Fenzig's Fortune_A Gnome's Tale

by Jean Rabe

  The man let out a howl and pushed himself off Carmella, jumped to his feet and whirled to face the gnome—who now had both sentries to contend with. Weaponless, as his borrowed knife was firmly lodged in the tall man’s leg, the gnome shifted back and forth on the balls of his feet, watching both men and trying to keep out of their reach.

  “Wee-one!” the tall sentry swore. “Mine’ll be the hand to kill you!” His eyes were narrowed in pain, but he did nothing to remove the offending knife. Instead, he flourished his own weapon. “Harrold! See to Lady Rehmir! Finish her!”

  She was moaning, coming around. His companion grunted something in reply, and placed a foot on Carmella’s stomach, keeping her pinned to the floor.

  “Don’t hurt her,” Fenzig warned. “Don’t you dare hurt her!”

  The tall sentry chuckled. “Hurt her? We’ll kill her. Earlier than planned. Too bad you won’t be able to watch. You’ll already be dead.” With that he led with his left leg and slashed at the gnome. It was a feint, though Fenzig didn’t know it. The gnome moved to the right—into the path of the second jab. The knife bit deep into his shoulder, and he cried out. “Kill you slowly,” the sentry hissed. “Wee bit by wee bit. Feed you to the rats.”

  “I hate rats!” Fenzig spat. The gnome reached up and felt his shoulder, already sodden with blood. The ache raced down from his shoulder to his fingers, which were starting to grow numb. “And I’ve no intention of filling their bellies! Not to satisfy the likes of you!” This time when the sentry lunged, the gnome was ready. He skittered back a step, then crouched and sprung, leaping at the startled human who was bending down to slash at him again.

  Fenzig clutched at the sentry’s tabard, just below the man’s chin, holding on for his life. The guard used his free hand to tear at the gnome, while his weapon hand moved in for the kill. The gnome saw the blade flash in the lantern light, released the cloth just in time and dropped a few inches. Then he swept his small hands up to grab the man’s wrist and drove them forward and down, using his descending weight to angle the blade into the human’s stomach.

  The sentry’s eyes widened in surprise as the blade slid in, and he fell backward, landing near Carmella and driving the blade behind him all the way through his leg. His scream cut through the air, threatening to be heard in the palace above, and Fenzig pushed the knife in his stomach in deeper, ending the man’s cries. Then the gnome struggled to his feet only to be sent careening against the stairwell wall.

  Harrold had moved off Carmella, was turning his attention to Fenzig now. His eyes gleamed evilly, like the craven cats’ eyes had gleamed in the Haunted Woods.

  “Murderous thief!” he softly swore. “I’ll gut you. I’ll . . . .” He stopped, as if standing at attention. Carmella stood behind him, the knife she had pulled free from his companion’s stomach was pressed against his back.

  “You’ll not kill anyone today,” she said. The words were ragged, separated by deep breaths. Her struggle with the pair had winded her. “Are you all right, Fenzig?”

  The gnome edged away from the wall, keeping his eyes on Harrold, and risking a glance to make sure the other sentry was truly dead. “Not exactly,” he said, holding his hand over his bleeding shoulder. He was covered with blood—his own and the dead sentry’s. “But I could be worse.” He steadied himself, reached out to hold Carmella’s skirt for support. The gnome felt faint. Maybe from loss of blood, he thought, or maybe from getting his chest and stomach being beat so against the steps, or maybe from getting thrown against the wall a moment ago. Maybe the reason didn’t matter. He shook his head to clear it, but that only made matters worse. The back of his head ached terribly, competed with the pain in his shoulder and arm.

  Carmella warily bent, pressed the knife into Fenzig’s good hand, and instructed the gnome to watch Harrold. Then she ripped strips from her dress and used them to tie the sentry’s wrists and ankles. Another strip was stuffed into his mouth as a gag. When she was finished, she shoved him against the wall, made him slide down it until he was sitting. Then she ripped one more strip and turned to the gnome.

  “Let me help,” she offered, pressing the fabric against his wound.

  He cried out from the pressure. “That’s not helping,” he gasped.

  “We’ve got to stop the blood,” she returned. “Here, hold this, press it hard.”

  The gnome sucked in his bottom lip and complied while she tore more of her dress. The once beautiful gown was in tatters, filthy from the stone floor, and tore up to her knees. “Didn’t like the color anyway,” she said, picking up on his thoughts with her necklace. “It was one of Ruthe’s castoffs.”

  She returned to fussing over him, fashioning a makeshift bandage and sling, then prodding him here and there. “I think you’ve broken a couple of ribs,” she said finally. “And that knife cut is pretty deep. One of my father’s healers upstairs will mend you.” She glanced up the stairs.

  “Later,” Fenzig croaked. “The healer can look at me later. We’ve got to figure out what’s going on, get to the dungeon.”

  “You’re hurt. Bad.”

  “I’ll be dead, bad. You, too, maybe, if we don’t. . . .”

  “All right, but let’s hurry,” she said. “And let’s start by quizzing this man.”

  She tugged the gag free and met Harrold’s icy stare. “My father would never condone guards attacking his daughter and a treasured guest.”

  Treasured guest, Fenzig thought. I like the sound of that.

  “Ketterhagen? Is he pulling your strings? Is the old general trying some sly move?”

  The man sneered at her, worked up a mouthful of saliva and spat it, striking her cheek. She wiped it away and grabbed his throat. “Just because you won’t talk doesn’t mean you’re not telling me anything!” she retorted. “So it’s not Ketterhagen and it’s not my father giving you directions.” The man’s eyes grew wide with the understanding that she was pulling the thoughts from his head. “It’s a wizard. A stinking wizard. Well, where is this wizard, Harrold? Where?”

  Wizard? Fenzig had a bad feeling. I hate wizards.

  Harrold shook his head furiously, tried to think of anything but the wizard.

  “Upstairs? The wizard is upstairs, mingling with the guests, masquerading as a guest. Does he have a name Harrold? Does he?” She released his throat and moved back to stand next to Fenzig.

  “He has a name,” she told the gnome. “But the wizard’s successfully ensorceled this man, who used to be one of my father’s loyal sentries. He’s enspelled his mind, making him do his bidding—and part of that bidding is keeping the wizard’s identity secret.”

  “Do . . . do you think Erlgrane’s old wizard isn’t really dead? Could have pretended he was dead? Is he working to help Erlgrane even now?”

  Carmella shook her head in frustration. “I don’t know. It’s possible. If the wizard was powerful enough, I suppose he could’ve fooled us, made us think he was dead.”

  “Told your father we should have buried him,” Fenzig grumbled. “Then he’d be dead for certain.”

  “The old wizard certainly looked dead to me. But spells can do almost anything if the one who casts them is practiced enough, a true master. I wish I would’ve put more effort into magic, learned something useful, learned enough to. . . .”

  “So what do we do?”

  “We leave the guard here. I’m not going to get anymore out of him unless I use a spell to break down whatever spell’s holding his mind. And I’m not sure that’s worth the time or effort. I should save my energy in case. . . .”

  Keys?

  “Huh?”

  Does he have any keys on him?

  She knelt before the guard, checked him over carefully, shook her head.

  The other one.

  Carmella picked through the dead guard’s clothes, trying unsuccessfully to keep her hands from getting blood on them. “No keys.”

  Great. Ketterhagen must have them. And getting them from him is not an option I’ll con
sider. Or maybe the guards from the earlier shift. That’s out, too. So what do we do?

  “We go to the dungeon anyway, Fenzighan.”

  With no keys to get in the cells.

  “You’re a thief. You’re good at breaking in places. You’ll manage.” She shuddered. “The dungeon. It’s a place in all my years in my father’s palace I never visited.”

  You didn’t miss anything, Fenzig thought.

  “He rarely put anyone down there,” she continued. “Or so I believed.”

  Well, he’s there himself now . . . or at least a part of him is.

  “Can you remember the way?”

  I don’t think I’ll ever forget it.

  20

  Carmella’s Magic

  Fenzig retrieved his leather shoes, shaking them to chase out a family of spiders that had moved in during the brief time since he’d abandoned them.

  “Thought you didn’t like shoes.”

  Elayne got them for me. Expensive, huh? You were so busy with Gregory all night you didn’t notice that I even wore them to dinner.

  “There’s nothing wrong with Gregory. Jealous?”

  Of a human? Never.

  “But I thought you didn’t like them.”

  Gregory? Too early to pass judgment. But he seems a little too . . . perfect. Dotes on you too much.

  “Not Gregory. The shoes.”

  I don’t like shoes, either. But I like the filth on the floor down here a lot less. Hence, the shoes.

  The gnome moved slowly through the catacombs, not because he wasn’t sure where he was—which he wasn’t entirely, but because he felt so weak. He knew Carmella was chatting with him to keep his mind off his wound. But it wasn’t working. He hurt too much—all over—to ignore the pain. He was hurt seriously, he knew it. He knew he was going to need the help of one of the duke’s healers in the near future or he wasn’t going to have a future. And he knew that Carmella knew her banter wasn’t working to ease anything because she was wearing the damnable necklace that allowed no one to have any secrets.

  She followed him in silence for a while, walking slow to accommodate his pace and pausing here and there to scoot below a curtain of spiderwebs, which the gnome was short enough to walk under.

  “Are we lost, Fenzig?”

  We were for a while. I got turned around a bit, but we’re back on track. See? The corridor’s more traveled here. He gestured with his head toward the ceiling, where the webs were higher up. People have been walking by, knocked down all the low-hanging ones. Ah, here we are.

  “Fenzig!”

  They were in the corridor that led to the duke’s treasure chamber, and the gnome was padding toward the ironbound door. The three locks that hung from it had not been relatched. Fenzig noted that General Ketterhagen hadn’t bothered with that when he caught the gnome earlier this night.

  I need you to unmagic this, he thought to her.

  “This isn’t why we came down here!” She was fuming, stomping behind the gnome, and huffing. “The dungeon. The cells. The prisoners. My Father!”

  We’ll get there, he continued to think, knowing that she was still reading his mind. But I left something in here, something I need. And if you want to get to the prisoners, you’d better help me. Can you unmagic this? He waggled his fingers at the door.

  Still fuming, she stared at the door for several moments. “It has a magical alarm on it,” she said finally.

  Tell me something I don’t know, Fenzig mentally replied. I set it off, and that’s how I got caught.

  Carmella closed her eyes and hummed, a simple human tune that Fenzig guessed had nothing to do with her spell, was just some showman’s effect. She traced a pattern in the air, perhaps following the unseen pattern on the door, the gnome continued to speculate. A heartbeat later her tune stopped and she grabbed the handle, tugged the door open.

  “I told you I’m best at knocking down other spells.” She gestured him inside. “If you steal anything, I’ll toss you in the dungeon myself.”

  The gnome ignored her and moved toward the lantern—which was still burning, though not by much. The oil was nearly used up. Ketterhagen forgot this, too, he said to himself. Forgetful old man. The gnome grabbed up his thieves picks, blew out the light, and rejoined Carmella.

  “I wasn’t going to steal from your father,” he said aloud. “I wasn’t going to steal from him when I was here earlier.” And if you were paying attention to my thoughts, you’d know that. I might be a thief. But I’m an honorable one. He held up the tools for her to see. “If you want in the prison cells, these are our keys.”

  A while later, they were in the corridor that led to the cells.

  “We have to hurry,” she said. “I’ve been thinking about those sentries. What if Ketterhagen comes to check on them?”

  That’s not what I’m worried about, the gnome thought. He leaned against a slimy wall for support, was feeling weaker. I’m worried about the wizard upstairs at your party—which should be winding down soon, I would guess. What if he comes to check on the sentries? I really hate wizards.

  Without waiting for a reply, he pushed himself away from the wall, headed toward the cell where he’d spotted King Erlgrane.

  How many thoughts are you picking up?

  “Just yours. Wait. Another thought. Someone just woke up. A prisoner.” She touched the gnome’s shoulder. “A guard. One of my father’s guards is held here.”

  Fenzig pointed to the king’s cell. Carmella looked through the barred doors, at the monarch who, in sleep, looked like a discarded rag doll.

  “He’s starving,” she whispered. “Dying.”

  The gnome nodded. And the sentries who put him in here made certain he wasn’t going anywhere.

  She took in the thick chains that held his wrists and ankles, and the thick gag stuffed in his mouth. “To treat someone like this is. . . .”

  “Barbaric?” Fenzig said. “Political?” He wrapped his foot against the bars until the sound eventually roused the prisoner. “Take a look inside his head, Carm. What do you hear?”

  Carmella grasped the cell door, while Fenzig searched through his picks and started on the lock. She stared at the rumpled form, into the eyes that were looking sadly back at her.

  “Father,” she mouthed. “I don’t understand.”

  But she listened to the thoughts of the man inside the cell, listened closely as Fenzig continued to work, cursed, and frequently changed picks. She nodded once in a while, and brushed away the tears that were streaming down her face.

  “Don’t open the door,” she said, just as the gnome had finished with the lock.

  He looked at her quizzically.

  “The wizard cast a spell on the door.”

  Like on the door to the treasure chamber?

  She nodded and nudged the gnome away. “Don’t want to set off any alarms, do we?”

  Fenzig backed toward the opposite cell, and, exhausted, slid down the barred door and watched Carmella trace invisible patterns in the air. Her gestures were relaxing and hypnotic. So relaxing. His eyes fluttered closed.

  Carmella grimaced when she opened the door, and the lowest metal rung rasped angrily against the stone. She opened it just far enough to squeeze inside, took a couple of steps, and stopped before a palely glowing sigil on the floor.

  “Lots of precautions,” she whispered. “It’s a good thing I’m great at knocking apart sand castles.”

  She knelt before the pattern and studied it. “Masterful,” she hushed. “This will be difficult. Curse me for not studying magic longer.” She knitted her brow in concentration, slowed the words now, drawing each syllable out.

  Again she repeated the words, slower and with more force. This time her hands helped, tracing in the air the pattern she saw in her mind. This time she was rewarded. Bit by bit, the pattern she imagined began to erase itself. She continued with what now sounded like a mantra, a droning of the foreign words that all but shut out the thoughts of the other prisoners, who were
now awake, and the thoughts of the very ill man in front of her.

  “Please.” She focused on what little was left of the pattern now, a complex series of twists and turns that she carefully and slowly undid, as if she were unlacing a favorite blouse. “Yes.” Her shoulders sagged, and she wiped at the sweat on her face. She opened her eyes and noted with satisfaction that the symbol was gone.

  It was a powerful, well-studied wizard who had crafted such an elaborate sigil. She wasn’t sure of its complete intent. But she had gathered that whoever crossed it could very well die. “A very ugly thing you were,” she pronounced as she struggled to her feet and gingerly stepped over the stones where the pattern once glowed. Nothing. She breathed a sigh of relief, then glided toward the form of King Erlgrane, gently removed the gag.

  Dark eyes looked up at her from deep sockets.

  “Father,” she said. “Don’t talk. We’ll have you free in a few moments. Fenzig will pick the locks on these chains, and . . . . Fenzig?” She hadn’t felt his thoughts for several minutes. Turning, she saw his crumpled little body across the corridor. “No! Fenzig!”

  She hurried to him, cradled him, and gently roused him. “We’ve got to get you upstairs.”

  Yeah, he thought to her. I guess so. Then he looked beyond her and saw the form of King Erlgrane, and the open cell door. There was no glowing symbol on the floor. You’re a pretty good wizard after all, Carmella the Magnificent. Mustering his last bit of strength, he grabbed her arm and got to his feet, shuffled into the cell and ignored her protests. We’ve come too far to turn around, he told her. ’Cause once we get out of here, I’m not coming back down. Ever.

  He fumbled with his thieving picks, instinctively selecting the right size to work the locks on the manacles. “You’re in about as bad a shape as I am,” the gnome told the prisoner. “I’m not sure how Carm’s gonna get us both out of here. One more lock. There. That should do it.”

  The gnome replaced his picks, then promptly sagged, unconscious, against the form of King Erlgrane.