Goblin War

  * * *

  An hour later, Dorro had forgotten about his dismal luck and happily found his chums Mr. Timmo, the metalsmith, and Bedminster Shoe. They were enjoying small ceramic cups of honeygrass whiskey, which warmed their toes immeasurably. Along with the quiet comradery and pipes full of Old Nob leaf, the three bookish friends enjoyed quiet conversation on a fallen tree that was serving presently as a perfectly serviceable bench.

  “So, Dorro, what you’re saying is that you’d like to fix up the shelving in the library?” inquired Timmo.

  “Yes, some of those racks are close to fifty years old and wobbly at best. I need your sense of engineering to keep them from collapsing on my visitors,” said Dorro. “Perhaps some new brackets and wall bolts will do the trick.”

  “’Tis true, Timmo—I’ve seen the shelves for myself,” added Mr. Shoe. “The rack in the upper gallery is particularly vulnerable. I was just up there and ….”

  Bedminster Shoe didn’t have time to finish his sentence, as Wyll and Cheeryup rushed up in a state.

  “Mr. Dorro! Uncle!” they shouted.

  “What is it, children? Can’t you see that I’m having a conversation? It’s not nice to interrupt your elders.”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Dorro, but you really ought to know,” said 12-year-old Cheeryup, her blonde haired glistening with snowflakes and lips slightly bluish from the cold.

  “Know what, young lady?”

  “They found a body! Over beyond the archery games. There’s a dead corpus in the woods—and it’s stuck through the heart with an arrow.”

  “An arrow?” asked Dorro. “What kind of arrow?”

  Cheeryup thought for a second.

  “I saw it in Sheriff Forgo’s hands with my own eyes, Mr. Dorro. It’s a red-feathered shaft!”

  The Corpus

  Dorro’s heart sank immediately.

  The day had been one disaster after another and now, a dead body? The bookmaster knew immediately that the arrow was his, despite all the assurances from Sheriff Forgo that he’d only hit a squirrel’s tail at worst. His mind began racing with anxiety as he looked at Timmo and Bedminster Shoe. Finally, he managed to speak.

  “Friends, I must go speak with the Sheriff. I believe a great tragedy has transpired and, worse, I am to blame. Partially, at least.”

  Dorro carefully straightened his scarf and walked off towards the archery pitch with a glazed look.

  As the bookmaster approached the scene, he saw many figures huddled together. They were looking intently at something and Dorro knew what it was—the corpus of some poor soul he’d accidentally killed.

  “Please, let me through,” he asked and, upon seeing him, opened a gap. Like a prisoner walking to the gallows, Dorro entered the phalanx and moved towards its center. There, kneeling on the snowy ground was Sheriff Forgo, surrounded by faces he knew: Minty Pinter, Bog, Dowdy Cray, and the deputy, Gadget Pinkle. All of their faces were grim and one of them—Minty—was outright crying, hot tears running down his cheeks.

  “Who is it, Forgo?”

  The Sheriff looked up at his friend with great sadness on his face. “Come see for yourself. I still can’t believe it.”

  Dorro approached and looked over Forgo shoulder. There, lying on the ground with a peaceful look upon his countenance was none other than Dalbo Dall, the village wanderer. Dalbo looked as if he was taking a pleasant nap, despite the fact that an arrow was stuck in his left breast. Cheeryup’s words rung true as, no question, the tail of the shaft was covered red feathers. His red feathers.

  “I didn’t mean to … I’m so sorry, everyone … I …”

  Words failed Dorro as the Sheriff stood and put a friendly hand on his shoulder. “It was an accident and I am perhaps to blame as well.”

  “He’s a murderer!” someone in the back of the crowd sniped and, worse, others joined him.

  “The bookmaster killed our friend!” shouted someone.

  “Maybe we should stick him with a few arrows.”

  “He always hated Dalbo!” sniped another.

  Dorro protested, “Not true! I’ve always been fond of Dalbo, despite his eccentricities.” Thinking back to his adventures with Grimble the goblin a year earlier, he added, “We had a special bond—I once trusted him with a special mission.”

  “Then why did you shoot him down?” cackled a rough voice in the back. “In cold blood, as it were!”

  “I didn’t—it was a shooting accident. Believe me!” Dorro was flustered and scared. This was turning into a mob.

  “Awright, you rabble—simmer down!” Sheriff Forgo pulled himself to his full height of five-feet and one inch tall, and threw his shoulders back. Then he bellowed, “I’ve had enough of this malarkey. Dorro Fox Winderiver is no more of a murderer than I am a dainty little lass, so shut yer traps. Now!”

  The mob quieted immediately, as there were few, if any, in Thimble Down who would dare tangle with Forgo when he was in this particular temperament. The Sheriff’s voice was daunting enough; his big, meaty fists were even more so.

  “But what about poor Dalbo? He was our friend,” squeaked an anonymous voice in the group.

  “We will conduct a full investigation,” snarled Forgo. Turning to the bookmaster, he spoke softer, “And unfortunately, Dorro, we need to go to the gaol for questioning. It’s the law and I have no choice in the matter. You’d better send Wyll home for some clothes—this may take a while.”

  “Clothes?” asked Dorro, turning pale. “How long will this take?”

  “It could be a few days. Sorry, Winderiver, but it’s the law. I’m obligated to treat this as murder, even if it’s accidental.”

  Dorro turned white as a ghost, but Forgo pronouncement seemed to placate the mob, at least for the moment.

  “Bog and Dowdy, I want you to bear Dalbo’s corpus to Nurse Pym for a post-mortem. Winderiver, you come with me, and the rest of you mugs go back to yer Winter Festival and beer guzzlin’.”

  The grumbling crowd began to disperse, while Bog and Dowdy lifted Dalbo Dall’s small frame in the air between them, the deadly, red-feathered arrow still sticking out of his chest. Standing in the lightly falling snow, Minty Pinter was bawling over the death of his friend.

  “Oh, poor Dalbo. I shall miss you forever, chum. I still can’t believe it … we’ve known each other our whole lives!”

  The tinker was an absolute wreck; Mr. Mungo and Farmer Edythe walked closer and put their arms around him for support, but to no avail. Forgo put his hand on Dorro’s shoulder, leading him back towards the center of the village and the gaol house.

  For once in his life, Dorro Fox Winderiver had nothing to say.

  Thrip Triumphant

  Rumors spread quickly that the bookmaster killed Dalbo Dall in a drunken rage, and Thimble Downers were gossiping like mad in its pubs and taverns. With evening settling upon the Winter Festival, the Halflings headed towards the nearest watering holes to hear the news. Coins were slapped on tables and barmaids served pints of ale and cups of honeygrass by the score. Nothing like a good scandal to stimulate business throughout the hamlet—even Mr. Mungo couldn’t resist this wave of thirsty customers, despite the nagging thought that he was profiting from his friend’s misfortune.

  On the other end of the village, Dorro was sitting in Forgo’s office as the Sheriff himself took notes on the tragedy at the archery field.

  “Sorry Winderiver, but as you know, we have to do this according to our book of laws—the Codex Borgonian. A charge of ‘Accidental Death’ must be filed and procedures followed.”

  “But Forgo, you made me shoot the arrows!” barked Dorro—he could stand it no more. “You and your cronies kept pushing me all day. I didn’t mean to shoot anyone or anything!”

  “I know, I know, but even if it’s an accident, we have to proceed—it’s the law.” Forgo had a pained look on his face. “There will be a trial.”

  The door to the gaol squeaked open, letting in a gust of cold night air. In stepped the Mayor and his
political backer, Osgood Thrip, both hissing and grinning like adders.

  “So it’s true!” gloated Thrip, brushing snow off his bald head, “The great Dorro Fox Winderiver is a murderer. Could this day get any better?”

  “Now, now, Osgood,” cautioned the Mayor, “you have to remember that a member of our community is dead and we must mourn his loss. Why, I greatly admired that poor fellow, Delbert Dill!”

  “You mean Dalbo Dall, right?” added Thrip with a cough. “I too considered the vagabond an asset to our village, albeit a filthy, ill-mannered one.”

  Dorro knew their posturing belied the fact that they both detested Dalbo and barely acknowledged his existence. He further realized the predicament he was in.

  After scoring points in recent months against both the Mayor and Osgood Thrip, he was a prime target for their vengeance. He’d caught Osgood and his son in a horrific business scam, causing his family to be briefly exiled, and later forced the Mayor to fund his new school by something close to extortion. Now the two had Dorro with his back against the wall and would most certainly exploit it.

  The balance of power had well and truly shifted and the bookmaster realized the worst was to come.

  “It was an accident, Mr. Mayor,” mumbled Forgo. “I was there and witnessed the entire incident.”

  “Not from what I’m hearing, Sheriff. Word on the lanes of Thimble Down is that this was willful murder. There will be a full trial!”

  “No!” shouted both Forgo and Dorro in unison, but Osgood Thrip was already chiming in for the coup-de-grâce.

  “You’d better hire a solicitor, Winderiver. I can recommend a few, if you’d like, but there are none better than the firm of Thrashrack, Shugfoot & Grumbleoaf.”

  Dorro could see how much Thrip was enjoying this moment. “They’re expensive, but worth it. Of course, as a concerned citizen, Mr. Mayor, I recommend the village retaining Hamment Shugfoot for the prosecution.”

  “Capitol idea, Osgood!”

  “Mayor, it was a freak accident—I saw it!” Forgo was fuming.

  “Sheriff, need I remind you that you work for me. And I say there are no accidents. Murder is murder and we shall have a trial. If Mr. Winderiver is innocent, then so be it. But if not—.”

  The Mayor let that thought hang there for a moment, then turned on his heel and walked out the door with Osgood Thrip in tow, leering maliciously.

  “I can’t believe this, Forgo.” Dorro was pale and shaking by now. “Is this a nightmare? When will I awake?”

  “‘There are no accidents—what a load of codswallop,” snarled the Sheriff. “This is revenge, plain and simple. Ya wronged ‘em too many times.”

  The door to the gaol burst open again, letting the snow blow in, and Forgo’s deputy, Gadget Pinkle, ran inside.

  “Sheriff! Come quick!” The tall, skinny lad was out of breath and pale himself. “It’s bad.”

  “What is it now? We have enough troubles right here, Gadget.”

  “It’s murder! Amos Pinchbottle just brawled with a Nob gent at the Hanging Stoat—and the Nob feller is dead! Worse, Amos is loose somewhere in the village, three-quarters drunk on wine and whiskey, and armed with a dirk.”

  Sheriff Forgo leapt up to his armory cabinet and ripped the doors open. He threw a leather jerkin over his commendable bulk, and grabbed his favorite cudgel, which he affectionately called Gwendolin.

  “Gadget, go get Nurse Pym and have her meet me at the Stoat. Winderiver, you come with me. We got me a real murderer to catch.”

  Death & Whiskey

  With evening about to fall, Forgo stood outside the gaol with Mr. Dorro, Bog, Dowdy, Farmer Barrow, and deputy Gadget. Snow was coming down harder by the hour and none looked happy.

  “Look, we have a knife-wielding drunkard on the loose right now. Amos Pinchbottle killed a stranger and is hiding in the village. I want you fellers to fan out and find him—but do not engage the lunatic! Send word to me at the Hanging Stoat, where I’m headed to observe the corpus. Any questions?”

  “What if Amos comes at us with his dirk?” asked Farmer Barrow, who wasn’t in the mood to be stabbed that night, nor any night actually. “I only have a pitchfork.”

  “I would suggest you start running on those short, stubby legs of yours, Barrow. Can you do that?” The farmer nodded sheepishly. “Now let’s move out!”

  The snow was beginning to blow in every direction as the Sheriff and Dorro slowly made their way to Mungo’s tavern, the site of much mischief in Thimble Down. There were few Halflings on the lanes, as most were at home with their loved ones or huddled in a pub, sipping hot mulled wine or a strong, dark ale.

  As they approached the Stoat, it was clear it was in full swing, the noise and laughter of its revelers ringing loudly through the winter’s night. Inside the door, Forgo and Dorro were whisked from the tranquility of cold night into a blast furnace of Halflings in a pub. There were two roaring fireplaces, plus the heat and sweat of perhaps seventy villagers drinking and smoking their pipes. The volume was deafening, as each man and woman were talking a mile a minute, trying to be heard over the din.

  The only quiet part of the pub was a corner, where Forgo could see flipped over tables and chairs—the site of the misdeed. He and Dorro pushed their way over until they found Nurse Pym, who was already lingering over the corpus.

  “Well Jessie, we meet under the usual circumstances,” Forgo snorted. “What’s your official statement?”

  “No question, he’s dead,” said the healer, who to the Sheriff’s frequent irritation, had an amazing grasp of the obvious.

  “The chap’s name is Ben Tidewater and he’s a hay-bailer from Nob. According to Mungo, he and Amos Pinchbottle started arguing over whose village had the best whiskey—and things went downhill from there.”

  “As both fools were drunk as skunks, the argument escalated until Ben pulled out a knife and went for Amos’ throat. Unfortunately for him, Pinchbottle was a hair faster and stabbed him three times in the midriff. One jab went too deep and nicked Tidewater’s heart—and that was that. On the brighter side, Ben never knew what hit him; he was already anesthetized by eight jiggers of whiskey and, with that wound, woulda been dead before he hit the floor.”

  “Still, murder is murder,” said the Sheriff, then looking at Dorro, “Actually, this is a real murder, not some trumped-up charge. Do you have anything to add, Winderiver?”

  “Not really, Sheriff—seems to be a simple crime of passion and drunken foolishness. I feel for Amos; when he sobers up and realizes what happened, he’ll be a sorry fellow. We all know the punishment.”

  “’Tis true. Amos will be exiled to the eastern frontier for at least a year, maybe forever,” murmured Forgo. “Not many folks come back—it’s a harsh life and many are killed off by disease or a goblin’s black dart in the back.”

  Dorro and Pym both shuddered at the thought of that terrible penalty, but knew the consequences of this crime.

  “Jessie, I assume you’ll arrange for the body to be returned to Nob?”

  “I will, Forgo—and stop calling me ‘Jessie’! You know I hate that name.”

  The big lady’s face was turning red. She and Forgo had known each other since they were children and the Sheriff still called her by her given name, which she despised. To her, “Nurse Pym” was perfectly sufficient and respectful of her important position in Thimble Down—she was its only healer, and dealt with everything from births and minor cuts to broken bones and dead bodies.

  “So Jess … errrr, I mean, Nurse Pym,” coughed the Sheriff, “Did you have a chance to look at Dalbo Dall’s corpus?”

  “I did, and he’s dead, too.” Forgo rolled his eyes. “Again, it seems pretty straightforward. Dorro’s errant arrow landed smack in this chest. A freak accident, some would call it.”

  “What about the strange look on his face?

  “I noticed that, too—he looked at peace and rested. Dalbo must have been napping in the woods, on the cold snowy ground, but noth
ing’s too strange for him. Or at least, nothing was too weird. I have him in my storage shed, wrapped in a nice sack. Dalbo will be ready for burial at your word.”

  “So your official review of the incident is ….”

  “Death by accident, Sheriff. There was nothing criminal about it, though if I was the magistrate, I’d say that Dorro should pay his funeral expenses, as well as my fees. I doubt Dalbo had any family to speak of, so no one will demand restitution.”

  Dorro felt hugely relieved to hear Nurse Pym’s report, but knew the Mayor and Osgood Thrip still wanted their pound of flesh. He wasn’t out of the woods yet.

  The door to the Hanging Stoat banged open and in ran Gadget Pinkle. “Sheriff! Come quick!”

  “Was is it, boy?” growled the lawman. “Did you find Amos Pinchbottle?”

  “Alas, we did, Sheriff,” gabbed the pale lad. “He’s broken into the library and taken a hostage.”

  “Oh dear!” screamed Dorro. “Not one of the children, is it?”

  “No, that other fellow—Mr. Boot!”

  “Boot? There’s no …” asked the bookmaster until the idea crystalized. “Good gracious, he has Bedminster Shoe. Sheriff, let’s fly! Poor Bedminster wouldn’t hurt a fly.”

  Gadget added, “We should hurry—Amos has his blade pressed against Shoe’s neck and says he’s gonna use it!”

  The comrades ran to the door and out in to the blustery night. Neither Dorro nor Forgo could stand any more deaths on this terrible day.

  Amos Pinchbottle

  There was a crowd gathering outside of the library, as more and more Thimble Downers heard about the drama within. Most were fond of the introspective, good-natured Bedminster Shoe, but more than anything, they enjoyed a good stand-off purely for the sake of entertainment.

  There was, ironically enough, a boisterous murder of black crows also enjoying the festivities, along with their fellow rooks and jackdaws. They sat in a nearby hemlock tree, jockeying for the best branches and talking about how foolish Halflings were as a species—particularly those living in Thimble Down. Several were even laying bets on the outcome, three-to-one that the big Halfling within would kill the squirming skinny one. Regretfully, the Thimble Downers on the ground were just as tactless.

  “Just think of it! Three dead bodies in one day—how thrilling would that be?” cooed Mrs. Potter, oblivious to the crows having the same conversation above her head. Unfortunately, many near her concurred, nipping at their flasks or puffing away on long ceramic pipes. They were jockeying for the best views and one or two were even taking bets whether Mr. Shoe would be killed or not.

  “Clear a path! Clear a path!” shouted the skinny, gingered-head deputy as Sheriff Forgo and Mr. Dorro arrived. The lawman and bookmaster both stepped into the dim light cast by a few torches and one or two candles within the structure. Neither liked what he was seeing, no doubt recalling the terrible stand-off in this exact spot a year earlier—that one involving the villains Farroot Rumple and Bill Thistle [as recounted in the gripping saga, Thimble Down]. The present situation was eerily similar.

  Within the library, they could see a lumpy shadow moving about slowly. After a few seconds, Forgo and Dorro realized that it wasn’t one figure, but two—Amos Pinchbottle holding Mr. Shoe in a vice grip with a knife at his throat.

  “Amos, stand down and surrender!” bellowed the Sheriff. “There’s nothing to be gained here. Come along quietly and you’ll have a nice cot in the gaol to sleep on tonight. There’s no need for violence.”

  A window sash cracked open on a few inches. “Come ‘n’ take me alive, Theriff!” croaked the visibly drunk Pinchbottle. “That Nob fool came at me first—I just gave ’im what he deserved! That ain’t no crime.”

  “We can talk about that later, Amos. No need to hurt poor Mr. Shoe.” The Sheriff was trying to contain the situation and keep Pinchbottle from doing anything foolish. As all could see, Bedminster Shoe was terrified and wriggling dangerously; Forgo needed to buy some time.

  “Why does this always happen at my library?” whined Dorro. “Amos could have gone anywhere, but no, it’s always here.”

  “It’s a good tactical location, I suppose,” noted Forgo, studying the round, freestanding building—one of the very few in the village.

  “A villain can keep the front door covered and, with all those windows, they have a circular view around the building to make sure no one sneaks in the back. Unfortunately, Winderiver, your library is the perfect place for a criminal’s last stand.”

  Gadget ran up to the pair and again, his face was one of pure terror. “Sheriff! Mr. Dorro! Ummm … errr …well, it’s the children.”

  “What children?” snapped Dorro.

  “Ummm, your children! I mean, Wyll and Cheeryup.”

  “What about them?”

  “I just saw them.”

  “Where, you idiot?” barked Forgo as quietly as possible.

  “Actually, I only saw their rear ends,” fumbled Gadget. “They were scrambling through a window in the back. I’m afraid the children are in the library.”

  Dorro had thought this day couldn’t get any worse, but it just did. “Those young fools! They adore Mr. Shoe and wouldn’t have done this stupid act otherwise. Sheriff, we need to act right now!”

  “What would you have me do, Winderiver? Invite Amos outside for tea and chips?”

  The bookmaster looked pensive for a moment. “Sheriff, Look!” yelled Dorro, pointing directly away from the library.

  Forgo spun around, but saw nothing in the distance. When he pivoted back, he realized the ruse. Dorro had already sprinted up the library stairs and was entering the building.

  Disaster and ruin were upon them all.