The War Of The Lance (16 page)

Like a taunting, contemptuous message, hanging in the air, waiting for her to hear it, it
was there. Flame Searclaw's voice, from far away. A chuckle of evil mirth, and words.

“So they still possess you,” it said. “The least among the least, they search for their
heritage. And Verden Leafglow is their slave. How marvelous. There is an answer to your
riddle, though.”

“Continue.” Verden Leafglow sneered mentally. “You have my attention.”

“Destiny,” the non-voice snickered. “A Highbulp of destiny. And one such as you to guide
him. How exquisite.”

Verden growled in fury, but listened.

“Xak Tsaroth,” the dragon voice said. “Xak Tsaroth is a suitable Promised Place. Xak
Tsaroth. The Pitt. They belong there. Let the Pitt be their destiny. And delivering them
to such a place, at such a time, is your reward.”

With a final chuckle of deep, taunting amusement, the voice of Flame Searclaw repeated,
“Xak Tsaroth . . . the Pitt . . .” and faded.

Xak Tsaroth. Soaring on wide wings, Verden looked down at the Highbulp Glitch I, pressed
to her breast. The little twit had, of course, heard none of it. He was sound asleep. Xak
Tsaroth. Despite her hatred of Flame Searclaw and the murderous rage she felt toward him,
an evil delight grew in Verden. Her reward, indeed. She knew what was in Xak Tsaroth.
There could be no finer revenge on the gully dwarves than to deliver them there. Others of
their kind were there . . . enslaved, abused and at the mercy of draconians. These should
join them.

The idea was very sweet to her.

Verden Leafglow had returned to the combined clans by the time they awakened. Like a
great, serpentine pillar of brilliant emerald, she towered above them. Her vast wings were
radiant in the morning sun and her formidable fangs alight in her dragon mouth. Little
Highbulp seemed a ragged doll clenched at her breast. Huge and malevolent, Verden Leafglow
loomed over the puny creatures - and shuddered with revulsion when one of them tripped
sleepily over her toe.

Without ceremony, she rousted them out and told them, “I have found your Promised Place.
Get a move on, and I'll take you there.”

“No hurry,” Glitch squirmed in her grasp. “This place not bad This Place. Maybe stay here
a while, then go.”

“We go now,” she hissed. Gandy squinted up at her. “Where is Promised Place?” “Xak
Tsaroth.” “Bless dragon,” Minna said. “What?” “Dragon sneeze.” "I did not sneeze! I never
sneeze. I said, 'Xak

Tsaroth'.“ ”Bless dragon,“ Minna repeated. ”Where Promised

Place?"

Verden shook her head as though insects were tormenting her. “The Pitt,” she said.

All around her, gully dwarves glanced at one another with real interest. “That sound
pretty good,” several decided.

“Sound all right,” Glitch conceded. “Maybe think 'bout that, day or so, then . . .”

“SHUT UP!” Verden roared. “WE GO NOW!”

Never before - as far as anyone who might have cared knew - had gully dwarves traveled as
fast or as purposefully as the combined clans of Bulp traveled during the following two
days. It was a nearly exhausted band that gathered by evening's light to gaze on Xak
Tsaroth. They stood at the top of a high, sheared slope above shadowed depths, and looked
out at distant crags beyond which were the waters of Newsea.

“The Promised Place,” Verden Leafglow told them. “I have brought you here, as I promised.
I have kept my word.”

“Promised Place?” The Highbulp squinted around. “Where?”

“Down there,” Verden pointed downward with a deadly, eloquent talon. “The Pitt.” Not
gently, she set Glitch down and said, “This is it. Now cough up my stone.”

Tagg crept to the edge and looked down. It was a slope of sheer rock, a vertiginous
incline that dropped away into shadows far below. “Wow,” he said.

The Highbulp only glanced into the depths, then turned away, an arrogant, scheming grin on
his face. “Prob'ly not it,” he decided. “Nope, prob'ly not Promised Place. Better try
again.” With a casual wave of his hand, he added, “Dragon dis - dismiss for now. Highbulp
send for you when need you.”

It was just too much for Verden Leaf glow. She had taken more than she could stand.
“Dismissed? You imbecilic little twit, you dismiss we? Rats!”

Gully dwarves backpedaled all around her, tumbling over one another. Some went over the
edge, sliding and rolling away toward the shadowed depths. Others turned to watch them go.
“They really movin',” someone said. “That steep.” “Smooth, though,” another noted. “Good
slide.”

“RATS!” Verden roared again, exasperated beyond reason and reverting to the vernacular of
her charges. “RATS!” Annoyed beyond control, she aimed a swat at Glitch. The Highbulp
dodged aside, ducked . . . and belched. Something shot from his mouth, to bounce to a stop
at Verden's foot. She scooped it up. It was her self- stone. She had it back, intact.

“Rats,” Gandy said, realizing that the good times were over.

“That right,” the Highbulp remembered, snapping his fingers. “Rats, too. Dragon promise us
rats.”

“You . . . want. . . RATS?” The huge, dragon face lowered itself, nose to nose with the
little Highbulp. “You want rats? Very well. You shall have rats.”

Closing her eyes, she murmured a spell, and her dragon-senses heard the scurrying of tiny
things in the distance - sounds below sound that grew in volume as they came closer.

The gully dwarves heard it then, too, and stared about in wonder. The sounds grew, seeming
to come from everywhere. Then there were little, dark shadows arrowing toward them,
emerging from crevices, coming over rises and up gullies - dozens, then hundreds, then
thousands of small, scurrying things, homing in on them. Rats. A leaping, bounding,
flowing tide of rats.

“Wow,” Tagg murmured.

“Lotta rats,” Minna concurred. “Gonna make lotta stew, for sure.”

Clout, never one to be concerned with details, brandished his bashing tool and prepared to
deal with dinner.

Gandy, though, took a different view of the matter, “Too much rats,” he started. “Way too
much rats for . . .”

The tidal wave of rats swept around them, under them, over them - and carried them with
it. A second later, Verden Leafglow stood alone on the ledge, looking down at a slope
awash with rats and gully dwarves, all gathering momentum on their way to Xak Tsaroth,
buried city within the Pitt.

As they disappeared into shadows, her dragon eyes picked out details: Tagg and Minna hand
in hand, their hair blowing around them; old Gandy flailing his mop handle as he tried to
maintain his balance at great speed;

Clout busily swatting rats and gathering up their corpses; and the Highbulp - Glitch I was
rolling, tumbling downward, a flailing tangle of arms, legs and whipping beard, and his
panicked voice rose above the others.

“Make way!” he shouted. “Get outta way! Highbulp on a roll!”

Somehow, even disappearing into the depths and the shadows - and the unsuspected horrors -
of the ancient, lost city that was his destination and his destiny, Glitch I, Highbulp by
Persuasion and Lord Protector of Lots of Places - including, now, the Promised Place -
still managed to sound arrogant.

This is a Gnome Story. Such stories turn up now and again, around hearths and over cups of
mulled wine. The talespinner of a proper Gnome Story should always state at the outset
that his is a story of the gnomish type, so that the listeners are not surprised by that
which follows. The Lower Planes hold no fury compared to that of an intent and dutiful
audience that suddenly discovers they are trapped in a Gnome Story, with no escape other
than the bodily expulsion of the talespinner. Heads have been broken, families split
asunder, empires uprooted, and all because of an unannounced Gnome Story.

This is a Gnome Story then, and that in itself is considered fair and proper warning. And
it is a Gnome Story because it deals with, to a great degree, gnomes.

Gnomes, you see, have the boundless curiosity of men, but lack the limitation of sense,
the directness of thought, or the wisdom to control this curiosity. This disposition makes
gnomes a vital part of talespinning, as much as the country fool who proves to be the
wisest person of the party, or the holy man who arrives at the last minute to resolve all
the characters' problems. In a similar fashion, gnomes - with their insatiable curiosity,
their gleeful cleverness, and their perseverance through frequent (and dramatic) failure -
serve as a guiding light, a beacon for other races. In holding up their failings, their
ramshackle inventions and plots, we see more than a little of

ourselves, and consider ourselves cautioned against their excesses. So gnomes have an
important place in the universe (at least fictionally), such that if gnomes did not exist,
they would demand to be invented, and nothing short of another gnome could invent such a
concept.

Fortunately for all, they do exist.

This, then, is a Gnome Story, with all of its vantages, AD and DIS. It is an odd tale, in
that it tells the story of a gnome who succeeds, a gnome who creates a most wondrous
thing. But that is getting ahead of the tale.

Gnome Stories usually begin with the talespinner speaking of some outsider stumbling onto
the hidden land of the gnomes. The idea of a hidden land of the gnomes is usually an
artistic “cheat,” a stretching of the imagination, since there are very few places more
noisy, smoky, smelly, and downright noticeable than a gnome community. Incontinent
volcanos or a week-long reunion of gully dwarves would run a close second or third, and,
like a cluster of volcanoes or gaggle of gully dwarves, a gnome community is generally
well-noted by its neighbors and left alone. It is, therefore, remote from the rest of
civilization, but at civilization's behest.

This particular gnome community - this talespinner must assure you - was an extremely
noisy place, resounding with the clang of hammers, the hiss of escaping steam, and the
occasional explosion. The louder the gnomes, the more remote their home, and this was a
most remote location indeed. So remote that the events of the outside world - the return
of dragons, the coming of the Highlords and heroes, the war and all manner of destruction
- passed this place by. In short, it was the perfect place to be an outsider, since there
was much more outside than inside.

The outsider in question was not the standard singular found in most Gnome Stories, but
rather two, a doubleton of strangers, a windfall in terms of Gnome Stories. These
strangers had two things in common: they were from outside this village of gnomes - yes,
that's true - but more important, they were first found sprawled in awkward but
comfortable-looking positions on the ground, next to a large, formerly leather-winged
form. Said form had earlier been a dragon, but was now little more than an open buffet for
the local scavengers.

The outsiders were both alive, however. One was a warrior wrapped head to toe in dark
armor, while the other was softer, plumper, unarmored, dressed in tattered finery and
bound firmly at the wrists and ankles. The warrior was a woman, though this was not
immediately apparent from her armor; the one in ragged finery was a man. For gnomes,
gender is as unimportant as eye color or taste in music, but since these are HUMAN
outsiders, it will become important. More on that later, because the gnome had finally
arrived on the scene to survey the damage. And this is a Gnome Story.

It was a gnome named Kalifirkinshibirin who discovered the comfortably sprawled outsiders
outside (of course) his village. Kalifirkinshibirin (or Kali, shortening further a name
already truncated due to space) was a smallish gnome, whose hobbies included
spoon-collecting and putting dried flowers under glass. He also had what passed for
healing skill, being versed in some natural poultices and potions that had the unique
advantage (among gnomes) of not killing his patients outright.

Kali was gathering ingredients for said potions and poultices in that particular field on
that particular morning, and so, it fell to him to discover those particular remains of
that particular dragon, and the outsiders resting comfortably nearby. He was definitely
not in the field because he was looking for new discoveries to be made, new revelations to
be revealed, or new objects to muck about with. Kali was, to put it delicately, different
from his fellows.

No, better to strip away the kindness of language and face this straight out. Kali was a
queer duck among his people. Most gnomes live to invent. They have fives, even tens of
projects in the works at the same time, one often spilling into another at random. Gnomes
see the world as inherently wrong (not an unpopular sentiment), but gnomes differ from the
rest of the universe in that they believe it is their job to set matters right. That's why
they invent - continually, relentlessly, and explosively - all manner of gimcracks and
snapperdoodles and thingamabobs. It's the thing that gnomes just naturally do, like
breathing or taking tea.

But Kali didn't have that same sort of drive as his fellows. He was pretty content in
doing what he was doing

with potions and plants and poultices to relieve the occasional outbreak of flu or bad
colds. He had his spoons/of course;

inscribed with wildflowers, legendary heroes, and mythical animals (which was how he
recognized the dragon, by the by), but none of them were mechanical in the least. He kept
plans for a solar-powered lighthouse about his parlor - for appearances - but he hadn't
added to them in years.

In short, Kali was an underachiever. (This was not a criminal offense to Kali's fellow
gnomes - they tended to be understanding about it. Indeed, the fact that Kali's healing
methods would not vary from week to week did something for his reputation as a healer).

In any event, it was Kali who found the outsiders. He determined they were within the
bounds of “still breathing,” and dragged the armored and unarmored forms back to his house
in the village. (This is important, for it would make these outsiders - by custom - Kali's
salvage and Kali's responsibility.) By the time he brought the second one (the unarmored,
plumper, male one) back, a small crowd of his fellow gnomes had gathered about his front
porch. They were armed with all manner of fearful- looking devices, and a sharp gleam
shone in each and every eye.

To an outsider (particularly a human outsider), these gnomes would appear to be a horde of
evil torturers prepared to initiate a cruel inquisition, but Kali recognized that these
were merely his fellow inventors. The devices were hastily-assembled inventions that would
straighten a leg, lance an infection, or immobilize a thrashing patient (the last
invention was a necessity for experimental surgery). The gleam that seemed so evil was
only the heartfelt and honest lust that every gnome feels when one of his inventions might
prove useful.

To an outsider, though, the gleam would look undoubtedly and understandably malicious, and
the size and number of sharp edges on the devices would tend to intensify said doubt. Were
the two outsiders healthy, they would not walk into this apparently dangerous realm
without at least a dozen more of their kind, and with a healthy reward promised on the
other side.

Kali was dragging the large, plumper figure onto his

porch when he found his way blocked. The first outsider, the armored one, had awakened and
now stood tottering in the doorway. She looked dangerous and tall, and while the last word
could be attributed to all humans by all gnomes, this one looked taller still, swaying in
her blood-colored leather boots like an improperly planted pine in the first windstorm of
spring. The impressive nature of this outsider was further enhanced by the mass of her
armor, and the great horns that rose from her helm like the misplaced pincers of some
irate beetle.

The gathered gnomes set up a sigh of disappointment. Apparently, her injuries were not
serious.

The woman unlatched the toggles on her helmet and removed it, revealing a sharp, angry
face cradled in a scarf of blood-red hair. Swaying as though the ground were on unsteady
terms with her, she scowled, then bellowed in a wavering voice, “You are all to surrender
or - ”

She did not provide another option, for the weight of her words unbalanced her and she
crumbled neatly in the doorway. It was obvious to all that she had suffered greater damage
than initially thought. She needed help.

The gathered gnomes were ecstatic.

The pair of humans - armored and unarmored, female and male, soldier and well . . . the
male was dressed like a merchant, mage, or alchemist - rested in Kali's house for five
feverish days. Neither was strong enough to wake, take food, or make demands. The
man-merchant slept the dreamless sleep of the dead, while the woman-warrior shuddered with
fits that brought her half-waking into the pain of this world. During this time, Kali was
forced to convince more than one of his gnomish compatriots that a newly invented device -
such as the one to bore a small hole in the forehead to witness their dreams - was
unnecessary, and proceeded to work his own craft upon them. Kali's craft was healing, and
he was quite good at it... as gnomes go.

On the morning of the sixth day, Kali awoke to find the tip of a sword at his throat. This
was a surprise because he normally kept such things as swords in a large glass case marked
“SWORDS” in the other room. Not surprisingly, given the location of the sword, the woman-
warrior was at the opposite end. Kali had restrained the pair in their sleep, so they
would not hurt themselves in a

violent dream, but he had made their shackles of loose cloth.

Too loose. “Surrender or die,” she hissed. Kali gave careful (and rapid) thought to his
options,

and asked her what she wanted for breakfast. The news of Kali's surrender to the awakened
outsider

moved through the village like the fiery results of a failed chemical experiment.

(In Gnome Stories the outsider always declares [him- or] herself master of the land, and
the gnomes always agree. Some uncharitable souls say this is because the gnomes are
stalling while they gleefully plan their revenge. In reality, gnome tribes are truly
interested in learning as much as possible from newcomers, and will try to make them
happy. If surrendering is what the outsider wants, it is a small price to pay as long as
the outsider remains. So it was in this case.)

Soon, a horde of short but passionate individuals queued up outside Kali's house, each
seeking to surrender to the awakened woman-warrior, who was breakfasting within on
blueberry muffins and sausage. Some gnomes wrote long poems, others recited longer
declarations of allegiance, while still others attempted to surrender by mime, juggling
sparklers so they would not be ignored in favor of those declaring and rhyming. Some few
brought swords to beat into plowshares, though these arrived last, since they had to beat
the plowshares into swords in the first place (and indeed, many of the swords had a
distinct plowsharish look to them).

Rather than being pleased, the woman-warrior (the gnomes were already calling her Outsider
A and her companion Outsider B in their journals) seemed threatened by this outpouring of
mass poetry, oratory, and mime. Indeed, a huge collection of small people shouting and
waving, with others coming up behind bearing large plowsharish-looking swords would
unnerve any stern general unschooled in gnomecraft. Unfortunately the woman-warrior
reacted like a typical human, and charged into a disaster of her own making.

She strode out onto the porch to order the gnomes to scatter. The sight of her was enough
to inspire a mass shout from the crowd. She, in turn - thinking that an attack

was imminent - brandished her sword. The gnomes surged forward, each intent on
surrendering first. The startled outsider backed into the doorway, feinted at the crowd
with her sword, then rapidly backed up again . . .

. . . And toppled backward over a cast iron boot-holder Kali kept by the door (for cast
iron boots). Woman and sword went boots over boots with a resounding crash. She was soon
resting comfortably on the floor again, with a small bruise on the top of her head.

Kali shooed his friends, family, and fellow inventors out of the entranceway and, with a
sigh, returned to his healing craft (which he was quite good at ... as gnomes go). Her
weapons and armor he hid in a back room, since twice now the warrior had become most
unwell after using them.

The warrior-woman would awake two days later, but in the meantime the other outsider,
Outsider B, awoke, though with less spectacular effects. He merely wondered what was for
breakfast, and, though it was noon, Kali set his clock back six hours in order to be
accommodating.

Outsider B, who astounded the surrendering gnomes by informing them his name was Oster,
seemed a bit befuddled, but less violent, when the herd of half-sized humans humbugged and
mimed their absolute fealty to him. Then the assembled gnomes ran home to cross out
“Outsider B” and write “Oster” in their journals. Oster went inside to have breakfast and
dined pleasantly as the sound of erasers ripping through thin paper resounded through the
village.