The air was always crisp around Khazared Bandul.

“Or frozen,” said Willy.

“Or reeking of dwarf,” spat Dogo.

They ran along the wide stone bridge that led from the main gate back to the road to Coldcreek. They were not in any special hurry, but running kept up a child-like appearance; important because it made larger creatures like dwarves see them through an innocent lens.

“And I’m as old as most of their soldiers. ” said Dogo.

“Always with the trade secrets,” snorted Willy.

Once out of sight of the fortress, the halflings quit running and sat back among some of the rocks that had fallen from higher up. Willy produced two pipes and filled them, lit one and handed it to Dogo. They sat in silence for a little while, puffing pipe weed in the thin mountain air.

“Better than the crate of Lorena Leaf we found washed up near Bedman Falls?” asked Dogo with a wicked smile.

“Mmmm,” nodded Willy thoughtfully. “Even better than that first pinch you stole from old Gravel Foot when we were just lads.” They both laughed heartily at that.

The walk down to Coldcreek gave them time to reflect – on the possible job, on their contact, on the best places to meet without being seen. When they finally arrived, they both made their way quickly to Baker’s Chimney, picking between wagons and pack animals and dodging what big folk they could spot. The entirety of the village was little more than a collection of tents nestled amid the mountain cliffs. Up here, the creek was just a network of streams from the snowy runoff, running to a nondescript confluence somewhere further on down the heights.

“Wilibald!” a voice called. “Willy and Dogo!” the two hobbits turned to see Bret Thistledown jogging towards them trailing his little herd of goats. A look of stupid adulation shown across the face of the halfling shepherd.

“Actually up here they call themselves creek folk,” whispered Dogo.

“They do indeed,” said Willy absently. “As if there were a difference.”

“I am no creek folk,” said Dogo.

“Hmmph. I am no creek folk,” said Willy quietly.

“What are you guys doing here?” asked Bret Thistledown, trying to catch his breath as he pulled to a stop. “Why are you back?” The bells on his goats made his panting sound like silly music.

“Here’s a good fellow,” laughed Dogo, clapping Bret on the back and turning him back to face the village. “Is there a finer goat herder in all the heights?”

“Is there another goat herder in all the heights?” intoned Willy, reaching down to pat Lucy, Bret’s favorite whether.

“Not among us creek folk.”

“Then he’s my favorite for sure.”

“Don’t you owe this fellow an ale?”

“Hmm. Not to my knowledge. But I’d gladly play him for one. Do you have the cards?”

“Do I ever not?”

“You do not.”

The look on Bret’s face hid none of his excitement. “Yes!” he exclaimed. “That’s exactly it! I’d hoped when I saw you! We might get a game together, if you’re not in a hurry to get back to the fortress.”

“Me? Hurry?”

“To spend time with dwarfs?”

Both blanched exaggeratedly as they walked Bret and his herd back towards the tents.

“Do us a favor won’t you Bret? Go and gather what creek folk would be amenable to a card game. Maybe even some big folk if they’re dull enough.”

“Aren’t they all?”

“Willy and I will be back to play after we settle a bet. My loutish associate seems to think he can best me in climbing rocks.”

“I was born to climb,” protested Willy with a shrug. “Bet me an ale if you’re feeling strong.”

“I believe I will. So long as Bret here makes a point of rounding up regulars.”

“I will!” Bret insisted, instantly taking his turn to finally speak. “I’ll tell Jim Everwash and the Barley boys! I’m sure there’s a few more I can find.” He hurried away from them at a trot, goat bells trailing his steps.

“THERE’S A GOOD FELLOW!” called Willy after him with a laugh. They watched until he was out of sight behind a stack of firewood, then took off at a run. Within a few moments they were in sight of the steps up to Baker’s Chimney. “A group of regulars,” Willy snorted. “A group of rubes more like.”

“A bushel of bumpkins.”

“A market of marks.”

“Just need to be back in an hour,” said Dogo, fighting concern.

“Why wouldn’t we be? That just means our contact has to be on time.”

“The letter said…”

“But…”

“But big folk are always late.”

They skipped up the stone steps as fast as their little legs would take them and halted when they came to the outlook. Here, a unique rock formation like an oven and chimney climbed the eastern wall of the sheer cliff. Before them, the rock gave way a drop of hundreds of feet to the little creek that snaked its way below. Dogo sat down and made himself comfortable, feet dangling lazily off the edge. Willy made to prepare the pipes.

“Who ever heard of a baker smoking a pipe?” asked Dogo with a smile. They both laughed heartily at that, picturing the one-legged dwarf in the kitchens back at Kazared Bandul. Willy laughed so hard that he grabbed his stomach and rolled about, coming dangerously close to the death that waited him beyond the rock ledge.

As their laughter died, he recited from the letter. “Make your way through the village to a location of your choosing. Our agent will follow and find you there.”

“Bah! Well, an hour from now I’m going back to play cards. And you may recall, it’s your turn to lose this time.”

“Again with the trade secrets.”

“Pfff. It’s not really trading, is it? They should call it something else.”

Willy didn’t respond.

“More like …”

Willy pawed noiselessly at his shoulder. Then Dogo turned his head and hopped up straightway with a jerk. A little ways off, pushed tight against the wall, was…something that was not of the big folk. It stood perhaps half a head shorter than Dogo, but huddled beneath a heavy cloak. Its face peered out at them, a mass of burned pink flesh and rough scars. Its lidless eyes stared at the halflings appraisingly, moving slowly back and forth until it spoke.

“Three of our agents will arrive in a fortnight’s time.” Its voice was a low hiss. “You are to see them entered safely into the dwarf castle, by whatever means necessary. Remain with them until they have gathered what they came for.”

“And the payment?” asked Willy, doing his best to seem at ease.

“As your price is listed. Fifty for each of you. The tall one who leads the incursion will pay you.” It breathed sharply, and Dogo’s hand flinched instinctively towards the knife in his sleeve. “After the job is completed,” the creature exhaled.

“A job like this takes finesse, and preparation,” said Willy with a smile. “Payment for the job is well and good, but we will need-“

The sound of footsteps running up the steps cut his words short. Bret Thistledown bounded out to the ledge and leaned forward panting, his goats filing in around him. “I thought you might be here!” he breathed. “The Barley boys are good for a game but -” Bret’s words cut off as his eyes lifted and then fell upon the cloaked figure. “What is..?! WHAT IS..?!!!”

“Ah Bret,” said Dogo shaking his head. “Can’t you even tell an hour?”

Behind him, Willy closed his eyes. Bret’s body stiffened, and then his eyes opened wide. They looked almost like the lidless eyes beneath the hood. Willy’s hand raised slowly out in front of him and Bret’s leg began to shake. A look of horrible realization spread across his face, and his wide eyes darted back and forth between Willy and the creek below. Then without a word, Bret’s legs moved and his body hurled itself off the cliff’s edge. Dogo tsked and leaned forward, watching until the little shape broke on the rocks below.

“There’s a good fellow,” he joked.