* * *
For no less than the third time, the Mayor convened a hearing at the Hanging Stoat to discuss the crimes and punishment of Dorro Fox Winderiver.
The sky was heavy with impending snow, and tavern packed with Thimble Downers ordering bowls of lamb stew and drinking ciders and ales by the gallon.
As representatives of the village, Osgood Thrip sat on one side of the rostrum, along with Hamment Shugfoot, who was glum and still nursing the lump on his head, thanks to a tankard that struck him last time.
Darwinna Thrashrack, Bedminster Shoe, and Tiberius Grumbleoaf were opposite; it may have been cold outside, but it was just as frosty between these parties.
“Your lordship, this is illegal—you can’t seize property based on new rules you yourself have imposed?”
“Am I to understand, Lawyer Thrashrack, that you are questioning the magistrate of Thimble Down and his motives? You are very close to contempt.”
The Mayor was playing his role to perfection, attacking logic with melodrama and false indignation. “If you continue in this manner, I will have you removed from this courtroom, do you understand me?”
Darwinna looked imploringly at Grumbleoaf, hoping for him to ride to the rescue, but he averted his eyes and merely scribbled in his big book as usual.
“I’m sorry, my lord,” she murmured in defeat.
“That’s more like it! Now, as to the events of this week and the further deaccessioning of the estate of Dorro Fox Winderiver. As you know, we have new forfeiture laws which are retroactive one year. Simply put, criminals who have been lawfully exiled may not own property in the village of Thimble Down.”
A few voices in the throng of villagers rang out with jeers of “Boo!” and “The Mayor still stinks!” but a quick glance from the magistrate made his thugs leap to their feet and look about for naysayers. The insults faded. ‘
Even Sheriff Forgo was mute, as his power had been wheedled away by this new militia and everyone knew it.
“… and to that point, the residence of Winderiver—known rather vainly as the Perch …”
There was ooo’ing and ahh’ing in the crowd as the Halflings thought about Dorro’s wondrous burrow overlooking the River Thimble. Its vistas, cozy design, and—most importantly—interior running water made it the most envied hillock-home for miles around.
The Mayor continued: “—has been auctioned to the highest bidder, with the proceeds going directly to the good folks of Thimble Down,” lied the Mayor, though there were scattered cheers and even one voice that shouted “Dorro stinks!”
Darwinna Thrashrack stood up and registered an objection. “Your lordship, are you going to share with us who this interloper is? Who is the person who violently ejected not only Dorro’s heir, but his legal guardian, poor Mr. Bedminster Shoe?”
“I don’t believe it’s in the public interest to share the bidder’s name,” said the Mayor distractedly. “I can’t see what bearing it has.”
The mob of Thimble Downers in the Hanging Stoat thought otherwise and started clanking and banging their ale tankards on the tale, loudly voicing their displeasure. The magistrate returned fire by banging his gavel.
Hamment Shugfoot stood up and turned to the crowd.
“I have nothing to hide—I legally bid for the Perch and offered the highest amount of gold, which makes me the legitimate owner of the property under this law. I have the paperwork to prove it!”
The Stoat erupted in furor as the Halflings realized Shugfoot was the beneficiary of a backroom deal between the Mayor and Osgood Thrip.
Darwinna stared at her colleague in disbelief, while her fellow conspirators sat in stunned silence. It was the penultimate stroke of the Mayor’s wicked plan and a brilliantly executed one at that.
“And that’s that!” bellowed the Mayor, banging his gavel again. “This hearing is now adjourned and if anyone objects, they can bring it up with the militia.”
He rapped on the table once more for good effect and departed. The remaining Halflings exploded in frenzy, dropping pennies and tuppers on the tables to pay Mr. Mungo and scuttling out into the cold to continue their umbrage elsewhere.
“Darwinna—”
The beautiful barrister looked up from her table, tears in her eyes.
“How could you, Hamment? You’ve destroyed a good fellow’s life, exiling him for no reason and are now stealing his burrow from under him.”
Wearing a shiny vest and spotless green jacket, Shugfoot put on his most remorseful face.
“I’m sorry, Darwinna, I truly am—but I get so caught up in my work that I don’t know when to pull back. Plus Dorro is still a wealthy-enough fellow. We haven’t touched his fortune and he can use it when he returns to find a lovely new home … if he returns, of course.”
“I just don’t know how you can be so selfish, Hamment?” she cried. “Now that you have the Perch, how are you going to enjoy it, living there all alone?”
Shugfoot knelt down and put his hands over hers.
“My dearest, I didn’t buy the Perch for me—I bought it for us. I was going to wait for the right moment, but circumstances dictate otherwise. Will you be my wife? You’ll be the queen of the Perch, and the social darling of all Thimble Down. You’ve been waiting for this moment your entire life—it’s your time to become the most glamorous and envied woman in the Halfling counties.”
The barrister was overwhelmed by a torrent of feelings and emotions.
Did Hamment really just propose to me? she thought, dazzled by his dashing looks and expensive clothing. Just as quickly, she was overcome by an even more disturbing thought.
Why do I want to say … yes?
Words of the Elder
With the entire clan of giants against them, Dorro and Saoirse knew their time was diminishing.
The giantess was horrified that both her brother and own son had turned against them, though the Thimble Downer expected no less—Truckulus had resented him from the start. Now Broog was closing in for the kill, to crush the Urk-bäg he thought brought bad luck to the giants.
“Noooooo!” screamed Saoirse as Broog reached for the basket hanging around her neck.
“Leave him be, Mother!” hissed Truckulus in her ear, holding her immobile near a precipice that disappeared into utter darkness. “He’s a curse to us and must be killed. Stop resisting—Broog may have brought shame upon my father, but in this, he is right.”
“Perhaps you are right, son ….”
Dorro was shocked, but Saoirse had finally relented and, for a brief second, Truckulus relaxed his head-lock on his mother. The end was, at last, upon the Halfling.
Yet this was just enough time for the giantess to stomp down on the boy’s foot and throw her massive head backwards, crushing Truckulus’ nose with a horrible snap.
“Argh!” screamed the youth as dark blood shot from his nostrils, Broog suddenly lurching towards Dorro. Though he was a massive brute, Saoirse was fast and cunning; she grabbed her brother’s extended forearm and pulled it towards her, throwing him off balance and tripping him. The giant fell to the ground with a crunch.
With Dorro still clinging to the basket, she dropped her full weight on his head, causing further pain, but Broog was still alert enough to sink his big incisors into a thick leg, making her shriek and writhe in pain.
The massive siblings leapt up and faced off, both in full battle frenzy. Dorro couldn’t see any option but to stay put in his wobbly basket; if he leapt off, there was just as good a chance another member of the clan would sweep him up and flatten his tiny body.
Broog charged again, this time coming in low and tackling the giantess around her waist and they both tumbled towards the rocky ledge, shaking the ground. Miraculously, Dorro held on, tumbling and rolling all over his basket as his protector fought to defend his life.
The brother grabbed a huge rock and brought it high to smash on Saoirse’s face. Broog brought his arm down with terrifying force, but again, his sister’s speed prevail
ed. She moved out of the way at the last second, causing her opponent to lose his balance and flail forward.
Saoirse rolled behind Broog and shoved hard with her legs, enough to send him towards the edge of the cliff.
“Brother!”
She reached out to save him, but it was too late. The hulking figure lost his balance and toppled over the edge, silently falling to his doom, a look of shock and surprise on his face. That didn’t deter remaining clan members who moved in to finish the task of killing the Urk-bäg.
Saoirse turned and raged, “Is there anyone else who wants the Halfling? You’ll need to get through me to do it!”
“Peace! We call for peace!” said another voice, resonant and otherworldly.
Three solemn shadows emerged from the gloom. These giants were ancient and hobbled; the others parted and let them pass unimpeded. Dorro knew instinctively they were some kind of revered figures.
“Enough violence and bloodshed,” spoke the second one.
Saoirse whispered to her companion, “These are our Elders—say not a word!”
The third voice rang out, “Broog is dead. Who has done this? I am blind and cannot see.”
“It was I. Saoirse, wife of Gruftang, mother of Truckulus—she who was banished.”
“Why have you returned? You were exiled until the end of your days.”
Dorro heard the giantess take a deep breath and gird herself.
“I wanted to end this. Broog shamed my husband and I could stand it no longer. I came to find resolution, not just for myself, but for Truckulus. I didn’t mean to kill my brother.”
There was silence. At last, one of the Elders spoke.
“It is done and we hold no enmity towards you—nor should any of the clan. Broog is dead and you have avenged Gruftang. He was a fool anyway and found pleasure in wielding power over others. Yet we have greater woes.”
The last elder said, “We must unite to defeat our foes. The Grey Mountains are no longer safe haven for our kind.”
Truckulus, who had been sulking in the shadows and holding his bloodied nose, spoke up.
“Why should we fight them? We’ve lost! We giants should fly further east, away from our enemies in distant mountains and vales.”
One of the Elders replied, “You are young and, like Broog, a fool. In time, you will understand, Truckulus, but if our clans retreat, the orkus and trolls will only grow stronger and come seek us out. And kill us.
Another rasped, “We must confront them now, while their alliance is still new. We’ve heard of their growing unrest and the threat to everything in the Wide Green Open.”
Truckulus was confused. “I do not know that place, this Wide Green Open.”
The Elders made strange sounds which Dorro realized was a form of derisive laughter.
“It is the world we live in, young one. It is all the Western lands to the sea, those made up of elves and Halflings; the South lands of the Men-Folk; and the Northern realms of the dwarves—all the way East to the Grey Mountains where our kind has lived for generations upon generations.”
“The orkus and trolls have long troubled us in small numbers, but never like this before. They have been planning a great rebellion and now they are striking.”
“They failed in the West—I was there, in the midst of the fighting!” piped up Dorro, only to be shushed by Saoirse.
“Who said that?” said the blind Elder.
“It’s the Halfling—the one who is under my protection,” she said proudly.
“Ahh … one of that small kind. I thought I smelled something unusual. Welcome, Master Halfling. I would hear your words of the Battle of the West; I have heard it was terrible.”
Saoirse shot him a look of foreboding, but Dorro spoke anyway.
“It was a fight for the ages, Wise One—thousands of goblins attacked our lands. It was only because the Halflings, elves, Men-folk, and battle dwarves fought together that we survived—itself, a strange alliance. But we crushed them, not four or five months ago! My word, I’ve even forgotten what month it is.”
“It was a great victory, no doubt, but a temporary one. The goblins are now pushing East with their troll allies, hoping to conquer the giants. Then they will go North and dispatch the dwarfs in Gildenhall. Lastly, they will drive South upon the Men-folk, elves, and Halflings like a hammer, and push them out to open sea. They seek to control the Wide Green Open and kill her forests.”
“Yes, the Wide Green Open. I’ve heard that turn of phrase before—from a fellow who lived in our forest, which we call the Great Wood. Yet …”
“Yet what, small one?”
“I killed him,” murmured Dorro. “By accident, but I struck him with an arrow.”
There again, the bookmaster heard the uncanny sound of the ancient giants chortling in their hoarse, wheezing manner.
The blind Elder spoke: “It’s not so easy to kill a heartwood—but that is the only one who would know of the Wide Green Open. Was he a small thing, like a Halfling, with pointy ears, a squinty face, and lighthearted manner?”
“Yes—that’s Dalbo Dall!”
“Hmmmm, we know of him,” added another. “He’s a heartwood, but no, you couldn’t kill him with an arrow, even if you loosed fifty of them.”
“But I saw the body!” cried Dorro. “He was lying in the Great Wood and I stuck an arrow in him through my own foolishness.”
“Is that why you’re here, Master Halfling? You shouldn’t have troubled yourself. The heartwood was merely dormant for the Winter, as is their way. Their role in preserving the Wide Green Open is crucial and they can only perish by fire, great age or, sometimes, a bad case of root rot. A small Halfling arrow would be but a scratch to them.”
Dorro was incredulous. Could it be this was all a cruel mistake? Is it true he’d never killed Dalbo Dall—he was just asleep as this heartwood? The bookmaster’s mind was reeling.
“I’ve got to go home!” yelped the Thimble Downer. “I must go clear my name—my nephew is in great peril.”
“Sadly, the world is in greater trouble at the moment,” whispered the first Elder. “You will be needed in the vanguard as we head West, back to the nexus of this evil … what you call Fog Vale. It is there that the goblins and trolls are concentrating their forces and readying for war.”
“And we must hurry, otherwise Fog Vale will be no more—and then they will come for us. It would better to surprise them in battle. Many will die, but it’s the only salvation for the giants and, indeed, everyone in the Wide Green Open.”
It was Saoirse’s voice they all heard next.
“To battle! To battle, all! We must organize and set our path to the West, following the setting sun. There is no time to brood or bury the dead. Rise!”
The blind Elder opened his mouth and said softly. “Alas, she is right. It is time for us to march to victory or else—death and ruin.”
Thoughts of Home
Dorro’s mind was reeling.
Not only had he traveled through rugged mountain terrain and heavy snow to get to the caves of the giants—encountering deadly trolls along the way—but now was headed back to Fog Vale by the same treacherous path.
Why does this always happen to me? he whined silently. Why not Osgood Thrip or the Mayor?
The bookmaster rested his head on his hands, moping in a manner befitting a toddler, not a Halfling in his middle years.
“How are you faring, friend?” asked his enormous host, still bearing him in a basket without complaint. “Are you in comfort?”
Dorro felt a twinge of shame, particularly in light of the fact that Saoirse had risked her life to save his life more than once. “I am well, my lady—just wallowing in dark thoughts. I will shake it off soon.”
“Good—I brought food for you, if you get hungry.”
The bookmaster felt morose and felt the need to get something off his mind.
“Saoirse—?”
“Yes.”
“I must thank you for everything you?
??ve done—I would have died many times over without your kindness and strength. I’m not sure what I’ve done to deserve your generosity.”
Saoirse looked at Dorro with her big eyes. “You are welcome, Master Halfling, but you don’t need to thank me. You have given me much in return—most of all, your comradeship and intelligence. Most of your folk would look upon me as a monster, but you seem to regard me as a friend. That’s a gift.”
The Thimble Downer was so overcome with emotion that he did something that surprised them both—he stood up in his basket and gave Saoirse as vast a hug as he could muster. A moment later, the giantess wrapped her hands around him and gave him a squeeze back.
Dorro sat back down and looked out from his strange perch. The embrace was something he would remember for the rest of his life.