Death of a Dwarf

  * * *

  Upon arriving at outer chambers, the troupe was led through a labyrinthine web of caves, curving tunnels, and chambers that led even deeper into the mountain. Finally, a pair of guards opened copper doors—beautifully ornamented with flowers, vines, and birds, aged to a green patina—and bade the party to enter.

  Inside was an enormous chasm, like a great cone extending upwards and downwards in equal vastness. Looking up they could see a dot of the sky in the distance, while below was pure black, yet a pleasing heat wafted upward from its depths. A single path extended into the middle of the space—it was a hewn road of rock about twelve feet wide that led into the dark core of the cavern.

  On either side, it fell into an abyss.

  “Come, Mr. Dorro, follow us quietly.” Crumble and Aramina led them onto the dim pathway and into the shadow. “Stay close, young ones, as you don’t want to fall. There ain’t no return from that error in judgment.”

  They walked on into the gloom—Dorro, Crumble, Aramina, Wyll, Cheeryup, and Orli—moving slowly and carefully and, no doubt, with a bit of fear in their stomachs. Soon, in the mist they approached a glowing orb. As they got closer, they saw it was glowing rock, embedded in the stone platform and radiating light from a source deep within the rock shaft.

  Reflected in the light was a throne of marble, a broad bench with cushions. And on it lay a figure resembling nothing more than a bundle of clothes. But as they approached, the bundle stirred, and a white-haired head popped up and eyed them balefully. The Seer pulled herself into a sitting position, and they could see that she was very old and wrinkled and had one eye that appeared milky and blind. But the other eye followed them sharply.

  “Oh, Greatest Seer of the Northern Kingdom, please forgive our intrusion into your peace,” began Crumble with the utmost tact. “We have come a hundred miles to ask for your guidance and wisdom.”

  The Seer said nothing, but ever-so-slightly nodded, as if to say she accepted his supplication and he could continue.

  “Wisest of all Dwarves, I bring you three from the Halfling lands to the South. They have a grave affliction on their village, and the only clue to the mystery is an ancient Dwarf manuscript which none of us can translate. We beg to ask if you can read it for us.”

  “Hand it to me,” rasped the Seer.

  Her voice was ancient, queer, and disarming. Dorro felt a chill run down his spine as he rifled through his bag for the copy Bedminster had produced and gave it to Crumble. The Seer snatched the pages from the Dwarf’s hand and perused them closely with her one good eye.

  Every few seconds she murmured to herself, “Aye” or “Yes!” with quiet excitement, but said little else to the group.

  Finally, she looked up and spoke. “This is strange and terrible. And magical and endearing to me who is very old. Where did you get it?”

  Dorro checked with Crumble that it was permitted for him to speak.

  “It was brought to our village by a Halfling merchant. He did not give its origins, but said it related to his work smelting metals together in the Dwarfish fashion.”

  “Indeed, your Brilliance,” continued Crumble. “My brothers and I work for this merchant, owing to our natural expertise in matters of metal and ore.”

  “But where did you get the document, Son of Dwarves?” The Seer’s good eye was fixed beadily on Crumble. “And do not lie to me. I have not time for games.”

  “It was stolen from the merchant, but I swear, not by myself or my brothers.”

  Crumble was sweating—he didn’t want to give the wrong answer.

  “No matter, I suppose. But this merchant must have stolen it from this College of St. Borgo. It seems our own master of the archives gave it to the Halfling library for knowledge, so they would understand the power of the black rocks. It’s an ancient manuscript of our kind, and in my opinion, not worthy of the lower Halfling species.”

  The Seer looked up, remembering who was present, but chose to ignore her own insult nor did offer any intention of an apology.

  “Ah yes, there are members of that particular clan here. Such strange folk! I have never met your kind before. Do you have a name?”

  The bookmaster cleared his throat. “I am known as Dorro Fox Winderiver. And these are my two young charges, Wyll Underfoot and Cheeryup Tunbridge.”

  The Seer said nothing for a moment, but then began making a horrible wheezing sound, as if having an asthmatic attack. Dorro realized she was laughing at them. The creature even smiled, revealing a toothless mouth of all gums.

  “What pretentious names you have, Halfling,” mocked the ancient Dwarf. “But they most amuse me. Very little else does these days, so I am pleased.”

  Under normal circumstances, Dorro might have given her a piece of his mind, but instead asked, “Can you tell us what is in this manuscript?”

  At once the Seer stopped smirking, and from the corner of his eye, Dorro saw Crumble and Aramina roll their eyes, as if he’d said precisely the wrong thing.

  “How dare you, miserable Halfling! You do not ask me for favors—either I grant them of my own accord or else might have you tossed off this chasm shelf into the darkness below.”

  “I … I … I apologize, your Brightness,” said Dorro, trying to salvage the moment. “But we have traveled many miles and hope that the contents of the document may save our village from destruction. Many lives depend on the words in your hands.”

  That seemed to appease the fickle Dwarf priestess. “What do you have for me?”

  “I don’t have much—coins of silver, some nuggets of gold,” frowned Dorro. “I can tell you of our Halfling ways, if that interests you at all.”

  The Seer’s head slowly drooped, and she began to snore, indicating that she had lost interest and the interview was over. Instinctually, Dorro reached to his vest and pulled out his pocket watch to check the time. They’d already been in there close to one hour.

  “What is that?” The raspy voice once again filled the chamber. “Give it here! What is that magical device?”

  “What, this?” Dorro was startled and flustered. “It’s just my pocket watch. I use it to tell time.”

  “Let me see it! Let me see it!”

  The Seer’s voice rose with tingling excitement.

  As much as he was loath to part with it, Dorro unclipped the watch chain from his vest and put it in the Dwarf’s bony, wrinkled hand.

  “Ahhhh!” was all she said as she began flipping it around and examining every nook and crevice on the device. “How does it work, Halfling?”

  Stepping closer, Dorro said, “Well, you simply wind it once a day. It was made for me by my dear friend Mr. Timmo, as you can see on the inscription inside the back. One needs to be careful not to over-wind it; that could break the delicate gears and mechanisms within. You can open the back and observe the wheels moving.”

  There was silence, and finally the Seer spoke again in her thin, grating voice.

  “It’s strange to me that the superior culture and craftsmanship of the Dwarves cannot make anything as delicate as this device. Yet your simple race has not only attempted to create a mechanical timepiece, but also mastered its construction. How can that be? The Halflings are of limited intelligence.”

  Dorro was about to give the Seer a tongue lashing when Crumble jumped in. “Greatest of All, they are in fact quite bright and lucid. Theirs is a fully functioning society with rules and laws, as well as a mastery of many industrial arts. Granted, they are not Dwarves, but not unintelligent either.”

  That seemed to satisfy the Seer, though not Dorro, who was very proud of his Halfling nature. He was seething.

  “This, I say to you, Halfling. For this timepiece, I shall decipher your cryptic manuscript. It shall serve as my gift.”

  Dorro couldn’t keep quiet. “I’m sorry, oh Brilliant One, but that was given to me by a good friend. I couldn’t part with it.”

  The Seer looked at him with one narrowing eye. “What is this impudence
? Crumble, speak to me! Did the Halfling refuse me a gift? Guards! Seize him!”

  Suddenly, the two armed Dwarfs charged down the path and stood menacingly on either side of Dorro.

  “No, of course not, Greatest and Wisest of All.” Crumble was desperately trying to control the damage. “The Halfling meant that it was a gift to him, and now it’s his honor to give it to you. That is what he was saying. Maybe I was overgenerous and his species is of limited intelligence after all.”

  “I suppose you are right,” sneered the ancient one. “I may have him tossed into the chasm anyway. That would please me, at least for a few seconds.”

  Dorro could stand being called many insults, but stupid wasn’t one of them. Yet Cheeryup grabbed the bookmaster’s sleeve and tugged hard. “Mr. Dorro, you must give it to her,” she whispered violently. “If you don’t, you may die and so might we! And Mr. Timmo can always make you a new pocket watch. Please, Mr. Dorro, listen to reason.”

  Dorro looked at Wyll and noticed he was stark white, as were his Dwarf friends. And so he decided this wasn’t the time to whip the famed Winderiver temper into a snit and cooled himself down.

  “Hear me, Wisest of All Seers—the timepiece is my humble gift to you.” With great reluctance, he even bowed to the Seer, though groveling was did not come naturally to him.

  “Be that as it may, Halfling.” The Seer looked disappointed that she couldn’t have him thrown to his death. “I will enjoy your toy. It is unknown to our world, and I will have our finest craftsmen make me dozens of them.”

  Still playing the role, Dorro humbly bowed again.

  “As for my end of the bargain,” croaked the Seer, “I must say you have an interesting document here. It’s not from Gildenhall; no, it’s much older than that, from the earliest days of our Dwarf ancestors mining in mountains even further to the North. It concerns the black stones, one of the sources of our fuel, and indeed our power. These rocks burn, as you well know, yet have no impact on the Dwarves.”

  “Yet this manuscript speaks of the race of Halflings to the South, as well as foul Men, Elves, and other subspecies. To them, the words on this page speak to a disease of the lungs, an affliction that brings endless sleep that ends in death. It was for this reason that we stopped trade of the black stones with non-Dwarves, for their own good. And moreover, we burn all we find, so it serves us well not to share the precious resource.”

  “That is what is ailing the good folks of Thimble Down!” gasped Dorro. “Pray, oh Great One, what is the disease called?”

  “It is Polonium in our language,” said the Seer absently. “But your type, Halfling, would probably just call it the Grippe. Trust me, it’s quite deadly. The merchant you spoke of earlier—he must have gotten his cache in illicit ways. Nor do I blame you, Crumble; you and your brothers are miners, not traders. But for this wicked fellow to get black stones in the quantity you describe, he must have a secret partner in the North. I shall alert the Dwarf Council. They will find the source in Gildenhall and deal with that individual severely. I presume he shall lose his head.”

  Dorro just gulped at the callous way the Seer described Dwarf justice.

  “As for you, Halfling, I’d advise you to return to your village and halt the burning of black stones immediately.” The Seer smiled in her strange, toothless way. “That is, if they’re not all dead by now.”

  A commotion broke out at the entrance to the Seer’s chasm, and a solitary guard came running forward.

  “Pardon the intrusion, your Supreme Wisdom, but we need Aramina right away. Our scouts have returned and their news is grim. The goblins are near and massing for war!”

  “They wouldn’t dare attack Gildenhall,” snarled Aramina. “I’d just like to see ’em try!”

  “No, that was just a feint,” cried the guard. “They’re going to the South—they’re going to wipe out the Halflings in the Great Wood. Around a village called Tumble Du mm.”

  “Whew,” sighed Dorro. “At least it’s not our beloved village.”

  Cheeryup again tugged on his sleeve and whispered, “I think that’s what he meant to say. The goblins will be attacking our home—they’re headed for Thimble Down!”

  Dorro looked up blankly.

  All he could manage to say was, “Oh, poo.”

  The Wide Green Open

  The troupe bade farewell to the Seer, rushing back over the rocky bridge and into the bustling center of Gildenhall.

  There was action aplenty, as Dwarves of all shape, size, age, and gender were girding for battle. Male and female alike were donning leather jerkins and tying back their hair into braids or ponytails to lessen distraction and make their helms fit better. Chain mail vests came next, followed by swords, axes, and maces. The noise was overwhelming for the quiet Thimble Downers, but they were fascinated by the battle talk all around them.

  “Are all the Dwarves going to war?” asked Dorro.

  “Hardly, friend,” laughed Aramina, “We’ve been battlin’ goblins, wolves, and trolls long enough to know what deceivers they are. Surely, they’re going south to your lands, but that doesn’t mean they don’t have a reserve force to lay siege to Gildenhall and the other Dwarf cities. Many will stay behind to protect our lands.”

  “What should we do?”

  “You should prepare, Mr. Dorro. You and yer young friends.” Aramina was no longer in a jovial mood. “You’ll all need to fight. Our force will leave in a few hours and race southwards to the Great Wood. With a bit ‘o luck, we will reach Thimble Down before the goblins do.”

  “Move along smartly, Mr. Dorro, move along,” crowed Crumble, gesturing for him and his young friends to follow. “We must suit you up and find fast ponies.”

  In short order, the Thimble Downers were led to the armory and fitted with small Dwarf jerkins and shirts of mail to protect them from arrows and sword thrusts to the body. Helmets were placed on their heads for added protection, and short chain-mail skirts were fitted around their middles.

  Dorro felt a little foolish in all the military gear, but didn’t want to be any more trouble than he’d already been. Thankfully, he reflected, the Seer had not tossed him into the chasm for his insolence.

  Next came a magnificent meal, possibly their last for quite a while and for some, their last ever. Crumble, Aramina, and Orli each wolfed down tasty roasted fowl and slow-braised goat, baked potatoes, broiled squash, and beer. The Halflings ate less, but saved some bread in their pockets for later. There would be little time for eating on the way South.

  “We’re going to stage a lightning strike, if we can,” spat Aramina between ravenous bites. “We’ll confuse the goblins with a few small squadrons who will act like advance scouts and divert them from the main force. That’s where we’ll be, weaving in and out of valleys and forests for cover, but moving with great speed. If all goes as planned …”

  She took an enormous bite out of a lamb shank.

  Crumble picked up the thread, “… if all goes as planned, the goblins should think Thimble Down is undefended and be unprepared for a Dwarf army to hit them from the West—fast, deadly, and without mercy.”

  “And with Malachite Molly at their head!” howled the Dwarf warrior. “By that time, I’ll be chompin’ on the bit to lop some beans off with me axe and sword. But best you stay more than twenty paces away from me in battle. Sometimes the battle fever takes me into a trance, and I almost lop off a Dwarf’s head or two by accident.”

  She smiled sheepishly, like she’d been caught stealing sweets.

  “That’s our Molly,” leered Crumble. “No better orkus chopper in the Wide Green Open.”

  Suddenly, yells and bellowing broke up the conversation. Shouts of “Mount up! We ride for victory! Death to the orkus!” rang through the air and the Dwarf soldiers began running this way and that.

  In minutes, they were clambering up on ponies and following the warriors upwards through the tunnel.

  The Dwarf horde of Gildenhall was riding for battle.