Dorro could have cried with joy.
His beloved forest was burning around him, yet out of the heavens, heavy rain began to fall and the wicked flames began to hiss and smoke. What could have been a disaster was now merely a few scorched acres of woodlands. Dorro knew the Great Wood would regenerate itself, and in a few years, thriving young trees would populate this blackened patch of earth.
“Dorro! Dorro!”
The bookmaster turned his head to see a handful of Halflings running towards him. It was Sheriff Forgo shouting his name, with Dowdy Cray, Bog the Blacksmith, and Minty Pinter behind him. Dorro was even more surprised when the Sheriff gave him a hug and lifted him off the ground.
“I’m glad to see you, Winderiver! I was preparing for the worst,” laughed Forgo, setting the bookmaster down and clapping his mates on the shoulders. “This could have all been entirely much worse. Where are the children?”
“With any luck, they’re still hiding in Mrs. Finch’s burrow in West-Upper Down. I don’t think there’s much fighting there—at least let’s hope not.”
“The goblins have retreated, thanks to your Battle Dwarves and Malachite Molly,” hooted the lawman. “That she-devil has the strength of forty Halflings. Now I’m heading back to secure the village, while you retrieve your wards. By the way, where the heck have you been all week?”
“That’s a tale for another day, Sheriff. Let’s say I’ve seen several wonders of the Northern world.”
“Sheriff! Mr. Dorro!” It was Bog the Blacksmith, calling from across the battlefield. “Come quick!”
In a few moments, the Thimble Downers were standing over the corpus of a fallen goblin, this one horribly disfigured, though whether it was caused by battle or nature wasn’t clear. Bog pointed at something on its body.
“What is that hideous ball hanging about its neck? Is it flesh?” Neither Bog nor any of them were sure.
Something was bothering Dorro. “Let me get closer. This doesn’t look right.”
The bookmaster knelt over the bloodied corpse and began poking the fleshy blob with a stick. It was attached with a string thread through its middle. Dorro even found a bit of cloth and wet it with rainwater, wiping the front of the strange blob. He screamed and stood up, just as Aramina, Crumble, and Orli rode up.
“Dear sweet Borgo!” he gasped. “Do you know what that is?”
“I do, a-course!” giggled Malachite Molly, getting off her battle pony. “That be a Halfling head. I’ve seen a few in my lifetime. This here goblin-feller is wearing it as a battle trophy. Musta killed him not long ago, judging by its just-mildly putrid state.”
Dorro nearly vomited, but held it in.
“You know who it is, don’t you?” Aramina and the rest looked at him blankly. “It’s Professor Larkspur from the College of St. Borgo—the cad who stole the Ancient Dwarf documents from us!”
“Why so it is!” crowed Crumble. “Serves that rascal right! I bet he scarpered out of St. Borgo with the papers and ran smack into the goblin host headed our way for battle. Pity the fool. You could say Larkspur’s flight from us was his last … lark!”
Crumble and Aramina erupted into peals of mirth, while Dorro looked away in disgust. They were used to this kind of carnage, while the gentle bookmaster was assuredly not. Instead, he gathered himself together and prepared to go fetch Wyll and Cheeryup. Yet there were more yells from the far side of the pasture instead. It was indistinct at first, but soon a Dwarf scout ran up.
“Woe is upon us!” he bellowed. “The goblins’ retreat was only a feint—they are flooding back toward the village in even greater numbers. We need every Dwarf and Halfling to come fight!”
The group didn’t need to be told twice. They drew their weapons and leapt on tired ponies to carry them back into battle.
* * *
Not twenty minutes later, their world had been turned upside down. Instead of a goblin retreat and victory, the remaining Dwarf and Halfling fighters were pinned down in the village, surrounded on every side by goblins. A second battalion of orkus had lain hidden in the forest while the first wave engaged the Dwarves, but upon the deceptive “retreat,” they regrouped and counterattacked in insurmountable numbers.
“Keep your eyes on the roofline!” screamed Forgo in the pounding rain.
With their incredible agility, goblins were able to scale burrows and sneak around their sod-covered tops for surprise attacks from the rear. More than a few Thimble Downers had been taken down by arrows in the back. Then just as fast, the enemy disappeared into the rainy mist. It was an impossible situation, and blood ran down the lanes of Thimble Down as Halflings, goblins, and Dwarves died alike.
It was turning into a nightmare, Forgo knew.
“I hope that Mrs. Finch has the wits to escape and take the children westward,” fretted Dorro. “But I fear just the opposite. She will keep them there until the goblins have conquered us all. Then they will be killed or enslaved. And I don’t know which is worse!”
The bookmaster looked up as Bog the Blacksmith dragged an injured Dowdy Cray away from their skirmish line. Dowdy had a black arrow in his shoulder and was so pale that he didn’t look like he’d make it through another hour.
Forgo’s face was grim, and even the normally gung-ho Dwarves looked morose, Malachite Molly among them. The joy of combat had left her, and her expression said all—this fight was lost. While she and many of her fellow Dwarves could escape, the chances of a full evacuation of the villagers was slim at best. Aramina knew many were about to die.
“Crumbly, why don’t you, Orli, and yer bruvvers pike outta here and make for the river? I’ll come find you in a few hours after I collect a few more goblin scalps.”
“Don’t speak false to me, Aramina,” said the Dwarf. “I know you all too well—you will stay here until a bitter goblin arrow takes your last breath.”
“I just don’t want you hurt, Crumbly,” she replied, big salty tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. “Sure, Wump was my husband, but he’s dead and we were never right for each other in the first place. That’s why he left me. But you’re different; you’re special to me. I couldn’t stand it if you got hurt … or worse!”
Crumble didn’t say anything, but instead pulled Aramina close to him, knowing the end wasn’t far off. Arrows were flying so thickly above them that it was hard to see what was sky and what wasn’t.
Suddenly, they noticed something else. There were arrows and spears flying in the other direction. The fighters realized they were surrounded and this crossfire would ultimately kill them all. Yet new cries arose, and while the Dwarves and Halflings huddled down behind the barricade, big creatures overran their position and leapt straight over the barricade.
A few thought these were mountain trolls coming to finish the job, at least until someone shouted, “It be Men!”
“Naw, can’t be!” croaked Aramina, sticking her head up from Crumble’s embrace. “But it is! Them’s Men-folk or my name ain’t Malachite Molly.”
Further down line, yet another surprising word was heard: “Elves!”
Lo and behold, sleek, grey-clad warriors ran past them, firing off arrows by the score and issuing commands in their strange tongue: Arvath toola cath malka to mere! Parth amen forsooth tarka!”
Dorro, Forgo, Crumble, and Aramina jumped up with the elves, Men, and the rest of the Dwarf and Halfling fighters to join the battle.
With the brawny males and strapping females in the lead, the Men-Folk began chasing the goblins down the lanes of Thimble Down, while the lithe elves leapt up on the burrow roofs and slew orkus hiding there. The carnage was unspeakable.
Thus, the battle turned yet again. The orkus were soundly routed, slain at the hands of this strange alliance of Halflings, Men, Dwarves and elves. A few goblins had dashed into the Great Wood, but according to eyewitnesses, didn’t make it far.
“You should have seen it!” crowed a Dwarf fighter who dashed in from West-Upper Down. “The very trees of your woodlands joined the battle and crushed the fleeing goblins like bugs. Oak, birch, ash, and maple alike—each one smashing the beasts with their branches before returning upright as if nothing had happened at all. And directing them all was a weird little Halfling. A tiny old one with wrinkly skin and—”
“… a floppy green hat,” said Dorro, finishing off the sentence. “That would be Dalbo Dall.”
“Don’t be daft, Winderiver,” snarled Forgo. “How could trees squish goblins? And what does Dalbo have to do with it?”
“Remember, Sheriff, we don’t know everything about this world of ours,” continued the bookmaster, thinking upon the words uttered by Crumble as they rode into battle. “As strange as it sounds, I think this rumor is entirely accurate.”
“But what about the elves and Men-folk? Why are they here, and how did they know the goblins were upon us?”
“It’s a long story, Forgo, but sometime, ask me about our protectors. And about our role in the Wide Green Open we live in. We Halflings are not quite as alone in the grand scheme of things as we like to think.”
The Sheriff merely put his hands on his hips and looked at the bookmaster foggily.
“Wha—?”