* * *
“After what poor Thimble Down has been through, much less Upper-Down, I’m delighted to see everyone here.” Dorro was rather good at toasting and enjoyed it. He lifted a glass of honeygrass whiskey in front of the group standing within the gaol and was about to sip when Sheriff Forgo interrupted.
“And don’t forget me ol’ pal Farmer Duck, as good a chum as they come.” Dorro saw that the Sheriff was trying very hard not to choke up. “Back in the ol’ times, me ’n’ Duck skived off many a day of school to go fishing or pretend to fight trolls in the Great Wood. He was my mate until them goblins took him from us and … well, all I wanna say is I ain’t gonna forget Duck, and neither should you!”
“Hear, hear!” shouted Dorro, and they all drank to the farmer’s memory, as well as others they lost that week.
“Nor can we forget Mr. Silas Fibbhook,” squeaked Mr. Bindlestiff, owner of the smeltery and newly returned from hiding. “It’s my understanding that Silas acquitted himself quite well in battle and died bravely. I know you didn’t know him well and that on the exterior, he could be gruff. But Fibbhook was a most excellent foreman and could get any of my workers to go the extra distance, even without a whip. To Silas!”
Another round of sips and gulps went round the room. “But we must get to business,” said the Sheriff gravely, looking at all the guests in the goal: the just-returned Mayor; Farmer Edythe and Mungo; Osgood Thrip; Mr. Bindlestiff; Dorro; and the Dwarves—Aramina, Crumble, and his brothers. “Now, if you’d all give your undivided attention to Mr. Winderiver, we can get this done with.”
“Thank you, Sheriff.” There were some uncomfortable coughs in the room. “As you may know, certain documents were stolen from Mr. Bindlestiff’s office safe a few weeks ago. The pages took a very roundabout journey here in the village, wherein they were stolen yet again … and again.”
“This is outrageous!” snorted Mr. Bindlestiff. “Those are my pages, and I own them. I want them returned instantly!”
“Be that as it may, sir, I do not have the pages. I did at one point, and because of that, a few of us embarked upon a great journey prior to the Battle of the Burrows, first to the university town of St. Borgo, where we learned very little; and then to the Dwarf city of Gildenhall, where were learned quite a bit.”
“Sheriff, you should arrest the bookmaster here,” barked the smelting boss. “He has confessed to stealing my ancient papers!”
Dorro looked at him flatly. “That could be awkward, sir, as we have reason to believe that they themselves were stolen quite a while ago. How they came to be in your possession is not of great interest to me, but there is a battalion of Dwarf warriors in the village right now, and they might want to find out how you took possession of them. I might suggest that you refrain from doing so—if you still like your neck attached to your body.”
The smelting mogul said nothing, but you could see the blood draining from his head, leaving only a sickly grimace on his face.
“Pray continue,” was all Bindlestiff managed to say.
“After several misadventures, these Ancient Dwarf manuscripts landed in my hands. In the interest of knowledge, I decided to consult a professor at the College of St. Borgo for a translation of the pages. This was not to be, as this scholar—a certain Professor Larkspur—stole the pages and fled the city, assuming the documents to have a material value. Judge him as you may, but we believe that this professor ran smack into the army that we just battled and is now quite dead.”
Dorro squirmed at the thought of Professor Larkspur’s decapitated head hanging around the corpus of a slain goblin fighter.
“Greatly disappointed, our small troupe ventured north to Gildenhall, the great city of the Dwarves. It was there that we were granted an audience with the Seer, a wise sorceress who deciphered the ancient runes for us.”
“Get on with it, Winderiver!” barked Forgo. “This isn’t a one-man theatrical, you know.”
Dorro didn’t like his soliloquies interrupted, but kept on anyway. “As I was saying, the Seer deciphered the manuscript pages. In them was conclusive evidence that the black rocks imported by Mr. Bindlestiff’s smeltery and burned as fuel emit toxic fumes that are well known to cause illness among non-dwarven species.”
There was a hushed gasp in the small crowd, though Bindlestiff himself said nothing.
“Furthermore, I have witnesses to this, among them, Crumble and Aramina of the Dwarves and Wyll and Cheeryup. We all heard the Seer quite clearly—the stones do not cause illness to the Dwarves, but all else may develop a hacking cough, leading to unconsciousness and death. In that light, the smeltery must be closed immediately!”
There was clamoring in the small room, mostly in favor of closure, but Osgood Thrip and the Mayor railed against the accusation, saying more research was needed. Yet as Dorro knew, both Halflings were benefitting directly from Bindlestiff’s business. The noise was quelled when Aramina drew an arrow from her quiver and shot it across the small gaol room, sinking its shaft deeply in the opposite wall.
“That’ll be enough from you lot,” she snarled. “If the Seer says it’s true, then there’s no reason to question it!”
“She be right,” chimed Crumble. “The Seer can look into the past, present, and future. If she says that bit about the black stones, then it be true. You’d be fools to keep using them stones in your forge, Mr. Bindlestiff. But if I may ask, how did you get them? They’re kept under guarded supply in the North.”
Until now, Bindlestiff had said nothing, but had an indignant look on his porcine face. Finally he spoke.
“I think it will be of great interest to you, Crumble, as to where I got the black stones. I made an honest deal with no tomfoolery attached, but I am a Halfling of business and knew it was a good opportunity. I acquired the stones via a deal with your brother—the dear, departed Mr. Wump. I even have our signed contract in my office, that is, if one of you hasn’t stolen it already!”
There were gasps as the smelterer played his hand.
“I could kill you for saying that about our brother, Bindlestiff,” snarled Crumble, he and his brothers shooting daggers at the Halfling. “… if it wasn’t likely true. I know my brother Wump, and while I loved him, he was prone to shady practices. I think it amused him, and honestly, crafting a deal to bring rare dwarven coke to the Halflings sounds just like something he’d do.”
His brothers nodded in embarrassment, and even Aramina spoke. “T’was one of the reasons we’re split apart, Wump ’n’ me. He was obsessed with gold and money—perfectly normal Dwarf traits—but I have no use for the stuff. I just want to live on the land, chasing our enemies, and keeping ’em at bay. Wumpie thought I was mad, of course, but despite the beauty of Gildenhall and its mines, my life was meant to be spent under the stars and with an axe in my hand.”
Looking off, she cried further, “Ah, Wumpie … why did you do it?”
“Then who murdered our brother, Mr. Dorro?” begged Crumble. “That’s the last piece of the puzzle that makes no sense.”
Suddenly Sheriff Forgo cut in: “Hey, where did Bindlestiff go? He slipped out!”
Everyone looked around, and indeed it was true. Mr. Bindlestiff had snuck out of the room while Dorro and Aramina were speaking. He’d escaped!
Suddenly, Mungo spoke for the first time, scratching his whiskery chin. “I guess that means Bindlestiff had a hand in that Dwarf’s death, Mr. Wump. I bet the deal went bad, so ol’ Bindler killed him or made Fibbhook do it. Makes sense, don’t it?”
Sheriff Forgo furrowed his brows. “Y’know Mungo, that’s one of the most astute things you ever said in your life. You might be right. Now, I need some volunteers to bring a fugitive to justice. Who wants to lend a hand?”
Suddenly, over half the hands in the room shot into air, each one stretching for the chance to drag Hiram Bindlestiff to gaol for the murders of Wump—and possibly every Thimble Downer who was sick, dying, or dead from the Grippe.
The Smoke
Clears
In a trice, Gadget Pinkle, Aramina, Crumble, and his brothers saddled up their ponies and took after Hiram Bindlestiff. Considering the smelterer’s rotund profile, the Sheriff didn’t think the posse would need much time to apprehend him.
In the interim, he enlisted Dorro, Orli, and a few others to help him do an unenviable task—shutting down the smeltery.
The small group ran over to the forge, located in its hollowed-out hillock near the eastern side of Thimble Down. Owing to the fact that there had been a major battle, the smeltery was largely shut down, its vast furnaces cooled and just a few Halflings milling about in the dark, cavernous interior.
“Hullo Sheriff. Glad to see you made it through the fight.”
Stepping out of the gloom was the pair of Mrs. Mick and Stookey McGee, two Thimble Downers who had found employment with Mr. Bindlestiff and thrived in their new jobs. Forgo was morose that he had to break the news to them in particular.
“Uh, hey there, Stookey ’n’ Mrs. Mick. Yep, glad we all made it through this hellstorm. Never seen anything like it in all my days.
“Nor us!” laughed Mick, “But we’re back and ready to go! There’s a batch of ore that just came in, and we need to get the furnaces back up to speed so we can refine it and get it poured for a gaggle of new orders.”
Forgo looked like he was going to be sick; in fact, he couldn’t even get the words out. Sensing his friend’s pain, Dorro took the lead.
“Stookey, dear Mrs. Mick, I hate to say this, but there’s not going to be any more refining or smelting here. Sadly, we’re here with signed orders, from the Mayor himself, to close this facility. Forever.”
The two workers stared at the bookmaster like he was speaking Dwarfish to them—they couldn’t believe their ears. Stookey blurted out, “This must be a joke, Mr. Dorro. The smeltery is the best thing to ever happen to Thimble Down. And our families, too!”
“Please don’t pull our legs!” cried Mrs. Mick. “My poor Ben hasn’t been able to work since his back gave out last year, and my income is all we have.”
“It’s true, Mick.” At last Sheriff Forgo found his voice. “It hurts us to tell you this, but the smeltery is the source of the Grippe. We have proof—it’s them black stones you use to fuel the furnaces. They put the poisons in the air, and that’s what we’re all breathing; almost killed me, in fact. I’m sure Bindlestiff will make good on your last wages, but you’d be doing us a great kindness if you told the rest of the workers to go home so we can close up the place. This is important.”
In shock, Stookey and Mrs. Mick retreated into the dark shadows, sad and shaking their heads.
“You had to do it, Forgo,” said the bookmaster. “I know it’s a ghastly job, but this place did far more harm than good. And these are skilled workers now. It’s early, I know, but Thimble Down lost more than a few skilled tradesfolk, and several of these folks can likely do their jobs.”
“Their bodies aren’t even cold in the ground yet, and you’ve already found replacements!” snarled Forgo. “Yer a class act, Winderiver.”
“You know I’m right, Sheriff! Half our village has been torn to pieces. We’ll need hale and hearty workers to rebuild her. If the Mayor has any brains in his head—which is always questionable—he’ll hire them immediately to begin the restoration. Or else, I’ll give the idea to Farmer Edythe, as it looks as if she may be our new leader.”
“You might have something there, Winderiver. When one door closes ...,” mused the Sheriff.
At that, the pair headed back into the light of day. Maybe the village would get through this after all, they both thought quietly.