Goblin War

  * * *

  But death never came. Dorro was more than surprised to discover the real cause for the underachieving assassins.

  Giants. Hundreds of them.

  A heartbeat later and both he and Amos were scooped in the air, the latter screaming like a wee bairn. Dorro looked up in the fierce visage of Saoirse who cradled the two like fresh eggs she didn’t want to crack. He glowed at the sight of the giantess—once again, she had saved him.

  Saoirse stomped on more than a few orkus as she ran, making the ground quake and shake with each footfall. On and on she jogged, back across the field towards the huts of Fog Vale and a contingent of very frightened guards and prisoners who didn’t know if she was friend or foe. They raised their bows, pikes, and swords just in case.

  At the last minute, Dorro cried out, “Put down your weapons! The giants are here! The giants are here to save us!”

  Most of the fighters lowered their axes and knifes, but Bullock—never the brightest bounty hunter—decided Saoirse was bigger and uglier than he and therefore was an enemy. He jumped over a low defensive barrier and charged the giant with his pikestaff poised for the kill.

  Alas, poor Bullock was met by Saoirse’s left foot. She booted the foolish guard into the air like a ball and he ended up in a nearby hemlock tree, his neck well and truly broken.

  She turned and howled at the defenders. “Get ready to fight, tiny warriors! There are many orkus and not enough Halflings or giants. It will be a horrible battle, but you will strike with every nerve you have.”

  Saoirse lowered Dorro and Amos to the earth and bade them return to the battle line behind the barricade. She looked at Dorro sternly.

  “Stay safe, dear friend” was all the giantess said before returning to aid her comrades in terrible combat.

  Across the field, the bookmaster could see the giants tearing into the goblins with horrifying force, but the enemy numbered in the thousands.

  How can the giants survive? he fretted.

  From another corner of the pasture, a fresh brigade of roughly fifty goblin insurgents burst from the forest, charging directly for the Fog Vale defenders.

  Bill Thistle leapt up on the barricade and shouted, “This is it, boys! Guard or prisoner, I expect you all to fight for your lives. If you do your job, I will consider reducing yer terms of exile and send ya home early—I have that authority. Here they come, me stout lads! Now give it yer best and ….”

  Bill never finished the sentence. A goblin arrow struck him cleanly in the left eye and he was dead before he hit the ground, an inglorious end to a sordid life.

  So ends the saga of Bill Thistle; he shan’t be missed, rued Dorro. Now come on, lad—you’ve fought these monsters before!

  At that, even the bookmaster jumped up and engaged the enemy, though he noticed Amos Pinchbottle scurrying back to the fothergilla bush to cower in fear. A goblin whipped a chain mace at Dorro’s head, missing it by inches, giving him time to deliver a goodly slice to the beastie’s arm and sending it off howling in pain.

  Next to him, guards like Barnacle, Peasley, Salty and Hammersmith all engaged the enemy, as did Amos’ incarcerated cousins Barker and Woodsy. At one point, Barnacle—suddenly promoted the chieftain of Fog Vale—cried for his troops to rally and push the invaders back, but it seemed hopeless.

  There were too many orkus and, no question, not enough real soldiers within their own ranks to make a difference. Most were thieves sent to Fog Vale for petty offenses, not Halflings of action.

  A few giants came to engage the goblins from the rear, giving them cheer and hope, but it was dashed by another sight—trolls. If giants were large, lumpy creatures, then trolls were their horrible cousins, massive beasts with bulbous grey-skinned faces, muscly chests and arms, and thick necks. The giants and trolls clashed violently, shaking the ground and making more than a few Halflings fall to the ground.

  Again the goblins pressed upon the Fog Vale fighters and they lost ground. One by one, Dorro saw the defenders fall—Salty and Hammersmith fought fiercely, but each was felled by mace or arrow, perhaps just desserts for lives ill-led.

  Peasley ran off in terror, yet he took a curved hatchet to the back and dropped onto his face; a few goblins leapt on his back and finished the grisly job. Woodsy and Barker spied Amos hiding in the fothergilla and ran to hide with him, but only made it within a few feet of the bush. They were stomped on by raging trolls, their horrific deaths in plain sight of their cowardly cousin.

  Dorro was hacking away at a single orkus warrior, but tiring quickly—it couldn’t go on much longer. Worse, their clanging had caught the attention of a troll who came lumbering closer. Sensing its presence, the goblin drew off, waiting for the behemoth to finish the job.

  Sadly for him, the troll didn’t care who he killed and promptly stepped on its smaller comrade, crushing the orkus to death. Next he turned for Dorro, who could sense the malice and darkness in the troll’s mind. It was a dumb animal, a creature covered in rippling muscles and bred for the sole purpose of killing. Dorro was too exhausted to fight on and dropped to his knees in the cold, blood-hued snow.

  Finally, he welcomed death with gratitude.

  Friends

  Even as the troll approached, Dorro sensed disaster.

  Many of the crummy huts within Fog Vale were on fire and he choked on the smoke and ash. Guards and prisoners lay in the snow, many dead, others writhing from deep sword gashes. Once again, Dorro closed his eyes and tried to focus on Wyll, the last thought he wanted to hold in his mind before it all went black. Yet once again, he was to cheat death’s polite invitation.

  “For Thimble Down!” rang in his ears, forcing him to open his lids to see a most uncanny sight.

  A big Halfling appeared out of the haze and laid into the troll with his short sword, hacking at its limbs. The monster howled in pain as his attacker cut a leg tendon and forced the beast down onto one knee.

  That’s all it took for the Halfling to deliver a sweeping arc upwards, severing an artery in the troll’s neck, spraying them all with dark blood as the fell beast crashed to earth, dead.

  “Forgo?” cried the bookmaster. “What—who –how? Where did you come from?”

  The Sheriff turned and grabbed his friend, “Nevermind, Winderiver!” he snarled in his famously gruff voice. “We gotta get you the hell outta here and let the fresh troops do their bit.”

  “Don’t forget Amos! He’s hiding over there!”

  “You gotta be kiddin’ me?” he barked. “I just rode a hundred miles to save your backside and you want me to protect that lying, useless sack of oats, Amos Pinchbottle. Holy hell!”

  Sheriff Forgo dutifully dashed to the fothergilla and reached in; sure enough, his hand came out grasping the ear of the miserable wretch, howling in pain.

  “Let’s go! Now!”

  Dorro was thrilled to hear Forgo’s loud roar one more time, even if they’d all be dead in a minute. “Ummm, what other troops, Sheriff, if I might ask?”

  “Duck!” The lawman shoved Dorro aside and clobbered a goblin with his cudgel named Gwendolin, stoving the freak’s head in. “Good girl!” he roared. Then he nodded left.

  You could have knocked Dorro Fox Winderiver over with a feather at what he beheld.

  In the midst of the disaster was a whirling dervish of a figure that looked just like—in fact, it was!—Malachite Molly, the dwarf fighter who had been defending Halfling borders for years [you might remember her from the tale Death of a Dwarf. She was hacking and chopping at everything in sight, a wild grin on her faces; no question, the dwarf huntress loved to fight, almost frighteningly so.

  Behind her, were others Dorro recognized—the Northland digger Crumble with his brothers Flume, Two-Toes, and Magpie. The goblins and trolls seemed to wither and evaporate under their violent assault.

  Some orkus climbed on top of the flaming huts and leapt onto the dwarfs in a surprise attack. The bookmaster was even more shocked to many of them impaled with arrows before t
hey hit the ground. He became aware of tall, lithe creatures charging through the battlefield—elves! Hundreds of them, along with dozens and dozens more giants and dwarfs.

  “Hail, friend of the Woodland folk—I see you are still courting trouble.”

  Dorro looked up, squinting at a towering figure before him.

  “Tol- … Tol- … Toldir?” he stammered, “Can it really be you?”

  The elf smiled and laid a hand on the Thimble Downer’s shoulder. “Yes, it’s me. You might also recognize Baldar and Parahir over a way.”

  Dorro turned his head and saw the tall dark warrior and the shorter, stouter one firing bolt after bolt into the trolls, many of whom were fleeing in terror at their change in fortune. [Of course, you recall these elves’ valiant role in Thimble Down.]

  The Thimble Downer hadn’t seen these Woodland elves for nearly a year, not since the tragedy of Ned Rumple and his accomplice, the late Bill Thistle, former Overseer of Fog Vale. Now both were dead and justly so.

  With the combined onslaught of giants, elves, and dwarves, the goblin and troll army began to crumble and its combatants retreated out of Fog Vale and into the foothills of the Grey Mountains.

  Many of the fleeing goblins fled to the woods—just as they crossed the river and headed East, they appeared to simply vanish. The bookmaster could scarcely believe his eyes, but it seemed that trees were swarming upon the banks and descending upon the enemy, beating them with sharp branches or strangling with tentacle-like roots. Dorro blinked several times, trying to make himself believe it wasn’t happening, but of course, it was.

  Toldir put his hand on the little fellow’s shoulder.

  “The Wide Green Open is angry with the dark, foul creatures and has vowed to ruin them forevermore. The trees are among her greatest weapons of war—a fact very few know. I surmise that very few of the orkus or trolls will reach their caves. It is the end of their world.”

  All about them, the sounds of war began to diminish, and the cold March air grew quiet and still. Dwarves and elves flushed out and destroyed the remaining goblins, as well as sought to aid the injured. Others began the grim task of removing the dead, piling up dead goblins and trolls to be burned, while carefully bringing the bodies of fallen Halflings to a quiet place.

  Of the Fog Vale guards, only Barnacle had survived, along with a surprising number of prisoners who had fought for their freedom. He was so moved by their efforts that—as acting Overseer of the penal colony—he promised to draw up pardons for each and send them on their way home as soon as they were able.

  As a result of this cataclysm, Barnacle became a changed Halfling and dedicated the remainder of his life to helping the misguided and less fortunate rather than punish them with cruelty. He went on to live a long and satisfying life, as well he should.

  Dorro, meanwhile, was in a daze and thought he might faint from all the excitement. Then a voice distracted him.

  “Oy, Mr. Dorro! It’s me!” The bookmaster whipped his head around. “’Tis me, yer ol’ friend Aramina Wump … I mean, Aramina Crumble.”

  Dorro saw the bloodied dwarf fighter—also known as Malachite Molly—with her new husband and his brothers coming upon him. They were all exhausted, but exhilarated by battle.

  “Good to see you again, Mr. Dorro—yer lookin’ well, all things considered,” said Crumble in his typically polite manner.

  “Crumble, how are you faring?”

  “I’m enjoying life on the frontier with my Molly. And you should see our wagon, sir—it’s the best blacksmithery on wheels and I can repair a blade in a half a tick, I can!”

  Dorro was so dumbfounded that he couldn’t respond—he just smiled and nodded like a simpleton, waving at Aramina and the brothers. It was all too much for him to comprehend.

  Of course, had Nurse Pym been there, she would have known he was suffering from battle shock and put him to bed instantly, perhaps with some toast and tea. Toldir, at least, had a certain presence of mind and led the Halfling off the field of battle to a wooded bower where he could rest, along with Sheriff Forgo and the blubbering Amos Pinchbottle who had lost his cousins.

  In short order, the elf Parahir appeared and started a small fire, while Baldar produced several freshly caught rabbits and winter roots to stew. The savory fragrance soon filled the air, beckoning a wonderful meal to come, while Toldir bade Dorro drink a hot broth into which he had crushed strange herbs.

  Minutes later, the Thimble Downer fell fast asleep and began dreaming like a wee babe, safe at home in its cradle.

  The Dogcart

  “Wake up, sleepy nob!”

  Dorro was still dreaming when he felt a finger poking him in the side. “C’mon or I’ll eat all yer grub!”

  His eyelids flickered open to find the mug of Amos Pinchbottle leering at him and digging into a bowl of some delicious-smelling concoction.

  “He’s right, my friend, you need to regain your strength. Come, eat.”

  Dorro sat up to see Toldir sitting nearby, inspecting an assortment of notched arrows, some that were his and others he’d found on the battlefield. He would need them again. “Parahir, serve our guest some of your fine soup.”

  The thicker elf shrugged and poured out a bowlful, handing it over. Dorro tucked in, demolishing the rabbit stew in record time, must to the pleasure of Parahir—he was an excellent trail cook, one of the reasons the elf was so valued by his fellow Woodland hunters.

  “I wuz wondering when you’d wake up.” Sheriff Forgo appeared in the bower. “We need to walk—I was told that a friend needs you. Now.”

  The bookmaster knew this couldn’t be good. He thanked Toldir and Parahir for their hospitality, and followed Forgo back onto the battlefield.

  “How long was I asleep?” Dorro looked around at the carnage littering the pasture. Most of the bodies had been removed, but blood and signs of violence dappled the snowy expanse. The penal colony of Fog Vale was in ruins, all of its wooden huts burned to the ground or destroyed by trolls.

  “Only a few hours.”

  “How did we win? It was all so incredible to me—I was sure we would be overrun and killed.”

  Forgo smiled. “It’s an uncanny thing. I ran into Crumble and Malachite Molly on my way down into the Vale, and we bumped into this contingent of dwarf fighters. By the time we got here, we had about five hundred Northmen, most of ‘em itching for a scrap. Molly may be off her rocker, but the gal can hack goblin heads. I never seen anyone tear into a battle line like that dwarf. Aramina is relentless.”

  “It’s a bit frightening, I agree—just be glad she’s on our side. And Crumble seems happy; perhaps they were made for each other after all. Where are we going, Sheriff?”

  Forgo looked grim. “It’s the giantess. One of the dwarfs said she’d been calling your name.”

  “No! Not Saoirse!” wailed Dorro. “Tell me she lives—”

  The bookmaster couldn’t bear it if she was mortally injured; she’d sacrificed for him so many times and there had been no way to repay her.

  “There,” was all Forgo said, pointing fifty paces to their left.

  Dorro stopped and grabbed the Sheriff’s arm for a second. “Tell me it’s not so.” He let go and approached the she-giant cautiously. Saoirse was on her knees, huddled and cradling something in her arms.

  It was the corpus of her son, Truckulus.

  The giant held his body close, her eyes red and filled with tears. “I told him to stay back, but Trucky was so insistent—he wanted to fight and show he was a great warrior. He wanted to make his father Gruftang proud and me how grown-up he was. Truckulus was assaulted by five trolls at once.”

  “My lady … I’m so sorry.”

  “I’m sorry too, Dorro. The boy was never kind to you, but he was really just angry at me. I should have never taken him into exile with me,” said the giantess. “I was selfish and wanted my baby boy with me. Truckulus never forgave me. And now this.”

  Dorro had no more words; he simply laid his head on
her shoulder and they cried together.