Goblin War

  * * *

  “What does any of that mean, Cheery?”

  The girl frowned. “I have a theory—but I think I know who to go ask. Let’s go!”

  In a burst, the younglings were out the door and tearing down the lanes to a nearby burrow. They pushed open the door, which ran a bell.

  “Ah, children,” said a demur voice from the back room. “I thought I might see you soon.”

  Ill Tidings

  Dorro was more perplexed than usual and, more, wasn’t sure he’d made the best decision going East with the giants.

  Even without the cold winds whipping about them, the reception Saoirse and Truckulus received from their kin was frosty at best. He was still trying to understand the dynamic of the situation, especially as Broog was the giant who had killed his friend’s husband and exiled her—yet was her brother. (Dorro assumed that subsequent family dinners were awkward.)

  “What are we do with … that!” barked Broog and vaguely pointing in the bookmaster’s direction. “He can’t voyage to our caves—you know that.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, brother,” sniped Saoirse. “The Halfling is under my protection.”

  The big giant grunted angrily in the giants’ own tongue, something Dorro thought was another reference to squishing him into jelly. Saoirse loudly shrilled back and this went on for a minute or two, until Broog huffed off.

  “You will have to be blindfolded, Dorro. It is the only way. Even then, you must stay with me at all times—I don’t trust Broog or, for that matter, even Truckulus. Outlanders are not welcome among the giants; we are proud and somewhat shortsighted race, as you may have guessed.”

  “I understand, my lady. I will do as you wish. Broog, errmmm, wasn’t by any chance thinking of squishing me into jelly, was he?”

  Saoirse didn’t answer him, which suggested that was actually the case. Dorro made a mental note to stay close to her, as instructed. She crafted a small blind out of a bit of fabric from her coarse skirt and tied it around the bookmaster’s head.

  With his vision obfuscated, he glumly sat down in his basket as the party began moving through the mountains. It was a long journey and a rather boring one, but considering the recent troll attack, Dorro figured, boring was better than dead.

  During the trek, Dorro heard Saoirse occasionally conversing with others of her kind, the cadences of their voices rising and falling in that strange drone. One couldn’t call it a beautiful language, but then again, not entirely without its charms. The Thimble Downer found the timbres relaxing and ere long, he nodded off, sleeping away the hours as the giants crossed Umbar-Trüach toward their destination.

  When Dorro awoke some time later, he sensed that the air was colder and the lack of ambient light suggested it was close to night. He stirred in his carrier uncomfortably.

  “You are awake, friend? You must be hungry.”

  Saoirse had become even more protective of Dorro and he felt grateful for that, considering the company. “We’re getting closer to our caves.”

  “May I ask what your world is like?”

  Saoirse paused. “I’ve never been asked before, now that I think on it. My guess is that giants are much like other folk, though our life is hard and requires constant vigilance. Our homes are built in caves and under stone—they’re not grand, as I’ve heard Dwarf cities are—but comfortable enough for us.”

  “We love granite and rock and like nothing better than curling up on a hard slab of stone to sleep. Giants listen to the rocks—they speak to us in rhythms that tell us much about the world. We know when the mountains are happy and when they’re upset.”

  “We can hear echoes of other things, be it a lizard calling out for a mate or the troubling sounds of goblins and trolls padding along in the distance, about to make mischief. We can hear our enemies from far, far away and it has saved us many times.”

  “What do you do when you hear the orkus approaching? Do you flee?”

  Saoirse harrumphed loudly. “Oh dear—giants do not flee, friend Dorro. No, we’ll more likely go to higher ground after setting a trap or two for our guests. Then we swoop down to wage savage warfare and slay them all. Usually, at least.”

  The Halfling gulped and tried to change the subject to something brighter. “What do you eat, and how do you make your clothes?”

  “You are full of questions today, aren’t you, little one? We eat all manner of things. Some of our kind tend great mountain yaks—big hairy ones who give us milk, curds, and cheese, as well as meat.”

  “We are also expert forgers, adept at finding tender herbs and tubers, even under several feet of snow. These we eat raw or cooked in a stew. Truly, Dorro, you haven’t lived until you’ve enjoyed a savory yak stew in the middle of a blizzard—it’s breathtaking. The sounds of howling winds and snow squalls mixed with the scent of rich meats and aromatic herbs cannot be rivaled!”

  The bookmaster smiled as best he could, trying to rid his mind of this repulsive culinary concoction.

  “Our clothes are woven by a few of our nimbler folk on great looms, again from the hair of yak, goats, sheep, and other hairy beasts we come upon. We let nothing go to waste. We have a good life in the mountains, but perhaps by your standards a bit frugal and hardscrabble.

  “If I might enquire, where did you get your schooling? Unlike Broog, you seem quite educated. He, on the other hand ….”

  She laughed in her bold way, paying no heed to the other giants, some of whom shot her unkind glares.

  “We have Elders, as I told you, and they are quite wise and have a certain prescience about the future. While many of the giants prefer a simple life among the rocks and boulders, some are more taken with matters of the mind.”

  “My parents were of such stock and they sent me to take lessons from the Elders on a wide range of philosophical matters. That is where I met Gruftang, whose parents were similarly enlightened. We played as children and studied with the wise ones; as we matured, I suppose it was inevitable that we would fall in love and wish to be mated. Those were happy times—Truckulus came not long after.”

  Dorro sighed. “I’ve never had a mate. Never thought to find one, really—I suppose I’m too wrapped up in my world. It would be nice to have a little more company every once in a while, but I’ve made a life and it’s a good one. Well, it was—.”

  Some of the other giants began droning around them, reminding the bookmaster of his predicament.

  “What will happen when we arrive in your village?”

  The giantess paused. “I’m not sure, but we have broken the rules of our banishment and the Elders will no doubt be called upon to judge us. I’m hoping they spare Truckulus and merely punish me.”

  “I don’t know your ways, good lady, but I’m still not sure while you were exiled in the first place. Of course it’s none of my business.”

  “As I mentioned, Broog wanted to become a chieftain—one of our great leaders—but Gruftang opposed him, saying Broog was too warlike and rash. A chieftain, he argued, needs wisdom and counsel from our Elders to effectively lead. Broog challenged my husband to battle, but Gruf said he couldn’t fight his wife’s brother. For refusing to battle, he was branded a coward and banished. It is our way, right or wrong.”

  “That seems cruel, but considering the ways of my folk, not all that different; we Halflings are cruel at times. It seems that hatred is a common thread for all creatures, particularly the more intelligent ones, sadly enough.”

  Saoirse replied, “Neither Broog, nor the Elders, are our biggest concern. Another of Broog’s party told me that they’d captured a goblin recently and coerced him to speak. The orkus hinted at malevolent things.”

  “Malevolent? In what way?” Dorro was troubled by these tidings.

  “The beast suggested that the goblins were amassing a great army, but for what, he wouldn’t say. Only that the giants should beware, as well should every other creature hated by the goblins.”

  The bookmaster then remembered something.


  “If I may speak from experience, the orkus launched a massive campaign last Autumn, one that swept Southward and nearly wiped out the Halfling world. It was only by dint of a coalition of dwarves, elves, Men-folk, and Halflings that we were able to turn their mighty horde back and save our kind. We lost many, many good folk in Thimble Down and beyond—the toll was high.”

  “I didn’t know this, Dorro. That bodes poorly. If they were beaten in the West, perhaps they’ve turned their sights Eastward to the Grey Mountains and beyond—the land of the giants and our kin.”

  “You should be wary, my lady.”

  They spoke little after that, Dorro mostly sitting in his dark cocoon and nibbling on more bread in the cold. Finally, he heard voices murmuring and rising in intensity, the company breaking into a fast trot for the last mile or two.

  He heard Saoirse gasp in shock.

  “We are here, Dorro, but it’s a calamity. Our settlement has been—destroyed.”

  Visiting Mr. Timmo

  “Come in, children, and have a seat. I just baked a funeral pie and thought you might like some.”

  “Funeral pie, Mr. Timmo—what is that?” asked Cheeryup with skepticism. “Sounds, errmmm, appetizing.”

  “Ooo, I know what it is!” hooted Wyll. “It’s made from raisins and dried fruit.”

  “Correct, young fellow. Do you know why that is, Cheeryup?” The girl still looked confused. “Wyll, you seem to be our resident pie expert.”

  “Because it’s the kind of pie you might bring to a funeral in winter, when there’s no fresh fruit!”

  Timmo clapped. “Full marks, Master Underfoot.”

  Cheeryup frowned. She didn’t like it when others knew the right answer, so she changed the subject.

  “Why were you expecting us, sir?”

  Mr. Timmo smiled faintly. On the surface, he was the meekest of Halflings, a quiet, contemplative fellow who only spoke when necessary. Yet Cheeryup knew Mr. Dorro held him in the highest regard for his intellect and irreverent sense of humor. Often, the bookmaster thought Timmo the most uncanny thinker in all of Thimble Down, short of himself of course.

  “I’ve been thinking about your hunt for clues about this heartwood and have been putting my mind to it. Yet you must be here for a specific reason, Miss Tunbridge—out with it, you two!”

  “We found something!” blurted out Wyll, much to the aggravation of his friend. “A letter!”

  “Here it is, Mr. Timmo. It’s quite old.”

  Timmo arched his eyebrow. “How did you get this? The library is quite off-limits right now. You didn’t ….”

  Cheeryup smiled, “Oh yes we did—and we had every right!”

  “Young lady, that’s not the point. The point is that library is not a safe place at the moment and if you were caught, who knows what the punishment would be.”

  “We were caught, actually,” blurted Wyll before catching his tongue. “I mean ….”

  “What have you rascals been up to?”

  “I wasn’t going to let that toad of a Mayor keep us out of our library—it belongs to all of us, the villagers of Thimble Down,” she said defiantly.

  “And even so, Cheeryup kicked the first bugger in the shins and I dropped down on the other feller’s head, knockin’ him out cold. So we were fine.”

  Timmo looked like he was about to faint.

  “You little fools! You could have been hurt—and how would I have been able to explain that to Dorro?”

  “Mr. Dorro would understand; we’ve certainly been up to our necks in trouble any number of times and usually on his account,”

  Cheery beamed proudly while Wyll grinned next to her.

  “You younglings are incorrigible,” sighed Timmo. “Now, back to your letter. Let me see it.”

  He read for a few minutes, lost in thought.

  Finally Timmo looked up. “What do you make of it?”

  “I have a theory, but it sounds a little odd, even to me.” The girl had a look of uncertainty on her face.

  “Out with it!”

  “I think … Dalbo is the heartwood.”

  “What?” squawked Wyll. “You didn’t tell me that?”

  “It sounds mad and I thought you’d laugh at me.” The boy frowned at her, but to his left, a sly smile crept across Mr. Timmo’s face.

  “You are quite a bright little thing, aren’t you, Miss Tunbridge? I’d be lying if I said the same thought hadn’t crossed my mind. There are so many similarities between what the chap wrote in this letter seventy years ago and everything we knew about Dalbo Dall.”

  Wyll raised his hand. “But this doesn’t explain what a heartwood is. Is it just a strange Halfling who speaks to animals and trees?”

  “A valid point, Master Underfoot. In and of itself, the notion of a heartwood doesn’t amount to more than some kind of freakish curiosity. You’re right to question the reason behind it—what is the purpose of a heartwood, whether it was Dalbo or not?”

  “What if—.” Cheeryup seemed stuck on a thought.

  “What if what, girl?”

  “What if the heartwood is more than just an odd fellow who talks to trees and birds. What if he takes care of them, too? Sort of a physick or healer.”

  “Excellent, Cheeryup!” beamed Timmo. “Now that would make some sense. Could that fool Dalbo have been such an important fellow after all?”

  Wyll broke in, “If you remember, sir, we’ve heard my uncle tell us about Dalbo’s rants on the Great Wood and he also knows elves! Uncle Dorro once asked Dalbo to bring Grimble to live with the elves. And I heard he was directing the trees to fight goblins in the great battle last fall. It all adds up.”

  “Then why was he lying down in the woods when Mr. Dorro accidentally shot him?” wondered the girl.

  “That, I’m afraid, we’ll never know,” murmured Timmo. “We can’t cross the threshold of Death and ask Dalbo. But I worry this brings up a larger matter.”

  “You mean that the Great Wood is without its keeper,” said Cheeryup without expression.

  “That’s what I’m worried about—if Dalbo was the heartwood and the heartwood took care of the Great Wood, who will do it now that he’s gone?”

  It was Wyll who dropped the other shoe. “Does this mean the forest and the Meeting Tree could die without him?”

  Mr. Timmo looked grave.

  “That is precisely what I fear, young Master Underfoot, and if that comes to pass—it might also portend the fall of Thimble Down itself.”

  Broken Boulders

  “What do you mean—destroyed?” said Dorro, pulling off his blindfold.

  After hours in the dark, his eyes were blurry and he had trouble adjusting to the light of fires flickering in the rocky landscape. It looked like a hurricane or earthquake had struck, but instead of knocking down trees, it had broken massive rocks and smashed jagged cliffs.

  There was stony debris everywhere, as if the whole earth was made from ceramic crockery and accidentally dropped on the floor. Saoirse knelt by the first giant she came upon.

  “Burgata, it’s me, Saoirse. Do you remember?” The older she-giant nodded dully. “Can you tell me what happened?”

  The one named Burgata began the slow drone-speak, her pitches rising and falling without inflection, slow waves of sound hanging in the air. They conversed like this for several minutes while Dorro became more impatient by the second. They stopped.

  “It’s bad, friend,” said Saoirse. “I should not have brought you—we are in great peril and you most of all.”

  “What happened?”

  “It was a surprise attack, just after dark. Burgata—who I remember as a friend of my mother’s—said it was a combined force of goblins and trolls, which is a dark omen in itself. Goblins and trolls are sworn enemies and I’ve never heard of them uniting; this speaks of some evil I’ve never heard of.”

  She sighed.

  “Unbeknownst to us, the enemy labored high in the mountains for weeks, building a bulwark of boulder
s and stone they could cut loose upon command. The avalanche destroyed most of our caves and killed those who were at rest or asleep. Entire families perished. And now without shelter, the survivors may freeze and starve to death.”

  Dorro didn’t know what to say. This was a catastrophe and, indeed, he wished he was back at Fog Vale, a prisoner, but still alive.

  “Demon!” There was a loud commotion in the camp and the sounds of anger and vengeance. Where is the demon rat?”

  Saoirse pushed Dorro’s head down into his basket and spun around.

  “What is this nonsense, Broog? Why are you disturbing these good folk in their time of need?” she raged.

  “It’s your fault, Saoirse!” wailed the big giant. “You were banished, but you chose to return and bring misfortune to our folk. And worse, you brought an evil Urk-bäg into our midst—it is bad luck!”

  “You’re a fool, brother. The Halfling has nothing to do with the attack. Only the small-minded see omens where there are none. You never were terribly clever, even we were young—you always wanted to use your muscles instead of any semblance of wit.”

  Yet Broog had already stoked the anger of his fellow giants, many of whom wanted someone to blame for the disaster. The mob behind started chanting something Dorro was sure wasn’t friendly. The image being squished into jelly once again flickered in his mind.

  Saoirse growled at an unimaginable volume, making the Halfling tumble in his basket.

  “No!” The she-giant roared as another grappled her from behind, putting her in a neck lock from which she couldn’t move.

  “Now Broog—grab the maggot and crush it!”

  Saoirse turned her head in disbelief, shocked that her captor was none other than Truckulus. She cried out, “You have betrayed me? First my brother, and now my son!”

  “It’s for the good of our folk, Mother,” spat the boy. “The Urk-bäg has brought evil upon us and must die!”

  Dorro knew that his minutes in this world were coming to an end. Saoirse was the only one that would protect him and, as he peered over the edge of the basket, observed Broog slowly advancing, a glint of menace in his eyes.

  The Thimble Downer closed his eyes and sat down, waiting for imminent death.