dear!” shrieked Timmo in the back room, dropping a tool.

  He was surrounded by hammers, awls, hole punches, tin snips, and other tools of his trade, many of which were clanking loudly as he jumped out of his chair.

  “You’re going to give me heart failure. Now what’s this nonsense about?”

  “We found something important!” said Wyll, a breath before Cheeryup could.

  Irritated that he beat her, she added, “It’s another old letter about the heartwood!”

  “Calm down, children, and tell me about it. Here, have a biscuit first.”

  The younglings thanked him and helped themselves to the plate of oatmeal cookies Timmo had been enjoying with his afternoon tea.

  “Iffs reery gud!” mumbled Wyll, mid-chew.

  “Swallow your food first, dear boy, and pray continue,” said Timmo sternly, yet with a twinkle in his eye. “At the very least, I don’t want you to choke before you tell me about your discovered.”

  “Just read it yourself, Mr. Timmo,” chirped Cheeryup, handing over the ancient vellum. “This is what we’ve been waiting for. We found it in the folder we found at the library.”

  “Which I found,” snipped the boy.

  “And then I stole and saved the day, thank you very much.”

  “That’s enough, you two. Let me see here ….”