Death of a Dwarf

  * * *

  Shortly after, the pair sat in the guest-burrow inhabited by the Dwarves.

  Around the table were Crumble, Flume, Two-Toes, Magpie, and Wump’s former wife, the Battle Dwarf, Aramina. The rest of her fighters were encamped in the woods, though not far from the Hanging Stoat, whose delights they had discovered. Mungo, too, was delighted to discover their gold nuggets, which amply covered the many beers and chops he sent their way. After a week or two, the Dwarves had become regulars and even accepted by the Halflings of Thimble Down—they were just patrons like anyone else, there to have a drink and supper at the end of a hard day.

  “So, what can we do for you, Mr. Dorro?”

  The bookmaster had been wise enough to arrive with a two tankards of hard cider, which he knew would not go unappreciated by the Dwarves. They passed around cups and poured the strange drink and warily tasted it. Deciding that cider spirits passed muster, they passed the same small vial of belladonna and sprinkled a few drops to each vessel in order to spike it up to Dwarf strength.

  “I’d like to show you these documents, Crumble. And by doing so, I hope we can keep this confidential—what I’m about to reveal is quite dangerous, and indeed I could go to gaol by simply possessing them.”

  “You can count on us, Mr. Dorro. And Aramina, too!” The she-Dwarf merely smiled and burped loudly, which was as good as a solemn handshake to a Dwarf. “Now let’s have a look.”

  Dorro laid the rolled oilcloth on the table and undid the string holding it together. By the way the Dwarves gasped and whispered to each other, he knew he’d hit the mother lode.

  “As you can guess, these are pages stolen from Mr. Bindlestiff’s safe, though I can’t tell you where I got them. As for the words on the page, I don’t speak common Dwarfish, and this is perhaps older than that,” stated the bookmaster. “Might you have any ideas, Crumble?””

  “Well, errrmm, this is kinda complex, Mr. Dorro.” The Dwarf scratched his chin and wiggled his eyebrows enough to indicate he had no idea what they contained. “Y’see, we’re not educated Dwarves. We’re what you might call diggers—not that this is a bad thing, but we don’t have much book learnin’.”

  His brothers, Two-Toes, Flume, and Magpie, all nodded in agreement, while Aramina helped herself to more cider and belladonna drops.

  “So you can’t read this script?”

  “Oh no, I don’t think you’ll find any Dwarf in all the Northern Kingdom who could read this, though the pictograms are pretty interestin’. They certainly tell a tale about the black stones, they do. And not a good one.”

  “But it’s not proof until we understand the words, is it?” Dorro looked dejected.

  “At least, I can read one thing—this note scribbled in the corner here,” continued Crumble. “Why that’s plain enough. It says, ‘This is a gift to the College of St. Borgo from the library of Gildenhall.’”

  “College of St. Borgo? Why that’s our esteemed university, though located many miles from here. Where is Gildenhall?”

  “Why sir, that is the city from whence we come—it is the heart of the Northern Kingdom of Dwarves. Apparently, one of our Dwarf teachers felt it was of some importance to bequeath these documents to your place of Halfling learning.”

  “How did they get into Mr. Bindlestiff’s hands?”

  The Dwarves all chuckled. “P’raps the way all the things do—he stole ’em! Him or that Fibbhook fellow. Either way, it must be important. What are you going to do now?”

  Dorro was lost in thought for a moment. “Crumble, these pages may hold the secret to the Grippe, what causes it, and how to cure the illness. The pictures tell us only half the story—we need answers. What if I proposed to you a journey?”

  “I dunno if Mr. Bindlestiff would let us off work like that.”

  “I’d only need you, Crumble, and Cheeryup.”

  “Can I come?” chimed in Aramina. “You might need some muscle to keep you safe, and I wouldn’t want anything to happen to poor Crumbly.”

  “That we might, Mrs. Wump. I might take you up on that.” Dorro’s eyes were on fire. “I propose a journey to the burg of St. Borgo and a visit to its esteemed edifice of education. We will find one of the great minds there and ask him to interpret this for us. And we will return to Thimble Down with the answers to crack open this morass and put the Grippe out of our lives for good! I shall pay you for your time, Crumble, and you Aramina.”

  “All the better!” laughed the Dwarf. “Brothers, hold the fort for us and tell ol’ Fibbhook that I’m home with a tummy ache for a week or three.”

  “I propose a toast!” Dorro grabbed his own tankard of cider and held it aloft. “Tomorrow morning, the four of us shall set forth to the distant burg of St. Borgo, there to find answers, explanations, and illumination. And the rest of you shall, most gratefully, keep our secret. Here’s to our conspiracy!”

  At that, they all clanked tankards and drank deeply, aside from Cheeryup, who didn’t like spirits and preferred to keep her wits about her. Still, she was excited by this expedition—if only Wyll were here she could rub it in his face.

  He’s not the only one who could run off on a grand adventure! she thought jealously.

  As for Dorro, he had only one other mission to accomplish before they set off in the morning.

  “Cheeryup, let me walk you home, but stay in the shadows so no one sees you. And before we get there, I do have to make one important stop. A crucial one.”

  The girl nodded in agreement, and they set off from the Dwarves’ burrow, excited for the next day’s sojourn and the unknown events that lay ahead.

  Gildenhall

  The next few hours were a blur for Wyll.

  As quickly as the battle had ended, he’d been loaded onto another pony and carried up the rocky scree with all haste. There were other ponies and donkeys carrying wounded Dwarves, several in grave condition.

  Strangely, while the terrain was going up, they were headed on a path that led deep into the heart of the mountains. It was a forbidding road, but the Dwarves knew the trail well.

  The caravan passed several sets of sentries, heavily armed Dwarf fighters who showed no expression upon their faces. Here and there Wyll noticed marks of ornament—sections of rock that had been carved by Dwarves, such as over an archway or marking an entrance. They were going deeper into the mountain, and the natural light was fading away.

  Soon they were completely underground, as the road wended forward and began to level off. More Dwarves could be seen on the periphery, and there was commotion as they rushed the caravan to spirit away the wounded. Hands grabbed Wyll roughly and he was borne off into the caverns and rooms of this strange place. He looked around for Orli, but could not find him in the fray.

  Wyll’s destination was a catacomb of small chambers, each containing a few beds where the injured were lain. The level of activity was intense as Dwarves swarmed over the patients, pulling off torn, damaged clothing and armor and examining wounds up close.

  Another set of Dwarves arrived to clean the minor cuts or sew up sword gashes and arrow holes. Some patients required stitching to repair internal organs, whereas others expired where they lay, their wounds too traumatic for the Dwarf healers to cure. There was no crying or wailing when a warrior died; his or her body was lifted and moved elsewhere, while more injured were brought in for care.

  Fortunately for Wyll, the goblin arrow wound in his leg was not significant, and he was sewn up quickly. More of the smelly balm was applied, and he was given a tincture of herbs and hot water to drink. It made him feel cozy and tired. At last he fell into a dreamless sleep.

  When he awoke, Wyll wasn’t entirely surprised to see Orli sitting near the edge of his bed, sharpening a knife. “Thanks again, friend,” were all the words he could muster.

  “There he is—back from the arms of sleep. Are ya feeling better?”

  “Yes, but how about you, Orli? You got cut on the arm and stabbed in the hip. Did the healer
fix your ills? I wish I had your resilience.”

  “My injuries were minor, but I’m glad yer well. The healer said you’ll be walking soon. Then we can repair to the home of my cousins and rest there. And discuss visiting the Seer.”

  “How are the injured faring?” inquired Wyll, feeling a little guilty, as if he had caused the goblin attack himself.

  “Most fighters survived, though we lost our share. The orkus have been growing in strength and becoming more brazen in their attacks. This was one of the worst in memory—and we rode straight into it.” Orli said this matter-of-factly, yet the whole city was abuzz with murmurs of the rising goblin threat, as if they were preparing for something ominous.

  “Have the goblin attacks just started recently?”

  Orli looked at Wyll as if he had three eyes. Then he smirked. “The orkus have been assailing us since I was born and probably centuries before that. It’s just the way of things. They want the Northland for their own, while we’ve been here since the Beginning of Time. It’s ours.”

  Wyll looked puzzled. “They’ve never bothered us in Thimble Down.”

  This drew gales of laughter from the Dwarf boy. “We know, Wyll! Why do you think that is? It’s because our best fighters have been protecting the Halflings to the South forever and a day. That is the Dwarves’ role in the nature of things—we are the defenders and protectors of this realm.”

  “Why?”

  “Why?” Even Orli looked baffled. “Because that’s what Dwarves do! Honestly, Wyll, you are naïve sometimes! You Halflings can barely see past your plates of beef chops and tankards of ale. There’s a big world out there, and it’s full of good and evil. As I understand it, I’ve heard there are other powerful forces in place to protect your lands, but I do not know much about them. What I do know is that we protect the entire Northlands and if we find goblins anywhere, we engage and destroy ‘em. And that means fewer enemies to attack the Halflings lands, and to the South and West, even the lands of Men-folk.”

  “I had no idea,” Wyll was befuddled. “We have much to thank you for.”

  “Well, not me—more like the Dwarves of the Northern Kingdom. Now sleep, my addled friend. When you awake, I’ll take you ‘round my city.”

  “Are we in your city yet?” asked Wyll.

  Again, Orli grinned. “Yep, we are here. This is Gildenhall.”