* * *
The wagon churned along the track, a slow and arduous ride made all the more so with lumps of snow and ice on the roads, paths, and tracks.
Craning his neck, Dorro could grab brief glimpses of what lay ahead in between the bottoms of bounty hunters sitting in front. It had been hours already and he estimated they’d covered about twelve or fifteen miles since leaving the Old Nob crossroad.
In the distance, he could espy burrows, which told him they were approaching a settlement, but it was none that he knew of. Further east of Thimble Down, the hamlets were few and far between; some of them didn’t even have names. He figured this must be one.
True to form, a few villagers stepped out of their burrows to see what was going on. They mustn’t get many visitors, thought Dorro. It must be exciting for these simple farmers.
He was half right, as this was exciting for the denizens of this poor community.
Unbeknownst to him, they full-well knew it was the wagon full of scofflaws that came through once a year and they were ready. Once the wagon entered the raw, muddy track, the Halflings and their young ran behind the wagon, hurling rotten vegetables at the criminals and taunting them with insults.
“Watch out for the goblins, ye filthy beggars!” laughed one.
“Hope you don’t mind maggots and fleas in yer beds!” jeered another
“Here, have another helping of delicious veggies!”
This last comment was accompanied by chunks of flying debris, including rotten cabbage and beets that rained upon Dorro and his unfortunate companions. For him, it was disgusting and horrifying, yet he spied Amos Pinchbottle and his cousins, who seemed to regard it as a game and were throwing pieces of cabbage back at the crude, nasty Halflings.
“Take that, scummy vermin!” he laughed, along with Woodsy and Barker. To them, this was all some sort of perverse amusement far outside of Dorro’s understanding. He was cold, dirty, and miserable.
Before long, they’d left the squalid village behind and headed into thick, piney woods leading ever eastward. The prisoners were picking rotten veg flesh off their clothes and benches, and trying to throw them out of the cart. Up front, Bullock, Salty, and Hammersmith merely howled with laugher at the state of their captives.
“You lot look absolutely beau-tee-full!” croaked the bald, chubby Salty, while the big, thick-necked Bullock croaked, “And you’s smell sweet, too!”
“You mugs are ready for a country dance, you is,” chortled Hammersmith, the biggest and nastiest-looking bounty hunter.
He had a scarred-up gash on the top of his lumpen head and Dorro was sure it wasn’t there by accident. This brute had the scent of violence all over him and, accordingly, the bookmaster planned to avoid Mr. Hammersmith at all costs.
He was also fascinated by two she-Halflings who sat across the wagon from him. These prisoners kept whispering and tittering away to themselves, as if they were cooking something up. One of them saw the bookmaster looking their way.
“What’s you lookin’ at, sweety? Do you fancy one of us?” cackled the one toothless lady.
“Or maybe, Esmerelda, he fancies us both!” At that, both hags chortled even more, until Bullock turned out and told them all pipe down.
Lowering her voice, the one called Esmerelda whispered back, “You wondering what we’re talkin’ ‘bout, eh? You must be bored.”
“That I am, my good lady. I’m sorry if I appear to be eavesdropping.”
“Ooo, you can drop yer eaves wherever you’s wants, love,” smiled Mary, revealing rotten, brown stumps of teeth. “What brings you here on our little jaunt?” She gave him another flirty grin.
Dorro had never thought about discussing his “crime,” but considering the company, it might be prudent if he did.
“I was convicted of murder, though it wasn’t entirely my fault. Still, the blame was ultimately laid upon me and thus I am being conveyed to the East, poor wretched soul that I am.”
“Ooo, a murderer! Just likes us, Mary!”
“I’m sorry to hear that, ladies. You must have been unfairly accused, same as I,” said Dorro, trying to build a bridge, at least as much he could.
But his remark only made the two wretches laugh even harder, causing Bullock to yell again and throw a metal cup in their general direction.
“No, dearie, we were quite fairly accused of murder,” said the one called Esmerelda.
“My sister and I offed quite a few fine gents, but it was in the name of good and fair commerce. We thought so, at least, until the county constable found out. He didn’t think our enterprise was as clever as we did and so here we are being transported to Fog Vale, though for the life o’ me, I don’t know why. We’re just two decent ladies running a profitable biz’ness!”
“Dat’s right, sister,” said Mary snobbishly. “We were just making our hard-scrabble livin’ in this world. Y’see, my husband’s brother, a feller named Nurk, works at a joint called the College of St. Borgo up in this fancy mucky-muck city.”
“I know it tolerably well,” smiled Dorro. “I visited that burg not three months ago.”
“I bets you ‘ave—you seem like a swell to us,” Mary added with a wink. “Now, Nurk toils day ‘n’ night for a school for so-called ‘physicks’ who make folks healthy again. And these professor gents are always complaining about a lack of, a-hem, bodies for their students to study. So we cooked up the perfect solution!”
“That we did, Mary,” continued Esmerelda, “We come up with a plan that was just dandy! Y’see, me sister and I live on a quiet road in the country with our two fellers. Every once in a while, a stranger comes travelin’ by and we offer him a nice cuppa wine to help him enjoy the journey. O’ course, our wine is a special concoction that Mary ‘n’ I cook up ourselves.”
“It’s ever so tasty!”
“Yep, we makes our own wine, and then steep it for days with herbs. The valerian root helps the gent relax and fall off to slumber ….”
“… and the deadly monkshood stops his heart quicker than you can say ‘Boo!’ laughed Mary.
“That’s right, deary. We help these travelers leave the world quietly and at peace, and we have a nice corpus to sell to them physicks in St. Borgo. Everyone’s happy!”
Dorro could barely believe his ears. Here he was, in a dismal wagon full of convicts and rotten cabbage, conversing with a pair of sweet—but quite mad—murderesses. He plastered a grin on his face and forced himself to say, “Oh, that’s … nice. Very kind of you, I’m sure.”
“Y’see, Mary, this fine sir knows the quality of our work. Listen, mister, if you ever want a glass o’ our wine, we’d be happy to make you a special cup. You won’t feel a thing and your journey thereafter will be sweet and blissful.” Esmerelda and her crazy sister both nodded happily in Dorro’s direction.
“But, Essie, remember, we won’t be here long. Nope, we’re not goin’ to any Fog Vale.”
“Shush, Mary! That’s a surprise for the brutes driving the wagon. They don’t know about the boys.”
Pfffffft!
No sooner than Esmerelda uttered those words than Dorro heard a commotion in the front of the wagon. Salty cried out, “I’m shot! I’m shot!”
Pfffffft!
Pfffffft!
Dorro knew that sound well—it was the same one that that landed him in these dire straits. Those were bright, sharp arrows hitting their mark; someone in the woods was attacking the wagon and at least one of the bounty hunters had been hit and might be mortally wounded.
It was an ambush!
Tartan Bonnet
Something whizzed past Dorro’s ear and he knew an arrow had just pierced the canvas wagon cover. He threw himself on the wagon floor and pulled the filthy cushion over his head. Around him were the noises of war and violence—yet another sound he knew all too well.
“Bullock, grab Salty ‘n’ follow me under the wheels!” That voice was surely Hammersmith, the big one with the scar. “Damn the prisoners—if they get
killed, fine by me!”
Dorro peered out from his cushion and saw Mary and Esmerelda across the floor, hiding under their cushions and tittering like schoolgirls. “Oooo, that’ll be Chalkie and Benny, our brave husbands,” cooed Mary. “I bet Nurk is with ‘em, too! They’s come to free us!”
“Dat’s right, deary,” chirped Esmerelda. “Our fellers weren’t gonna let us go to that silly penal colony in the East. They would happily kill anyone who dared take us away. Them boys adore us, don’t they, Mary—and who can blame ‘em?”
That only made the two disturbed sisters laugh even more. Dorro became aware of a new presence in the wagon, and squinted towards the back of the van. There, holding a short and presumably sharp knife, was a Halfling he didn’t recognize.”
“Chalkie! Sweetie pie, you’s come to rescue us, you heavenly chap, you!” This must have been Mary’s husband. “I could kiss your bald, fat head.”
“No time for that, my love,” said the Halfling in low gravelly voice. “There’ll be time for smoochin’ later, but now we need to get you and Essie off this slag heap and into the woods. There are three nasty-lookin’ brutes under the front wheels, and Benny and Nurk are keepin’ ‘em busy with their bows. We don’t have much time, Mary, so grab your tartan bonnet and let’s get a move on—you, too, Essie!”
Dorro saw the women jump up and move, though Esmerelda turned quickly and spoke: “I’m sorry we can’t take ya’s with us, mister, but we enjoyed our conversation.”
Adjusting the tartan bonnet on her head, Mary chirped in, “And if ya’s ever want to stop by for a glass of our special wine, we’ll make you the best cup ever. Goodbye, deary!” She and the others leapt off the back of the wagon and bolted for the tree line. Quickly, the sound of flying arrows subsided, as the scofflaws disappeared into the woods.
Instead, the bookmaster heard a booming voice at the front of the van. “Salty, yer wound ain’t that bad, you sniveling old lady! You stay here and guard the prisoners; Bullock, you ‘n’ me are going hunting. Grab yer axe and sword, mate!”
Dorro heard the two big bounty hunters running off into the woods, presumably in pursuit of the sisters, their husbands, and brother Nurk. Lying on the wooden floor boards, he thought he heard some shouts and clangs of metal in the distance, but couldn’t really make anything out. He finally dozed off, grabbing a little of the sleep that had been eluding him for hours, but he bolted awake some time later.
“Wake up, sleepin’ beauties! We’re making camp here tonight.” Again, it was Hammersmith, the vile leader of the bounty hunters. “Get out o’ the wagon and stretch yer legs. If you make a run for it, you won’t get far in your manacles—but ya can try!”
As night began to fall, Bullock started a big fire and made porridge for the prisoners to eat from dented tin cups. Dorro found the wet, mealy glop revolting, but was so hungry he had little choice but to choke it down. On the other side of the cluster of prisoners, Hammersmith was cleaning Salty’s wound, which as he noted earlier, was more of a deep scratch than anything of great concern. In his typically charming manner, the leader took the opportunity to assail Salty’s masculinity and compare him to various lambs, bunnies, and mice. The other Halfling merely grunted, but said nothing; Dorro figured that both he and Bullock knew that you didn’t mouth off to Hammersmith, lest you get a smack in the face.
“Well ladies, I suppose yer curious about the events ‘o this day,” growled Hammersmith, standing up in the flickering fire, looking more like a horrible goblin chief than one of his own species. “Two of our ‘guests’ decided to make a run for it, assisted by three fellers. Anyone know who they were?”
Although he instantly regretted it, Dorro raised his hand. “The prisoners said something about their husbands and a brother named Nurk before they departed.”
“Oh did they now, me bucko.” The biggest, nastiest bounty hunter stepped towards Dorro and leaned down, his fetid breath making the bookmaster nauseous. “I certainly hope you didn’t have anything to do with their escape, did you?” Hammersmith was looking at Dorro as if he was a bug.
“No, sir, I heard them make a comment to that effect before they jumped off the wagon.”
“’To that effect?’ Here that, boys? We have a reg’lar gentlemen with us. La-di-dah!”
This seemed to amuse Hammersmith and he threw his head back laughing.
“Well, see here Mister Fancy Words. Yer lady friends ‘departed’ from the wagon and not long after, they departed from this earth!”
At that, the brute fished in his pocket and pulled out something. He threw it at Dorro’s feet; instantly he knew it was Mary’s soiled tartan bonnet. “Out in the woods tonight, the wolves and bears are gonna have a feast because we left ‘em five dead Halflings. All corpuses, thanks to our swords and axes, as well as a bit of their own mischief-making—that Bullock can throw a hatchet at twenty-five paces and take down a feller in a blink.”
“We caught the wenches and shackled ‘em to a tree as we went to look for the attackers. The pair was cackling and grinning the whole time. We didn’t know what they wuz up to, but when we returned, both were stone-cold stiff with eerie smiles on their faces; one of ‘em held a wineskin bag and had juice dribbling down her chin. Bullock grabbed it tried to cadge a gulp, but I knocked it out of hands. I know poison when I see it.”
“So let that be a lesson to you. Ya can try ‘n’ escape, but even if you have accessories to the crime hiding in the trees and launching arrows, we’ll smoke you out and take yer lives for the effort. We get paid to deliver you alive to Fog Vale, but if you don’t give us that satisfaction, they you’ll pay with yer life. I guarantee it. Even if we have to kill ever last one of you. Do you weasels get my meaning?”
There was no response from the chain gang of prisoners. Even Dorro gulped. Those sisters were mad, but had been so full of life just a few hours earlier. He was haunted by the fact that they were lying dead in the cold woods when he climbed back into the wagon later and hid under a blanket for the night.
How did you ever fall so low, Dorro? His mind wandered feverishly as he drifted to sleep. I had such a sweet, wonderful life and now I’m being punished for my life of ease and gentility. Considering all the unfortunates in the world, including this motley crew of crooks, perhaps I deserve this. The pendulum of life has swung the other way and now I’m getting my just desserts. Maybe the Mayor was right after all ….”
With such morbid thoughts racing through his head, Dorro fell into a fitful slumber full of demons and nightmares.
If only he knew what horrors were yet to come.
Secret Meetings
The children stepped into the vast emptiness of the library—in many ways, they preferred the place when it was devoid of patrons reading books or gabbing about turnips.
In the peace, it became their own place to frolic, a wonderful round building with two levels of books, scrolls, and maps. Their favorite section was the second-floor gallery which gave a fine birds-eye view of visitors’ heads and Mr. Shoe fussing away at the front desk. Wyll and Cheeryup would often play, hide, pull out old maps for perusing, and generally fritter time away on cold days.
It also smelled like old pine boards, a scent which had long since become embedded in their hearts and memories.
It was on the gallery level that they found Minty Pinter, the wee tinker sitting alone at a small table and looking over illustrated books, scrolls, and who knows what else. (They also both knew that if Bedminster Shoe had seen what a mess Minty was making, he’d have a living fit!)
“G’day, Mr. Minty—any luck so far?”
“Aye, no, as I don’t really know what I’m lookin’ fer, young miss. Mostly, I’m trying to spark some memories by looking at maps of the Great Wood and pictures of the trees. There’s something hiding in me ol’ braincase, but I can’t seem to get to it.”
“Why are you looking at pictures of trees?” Wyll wondered.
“Me ‘n’ Dalbo spent much of our lives in the forest,
talkin’ about this tree or that tree. Seems like we never ran out of tree-things to talk about. He even had a few hollowed-out ones he called home from time to time.”
“Y’know, I remember something about that!” spouted Wyll. “When Dalbo rescued Floppy Parfinn from the pirates last year, they found shelter one night in one of them hollow trees. Floppy said it was surprisingly comfortable—almost like his own home. There were beds of soft mosses, and furniture carved from old logs.”
“That be our Dalbo,” recalled Minty. “His manner with trees and critters big ‘n’ small was uncanny. T’was his entire life. Still, for the life o’ me, I can’t remember what the heartwood is.”
“Methinks it had something to do with the way he talked to the denizens of the Great Wood and how they talked to him. Gracious, listen to me rant on—I sound like a bleedin’ lunatic to me own ears!”
“We believe you, Minty, and so did Mr. Dorro,” said Cheeryup, putting her hand on the tinker’s shoulder. “He said many folks saw Dalbo directing the trees into battle when the goblins attacked last Fall. There were witnesses!”
“Why don’t we go talk to them then?”
“Capital idea, Wyll. Sheriff Forgo will know who they were.”
“Let’s go. But first, Minty, let’s clean up this mess. Otherwise, Mr. Shoe will have convulsions!”