by Pete Prown
* * *
His brain clearing, Dorro peered into the gloaming of dawn. The layout of Fog Vale included a number of huts surrounded by acres of farmed pastureland. The ground was broken up with wooden fences and low hedgerows.
Just a way off, Bill Thistle was shouting at troops and prisoners to set up perimeters to deflect the goblin horde, as foolhardy as that might be. Indeed, there were only about two hundred Halflings in the Vale and perhaps twenty times that many in orkus coming to destroy them. It wouldn’t be a long fight, Dorro mused.
Reflecting on the Battle of the Burrows a half year early—an epic slaughter that had nearly destroyed Thimble Down—Dorro was more versed in combat than most. He knew, instinctively, that if he wanted to live, he would have to work for it, thus he hunkered behind a fothergilla bush until he’d decided what to do.
The bookmaster would fight when the time came, but conversely, he neither would he follow reckless orders and die unnecessarily. No, Dorro Fox Winderiver was too methodical and fussy for that to happen; he would die in his own way and of his own accord. Preferably in his own bed aged well over one hundred, but that remained to be seen.
“There—over in the wheat field!” A guard yelled not twenty feet from where Dorro was decamped, though some would call it hiding. “The goblins are breakin’ through!”
The bookmaster peered through the fothergilla as best he could and saw the danger. About thirty orkus had leapt the fence and were fighting a handful of prisoners, few of them versed in combat. Sadly, he thought, they’d all be dead soon.
“Loose the mastiffs!” That voice, he recalled, was Barnacle, the master of the hounds and Bill Thistle’s second in command. “Shred ‘em, me luvlies—rip ‘em to pieces!”
At that, Dorro saw Barnacle and his handlers drop their leashes, as a dozen giant black hounds streaked across the pasture. The ensuing violence was terrifying, the mastiffs leaping on the goblins and biting and clawing them savagely.
The orkus fought back, but what struck Dorro most was the harrowing sounds they made, a mix of eerie whooping, shrieking, and grunting. The hounds were decimating the goblin ranks—the Thimble Downer knew that if they had a hundred mastiffs, this battle would turn quickly.
Instead, the goblin whoops brought fifty more of their troops over the fence to counterattack. Tragically, this skirmish ended quickly—both the mastiffs and unfortunate defenders were brought down with black goblin darts and arrows. It was a bloodbath, plain and simple.
“Fire!” Dorro jerked his head skyward to see a torrent of arrows coming from somewhere to his left. “Keep it going, boys. Take them beasties out!”
The bookmaster spied a line of Fog Vale archers behind a hedgerow, shooting volley after volley of arrows at the attackers in the field. In short order, many of the goblins were struck by the deadly shafts, horrifically in the head, neck and eye.
The remaining orkus retreated back into the woods beyond, no doubt planning their next assault. For a moment, it was eerily quiet.
“Hold!” shouted Hammersmith. “Save yer arrows, boys. Them monsters will be back soon enough, you can count on it.”
Dorro sat on the ground, wondering what to do next, when his peace was interrupted by an unwelcome presence. “Thar you are, Windy me pal!” Amos Pinchbottle sidled up beside the bookmaster in his bushy redoubt. “You found a good hidin’ spot, chum.”
“I’m not hiding, Amos!” snorted Dorro. “This is a strategic vantage point, allowing me to make critical combat decisions.”
The miscreant looked dumbly at his friend. “Oh. I thought you wuz chicken like me.”
“Never, sir! I am a Winderiver and we have bravery running like fire through our veins.”
“Just sayin’—it looked like hiding to me,” said Amos sheepishly, while Dorro’s face turned increasing pink and fuchsia. “I’m sawrry…”
“Hey you two—get out here!” Some roughs hands reached into the fothergilla and dragged Dorro and Amos onto the turf.
“So, we have some cowards in here, eh?” It was Salty and Peasley, two of the nastiest Halflings in Fog Vale. “What should we do wit ‘em, boss?”
Bill Thistle approached, his lopsided grin more sadistic than ever.
“Oh, I think sumthin’ special would be appropriate for Mr. Windy-Pants and his friend. I think we send ‘em back to the fence—you two will take the forward position. When the goblins attack again, see, you gents will be the first to greet ‘em. Ain’t that nice?”
Dorro knew he’d just received a death sentence. While Bill, Bullock, Salty and the other ruffians smirked, he briefly thought of making a run for it, yet knew he’d be taken down with arrows before reaching twenty paces.
Strangely, he brightened—the Thimble Downer figured his suffering would be over soon. He would never see his Wyll again, but his friends Bedminster and Mr. Timmo would care for the boy in his absence; a quick orkus sword stroke and it would all go black. There were worse ways to go, he figured.
“C’mon Amos, it’s time to do our bit,” he said, feigning a stiff upper lip. “Let’s get this over with.”
Amos jutted out his bottom lip and pouted. He didn’t want to die after all and felt bad for all the lousy things he’d done in life, but it was too late. The two Halflings began trudging to the fence line, knowing their time was short.
As they walked through the cold dawn air, Dorro pulled his jacket a little tighter around him and took a final look at the trees, grass, and hills. He loved the architecture of trees in winter, when the leaves were gone and one could admire their graceful forms. He wanted his final thoughts to be about beautiful things that mattered to him.
Dorro and Amos, who was still sad and sniffling, finally reached the position and crouched behind a wooden fence post. This is where it would all end.
The bookmaster reached out his hand. “Goodbye, Amos. Let’s part as friends and comrades.”
The scamp from Fell’s Corner reciprocated. “I don’t wanna die, Mr. Dorro. I ain’t been a good lad in my life, but I wanted to have one last beer at the Hanging Stoat before my time came. It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
Dorro patted him on the soldier and thought about his suppers at the tavern with Wyll and Cheeryup, tippling a warm cup of honeygrass whiskey and savoring a beef chop with fragrant, crusty bread and butterbeans.
These would serve as nice thoughts to hold in his mind for a few minutes, before death found him. Under the forest eaves, he heard that strange whooping sound again – the war cries of goblin fighters. Lots of them.
They were coming.
The Battle of Fog Vale
“Just close your eyes, Amos,” counseled the bookmaster. “It will be over quick as a wink! Keep the happiest thought possible in your mind you can—try hard.”
Dorro, shut his lids and thought about the friends and family, the library, and his garden and orchard. But mostly about Wyll and young Cheeryup.
Another part of his mind heard the orkus approaching, stepping on the ground and snickering at the sight of two defenseless runts kneeling in the snow. It would be an easy kill. Under no circumstances, however, would he open his eyes. The Thimble Downer waited for death.
The next sound to reach his ears was a droning noise, one that made the goblins chatter with anxiety, as if they had no idea from whence it came. The final sound was more of a blast, a cataclysm of trees, branches and roots cracking and exploding in fury.
The two Halflings hugged each other in terror as bits of wood and sawdust showered them, two insignificant mites in the middle of a maelstrom. Dorro squinted his eyes open just a smidgen so he might know why death was taking so long.
I thought it might be a nice, swift sword stroke—y’know, zip!—and I’m dead. No, no, no, this is not the Winderiver way! he huffed to himself.
We like a nice, tidy death. No waiting around for lazy goblins!