The quiet of the Autumn afternoon fell on Thimble Down, and it couldn’t have come soon enough. Most villagers were exhausted from the onslaught, a saga that would go down in Halfling history as the Battle of the Burrows. It would be recounted in local pubs as the greatest moment in Halfling history, save perhaps the legendary Rebellion of Borgo.
Yet, it wasn’t all glory and valiant deeds. Many burrows and establishments in Thimble Down had been damaged or destroyed, lanes torn up, windows and wells smashed, and more. Worse, there were the dead.
According to Nurse Pym, fifty good Halflings from the village or thereabouts had been slain, among them Bindlestiff’s foreman, Silas Fibbhook, and Poe Stitchwicket the shepherd, both of whom had taken poisoned darts and expired before Pym could get to them.
Many were reeling with the news that their dear friend Farmer Duck had been felled by a goblin’s sword. (Despite his surname, he lamentably hadn’t done so fast enough.) This was a particularly hard blow for Sheriff Forgo, who had known Duck from his boyhood days.
While tears were shed for the fallen, the living were tasked with removing the corpuses of goblins and Dwarves, of which there were too many to count. Forgo estimated that there were well over two thousand dead goblins alone in the entire battle zone, stretching from Thimble Down to West-Upper Down, and many more in the Great Wood strangely crushed to death.
They also learned that the Village of Upper Down proper had been fully razed, though fortuitously, many of its residents had escaped prior to the onslaught.
On the home front, the villagers remarked on acts of bravery, such as Osgood Thrip taking out many of the enemy with a bag of silver coins he swung like a mace. Or Bog the Blacksmith carrying his injured pal Dowdy Cray to safety; the wagon driver had taken a tainted arrow to the shoulder, but would recover.
The Mayor, to no one’s surprise, fled into hiding, yet Thimble Downers everywhere were talking about the stout heart of Farmer Edythe and how she hadn’t lost her cool during the fight. It wasn’t lost on anyone that she stood up for Thimble Down while their sole elected official ran off and left them for dead. If the Mayoral Election had been held that moment, Edythe would have walked off with it, and as it stood, she would be in good standing when the proper contest was held in two weeks. Still cowering in the woods, the Mayor wallowed in his cowardice, knowing that the election was all but over.
Many Thimble Downers were milling about in front of the gaol, looking for loved ones. Among them was a certain bookmaster, who suddenly appeared out of the throng.
“Sheriff, I know we’re all still very much recovering, but I need to convene a meeting as soon as possible.”
“Are you daft, Winderiver?” Forgo looked like he was about to take a swing at the bookmaster. “We have hundreds of bodies to bury and much of the village to rebuild. But of course, when the exalted Dorro Fox Winderiver wants a meeting, he usually gets it, doesn’t he?”
“Actually, yes he does, my good Sheriff.” Unlike the lawman, Dorro was mildly amused, but still needed to drive the point home. “Forgo, I have the results of the Seer’s translation. I know what causes the Grippe. We can stop this illness right now!”
Forgo rolled his eyes, but as usual, caved into Dorro’s idea. “Fine! I’ll get Gadget on it. How that boy survived the battle without a scar, I’ll never know. Probably hid in a cider barrel for most it.”
Satisfied, Dorro laid out his requirements for the Sheriff, who simply grunted and groaned with each request.
* * *
“After what poor Thimble Down has been through, much less Upper-Down, I’m delighted to see everyone here.” Dorro was rather good at toasting and enjoyed it. He lifted a glass of honeygrass whiskey in front of the group standing within the gaol and was about to sip when Sheriff Forgo interrupted.
“And don’t forget me ol’ pal Farmer Duck, as good a chum as they come.” Dorro saw that the Sheriff was trying very hard not to choke up. “Back in the ol’ times, me ’n’ Duck skived off many a day of school to go fishing or pretend to fight trolls in the Great Wood. He was my mate until them goblins took him from us and … well, all I wanna say is I ain’t gonna forget Duck, and neither should you!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Dorro, and they all drank to the farmer’s memory, as well as others they lost that week.
“Nor can we forget Mr. Silas Fibbhook,” squeaked Mr. Bindlestiff, owner of the smeltery and newly returned from hiding. “It’s my understanding that Silas acquitted himself quite well in battle and died bravely. I know you didn’t know him well and that on the exterior, he could be gruff. But Fibbhook was a most excellent foreman and could get any of my workers to go the extra distance, even without a whip. To Silas!”
Another round of sips and gulps went round the room. “But we must get to business,” said the Sheriff gravely, looking at all the guests in the goal: the just-returned Mayor; Farmer Edythe and Mungo; Osgood Thrip; Mr. Bindlestiff; Dorro; and the Dwarves—Aramina, Crumble, and his brothers. “Now, if you’d all give your undivided attention to Mr. Winderiver, we can get this done with.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” There were some uncomfortable coughs in the room. “As you may know, certain documents were stolen from Mr. Bindlestiff’s office safe a few weeks ago. The pages took a very roundabout journey here in the village, wherein they were stolen yet again … and again.”
“This is outrageous!” snorted Mr. Bindlestiff. “Those are my pages, and I own them. I want them returned instantly!”
“Be that as it may, sir, I do not have the pages. I did at one point, and because of that, a few of us embarked upon a great journey prior to the Battle of the Burrows, first to the university town of St. Borgo, where we learned very little; and then to the Dwarf city of Gildenhall, where were learned quite a bit.”
“Sheriff, you should arrest the bookmaster here,” barked the smelting boss. “He has confessed to stealing my ancient papers!”
Dorro looked at him flatly. “That could be awkward, sir, as we have reason to believe that they themselves were stolen quite a while ago. How they came to be in your possession is not of great interest to me, but there is a battalion of Dwarf warriors in the village right now, and they might want to find out how you took possession of them. I might suggest that you refrain from doing so—if you still like your neck attached to your body.”
The smelting mogul said nothing, but you could see the blood draining from his head, leaving only a sickly grimace on his face.
“Pray continue,” was all Bindlestiff managed to say.
“After several misadventures, these Ancient Dwarf manuscripts landed in my hands. In the interest of knowledge, I decided to consult a professor at the College of St. Borgo for a translation of the pages. This was not to be, as this scholar—a certain Professor Larkspur—stole the pages and fled the city, assuming the documents to have a material value. Judge him as you may, but we believe that this professor ran smack into the army that we just battled and is now quite dead.”
Dorro squirmed at the thought of Professor Larkspur’s decapitated head hanging around the corpus of a slain goblin fighter.
“Greatly disappointed, our small troupe ventured north to Gildenhall, the great city of the Dwarves. It was there that we were granted an audience with the Seer, a wise sorceress who deciphered the ancient runes for us.”
“Get on with it, Winderiver!” barked Forgo. “This isn’t a one-man theatrical, you know.”
Dorro didn’t like his soliloquies interrupted, but kept on anyway. “As I was saying, the Seer deciphered the manuscript pages. In them was conclusive evidence that the black rocks imported by Mr. Bindlestiff’s smeltery and burned as fuel emit toxic fumes that are well known to cause illness among non-dwarven species.”
There was a hushed gasp in the small crowd, though Bindlestiff himself said nothing.
“Furthermore, I have witnesses to this, among them, Crumble and Aramina of the Dwarves and Wyll and Cheeryup. We all heard the Seer quite clearly—the stones do not cause illness to the Dwarves, but all else may develop a hacking cough, leading to unconsciousness and death. In that light, the smeltery must be closed immediately!”
There was clamoring in the small room, mostly in favor of closure, but Osgood Thrip and the Mayor railed against the accusation, saying more research was needed. Yet as Dorro knew, both Halflings were benefitting directly from Bindlestiff’s business. The noise was quelled when Aramina drew an arrow from her quiver and shot it across the small gaol room, sinking its shaft deeply in the opposite wall.
“That’ll be enough from you lot,” she snarled. “If the Seer says it’s true, then there’s no reason to question it!”
“She be right,” chimed Crumble. “The Seer can look into the past, present, and future. If she says that bit about the black stones, then it be true. You’d be fools to keep using them stones in your forge, Mr. Bindlestiff. But if I may ask, how did you get them? They’re kept under guarded supply in the North.”
Until now, Bindlestiff had said nothing, but had an indignant look on his porcine face. Finally he spoke.
“I think it will be of great interest to you, Crumble, as to where I got the black stones. I made an honest deal with no tomfoolery attached, but I am a Halfling of business and knew it was a good opportunity. I acquired the stones via a deal with your brother—the dear, departed Mr. Wump. I even have our signed contract in my office, that is, if one of you hasn’t stolen it already!”
There were gasps as the smelterer played his hand.
“I could kill you for saying that about our brother, Bindlestiff,” snarled Crumble, he and his brothers shooting daggers at the Halfling. “… if it wasn’t likely true. I know my brother Wump, and while I loved him, he was prone to shady practices. I think it amused him, and honestly, crafting a deal to bring rare dwarven coke to the Halflings sounds just like something he’d do.”
His brothers nodded in embarrassment, and even Aramina spoke. “T’was one of the reasons we’re split apart, Wump ’n’ me. He was obsessed with gold and money—perfectly normal Dwarf traits—but I have no use for the stuff. I just want to live on the land, chasing our enemies, and keeping ’em at bay. Wumpie thought I was mad, of course, but despite the beauty of Gildenhall and its mines, my life was meant to be spent under the stars and with an axe in my hand.”
Looking off, she cried further, “Ah, Wumpie … why did you do it?”
“Then who murdered our brother, Mr. Dorro?” begged Crumble. “That’s the last piece of the puzzle that makes no sense.”
Suddenly Sheriff Forgo cut in: “Hey, where did Bindlestiff go? He slipped out!”
Everyone looked around, and indeed it was true. Mr. Bindlestiff had snuck out of the room while Dorro and Aramina were speaking. He’d escaped!
Suddenly, Mungo spoke for the first time, scratching his whiskery chin. “I guess that means Bindlestiff had a hand in that Dwarf’s death, Mr. Wump. I bet the deal went bad, so ol’ Bindler killed him or made Fibbhook do it. Makes sense, don’t it?”
Sheriff Forgo furrowed his brows. “Y’know Mungo, that’s one of the most astute things you ever said in your life. You might be right. Now, I need some volunteers to bring a fugitive to justice. Who wants to lend a hand?”
Suddenly, over half the hands in the room shot into air, each one stretching for the chance to drag Hiram Bindlestiff to gaol for the murders of Wump—and possibly every Thimble Downer who was sick, dying, or dead from the Grippe.