The wound-up knohm landed on the windowsill with a thud, lost his footing and almost fell backwards into the icy river, but Fürgůïn grabbed his beard, levered the window ajar and gave him a hefty shove, sending Razzles sprawling through into the relative gloom of the bridge's interior before springing in behind him.

Both gasped as their eyes fell upon the scene before them. There were Grimmbros, Norris and Ebore sitting comfortably around a little circular table apparently enjoying steaming cups of tea and something that looked much like jam cakes. The three stared open-mouthed at the midgets sprawling on their rug (Fürgůïn’s pet tibmibling had been dislodged from his shoulder and had assumed battle posture at his ankle) and for a while all was silent. An almost tangible thing, the silence hung in the air; stillness filling the room like a bubble about to burst. Razzles coughed quietly, not because he needed to, but because someone ought to.

Motionless, the halflings crouched, letting their eyes take in the true horror of it all: a teapot and matching crockery; a cake stand; a delicate china cup in Ebore's raised hand; a lacy table-cloth with individual placemats and, perhaps most shocking of all, doilies!

Razzles cracked first, "We've got to save him!" the knohm cried, turning over a small stool, "Let's trash this place, slap up these green hooligans and get him out!"

Fürgůïn was onto it, he sprang forward and grabbed Grimmbros' hand, pulling with all his might. The urgh-bane allowed himself to be dragged sideways at an angle on his chair and then remained there unimpressed, breathing a disinterested, “Ohhhhh.”

Seeing that Ebore and Norris still had their mouths open and weren't rushing to maul anyone, the renling leapt up and grabbed Grimm's collar. Leaning backwards and straining, he managed to tip him off the chair, but Grimmbros didn't seem inclined to help, instead he just went limp, sliding to the floor like a silk sack of turnips and lay there looking resigned. Razzles, still panting from his efforts with the stool, rubbed his neck and looked round for something else to vandalise, then paused and whimpered, “I think I've pulled something. Oooh, me neck!”

Fürgůïn again tugged at Grimmbros' arm with all the strength he could muster. The urgh-bane didn’t budge and heaved a big sigh. What was wrong. He didn't seem at all disposed to shift. Razzles and Norris exchanged puzzled glances. Norris seemed to be wondering whether to offer to resuscitate Grimmbros again and Razzles was wondering if he dared encourage her. Both said nothing. Finally, the exhausted renling gave up pulling and also went, “Ohhhhhhh!”

His was a long drawn out ‘oh’ that trailed for while, dropping in pitch before building to a sudden, emphatic, resigned end. Razzles slouched his way over and sat on the side of Grimmbros’ head, with his chin on one of his palms, the other hand stroking his strained neck muscle.

Looking up at Ebore and Norris he offered, "Well, that's that. Just get it over with. Come on - eat us."

Ebore looked imploringly at Norris who responded by slapping him loudly on his shiny, bald head.

"It wouldn't be good for business," she scolded, "Eating guests knocks a whole star off your rating.”

"But I don't want to turn the bridge into a stinkin’ guest house," the unhappy oafe moaned.

Norris paid him no heed and, getting to her feet, headed toward the inert urgh-bane, advising, "Back to bed for you, another day or two's nursing and you'll be right as rain. Everyone likes it at Aunty Norris’ place."

Grimmbros unconcernedly allowed himself to be hoisted to his feet whilst the cheerful Norris chided, "Come along, out of the way you pair of scampy, campy ihmps - you ihmpy wimpy little scamps. You can help me look after him, he'll need someone to carry his breakfast upstairs. You there in the pink tights, bring the jam.”

Grimmbros turned his eyes towards the halflings at this point, the slightest hint of a grin animating his lips.

"He’s enjoying it!" Razzles whispered, accepting the jar of jam that Norris entrusted him with - it smelt fusty.

"All I want is to live under the bridge," continued Ebore, unimpressed with the situation, "threaten folk and have a quiet life. I mean - lacy curtains and doilies - what's an oafe supposed to do with them!"

But the oafe's wistful dreams went unheeded - they always did. Norris lugged Grimmbros onto the stairs,

Razzles carried jam and Fürgůïn did as he was told and went off to make some toast.

Meanwhile back in Tullgotha, a distinctly less languid urgh-bane stood in a police line-up cleaning his nails with a pointy knife. To his right was a rock oafe and a minor bigh, to his left a nibblin and a fat human. Ignatious Urlurcher was not happy.

"Overfed ingrate," he fumed under his breath, "Landed me right in it."

"Now," said a short, tubby police watchman to a bent-over, slightly humped, grey-haired little-old-lady who stood at a safe distance,

“Which one of these fine reprobates was it?” He paused for a moment and spluttered, "Who let that urgh-bane in there with that knife?"

As Razzles followed the enormous Norris up the stairs, he found himself muttering miserably, "Half oafe, half ellingphant!" She could barely squeeze through the narrow space with Grimmbros under her arm.

Then, pushing open the heavy oak door to the upper room with her head, Norris heaved the unresisting urgh-bane onto the bed therein. She rolled him one way and then the other until he was once more cocooned within a mass of sheets and blankets. Razzles stood in the doorway; a small figure in the presence of giants, his jam jar despondently held before him in both hands. Norris took a seat beside the bed and murmured to Grimmbros, "You rest, you just take your time. Aunty’ll cheer you up with a bit more jammy toast."

Razzles couldn't bear to see his friend like this and was straining to work out just why Grimmbros was so passive and woozy. Had the knohm gone too far in that moment before crossing the bridge, had he hurt the urgh-bane's feelings when he refused to hear him out? It made him quite sad thinking about it.

Norris looked down at the reflective knohm with a pitying look on her huge face and then did something that Razzles really hadn't expected. She clapped her hands on her lap indicating that he might want to climb up and sit there. Should he? He did feel a bit down. In fact, he felt positively woebegone.

With a sigh, he scrambled up and sat on Norris' lap, settling into the ample folds of her midriff. "There, there, my luvvy," the huge figure said in a soft voice, clasping his head to her chest, “You just let it all out."

Without warning, a huge welling up of emotion overtook Razzles and he found himself sobbing helplessly into the folds of Norris' smock. Her big hand patted him gently on the top of his head. "There, there. There there."

Down in the kitchen, things weren't much happier. Fürgůïn had got some toast underway and was looking for a butter knife when Ebore slouched into the doorway. For a moment the renling froze, half expecting the oafe to grab and eat him. Instead, he just moaned "Better wash those dishes. Won't hear the last of it else."

Working side by side, an initial uneasy silence was broken by Ebore, “Your daft whistle din't hurt - just put me fingers in me ears.” The oafe chuckled slightly as he said it, scraping congealed jam off a used spoon.

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“Wasn't meant to hurt,” Fürgůïn retorted, “Was just to see if you were around.”

“Din't work then, did it,” continued Ebore, brightening slightly at the renling's perceived failure.

“Yeah, it did - I knew full well where you were: lying under the bridge on your back with your feet half-way up one arch, cleaning your right ear with a seagull. Where's your butter?”

Ebore looked impressed and then frowned.

“What you come on the bridge for then? It's in that box down there.”

“We had to," Fürgůïn answered, "It's the only crossing for miles. This box here? You sure? It stinks!”

“Yeah, but then Ebore gotta come up and... well, you know.” The oafe looked genuinely pained.

Lifting a slab of butter onto the table, Fürgůïn acknowledged, “I know, it's what you do.”

“Less I get caught," complained Ebore. Then, looking at the ceiling meaningfully, “She don't like it.”

“But it's your bridge isn't it?” Fürgůïn went on, "It's your right to abuse and... eat folk!"

“You try tellin' her that!” the oafe griped, trying to work up some more lather in the washing bowl, then giving up and slumping somewhat.

“I hate it here now! Curtains, flowery sheets, doilies. Doilies! An oafe's bridge is sposed to be scary. Sometime back I was yelling at some field-elbh and she comes out and makes me say sorry. Sorry! To a stinkin’ elbh! It went off sniggerin’. Don’t use your cloak, here, have a clean tea towel.”

Upstairs, whilst Razzles snivelled inconsolably, Norris kindly took the jar of jam from his hands. His fingers were sticky from where the thick red goo had run down the sides of the jar. The motherly half oafe was humming a lullaby in an undertone as she carefully unscrewed the top of the jam jar and wafted the sweet odour near Razzles' hot, red nose, making him sniff.

"That's right my little cringeling," she droned. almost inaudibly, "breathe deep. If a spoon-a-day is enough to keep my Ebore and dear Grimmbros there subdued, just a whiff should take care of you."

"Huh?" sniffed the miserable knohm, lost in a fog of hebetude, not really hearing what she said.

"Nothing, my luvvy. You lick those fingers clean, it'll sting if you get it in your eyes."

"I'd better get this toast up there to your..." Fürgůïn faltered, not sure what to call the house-proud behemoth above. He set off toward the staircase, hot buttered toast carefully arrayed on a plate clutched before him.

"I had him though!" came Ebore's voice from behind, in slightly hushed yet self-satisfied tones. Fürgůïn paused and turned to look back, "Wen after him when she'd gone back in. I had him!" The renling winced, awaiting the details of the poor elbh's demise. "Got him in a box now, down there," Ebore pointed smugly at the floor, indicating an unseen location somewhere below. "I can threaten him when I like now, she don't know."

Part of him wanted to reach out to Ebore, to point out that it had come to this; sneakily taunting a little elbh out of sight where he wouldn't get caught. However, he wasn't quite sure how to put it and his toast was getting cold.

Up the creaky, old stairs he went, stepping uncertainly into an attic room, “Er, Missus Norris, er... I’ve er...”

“Ah, you’ve brought the toast. It’s a little burnt I see. Put it over there, on the side there, by the bed.”

The reluctant renling complied as Norris continued, “Now, you come on over here to me. Come on.”

Fürgůïn stayed where he was and looked at the blubbering knohm on Norris’ spacious lap, alternately wiping his nose on her smock and sticking his fingers one by one into his mouth.

“Come on,” she insisted in a cheery voice, “Come over here, you little mincelet. Have some of Aunty Norris’ jam on a bit of that crunchy toast. It’s homemade and full of special things.”

Shuffling an inch forward, the renling leaned his body backward uneasily, realising that he had strayed just a bit too far from the door. “Don’t like jam,” he mumbled, “and that looks like it’s got a bone or something in it.”

“That’s just pips,” Norris soothed, extending a fleshy green foot toward the door, “Have a sniff - it’s pungent.”

Fürgůïn calculated the distance to the top of the stairs, trying to fathom how quickly something so enormous might be able to move. He didn’t trust Norris one bit and was anxious about the behaviour of his friends. The half-oafe sensed his distrust and in a split second, with a speed that belied her girth, booted the door closed and blocked the single escape route with her own fatness. She was brandishing the open jam jar like a weapon, her eyes narrow and glinting.“ Licky licky!” she enthused.

Now he knew something was definitely wrong - folk didn’t just go about waving things to be licked - not with that face. He realised sensitivity was called for because his escape exit was blocked and his two friends were in no fit state to verify the half-oafe’s strangely sinister behaviour.

“Licky licky! My dear little skippy, hippy, chippy,” she crooned as she slowly but deliberately leant down towards the nervous renling - jar firmly in hand. Fürgůïn paused momentarily before suddenly and almost instinctively switching to battle position (a stance that to the uninitiated might easily be confused with a readiness to scarper as fast as his spindly little legs could convey him). His left hand slowly shifted down into his pocket and pulled out the crumpled, soggy remains of his trusty stinging nettles. “Snow damage,” he whispered to himself. Desperation was beginning to set in and so, throwing the soggy nettle clump at Norris, he leapt onto the bed and began manically shaking Grimmbros

“Wake up, wake up!” he urged, but the woozy urgh-bane simply let out a weary hmmph noise.

Fürgůïn tried giving him a slap, “Wake up!” He tried again, giving Grimmbros a second slap and a third. Still no result. Norris looked gleeful. He tried a further clap on Grimmbros’ pinkening cheek, pretty much sure that it would do no good, but finding himself wanting to continue slapping him anyway.

“You won’t get anything out of him that way,” she taunted. “The jam of despair is very powerful.* Watch.” At that point she addressed Razzles who was sitting by the urgh-bane’s feet wiping his nose on his sleeve. “Razzles, my little dimpling, give our friend Grimmbros a slap for aunty.”

The droopy knohm crawled obediently on hands and knees until he was next to Fürgůïn at which point he gave Grimmbros a rather feeble smack on the cheek. Fürgůïn tried another, just in case.

“No! Not like that, you grovelling namby-pamby,” came Norris' voice as she strode forward causing the renling to scuttle backwards off the bed like a cockroach avoiding a boot. “Like this!” She gave Grimmbros an almighty slap that rang around the room and left a handprint glowing redly on his skin.

“See - nothing!” she crowed, “He's as helpless as a grub in a jam jar, and he does as his Aunty Norris tells him.”

* The jam of despair sat at the pinnacle of Norris’ menu of misery. She had experimented with biscuits of bitterness, blancmange of woe and cocoa of wretchedness, but none matched the exquisite melancholia achieved by jam, especially when the top of the jar was adorned with a miniature doily held on by a rubber band.

Razzles gave the apathetic urgh-bane another mournful swat despite not being asked and then just sat absently poking at Grimmbros’ nose.

“Watch.” Norris went on triumphantly, “Grimmwimp, go down to the cellar and get aunty her walloping stick.” With another disinterested hmmph, Grimmbros slouched out of bed and made for the door.

Fürgůïn saw his chance and disappeared under the bed; he really did not want to find out what aunty's walloping stick looked like. Waiting for just a moment until he thought Norris would be bending to look for him, he sprang back out and legged it for the stairs. Then, everything happened so quickly that it’s best pictured in slow motion with deep drawn-out voices*: Norris flung an arm out, whacking the fleeing renling on the back of the head and causing him to lose his balance. Fürgůïn tumbled through the doorway just as Grimmbros was stepping onto the top stair; sprawling helplessly he ended up under the urgh-bane's foot causing both to bowl headlong down the staircase in a disjointed series of bumps, thuds and crunches, landing finally right at the feet of a rather surprised Ebore.

"Ebore!" came the voice from above, "How would you like a renling?"

* Why things seem to go into slow motion at certain high-drama points in life is uncertain: some say the senses speed up; others claim that the universe really does slow down, cosmic-rubbernecking so as not to miss anything; cynics reckon that it’s just doing it because it looked good when someone else did it.

Grimmbros lurched drunkenly to his feet, rubbing distractedly at one injured buttock, still intent on fulfilling his task. Fürgůïn lay for a moment nursing his own bruises and wondering if he might perhaps appeal to Ebore's better nature, especially in view of the nice little chat that the pair had shared earlier. But that thought soon died. If the oafe had looked surprised before, he looked doubly surprised now, then a twisted smile started up one side of his face - a hungry smile. Fürgůïn decided not to wait and swiftly turned over onto his back. Thankfully the house-proud Norris kept the floors polished, and pushing himself off with his feet the desperate renling slid on his back along the floor and under the table, his feet pumping like hairy pistons. Ebore span round and made a grab for him.

Then, a thunderous creaking and thumping rhythm indicated Norris' hurried descent of the staircase. Things were becoming decidedly ugly. Fürgůïn, still propelling himself flat on his back, swung round a table leg as Ebore decided to try out the effectiveness of various items of cutlery in snaring the hapless renling. Ankles ablur he skimmed and snaked about the shiny floor in an impressive series of deft manoeuvres until his head, with a sonorous, coconut-like sound, came into contact with a chair. He had hoped to follow Grimmbros once more, but his large protector had already disappeared from the room in the direction of the cellar. Dodging a well-aimed fork, Fürgůïn made for a different table leg and saw now a pair of fat ankles step off the bottom stair. Not good, this was decidedly not good.