A Dwarf Stood At The Door

by Norman Crane

torture him? Did he reveal his secrets?"

  > tell dogor i learned that wayne knows the location of the amulet of vermillion

  > "So I was right. They are conspirators against Xynk," Dogor says.

  > ask dogor about the time

  > "It is evening," Dogor says.

  > tell dogor to meet me behind wayne dubcek's current residence half an hour before noon tomorrow

  > "You have done well, John Grousewater," Dogor says.

  That wasn't exactly a confirmation, and I had to be sure. My plan relied on precision. Even a slight delay could throw everything off and force me to start over.

  > ask dogor if he will meet me behind wayne dubcek's current residence half an hour before noon tomorrow

  > Dogor nods. "Without a doubt. I will bring my axe and other sharp objects, and I will use them with supreme pleasure against all enemies of Xynk who dare to stand in our way."

  > "Did you murder Olaf Brandywine?" Dogor asks.

  I leaned in close to the Thinkpad's microphone. "Yes," I whispered, "I strangled him. He was an enemy of Xynk and he deserved to die."

  > "Did he repent?" Dogor asks.

  "He remained a traitor to the bitter end."

  > "I must go now and prepare for the coming action," Dogor says.

  "Will we meet here in the morning?"

  > "We will meet behind the communications lair of Wayne Dubcek, on the field of battle, John Grousewater."

  > Dogor walks toward the door.

  "Dogor..."

  > Dogor stops. "You wish to say something to me?"

  I did wish to, but I wasn't sure if I should. I didn't want to seem uncommitted to the cause, but as Olaf Brandywine had said I was a curious person and following this curiosity I asked, "Dogor, when you murder someone—an enemy of Xynk—what do you feel?"

  > "I feel sadness," Dogor says.

  The words shook me. Were they sincere? An attempt at emotional manipulation? Tone was almost impossible to discern in normal writing, let alone in writing from a fictional dwarf. "But it's your duty to murder them to protect Xynk," I said.

  > "You are right, John Grousewater. It is my duty and that is why I murder, to protect the city and its innocent inhabitants. I do not enjoy killing. If I enjoyed it, I would no longer be carrying out my duty. I would be having fun. I would be playing a game."

  > "Sleep well, adventurer."

  > Dogor exits.

  I looked from the Thinkpad to the TV screen and noticed that the score was now 2-0. I'd missed both goals. I turned the TV off and put away what remained of the cold pizza. I'd reheat it in the microwave for breakfast. I showered, set an alarm and crawled into bed. Before drifting off to sleep I read an email from Wayne, a brief confirmation of my plan. The trap was set. If all went well, by this time tomorrow I would be moving on to the next and final stage of my quest. But events were moving quickly. I felt insufficiently prepared. I remembered Annie's comments about my blonde hair. If only I had darker hair. If only I had more time. Because if things didn't go well, if somebody tripped or stumbled—I fell asleep, awoke, tossed, turned and sweated—tonight's rest might be the last I'd ever have.

  I woke up in a damp bed to the progressively louder sounds of adult contemporary radio.

  I smacked the alarm.

  Today was the day I'd finally meet Dogor.

  I brushed my teeth and checked my guerillamail account. There were no new messages, so I read all the old ones. I did fifty push-ups on the motel floor, showered, put on the spare clothes I'd taken to California in my valise and carefully combed my hair. I wanted to look respectable. I was nervous as before a first date. I could hear the ticking of my wristwatch. I didn't know many people who still wore wrist watches. I remembered a scene from one of Douglas Adams' Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy books in which the characters go to a restaurant where they get to "meet their meat", talk to and choose which animal they prefer to eat for dinner. Imagining that and watching the minute hand travel round the face of my watch made me want to scratch out my eyes. I scratched at the phone instead, bringing up Google Maps and making sure I was familiar with the lay of the land around Wayne's store. I figured that if I got there early enough, before Dogor, I could see which direction he came from, which would tell me which direction I'd need to follow him in. At ten sharp, I called for a taxi and about forty minutes later I was hanging out in a back alley like the best dressed, freshest bum in the world. What would I say to Dogor? Would he speak first or would I? What if he knew the truth about Olaf Brandywine and he was the one setting the trap for me—

  "Greetings, John Grousewater."

  "Hello," I said.

  Dogor walked steadfastly toward me. The footfalls of his heavy, studded boots echoed between the alley walls. He was wearing heavy armour. A giant battle-axe rested along his back. As he neared, it was as if he both became shorter and wider, until, at a mere arm's length away, the top of his head reached just above my belt and his shoulders seemed wide enough to allow him to crush me between his bare hands. One of which he extended toward me, wiggling its five stubby fingers. I placed my hand in his and we shook. "It's nice to finally meet you," I said a little lamely. He looked up at me. His eyes were large orbs, his nose bulbous, his hair and beard as red as fresh tomatoes. "But how did you know it was me?" I asked.

  "You look exactly as you do in The Yawning Mask," he said. His voice was deep and rocky. "Well met all the same."

  "Indeed, yes."

  He coughed and spat a wad of phlegm.

  It hit the ground.

  "That's an impressive axe," I blurted out because I preferred anything to silence and Dogor didn't appear talkative.

  He bowed. "Thank you."

  I couldn't believe what I was seeing and hearing. Dogor was real. He was alive. I could hear his breathing and see his chest rising and falling. He smelled like garlic rubbed over freshly stretched leather. And, most incredible of all: maybe fifty metres behind him, in the rectangle of light where the alley ended, regular cars whizzed by, unaware of the fantasy unfolding ninety degrees from their eyes. "How did you get here without being seen?" I asked.

  He answered my question with one of this own. "Why shouldn't I be seen?"

  "I don't think you shouldn't. I just assumed that..."

  "People stared. Some crossed to the other side of the roadway. A few pointed, more spoke under their noses in low voices. But I have studied your laws. I am not breaking them. There is no law in your Principality of Ontario that forbids a dwarf from openly traversing a public roadway. I even bought breakfast. A menial labourer refused to serve me but when he called his superior and I mentioned to her your Ontario Human Rights Code, I was served as any other. I have long ago stopped worrying what others think of me." He spread his abnormally long, trunkish arms and stretched them until his bones cracked. "Now forgive my rudeness, John Grousewater, and let us proceed to the business at hand. You said that Wayne Dubcek, high ranking member of the Hooded Rat Brotherhood, will be here."

  Aping him, I stretched, too. "Yes, that is the information I received from Olaf Brandywine as I choked him to death."

  "Very good."

  I waved for Dogor to follow me and led him to the back door to Wayne's store. "We will enter discretely through here."

  Dogor placed his hands on his hips. "I am afraid that way is locked as if by magic. I have explored this area several times. Never has the door been open."

  Hoping I didn't blush while I did so, I placed the palms of my hands on the door and spoke the first three made up words that came to my head ("Obolong Twatful Prickox!") after which I grabbed the door handle, pulled it down and nudged the door with my hip. "I learned that also from Olaf Brandywine," I said. The door edged enticingly open.

  "Obolong Twatful Prickox," Dogor repeated. "I must remember those words. It is likely they mask more than one secret entrance used by the Hooded Rat Brotherhood."

  The back door led to Wayne's storage room, which was a mess of shelves and old computers. />
  "What are these?" Dogor asked.

  "They are machines used for calculations," I said.

  He seemed to understand.

  Another door stood between us and the store's main floor. This one wasn't locked, but it was closed and I didn't want to enter just yet. It was still too early. "We should wait here and listen," I said. "It's possible there's a meeting going on and who knows what we'll overhear."

  Dogor crept forward and pressed his ear against the door. As he listened, I couldn't stop staring at him, admiring his structure, the sharpness of his textures, his body physics. His clothes were so well rendered. His axe looked powerful enough to cleave an elephant's skull. The idea that I had brought Dogor here to eventually kill him didn't enter my mind.

  "I hear no voices," he said.

  I looked at my watch. It was eleven forty-five. "It's possible that the building is shielded from eavesdropping," I said, hoping it was a sensible lie.

  "True."

  "We should discuss what we will do with Wayne once we capture him. Where will we take him?"

  Dogor removed his ear from the door, grinned and slid several variously curved knives from the inside of one of his boots. "We will take him nowhere. We will torture him here, in his very own lair. Then we will leave him dead for the other members of the Hooded Rat Brotherhood to see."

  The knives looked wickedly sharp. I didn't want to touch them, but when Dogor insisted, I took one in my hands and cradled it as I might cradle a baby squirrel. Dogor turned away and listened again at the door. His back was to me. I was holding a knife. The slice of