Death of a Dwarf

  * * *

  Many hours later, the boys were in bliss. They were sitting in front of a fire, enjoying fresh trout that Wyll brought in, as well as a brace of rabbits, which Orli had cooked into a stew with various roots and herbs, and a few of the leftover beets from the morning. Orli also made a miraculous discovery—while walking along the shore of the River Thimble, he noted a weird wall of brush. He pulled the branches away and found a cave that was dry and warm; it must have been some lucky fisherman’s hideout during Summer storms.

  “Orli, we can live here like kings all Winter! I can ice-fish and gather roots, while you hunt. And they’ll be no grownups around to tell us what to do.”

  “Bless that thought, Wyll. I’m sick of fathers and uncles bossing me around. I’m my own Dwarf now and answer to no one. I only miss …”

  “Who?”

  “Me mum. I lost her when I was but a pup. But in my heart, I still miss her. She wouldn’t treat me like a dog.”

  “Same here. My mother died not quite a year ago. She was an actor and very beautiful. Uncle Dorro is nice to me most of the time, but he gets cross sometimes and makes me do chores. And he’s got a horrible temper.” But Wyll chuckled. “Then again, so do I. Must get it from the old goat!”

  The lads laughed at that, but both reflected on the fact that even though their guardians were tough, they also supported them and made their lives easier. But they couldn’t say that out loud yet. After a spell, they decided to go explore the cave further, just in case a boar or some foxes lived in there. They made torches, doused them in musk oil they’d taken from the library, and began creeping back into the blackness.

  “A bit gloomy back here, eh?” Orli nodded in agreement.

  “Not much further, I think, Wyll—it’s tapering off to the end, but … hold on a bit.” Orli veered off to the right, holding his flaming brand high. “Look, there’s a separate chamber back here. I almost missed it. I think we’ll have to squeeze through this fissure.”

  The boys dropped to their knees and began wiggling through the small crack in the wall. Wyll shot through, but the beefier Dwarf boy struggled for a few moments. Finally, he got in and found his torch. “Do you see anything?”

  “Orli, you ain’t gonna believe this, but …”

  The Dwarf held up his torch and gasped. Within this chamber—measuring roughly twenty by twenty feet—they beheld every manner of object: plates and dishes, tools, piles of clothing, coins strewn everywhere, and just about every kind of household object you can imagine. It was only when Wyll noted a stack of shallow tin plates that he understood where he was.

  “Look! These are tin pie pans. Pie pans! Orli, I think we’ve found the lair of the Pie Thief.”

  The boys just looked at each other and smiled broadly at their coup.

  Malachite Molly

  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.