by Peter David
“We were of the land, and we lived off it, and we knew every square inch of it. No forest, no desert, no stream, no island, nowhere in the whole of Albion did not have its share of gnome population.
“And then, slowly but surely, humanity rose. First a few, then more, spreading like ants at a feast. Your kind had no appreciation for nature, no appreciation for the wonders that Albion had to offer. You mined metals and turned them into weapons. You tapped into the core forces of magic and turned that into weapons. You had no interest in living in peace with the whole of Albion. Instead, you and yours were interested in only one thing: conflict.
“You rail against the horrors that plague you? You brought those all on yourself. Hobbes, balverines, every unholy creature in the land, all of them arose from your kind setting the delicate balance of Albion off-kilter.
“And we tried to warn you, we gnomes did. We kept telling humanity to get out. We tried to drive you away so that we could save the land. We shouted at you, we insulted you, we harassed you, and you wouldn’t take the hint. None of you would take the hint. Instead . . .” And there was actual emotion in his voice besides anger. He sounded grief-stricken. “Instead, you hunted us like we were animals. You pursued us, you shot us, you treated us like pests and vermin, like creatures that had no right to live.
“Finally, only the best, the most clever of us had managed to survive, and we were not as easy pickings as our brethren. We were exceptional at hiding, nearly impossible to find if we so chose. We could likely have survived indefinitely.
“And then came a magic user, probably one of the most formidable who ever lived. His name is unknown, a closely guarded secret since names have power and he wasn’t about to give that away. He took it upon himself to end the ‘menace’ of the annoying gnomes in one stroke.”
“He cast a spell on you,” I said. It was the first time I had spoken since he had started his narrative. I wasn’t able to help myself; I had just blurted it out when I realized.
My having done so might well have prompted the gnome to stop talking or instead go back to lobbing insults. Instead, he simply stopped walking, turned, and looked at me with a combination of bitterness and sorrow. I pulled lightly on the reins, bringing Clash to a halt.
“Yes,” said the gnome. “There were fifty of us remaining, and he transformed us into stone statues. He might well have had a simple death spell at his disposal and instead decided to be ‘merciful.’ ” The gnome spat on the ground. “That for his ‘mercy.’ We were paralyzed in stone forms, able to see the world but do nothing to interact with it. How was that merciful? You tell me.”
He genuinely seemed to want to know. I had no answer, so I simply shrugged and shook my head.
“You’re silent. By choice,” said the gnome. “We had no choice. Generations of humans came and went. Industrialization arose, choking our beloved Albion to death by inches, a practice that continues to this day. And we watched, helplessly, hopelessly.
“And then, not long ago, some idiot broke the spell. He didn’t even know he was doing it. But he did, and he released us, and we scattered to all corners of Albion. But our hold on our existence is tenuous; a single bullet is enough to return us to our paralyzed state. But not me,” said the gnome heatedly. “I’m not going to go back to being a stone statue, nursing my hatred for humanity even as I watch you walking about with all the freedom that my brethren and I have been denied for so long. That won’t be me. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” I said, and I truly did.
He glared at me. “You’re feeling sorry for me, aren’t you? Don’t you dare. I don’t need your pity. I don’t want your pity. If you keep looking at me with your pity, I’m going to wait until you’re asleep, and I’ll tear your throat out with my teeth, and I don’t care if that means I can’t keep tormenting you. Your type comes ten to the shilling.”
I couldn’t entirely say that he was wrong. As absurd as it might sound, I suddenly felt ashamed on behalf of the entirety of my race.
But I wasn’t going to say that. I reasoned that all the gnome would do was throw back into my face any show of guilt or contrition.
How bizarre it was that in telling me the story of his history, it would cause me to think of the annoying creature as something other than . . . well, an annoying creature.
The first step in committing all the greatest crimes of humanity typically involved dehumanizing your opponents. Easier to kill them or dispose of them if you felt they didn’t have the same inherent right to live that you had. How much easier, of course, to dehumanize things when they’re actually not human.
I had no reason to feel guilty. It wasn’t as if I had ever shot one of the stupid things. I’d only met the one, and he was safe in my presence despite his best efforts to get me to plant a bullet between his eyes.
“Well,” the gnome said impatiently. “Do you have anything to say?”
I hesitated, unsure if anything would be accomplished by my saying what was going through my mind. Then, mentally, I shrugged. “I lost every member of my family, some to people possessing the same sort of evil mind-set that endorsed the wholesale slaughter of gnomes. I’d like to say that we’ve changed as a race, but we haven’t. I’d like to say that we treat each other better than we treated the gnomes, but we don’t. I’d like to say I’m sorry for what happened to you, but I doubt it will mean much of anything, especially considering I wasn’t responsible for any of it. So I suppose the only thing I can say is that I know how you feel.”
The gnome appeared to be considering that; and then, in a surprisingly calm voice, he said, “You know how I kept saying you were a girl?”
“Yes.”
“I was wrong.”
“Well,” I said, feeling that at last we were getting somewhere, “thank you for—”
“You’re a full-grown woman. If you were any more of a woman, your teats would be oozing milk right now. In fact, maybe they are. Give ’em a squeeze, see what happens. I think I even see spots. Might want to change your shirt.”
“—nothing,” I completed the thought. “Thank you for nothing.”
“Always glad to give it to you.”
At that point the notion of all the gnomes being transformed into inanimate, unspeaking statues didn’t seem such a bad one.
Chapter 8
The Lair
I WASN’T AT ALL SURE WHAT I WAS EXPECTING as we rode through the night and the following day in pursuit of my brother and his hordes. Perhaps a trail that would take us into the mountains, sorting through caves where they might have their den. Perhaps deeper and deeper into the forest, where they might have some manner of encampment. Sooner or later, I anticipated that we would have to leave the road we were following and track the creatures down to their hidden lair.
Yet the gnome continued to take us down the one path, never deviating. Once or twice I worked up the resolve to say, “Are you quite certain about this?” My reward for such uncertainty was invariably a torrent of abuse, so I stopped asking in short order.
Eventually, we did indeed depart the main road, heading off onto a side road that seemed specifically built to take us to a particular destination. By that I mean that the more popular and heavily traversed roads, such as the one we’d been on, was wider and you could see the evidence of the many people who used it. The road was more cracked, and there were potholes and such that had developed through the course of time.
The side road, by contrast, was narrower and not intended to be a through road to some major destination, such as another town. Instead, as near as I could determine, it had been specifically constructed to provide easy accessibility to travelers and visitors bound for a specific private destination on the other end.
The construction of such a road was typically reserved for the more well-to-do; only they could afford the expense of such an endeavor. But that led to an entirely new set of questions. Were these creatures on some sort of new invasion course? Or was someone of wealth providing a haven
for them and, perhaps, even funding them?
I stopped several times along the way to attend to the needs of both the horse and myself insofar as water, food, and other necessities that living bodies required. I noticed that the gnome did not bother to partake of water from the flowing stream I had located. When I offered to share some of the meager bread and dried meat that I’d grabbed for supplies, he merely gave me another of his standard contemptuous looks.
“Do you not require sustenance of any sort? Do you sleep? Do you even breathe?” I asked at one point.
“My needs are my own and no concern of yours,” he said.
“Fine. Whatever you say.”
“If it were truly whatever I said, you’d have been long dead by now.”
I couldn’t argue with that logic.
I was fully prepared for the notion that, at any point, the creatures—either led by my brother or operating independently of him—might assail me en route. I was not sanguine about the likelihood that I would survive such an encounter. On the other hand, I had little doubt the gnome would come through it just fine. As for Clash, his fate was entwined with mine. I had to hope that his future was not misplaced in my hand.
The sun was beginning to drift toward the horizon when the trees parted and I saw a vast, nearly palatial mansion in the distance. I reined up and simply stared at it, trying to make some determination about it and not readily coming up with anything worthwhile.
“Are we going to sit here?” said the irritable gnome. “Or are we going to ride headlong into your inevitable death? If it’s the latter, let’s get a move on.”
“To what point and purpose?” I shot back. “This is a situation that calls for stealth. If you’re going to be following me about, endeavoring to get me killed by drawing attention to my presence, how am I to make my approach unobserved?”
“That is hardly my problem. You should have thought of that before you embarked upon this mad adventure.”
Any empathy I might have had for him earlier was rapidly dissolving in a wave of utter frustration with his attitude.
“You talk a good game, you know. Too bad it’s no more than that.”
He tilted his head, studying me with suspicion. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
I studied him for a moment, then leaned toward him in a position that, had we been simply two men, would have been regarded as a gesture of sharing a confidence. “Listen. I could be trying to play mental games with you by now. Trying to come up with schemes that anticipate your reactions and allow for twisting them to my benefit. Instead, I’m simply going to tell you what I’m thinking.”
“You’re thinking? Could have fooled me.” Yet even as he said it, there was something in his tone that indicated to me that I had at least engaged his attention.
“When I say you talk a good game, I mean that you spend all your time wishing death on humans.”
“Not all my time. I also insult them and cast aspersions on their gender worthiness.”
“True, but you’ll have to allow that, at the very least, the majority of your imprecations involve death. Yes?”
“Yessss,” he said with obvious reluctance. Again I could see the mild intrigue in his face.
“The fact is that humanity has been vicious and cruel to you and yours. You’d like to see humans die, but you never actually do anything about it. You just sit around hoping and predicting that it will happen. Wouldn’t you like, just for once, to get your hands dirty? Really get in there and cause some serious human deaths?”
“What are you going on about?” He was trying to maintain his attitude, but he was having trouble doing so. Curiosity was clearly getting the better of him.
“Assuming that you’ve been truthful with me in guidance, then my brother and his fellow whatever-theyares are in residence there. I doubt that they would simply have taken over that mansion out of their own fancy. The chances are that whoever wrought this transformation upon my brother is also in residence there.”
“Aye. So?”
“So”—and I had a carefully maintained grim expression upon my face—“I’m going to go in there, and I’m going to find whoever did this. At which point one of two things is going to happen. Either the person responsible is going to tell me that he cannot restore my brother, in which event I will kill him for what he has done. Or he will indeed restore my brother, in which event I will kill him so that he can never do it again. And I have every reason to suppose that he will have guards or henchmen or such who will try to stand in my way. I will attempt subterfuge where I can in order to get as close to the villain as possible, but I rather imagine that I will be killing a number of his minions along the way. And I could use your help in doing so. You can either kill them directly or else aid me in doing so.”
He caught his breath, his eyes wide with excitement.
I had him on the hook. All I had to do was reel him in.
“Now I’ll grant you, you could of course betray me at the first opportunity. Call attention to me, work at cross-purposes, and make certain that my life is forfeit. At which point you’ll be directly responsible for one death: mine. But think of all the people whose lives you could end. Think of the vengeance you could inflict. I could be your weapon against humanity, at least for this endeavor. It’s your decision, of course. At least do me the courtesy of telling me which way you’re going to go.”
I then leaned back, folded my arms, and waited. The gesture was for show only, though, because I knew of a certainty what he was going to say.
“We,” said the gnome with a snarl of pure pleasure, “have an accord.”
I stuck my hand out. He stared at it as if it belonged to a leper.
“Don’t get full of yourself. I still hate you. I just hate larger numbers of you more,” he said.
“Understood. I can work with that.”
Having come to what could only be termed a meeting of minds with my unwanted but possibly useful companion, it was simply a matter of determining the best way to gain entrance into the mansion. I considered a variety of stealthy endeavors and finally discarded them all. If you were apprehended sneaking around a mansion, only feeble excuses could be provided. If, instead, you acted as if you were supposed to be precisely there, or at least thought you were, that left you some latitude.
So, bold as brass, I sat astride Clash and rode straight toward the front door of the mansion. There were no guards or any such policing the grounds, but that didn’t necessarily mean anything. People who are insecure oftentimes post guards in plain sight in order to try and keep intruders away. Basically you wind up showing your hand right up front. Those of a stronger disposition prefer to keep their resources closer to the vest. That way you boldly plunge into a situation and only discover that you’re in over your head once it’s too late to do anything about it.
My riding toward the mansion with no one attempting to impede my way meant one of two things. Either the individual in residence couldn’t afford the extra hands to serve as guards. Or he was one of those utterly confident, close-to-the-vest fellows to whom I’d just alluded. The way things in my life tended to go, I was reasonably certain it was going to be the latter.
The gnome sat perched upon the horse’s hindquarters. Clash wasn’t ecstatic about the small creature being in such close proximity. Every so often, the stallion would cast a glance rearward that could only be described as baleful. The gnome didn’t seem to notice, and I doubt he would have cared even if he had. He was too busy chortling to himself and muttering about death and humans. It seemed to me that he was entirely too enthusiastic about the prospect of leaving a body count behind in this endeavor, but it was already too late to do anything about that.
I dismounted upon reaching the mansion and tied off Clash’s reins to a hitching post. The gnome hopped off as well. A large pair of ornate oaken double doors stood closed in front of us. I gestured for the gnome to climb into the eaves just above the door. He did so with a single leap, which I found rather imp
ressive. He was certainly an agile little bugger.
Walking up to the door, I took in a deep breath, let it out slowly, and knocked as if I had every reason to be there. The knock echoed within. A few moments later, I heard the sound of approaching footsteps, and the door creaked open. A man stood there in a dark suit. He had a self-important air about him. He looked me up and down, apparently unimpressed by my fairly simple clothing and the dirt that I had accumulated from a vicious battle followed by hours upon hours of traveling. “May I help you?” he said with the attitude of one who wasn’t interested in helping at all.
I squared my shoulders, and said with an imperious tone, “I’m here to see Mr. Zack.”
“We have no one here by that name.” He started to close the door in my face, clearly feeling that nothing more needed to be said.
I put up a hand and placed it firmly against the door, preventing it from closing. He looked at my hand with a manner so incredulous that I could not have prompted a bigger reaction if I’d sprouted a third eye. Naturally, I would have been astounded if there actually had been a Zack there; I had pulled the name out of thin air. There was no reason to tell him that, though. “This is where I was told Mr. Zack’s mansion was.”
“You were misinformed.”
I stared at him with an air of danger. “My mother told me this is where it was. Are you calling my mother a liar? Are you insulting my mother, sir?”
“Of course not,” said the doorman, rattled. “I do not know your mother . . .”
“You don’t know her, I suppose, in the same way that you supposedly don’t know Mr. Zack. Look”—and I tried to sound sympathetic to his concerns—“I know you’re reluctant to admit that he’s here. After all he’s done, if I were him, I would want to keep a low profile as well.”
“Sir”—and he was speaking slowly, as if to an imbecile—“with all respect to you and without having the slightest intention of defaming your mother, I must inform you that whatever you have been led to believe, it is inaccurate. This is not the domicile of one Mr. Zack; nor has he, to the best of my knowledge, ever resided here.”