[the guy who be short]

Jack Sparrow. Captain Jack Sparrow. Fléin mulled it over in his head. It wasn't really a very cool name for a pirate, even if he had become a bird. What he needed was something concise and threatening. Jack Black, that had a nice rhythm to it. Jack Death, maybe. Jack Morgue.

Sparrows, he had been told, eat seeds. He looked at the unappetising mixture of crud-in-a-bag he had bought. Hopefully, he could lure Jack out with this. Then it was a question of netting. He didn't want to use the crossbow except as a last resort.

He wasn't exactly sure where to find Jack. The city was huge, and finding a sparrow therein, albeit a gigantic one, was somewhat like finding a needle in a haystack, considered mathematically.

Except that this wasn't maths class. Sparrows are found near sparrow food. That's obvious. Sparrow food is found in the narrow tracks of parkland in Lost Angles. And, as a Dwarf, old Fléin had a few tricks up his sleep.

"Chooo-chooo fwoo twu-wu-wu-wu?"

"Fwoo-ooh-OOOH-oo-wu-tutututu"

Fléin allowed himself a little smile. For perhaps the hundredth time since setting out, he thanked Mahal that he'd been born a Dwarf. He rushed off in a northeasterly direction, purposefully keeping the pace a little too fast for the Mordorc behind him.

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There was earth below Fléin's feet once more. Crumby, infertile, weak earth. He could immediately see why this patch of land had been reserved as parkland. Any attempt to build on it would result in collapse, and an attempt to farm it would result in famine. Only hardy grass managed to grow here, and a few tough shrubs.

And all around, birds of every sort. There must have been a couple of hundred, all told, but no oversized sparrows. And that idiot orc had caught up behind him, and was making far too much noise! He'd scare what there was away. The temptation to turn around and drive a bolt through his face was so great that Fléin forced himself to shove the weapon into his pocket, and keep his fist closed tightly.

He turned around, walked back to the orc, and growled up at him. "You want your ratings, don't you? Keep back, or nothing happens."

"I'm afwaid I can't. Latht time woo wouldn't tell me what had happened, and-"

"I don't care," the dwarf quivered. "If you move any further forward, these birds will fly off, and I have no chance of capturing-"

"Capturing what?"

"Just watch." He walked back to the flock of birds littering the floor, the orc sulkily watching. The orc trained the kamura on the Dwarf bending over and cooing at the birds, then tramping off. He took his eye off the dwarf for a minute to adjust the lens, to find he had disappeared.

Fléin had, however, found his way underground; marvellously with this soil, he thought. It was a wonder it hadn't fallen in. And it seemed to go down quite deep. Fléin would have felt quite at home, were it not for the skulls at the entrace. Some would consider vole skulls a little unintimidating, but their message was clear. "Here there be pirates."

"Who goes there?" a voice screeched up from below in sparrow when Fléin was about 50 feet in. Apparently, he had been treading too heavily.

"A friend," he replied in English.

There was a panicked twittering. Fléin saw light ahead of him.

"Who? What is your name?"

"Fléin, Fréinson of the Ironfoots. I come as an emissary for the Incarnations of Johnny Depp."

"Why did they send a Dwarf?"

But Fléin did not respond. He turned a corner, and was momentarily dazzled by the brilliance around him. Torches burned, not so very brightly, but their light was reflected from the piles of gold all around the small cavern. And there, perched, literally, in the centre of it all...

Fléin had been told he was a large sparrow, but he had not expected this. The bird must have been forty centimetres high. But - no, thirty. His helmet of tin - cap indeed! - was high and crested. And there - a dagger, strapped to his side? On a bird? What could he possibly hold it with.

The bird looked directly at him, inquiring. "Who are you?"

"I have told you, Mr Sparrow. An emissary. I come to ask your aid in the coming struggle."

"Ha. And for which side would you have me waste my time and life?"

"Mr Wonka sent me."

The bird made a curious chirping sound, that the Dwarf knew for laughter. "Old Willy? Ha! They speak of war, but they know not what they say. What will he do? Throw chocolate bombs at them? Make an invincibilty gum?"

"Come now. It is inevitable, and with your aid, it can be over far more quickly, and with far less difficulty. You will not abandon those who are as your kinsmen?"

The bird did not answer, but repeated his own question. "Why did they send a Dwarf?"

"I am a friend of Willy's," the Dwarf invented instantaneously.

"You are a liar."

The Dwarf stared at the sparrow. He stared back, reptilian eyes betraying only a hint of humanity. There was silence, and then, "I will not join this war. It is foolery. Leave."

"I'm afraid I cannot do that." The Dwarf drew his crossbow.

The bird eyed him critically, then laughed once more. "And what will that achieve?"

The Dwarf opened his mouth to reply, but before this was possible, there was a great screech, and Jack had bounded off his perch. He loosed the bolt, but it soared over the bird and hit the wall behind him.

Then there were talons, sharp little claws in his face. The screeching would not stop when he punched the bird, nor when he hit it with the crossbow. Still, the incessant clawing and screeching.

Finally, with another punch and a resounding smack, the bird fell flat on its back in front of him. He drew the net, but swiftly the bird drew its dagger, holding it in its beak, and jumped up, slicing at his foot. Only the thick leather protected Fléin.

But the bird must have been tired of the effort - he was scurrying rather than flying, and occasionally tumbling most ignobly over the ground.

In the end, Fléin stepped on him.