At the next meeting of the mayoral candidates, the looming subject wasn’t one of industry against the natural world. No, it was about Dwarves, in particular, the squadron of Northlanders that had taken up residence in Thimble Down. Standing at the podium in front of Bindlestiff’s Smelting Works, a lonesome-looking Farmer Edythe was trying to connect with this crowd of tough, dirty workers.
“The Mayor wants to paint me as someone who hates jobs and prefers to skip around the forest writing poems all day,” belted Edythe, trying to reach the folks in the back. “Granted, that holds some appeal for me … but as your mayor, I want business growth combined with a sustainable approach to our lands and waters. Surely, you can see the sense in that.”
“What about them Dwarves?” screamed out an unknown worker in the crowd.
“How can we work if they cuts our hands off?” yelped another.
“I bet they’ll murder us in our sleep!” contended a third.
Growing frustrated, Edythe let it rip, “Oh please—they aren’t going to do anything of the kind, you nitwits! They’re just looking for the one that done in their pal, Wump. Find the rascal, and I’m sure you’ll get a reward.”
“Yeah, like a quick knife in the back!”
The Thimble Downers all began laughing at one of their fellow’s quip.
Knowing this wasn’t going well, Edythe tried a different tact. “You hear the Mayor say I’m against business and jobs, but I’m married to one of the village’s leading merchants. The crowd looked foggy for a second until the candidate reminded them, “Mr. Mungo, owner of the Hanging Stoat, you chowderheads! If that ain’t business, what is?”
The crowd cheered for Mungo, if only for the reason that their simple brains quickly equated Mungo with food and beer, which made them happy and want to shout “Hurrah!”
“Over the years, Mungo has provided jobs in Thimble Down, not just at the tavern, but for the deliverymen and the growers and the furniture makers—especially when you silly buffoons have a brawl and break all his chairs!” Another big round of cheering and laughing. “So when you folks think about fair labor, I want you to think about me ’n’ Mungo … and beer. Speaking of which, all beers and ales are fifty percent off. Starting now!”
Even though it was only two in the afternoon, more than a few Halflings cheered and summarily high-tailed it over to the Hanging Stoat, reducing the crowd for the Mayor. It was a brilliant strategy, which the Mayor and Osgood Thrip had to grudgingly admire. At last, the Mayor mounted the wagon and stood behind the podium.
“That was a very good speech, Edythe,” said the thin, heavily mutton-chopped politician. “Too bad most of it was lies!” The crowd started hooting and shouting, some for, others against.
“No disrespect, but calling Mr. Mungo a business leader is like calling Minty Pinter a clean, sober gentleman!” There were big laughs, except from little Minty, who shook his fist at the Mayor and stuck out his tongue. And he wasn’t done yet. “It’s like saying Mr. Timmo talks too much! [More laughs] It’s like saying that Dorro Fox Winderiver is not a prickly, fussy, elitist snob!” [Huge guffaws and jeers].
“But friends,” continued the slippery Mayor, “I want to talk to you today about safety. We have some ill-tempered guests in our town, and believe you me, we’re watching them closely. If any one of these so-called Battle Dwarves makes a wrong move, Sheriff Forgo will clap ’em in irons and haul them to the gaol on my orders. More than that, I’m sure you’re as pleased as I am that Forgo is healthy and hale again!”
Here, the crowd went wild, just as the Mayor had hoped.
“We will take a firm hand with these ‘guests,’ and if they don’t do things our way, we’ll boot ’em out on their tailbones!” Of course, the Mayor had no intention of doing that, and in the back of his mind already knew that the Dwarves could raze Thimble Down to the earth in seconds. But he wasn’t going to say that—he was running for office and would say just about anything and everything to get himself elected. Facts were not an issue.
Out in the crowd, Edythe knew she’d lost this round in the campaign, yet resolved to come back and whomp the Mayor at the next speech. But she didn’t have much time left, and more important, was well aware that the Halfling was a terrible mayor, but a skilled political opponent.
* * *
“Sir, will you kindly put me friend Burko down! Sirs!”
Mr. Mungo was beside himself. A gaggle of Dwarves had entered the Hanging Stoat not fifteen minutes earlier and had gone from table to table demanding to know who had killed Wump. So far, they had punched three Halflings in the nose; opened a window and bodily thrown Farmer Duck outside; and were presently holding Burko Soames, the miller, by his ankles while waving a sharp dagger in his face.
“I don’t know nuttin’, Mr. Dwarf!”
That only made things worse, when said Dwarf informed all that he was in fact a she. “My name is Malachite Molly and this is my battalion of goblin slayers! And you rabble will tell us who killed my Wumpie or we’ll gut ya all!”
“Madam, please put poor ol’ Burko down!” urged Mungo. “Mr. Soames is a quiet gentlemen who grinds flour in Thimble Down and only comes in here for a wee tipple now and again.”
Aramina dropped Burko on his bum and crowed, “Yes, that’s what we need—some stout rope to tie some folks up and squeeze ’em till they tell us the truth. Now, you fat, lazy barkeep, get us some of your best ale. Here’s a coin for yer troubles.”
In the air she flipped something, which Mungo snatched—he knew it wasn’t a coin, but his experience told him that it was gold, and by the weight of it, a very solid bit at that. “Oh indeed, please have a seat, and we’ll bring you some drink and pork chops on the double. Here, Dimple, snap lively!” He motioned for his assistant, the burly boy named Dimple Hognoddle, to start fetching food and drink for the Dwarves.
Presently, Crumble, Magpie, Two-Toes, and Flume joined them at the table, and it was a merry Dwarf gathering. Still, Crumble cautioned his former sister-in-law, “Aramina, dear, I do think you’ll get more cooperation out of these creatures if you don’t beat them or hang ’em by their ankles. They’re not like goblins—you can reason with them. Believe it or not, they do possess a basic amount of intelligence. On par with a woodchuck or well-trained house cat.” (One would have hoped that Crumble was jesting, but he was not.)
“I know only one way to interrogate, and that’s by the tip of my blade,” spat the she-Dwarf. “No one kills my kin and lives to tell about it.”
“We will find the culprit and extract proper … ah … restitution from him.” Crumble smiled in a way that meant something far darker. “But really, what’s with this Malachite Molly nonsense? You’re our Aramina—such a pretty name.”
“Thank you, Crumble—you always were a sweetie. But honestly, do you think I can ride into battle with that name? Do you think my banshees want to call out, ‘Beware you goblins! Beware of Aramina!’ or worse, ‘Look out … here comes Mrs. Wump!’ No, no, no, we can’t have that. I needed a good fightin’ name, and that was a good one. Me grandmum used to call me Molly back when I lived in the mountains, and Malachite is one of me favorite stones. Young Wumpie gave me a necklace of the green stones once, and it touched me heart.”
“I see.”
“Rest assured, Crumble, there’s not a goblin or troll in the Northland for whom the name Malachite Molly doesn’t put the fear of death in ’em. They well know about the savage beauty with the double-edged battle axe. A bit of a legend, I am,” boasted Aramina, looking at her fingernails and feigning modesty, albeit poorly.
“I wish my Orli was here to meet you,” added the Dwarf. “He’s off on a ramble at the moment.”
“I bet you gave him a good hidin’—that’s what usually sends ’em packin’ for a few days.”
“Yer quite right, Aramina. He got a tannin’ a few days ago, and we exchanged words again yesterday. I figure he’s fit to be tied by now. The lad has a temper like … like Wump!”
“Oh be still, my beating heart! Orli sounds like a lovely boy, especially if he’s grumpy like Wump. I did always find that trait rather alluring, don’t you know.” Aramina leered again, like a fox sneaking into a chicken coop.
The door of the Hanging Stoat banged open, and in strode Sheriff Forgo and Mr. Dorro. They walked right up to the Dwarves.
“Now, didn’t I tell you not to make trouble?” Forgo was angry and had his hand on his cudgel. He knew this gang of Dwarves could rip him limb from limb, but he wasn’t going to show them any signs of fear or weaknesses. In his mind, you only fight strength with strength. “Now, you leave these folks alone. You wanna talk to them, fine. But you can’t toss them out the window. Understand?”
Talking a slurp of her frothy beer, Aramina said, “I don’t usually apologize, Sheriff. In my line of work, it’s just easier to hack someone’s head off. But seeing as we’re guests in yer village—and on the counsel of my former brother-in-law—we will be more pleasant from now on.” Another big gulp. “I am sorry.” [Burp!]
“There we be, all friends again!” laughed Crumble. All the Dwarves now began knocking back their tankards and diving into the plates of pork chops, brown beans, and kale that Dimple had finally served up. Once again, Dorro noticed them passing a little vial and putting a few drops of belladonna into their drinks to kick it up a notch in strength.
“Say, Crumble, have you seen Orli about?” It was Dorro, finally speaking up. “My Wyll hasn’t been home since last night, and frankly, he’s rather cross with me. I don’t expect he’s off with Orli somewhere in the woods, do you?”
The Dwarf frowned and crossed his arms. “Actually, it makes perfect sense. If yer lad is angry with you and mine with me, they must have left together. That’s what a Dwarf would do.” Around the table of chewing, burping, and snorting Dwarves, they all nodded in agreement. “I’m afraid they ran away. Wouldn’t be the first time for young Orli.”
“Oh dear—nor the first time for Wyll. It’s a bit of a habit, actually. That boy is so headstrong, just like his dear, departed mother.”
“That further binds the boys together,” added Aramina. “They’re growing boys, surrounded by males, and without the balancing strength of a mother. That makes ’em surly and more prone to strike out on their own.”
“If Orli has done this before, Crumble, how long ’til he comes back?”
“Usually a month or two. Once for six months. You never really know, but he’ll turn up, trust me.”
These words crushed poor Dorro, who already regretted many of the things he’d said to his nephew. If only he knew that Wyll was a mere mile or two away, hiding in a cave on the River Thimble, he’d feel much better. Instead, Dorro felt nothing but cold guilt for being a poor guardian.
“Come, Mr. Dorro, all will be fine,” reckoned Crumble, twiddling his thumbs. “The boys will either come home for their respective punishments or they’ll go away and make their own lives. Either way, we’ll see the measure of the grownups they will be come. Running away from home is a character-building exercise.”
Again the Dwarves all let fly various snorts, farts, burps, and nods of agreement, but poor Dorro, in comparison, was simply miserable.