“Mr. Dorro, it’s even bigger than Water-Down!”
Cheeryup was electrified as the band drove their cart into the center of St. Borgo, amid the bustle of Halflingdom’s biggest town. As much as they took in the sights, sounds, and smells of this burg, so too did its populace stare back in wonder, notably at the two strange creatures in the wagon—Dwarves!
Indeed, upon occasion many St. Borgonians had seen a creature of the race of Men, and its most adventurous had perhaps spied an elf or gnome, but Dwarves were as rare as hen’s teeth. The grownups stared, the children pointed, and a few toddlers even burst into tears at the sight of Crumble and Aramina.
Dorro directed Crumble to steer the wagon onto a small side lane and into a livery stable where his ponies and cart would be cared for during their stay. In a trice, they were back on the lanes, with a few boys hired to carry their luggage.
The Inn of the Yellow Swan was nearby, and they were quickly checked in, despite some queer looks from the proprietor. He pulled in close to Dorro and whispered, “A-hem, sir, but errrmm, what are they?”
As discretely as possible, the bookmaster replied, “They are Dwarves. Fine folk. Very upstanding.”
The proprietor didn’t look convinced, but let them each have a room anyway, as he didn’t have many customers and quietly observed Dorro’s ready bag of coins. In that light, he decided to put up with the Dwarves if it meant buying new sheets for those rooms.
It was mid-afternoon, and rather than nap, the troupe decide to explore the university town for a few hours before dinner. Perhaps they’d find a scholar to help them, which would dramatically improve Dorro’s state of mind.
They hired a boy to guide them to the College of St. Borgo and show them the sights. The lad, named Billy, was fascinated by Crumble and Aramina and proud as a peacock to be their official guide to St. Borgo.
“If you look down this lane, ladies and gennle’mum, you’ll see the original stone gates of the city, dating from 1104 A.B. They were strong enough to withstand the Goblin Invasions of 1434 and 1539, respectively. Both times, the strength and might of the Halflings armies prevailed and beat back the enemy.”
At this, Crumble and Aramina tittered, but as Dorro suspected, there may have been a Dwarf hand in these victories that was underreported. Still, he shot them withering looks as if to say he’d brook their nonsense not much longer. Indeed, the two Dwarves were like silly adolescents, snickering behind their backs at many of the Halfling customs, fashions, and sayings. The bookmaster chose to ignore them.
“And here is the Mayor’s House, a grand brick structure built in 1594, A.B.,” continued Billy, who turned out to be quite a knowledgeable lad.
“As you’ll note, there are very few burrows in St. Borgo, unlike the villages of many Halflings in the kingdom. We were primarily a burrowed settlement until a few hundred years ago when the River Lilly overflowed and wiped out most of the city. It was then that the then-mayor, a chap named Lollo, charged the professors to come up with a new plan.”
“As a result, they devised a plan to bring in tons of earth and stone, raising the whole city by two feet. They also added a huge swale around its perimeter to prevent any floods. To boot, all buildings and homes must now be freestanding. This gives St. Borgo its unique architectural style, which the swells at the college call the Borgonian Manner. It’s all pickles ‘n’ gravy to me, but that’s what they call it.”
“Excellent, Billy, you really know your history!” applauded Dorro. “Did you go to school?”
“Yes, indeedy, sir. All younglings in the town must attend school until the age of fourteen, or until they can write, keep a basic ledger, speak like a lord, and understand the basic principles of commerce. Then offs they go into the world of business and life; thanks to the college, they have arranged for hundreds of apprenticeships throughout the town and many of them turn into proper livelihoods.”
“That’s wonderful. And what do you want to do when you grow up, Billy?”
“Why, I’m going to be the Mayor!” crowed the boy, much to Dorro’s delight. At that, Billy directed the troupe to the college campus and bade his farewell. The bookmaster gave him an extra coin for his pluck and wished him well.
A few moments later the foursome had entered the gates to the College of St. Borgo and took in its grand, beautiful buildings, courtyard, and trees. It was like its own private city, a quiet sanctuary from the fervor of St. Borgo proper.
“It’s absolutely beautiful,” said Dorro. “Have you ever seen anything so splendid?”
“Beggin’ your pardon, sir, but Aramina and I have a question.” Crumble suddenly looked quite serious.
“Of course, Crumble—anything!”
The Dwarf looked at his feet pensively and then at Aramina, who urged him onward. “It’s just this, Mr. Dorro. We come all this way to have those pages deciphered and learn more about the black stones and their properties. And that’s all well and good. But what about Wump? My brother is still dead.”
“And my ex-husband!” chimed in the Battle Dwarf. “I once loved that old goat!”
“Precisely, Mr. Dorro, meaning I hope we don’t get too side-tracked by your research. I do hope we find a way to cure your folk of the Grippe, but Aramina and I, well, we want—”
“Revenge!” snarled the she-fighter. “I want to find the scum-weasel that offed my Wumpie and I’m going to flay the bugger alive.”
“That is, after my brothers and I stomp the ever-breathing life out o’ him,” said Crumble matter-of-factly.
“I want to cut his toes off!” Aramina nodded in agreement. “And pull off his fingernails, too!”
Dorro looked taken aback at first, but then came to his senses.
“Yes, of course. I’m sorry to have been swept away by the college and the journey and my own dreams. But listen: the secret of your black stones, I’m convinced, is related to the death of Wump. I know it in my bones! I don’t have any proof yet, but there’s something connecting the two. I beg your patience for just a little longer until we can translate the page and understand its contents.”
That seemed to satisfy the two Dwarves. They didn’t say anything, but both nodded, having said their piece. Dorro led the others through the campus, periodically asking passersby for directions and if they knew anyone with a specialty in Dwarfish language and lore.
Despite the stares and gawking, they were eventually directed to a mossy stone building with round windows and a sense of distinguished grandeur about it. A porter on the first floor pointed them up three flights of cut-stone stairs and down a long hallway. At the end of it, panting from exertion, Dorro knocked.
“Yes, come in!” said a wizened old voice. “But you know, my office hours aren’t until next Tuesday—it says so in your syllabus.”
“Excuse me,” coughed Dorro awkwardly. “I’m sorry to bother you, but—”
“Visitors! Well, come in, come in. Let me take a look at you—Sweet King Borgo!”
The ancient Halfling almost collapsed back in his chair at the sight of Crumble and Aramina. “We’re sorry to upset you.”
“Upset me? No, I’m delighted! I’m Professor Taddeus Larkspur [gasp!] and this is the Department of Ancient Dwarfish. You two are Halflings, but dear sir, dear lady—real Dwarves in my very office. What a treat! Please stay for some tea.”
The group sat around an old dusty table while the scholar rang for the porter via a system of pulleys and bells. Dorro sized up the old Halfling, who was every ounce the picture of academia. He wore a long black robe that was well patched and none-too-clean, while his face was profusely wrinkled. A pair of reading glasses teetered on the end of a longish nose, and his hair was graying and rather thin on top. His eyes were black and set closely together.
“What, pray tell, can I do for you fine folks? I’m just so tickled that you visited me. Ankh snorf barrach sharg?”
“And feargot shahl boorook to you, sir,” giggled Crumble. “For you folks, the professor and I just exchanged basic pleasantries and salutations. Honestly, my granddad spoke the ancient tongue, but I know only a few phrases. We modern Dwarves mostly speak in the Common Tongue.”
“That’s a shame—I can speak it fluently,” boasted the professor, “But alas, I have no one to converse with.”
“Don’t you have students?” inquired Dorro.
“I’m afraid not. Honestly, no one visits me much anymore, and I haven’t had students for years. I conduct my research on Dwarf lore and culture, quietly and very much alone. It is my life’s work, but the fools here at the College of St. Borgo have chosen to ignore my gifts. But please, you haven’t told me your story. I’m so eager to know! And ah, there’s our tea!”
The ancient porter brought in a cart and laid out a simple tea with sandwiches. It was meager fare, but plenty under the circumstances. Both Crumble and Aramina sniffed the tea and food and scrunched up their noses unhappily—both would have preferred frothy tankards of ale.
“I am Dorro Fox Winderiver, the bookmaster from the village of Thimble Down. This is my young friend Cheeryup Tunbridge and our companions, Mr. Crumble and Mrs. Aramina Wump, known to her comrades as Malachite Molly. The former is an artisan in the craft of smeltery, while Mrs. Wump hunts goblins and protects our borders. We are very grateful to her.”
Professor Larkspur’s mouth hung open speechless, but illuminated with joy. “That’s marvelous! Do you really hunt goblins, Mrs. Wump?”
“Oh yessir,” said Aramina proudly. “I’m particularly gifted with axe throwing and have nine hundred and forty-nine kills to my name. I’m sure it’s much higher than that, but them’s the officially counted ones.”
Then as politely as possible, she sipped her tea, pinky extended.
“Our Aramina is being modest,” cooed Crumble. “She’s deadly with any weapon—axe, mace, hammer, sword, bow. Why, she could impale an orkus through its brain cavity with just an ordinary kitchen spoon.”
At that, the two Dwarves croaked merrily, joined by Professor Larkspur who found the pair charming.
“As I was saying, Professor, we are here to seek your help,” said Dorro, trying to keep the conversation on track. “We have a situation in Thimble Down that requires the assistance of someone who can read Ancient Dwarfish. There is currently a plague festering our village—the Grippe—and we aren’t sure if it is related to the Dwarfish activities in our smeltery.”
“What can I do? I am a busy Halfling after all, and my work is of the paramount importance.” Professor Larkspur suddenly looked peevish.
Reaching into his bag, Dorro pulled for the documents. “We were wondering, Professor, if you might be able to help translate these pages. They are in an older form of Dwarfish that my friends don’t understand. We were hoping you would examine them—and I would pay you for your time!”
“Let me see!” Professor Larkspur verily grabbed the pages from Dorro’s hand. “Where did you get these? My word, I’ve never seen writing and drawing of this caliber before.”
“They seem to have been a gift to the College from the Dwarfs of Gildenhall. But they were stolen years ago.”
“Which is why I’ve never seen them! If this is authentic, it could take years to unravel.”
“We don’t have years, sir. Please—time is of the essence. Halflings are dying from the disease that torments our village—as we speak.”
Professor Larkspur’s eyes blazed across the ancient pages. “This could be the crowning moment of my career. But as for you, Mr. Durbo—”
“Dorro, actually.”
“Yes, Mr. Dorro. I can translate this fairly easily, yet you would need to leave them with me, at least until tomorrow morning. I promise to guard them with my life! I shall need a fee of ten silver pieces, too—for my consulting time, of course.”
“Agreed! We shall meet you here tomorrow morning. And you will have a translation for us?”
Professor Larkspur looked the bookmaster right in the eyes and reached out his hand.
“From one scholar to another, I swear to you that I will. Even if it takes all night, you will have it, sir. As soon as you finish your breakfast, come to me in all haste!”