by Pete Prown
* * *
Sheriff Forgo hadn’t slept for three days. He was racked with guilt over Dorro’s exile and felt he should have stopped the entire freak show.
At night, the lawman looked at the window and wondered, Why did you let this happen, Forgo? You only have a few friends and you let your best mate get railroaded out of town on trumped-up criminal charges. How could you?
Finally he could stand it no more. He dispatched Gadget with a fistful of urgent notes and waited. Deputy Pinkle returned an hour later with hastily scrawled replies.
At five o’clock on the third day after Dorro’s departure, the lawman told his deputy to watch the gaol and bolted from the structure as if it was on fire. He walked down the various lanes and alleys of Thimble Down, avoiding the eyes of passing villagers who might want to cadge him for a quick complaint or conversation. This wasn’t the time.
Heading south, he found his destination and ducked into a burrow with blue-painted door. Overhead, a swinging wooden sign read:
Mr. Timmo & Sons
Expert Metalsmithery & Fabricator of All Things
“Are they here yet?”
“Almost, Sheriff—come in the back; we’re waiting for one more.”
Forgo stepped past the counter and into a back room that doubled as a living area and a workspace for Mr. Timmo; his shop was his home and he had to make do with what he had.
Sitting at a round table was Bedminster Shoe, who was examining his fingernails and looking distracted. They heard the door open and close again; Forgo caught a bold floral scent in the air. He turned and let the final guest enter.
“Thanks for coming, Darwinna; I do appreciate it.”
“I’m actually rather happy you called this gathering, Sheriff. I haven’t slept since the trial.”
“You too? Glad I ain’t the only one. Let’s get going.”
The bulky lawman sat in a chair that creaked under his weight, while the metalsmith brought in a tray bearing a teapot and four cups.
“I’m sorry, Timmo—we’ll need one more cup,” said the solicitor. “I’ve taken the liberty of inviting another.” They all heard the blue door open and shut again, as well as a myriad of groans and sighs. A head poked through the doorway to the rear.
“So this is where we are? Grand.”
Tiberius Grumbleoaf entered the room, bearing his big leather volume in his meaty hands and tiny reading glasses on his nose.
The quintet made a comical sight: there was Grumbleoaf and Forgo, both large, gruff, and opinionated Halflings on one side of the table with Mr. Timmo and Mr. Shoe on the other—neither of them weighing over five stone, and both pale, meek, and of introverted dispositions.
In the midst of this motley assemblage all was the ravishing Darwinna Thrashrack, today wearing a cream-colored winter coat with decorative pearl trim and a charming, off-kilter hat sitting atop her perfectly curled and coifed hair.
“Thanks all fer comin’,” groused Forgo who wasn’t one for pleasantries. “We know why we’re here. We just need to figure out what we’re gonna do about it!”
“It was all perfectly legal, Sheriff,” offered Grumbleoaf. “Short of committing yet another crime, there’s not much we could have done to save dear Dorro.”
“That’s my point!” snarled the lawman. “We should have broken the law. Dorro is our friend and we let him down. I can’t believe what a spineless ninny I am.”
Darwinna patted him on the arm. “You’re right, Forgo. We did fail the bookmaster and I too am sick about it. What are you thinking of?”
“Not to be presumptuous,” said Timmo gently, “but I assume the Sheriff wants us think of ways to leverage the situation.”
“Leverage how?” snorted Grumbleoaf.
Bedminster Shoe coughed politely. “Why Mr. Grumbleoaf—I believe our good Forgo wants to figure out a way to bring Dorro back, either legally … or illegally.”
“Quite right, Mr. Shoe,” added the metalsmith. “And don’t forget Osgood Thrip. The good Sheriff wants to put both their necks in a noose and pull the rope tight, until it hurts.”
By now, Forgo was grinning ear to ear. But it was Darwinna who said, “My goodness, Timmo and Bedminster! I’m glad you two gentlemen didn’t become solicitors. We’d be simply doomed in court by your wicked cunning!”
They all laughed, but Tiberius Grumbleoaf cracked open his leather-bound book and began furiously scrawling notes within.
As Darwinna knew, this was precisely how the eccentric solicitor captured his most brilliant, and craftiest, thoughts.
Fog Vale
Dorro was lying atop his rancid cushion, staring at the equally rank and moth-riddled tarp that covered the wagon. Several times he’d awakened during the night, jostled by a bump in the road.
Not only was he on his way to a distant prison farm in deplorable conditions, but the previous afternoon, their party had been ambushed and now two of his fellow inmates were dead. Somewhere between fear and lack of sleep, the bookmaster’s mind was beginning to play tricks on him and he occasionally thought he was a horrible murderer and deserved this fate.
Pulling back from the brink of senseless anxiety, he sensed light overhead and a bleak dawn broke over the trail. He also sensed the wagon descending into a gray, misty terrain; Dorro tried to peek forward and aft, but only saw glimpses of cliffs scraggly trees, and brush. They’d already been on the road for several days and he was sure their destination was not far off—that desperate-sounding place called Fog Vale—which was to be his home for the next year. Provided he survived, of course.
The wagon abruptly stopped and the bounty hunters leapt over the buckboard onto the rocky earth. There were clangs of metal and pots, by which Dorro assumed they were to be fed, more like pigs in a sty than Halflings of any decency.
“Wake up, ya beauties!” sneered Bullock. “We’re having one last break before we get to the farm. Go do yer business in the bushes and come back for yer cold gruel. Don’t wander too far, my sweeties—there’s goblins everywhere ‘round here and we already lost two of you lot. Won’t look good if we bring in more corpuses!”
The big thug chortled and walked off to prepare something Dorro could only charitably called food.
The Halfling swung his manacled feet over the back and took a few steps to stretch his legs. They were stiff and cramped from several days on the bumpy trail; his backside ached, too, perhaps as a result of his soft life in Thimble Down. Dorro’s disposition was becoming gloomier by the minute.
The break didn’t last long and after forcing down some of disgusting oat pudding that Bullock called breakfast, they clambered back to their benches.
“Okay gals, here’s the deal,” barked Hammersmith picking up the reins again. “Now that you’re all supped and refreshed, we’re ready to get to the farm. Once we get to Fog Vale, you’ll be under the ministrations of the Overseer, who’s a real piece o’ work, I can assure you. He makes me look like a dainty little girl with pigtails! But you’ll find that out for yerselves.”
That crack made Bullock and Salty roll with glee, though Dorro didn’t see the humor; his thoughts were positively morbid by this point. The wagon began creaking down the track, headed downward into an abyss.
Come on, Dorro, old boy—snap out of it! The bookmaster chided himself bitterly. You have some sort of melancholy settling on you. That’s not the Winderiver way. You have to survive this debacle and get back to Wyll. You must!
Dorro forced himself to take a more positive view and felt better, but he knowing dark days were to come. He did feel a lingering bitterness towards Sheriff Forgo for not rescuing him; he felt his friend had let him down, but pushed that thought aside as the wagon found level terrain and shortly pulled to full stop.
Bullock, Salty and Hammersmith again decamped and rousted the prisoners from their benches onto the gravely soil. Dorro could barely see a few feet in any direction—the mist was thick, he wasn’t sure where he was.
“Here we be, my luv’lies,
” Hammersmith leered at them, cracking a grin across his scarred face.
“Welcome to Hell.”
