In a trice, Gadget Pinkle, Aramina, Crumble, and his brothers saddled up their ponies and took after Hiram Bindlestiff. Considering the smelterer’s rotund profile, the Sheriff didn’t think the posse would need much time to apprehend him.
In the interim, he enlisted Dorro, Orli, and a few others to help him do an unenviable task—shutting down the smeltery.
The small group ran over to the forge, located in its hollowed-out hillock near the eastern side of Thimble Down. Owing to the fact that there had been a major battle, the smeltery was largely shut down, its vast furnaces cooled and just a few Halflings milling about in the dark, cavernous interior.
“Hullo Sheriff. Glad to see you made it through the fight.”
Stepping out of the gloom was the pair of Mrs. Mick and Stookey McGee, two Thimble Downers who had found employment with Mr. Bindlestiff and thrived in their new jobs. Forgo was morose that he had to break the news to them in particular.
“Uh, hey there, Stookey ’n’ Mrs. Mick. Yep, glad we all made it through this hellstorm. Never seen anything like it in all my days.
“Nor us!” laughed Mick, “But we’re back and ready to go! There’s a batch of ore that just came in, and we need to get the furnaces back up to speed so we can refine it and get it poured for a gaggle of new orders.”
Forgo looked like he was going to be sick; in fact, he couldn’t even get the words out. Sensing his friend’s pain, Dorro took the lead.
“Stookey, dear Mrs. Mick, I hate to say this, but there’s not going to be any more refining or smelting here. Sadly, we’re here with signed orders, from the Mayor himself, to close this facility. Forever.”
The two workers stared at the bookmaster like he was speaking Dwarfish to them—they couldn’t believe their ears. Stookey blurted out, “This must be a joke, Mr. Dorro. The smeltery is the best thing to ever happen to Thimble Down. And our families, too!”
“Please don’t pull our legs!” cried Mrs. Mick. “My poor Ben hasn’t been able to work since his back gave out last year, and my income is all we have.”
“It’s true, Mick.” At last Sheriff Forgo found his voice. “It hurts us to tell you this, but the smeltery is the source of the Grippe. We have proof—it’s them black stones you use to fuel the furnaces. They put the poisons in the air, and that’s what we’re all breathing; almost killed me, in fact. I’m sure Bindlestiff will make good on your last wages, but you’d be doing us a great kindness if you told the rest of the workers to go home so we can close up the place. This is important.”
In shock, Stookey and Mrs. Mick retreated into the dark shadows, sad and shaking their heads.
“You had to do it, Forgo,” said the bookmaster. “I know it’s a ghastly job, but this place did far more harm than good. And these are skilled workers now. It’s early, I know, but Thimble Down lost more than a few skilled tradesfolk, and several of these folks can likely do their jobs.”
“Their bodies aren’t even cold in the ground yet, and you’ve already found replacements!” snarled Forgo. “Yer a class act, Winderiver.”
“You know I’m right, Sheriff! Half our village has been torn to pieces. We’ll need hale and hearty workers to rebuild her. If the Mayor has any brains in his head—which is always questionable—he’ll hire them immediately to begin the restoration. Or else, I’ll give the idea to Farmer Edythe, as it looks as if she may be our new leader.”
“You might have something there, Winderiver. When one door closes ...,” mused the Sheriff.
At that, the pair headed back into the light of day. Maybe the village would get through this after all, they both thought quietly.
* * *
Dorro’s next stop was northward.
With Orli beside him, they borrowed ponies and sped up the road towards West-Upper Down. All about them was devastation from the fighting: burnt-out burrows, blasted trees, and many corpuses, some so ravaged that the bookmaster couldn’t tell if they were goblin, Dwarf, or Halfling.
He was sure some elves and Men-folk had also been killed, but their bodies had been retrieved by their own kind for burying elsewhere. Indeed, he noticed some parties of Dwarves in the distance, gathering up their own dead for the final ritual. He remembered Wump’s funeral and knew that many of these corpuses would be burnt as they were sent to the next world.
The goblin dead would get no such honor. Their bodies would be loaded onto wagons and dragged many miles into the Great Wood where they’d be left as carrion for the wolves, bears, and vultures. It was cold justice, many felt.
Along the way, the bookmaster thought about the one outstanding thread that hadn’t fit into place: the murder of Wump. The more he learned about this Dwarf, the more he disliked him. Unlike honest, amiable Crumble and his equally lighthearted brothers, Wump was out for the benefit of Wump—he certainly knew the sale of the black stones was, if not illegal, then designed solely for his own profit. And quite intentionally he didn’t cut his brothers in. Dorro wasn’t sure what was the norm in Dwarf culture, but still, it didn’t paint an attractive image of Wump. At times, he wasn’t even sure if Aramina liked the Dwarf—and she was once his wife!
Could she have killed him?
Dorro let that idea roll around inside his head for a moment as he and Orli trotted up the road.
She does like her work, as bloodthirsty as it may be. Knocking off Wump would be like swatting a flea to her. And she could justify it by saying she was protecting the reputation of the other Dwarves.
Dorro let other figures flow through his mind as potential murderers.
What about Crumble or any one of his brothers? Or in fact, Orli? He had no love for his uncle, as Wyll has told me. Apparently Wump beat the boy not long ago. But these brothers seem so jovial together and Crumble’s threats to avenge his brother’s death feel credible. This brings me to Bindlestiff and Fibbhook. They are the most likely culprits—maybe the deal went bad or Wump decided to rat them out to his brothers. Dash it all!
Dorro was frustrated by this large web of potential murders and motives. It confused him, but at least he knew one thing—the reason for Wump’s murder was about silver or gold. This, he felt, was a fact. Indeed, it was the root of most murders.
“Here we are, Orli!”
Dorro and the Dwarf boy pulled up on their reins and jumped off their ponies. The bookmaster looked around and saw that the village of West-Upper Down had been largely spared the ruination of Upper Down and parts of Thimble Down. Some chewed-up turf and fields, perhaps, but the goblins must have raced through this tiny hamlet on their way to the bigger prize, knowing they could come back and lay waste here on their return.
Dorro banged on Mrs. Finch’s door, which was locked and all silent within.
“Children! Mrs. Finch! This is Dorro Fox Winderiver. Are you alive? Please!”
“Knock again, Mr. Dorro,” begged Orli. “And if that doesn’t work, my axe could take it down in a heartbeat.”
The burly Dwarf boy laid his hand on his axe head, a formidable piece of metal that could probably take down a mid-size oak tree in a one swing.
To both their surprises, they heard tittering. It evolved into giggling and full-on laughing. They looked up, and there on the roof of the burrow were two younglings and an old, frail Halfling woman, laughing heartily.
“You didn’t see us, Mr. Dorro?” hooted Cheeryup. “We’ve been up here the whole time, looking right at you, you silly goose!”
“We were so intent on the door, that we … oh poo!”
Dorro put his hands on his hips and looked exasperated. “Do get down here, you irksome child and that other one, and let me hug you both! And do help Mrs. Finch down carefully. You owe her your lives!”
A moment later and they were all together again, hugs and cheer going around freely.
“However can I thank you, Mrs. Finch? You did me the greatest favor of my life—for once, I didn’t put these two in harm’s way.”
“’Tis nothing, Mr. Dorro. My late husband, Nate, was fond of your Ma and Pa, and they were kind to him. Younglings, I remember this gent when he was but a toddler running around the yard with no pants on! Oooo, he had the softest, pinkest bottom you ever saw. All covered with dimples, it was!”
At that, she and the young ones all laughed again, while Dorro blushed a deep shade of plum.
“Please, Mrs. Finch! These children don’t need to hear this. But my offer stands—I shall do you any favor I can.”
“None be required, Mr. Dorro,” cackled the old woman. “I was glad no to be alone during this ordeal.”
Suddenly, Wyll and Cheeryup began to confer and whisper to themselves. Then they ran over and whispered into the bookmaster’s ear.
“I see … I see! Well, well, Mrs. Finch, the younglings here have divulged interesting information—for example, you have a leaky roof. And your furniture smells moldy. And your bed springs creak.”
“Oh dear, none of that matters to me. I’m just an old woman who lives alone here, tending my garden and talking with me friends and neighbors.”
“Regardless of those facts, madam, I may have a solution. Owing to the fact that the smeltery in Thimble Down has just been closed, I know for a fact that a certain number of skilled workers will soon be available and looking for employment, at least temporarily. If you would allow me to hire them to re-fit your burrow, in effect, you’d be doing these Halflings a tremendous favor. They need the work, you need some tidying-up done, and I need to repay a debt to a very kindly, sweet old friend. What do you say, Mrs. Finch: yay or nay?”
“Well, I don’t know, Mr. Dorro, it’s all so sudden—”
“I’ll take that as a yes!”
At that, Dorro bent over and gave the ancient lady a kiss on her brow, causing the lady to blush this time.
At that, Mrs. Finch invited them all inside to have tea on her moldy and soon-to-be-ridded-of old furniture.