Dorro knocked on the door of the Tunbridge burrow the next morning. It was crisply cold, and there was even a little frost on the burrow’s nameplate, which read Little Stitch—a small joke about Mrs. Tunbridge’s position as the village seamstress. The door finally creaked open, and the bookmaster was welcomed inside.
“How is she?” he inquired hopefully, but not expecting much good news.
“The same.” Cheeryup looked mournful. “The Bluebells were here not twenty minutes ago and tended mother, but she hasn’t changed. Mrs. Bluebell particularly noted that her breathing was steady—weak, but the same as yesterday. I suppose that it good news.”
Dorro observed the emotion she was holding back. “I’ll take that bit of cheer with me today. Forgo isn’t better either, but I’ve heard that Belinda Weakes has died of the Grippe. You probably don’t remember her, but she worked as a cheesemonger until around when you were born. A nice lady who smelled of Stilton, even long after she left the cheese shop.”
Dorro regretted delivering that news as he noticed more tears welling up.
“Did Wyll come home last night?”
“Ermmm, no, but I didn’t expect him to.”
“You were rather hard on him, Mr. Dorro,” said Cheeryup. “It really was my fault—I made us do it, not Wyll or Orli. Truly, Mr. Dorro.”
“I know I was hard on him, but he’ll be a better Halfling for it. My father was hard on me, and you know, I ran away once or twice me’self! Does a boy good to have a bit of a ramble.”
“I hope you’re right,” worried the yellow-haired lass. “Wyll has a hard head and might take it further. He might not come back!”
“Give him a day or two shivering and starvin’ in the woods; he’ll be back at the Perch before you can say, ‘Bowl of hot pepperpot!’”
Dorro laughed weakly and bid Cheeryup goodbye. He hoped he was right and the lad would return. He knew he’d been harsh with Wyll and regretted it, but there was nothing to be done at the moment.
Dorro proceeded towards the center of the village, first to check in at the library where he hoped Bedminster Shoe would be deftly running things as usual. Thence he’d finish his jaunt at the gaol, where he’d inquire as to the condition of Sheriff Forgo and—finally!—get some work done on Wump’s case. A little quiet time was all he needed.
“Sheriff! Sheriff!” It was Deputy Pinkle, running down the lane as quickly as possible. “Thar be trouble at the gaol, sir. Come quick!”
“What is it, Gadget?” Dorro tried to ask, but the boy had already shot back in the other direction. The bookmaster merely rolled his eyes and kept moving apace, realizing that his quiet morning was already history. Upon entering the small, round building, he was assailed immediately.
“Sheriff, thank goodness you’re here!” A very small Halfling ran up to him and gave him a panicky hug. “I was attacked! By Dwarves!”
“Calm yourself, Minty, and tell me the whole story. Please! Now let’s put the tea on and have a reasoned talk.” The gaol had a small iron stove that sat on four legs and served both to warm the building and allow Sheriff Forgo to heat up his lunch, as needed. Fortunately, Gadget had lit a new fire an hour or two earlier, and the tea kettle began to whistle in no time. “Let’s have the whole story now.”
Minty Pinter was a small, wrinkly Thimble Downer and made his living as a traveling tinker, driving his rickety cart between villages. He sold all sorts of pots ‘n’ pans, tools, and in fact anything for the home and beyond. He was also a wizard at fixing things, which helped put a few more pennies in his pocket. Minty wasn’t wealthy, but well liked, and folks liked to keep him busy and happy.
“So I was traveling down the road, going between Upper-Down and West Upper-Down, when all of sudden some queer folk stepped out from under the tree line and stopped my wagon. They weren’t Halflings—more like them Dwarves who been workin’ at the smeltery. But these ones were fiercer looking and made me get down from my cart.”
“I says, ‘Who be you to make me stop my wagon?’ cried the little Halfling. “At which point the leader shoved me to the ground and started all sorts of nasty questions. ‘Do know Wump?’ or ‘Did you know who killed the Dwarf’, and even ‘Mebbe you did it yerself!’ I was scared for me life, I wuz!”
“Then what happened?”
“What happened? I’ll tells ya wot! The bleeding band of Dwarves rifled through me cart, took what they wanted—a few pots and my pony Timothy—and lit me wagon on fire! Burned it to the ground with oil and ruined all my remaining pots, skillets, tools, and wire. All smelted on the spot!”
“Why?” gagged Dorro, so agitated that he spilled some hot tea on his lap. “Ouch!”
“The head Dwarf—a truly odd looking thing—stuck his face into mine and said, ‘Tell your folk that the Battle Dwarves are here and we’re looking for the killer of Mr. Wump. And when we find ’im, we’re gonna do exactly what we did to your wagon. Understand, little flea?”
“I was fuming mad, but not about to take a swing at a northland Dwarf. So here’s I am and I ain’t happy about it. Who’s gonna pay me back for my wagon and for Timothy, I ask you?”
“I’ll talk to the Mayor about it, Minty—I’m sorry for your loss, truly,” lamented Dorro. “But tell me, where are these Dwarves headed?”
“Where they headed?” Minty laughed out loud. “Why here, Mr. Dorro—they’re coming right here! And now they’re yer problem!”
The little tinker threw back his head and kept laughing until he was hoarse.
* * *
Faintly, Dorro heard a sound, but it was growing louder by the second. He rushed out of the gaol and saw a crowd moving down the High Street in Thimble Down; actually, they were running and screaming, not to put too fine a point on it. He thought of doing the same, but remembered he was Sheriff Pro Tempore and decided at least to make a good show of it.
“They’re coming, Sheriff, they’re coming to kill us all” yelled young Tom Talbo.
“I saw ’em with my own eyes,” yelped Mrs. Poddle. “There was blood drippin’ from their teeth!”
“And there’s about two hunner’d of ’em,” screamed Rory MacInturff, the tanner.
This actually made Dorro feel better because he knew his fellow Thimble Downers and how prone they were to exaggeration. More likely the truth was far less threatening, but he was anxious anyway. By now, roughly one hundred Halflings surrounded the gaol, all talking, jabbering, and raising a ruckus. There was another round of tremulous agitation, and the mob parted, allowing Crumble and his Dwarves through. They too looked rather tense.
“Ahoy there, Sheriff Dorro,” said Crumble with some caution in his voice. “So I see you’ve heard the news about our, errrmm, brethren who are about to visit.”
“Is it true? Are these Battle Dwarves here to find Wump’s killer?” asked Dorro, hoping it was all a big misunderstanding.
“In a roundabout way, ummm, yes.”
“What does that mean, Crumble?”
“What it means, Mr. Dorro,” said Two-Toes, filling in for his brother, “… is that these are combat-hardened Battle Dwarves who spend most of their lives fighting goblins on the frontier and keeping the Dwarf kingdom safe. They are brilliant warriors—cunning, heartless, and prone to kill first and ask questions later. With that in mind, sir, I’d say you have a very big problem.”
Dorro just gulped and looked about helplessly. He was a librarian, not a fighter. If only Sheriff Forgo were here. Dorro felt like crying, but instead was shocked to find all the Halflings around him cheering and clapping.
What have I done? he wondered. I guess these folks do respect me! My, maybe I can take on these Battle Dwarves! Yes I can, yes I ….
Suddenly, the Thimble Downers all surged towards him, arms outstretched to hug him and lift him on their shoulders proudly, a symbol of the indomitable Halfling. But instead, they ran right past him. Perplexed, Dorro stood frozen for a second and slowly turned around.
Behind him, in the doorway of the gaol, stood a scraggly, scruffy fellow scratching his overgrown beard and rubbing his belly.
“Say, what does a guy have to do to get something to eat ‘round here? I’m could eat a whole herd o’ sheep!”
At this, the crowd exploded into more yet cheering and crying.
Sheriff Forgo was back.