Heroes: A Raconteur House Anthology

by Honor Raconteur

  “Hold,” ordered Zizweck. “Its hackles have dropped. I don’t think it will attack.”

  “You don’t think it will attack?” Dewey whined incredulously. “Kill the nasty. I’ll teach you anything you want to know.”

  “Stand up, gnome,” Zizweck said quietly.

  Dewey remained hugged against the bole of a large tree. “I’m not moving until you kill that thing.”

  “Vinkbort is going to send his spear at your head if you don’t stand up, gnome. Do it now!” Zizweck’s voice had risen to a shriek.

  Dewey stood, slowly, tremulously.

  The creature blinked its eyes and then took off in a flash of powerful wings. Twiggs thought for sure it was coming for Dewey, but it shot through the trees and was soon lost from sight.

  “Why’d you tell me to stand?” asked Dewey, still trembling.

  “Because it needed to know you weren’t afraid of it,” explained Zizweck. “When it knew it had no prey here, it left.”

  “But I had the widdershins.”

  “So you did,” acknowledged Zizweck. “But when you stood, it feared you. Its survival instinct overtook its instinct to kill. We don’t kill creatures of the Expanses unless we have to, gnome.”

  Ogford stood up. He looked as though he had been tarred and feathered as he brushed leaves and other debris from his uniform. “You have an ethos about killing carnivorous beasts of the Gray Expanses, but you have no compunction about destroying a civilization of gnomes?”

  Zizweck’s eyes narrowed. “Since you are the three smartest gnomes, I leave it to you to learn why this is.” The grollop slung his weapons over his back. “We are behind our time. Sarking Wuld awaits. Gleedge, lead.”

  Twiggs suddenly realized why they might not mind killing gnomes. Apparently memories went somewhere after death. The book. They could then search the book for gnomish memories and learn everything. But perhaps finding the memories wasn’t a simple matter. Or perhaps they perceived the gnomes as a threat. They were more technologically advanced than the grollops in some ways, but that was changing quickly. Stealing wayports—and trains—was no small thing.

  They trudged on for the next two hours in silence, except for the sucking sounds of muddy soil trying to tug the boots off their feet. Twiggs was amused that the insects incessantly pestered the grollops. Apparently gnome wasn’t considered part of a swamp insect’s diet. Twiggs was decidedly unoffended.

  He fingered the smooth pieces of beveled glass in his pocket. He had created two and always carried them with him, even slept with them. The only way someone was going to get them away from him was to rob him. He didn’t think Spindle would resort to that, but envy sometimes drove gnomes to great lengths.

  He had never used either device beyond some limited experiments at his home, but he supposed that the principle was the same. He had confidence in the magisi that he had imbued it with. Surely it would work. It was the only plan he had and he doubted that Dewey or Ogford had anything up their sleeve.

  There’s still time before we get to this foul-sounding—and looking—place, thought Twiggs.

  By the time Sarking Wuld was in sight, the grollops were in a foul temper. Vinkbort had successfully poked Gleedge in the back with the butt of his spear. Had Zizweck not pointedly reminded them of their mission, the two would have come to blows.

  Sarking Wuld…. Twiggs couldn’t ascertain whether it was a citadel or a massive junkyard. There were catwalks strung up between poorly constructed wooden towers. Some leaned so crazily that Twiggs suspected if a dragonfly landed on them, they would go crashing to the ground.

  As they drew closer, Twiggs spotted metal sheets riveted to wooden stakes haphazardly driven into the earth. The place looked like it could benefit from some hemp rope and bailing wire. He hoped the grollops didn’t find out he could show them how to completely rebuild the place from the foundation up. He didn’t want to be here that long. To be truthful, he didn’t want to be here at all. But Dewey and Ogford were clearly overmatched, although Dewey could construct a wayport with the best of them.

  The swamp and its pungent malaise of smells faded. The ropes that joined them together had proven mercifully unnecessary.

  They were on a road! Well, at least it was a separate surface from the endless fields that surrounded them: packed earth with some kind of tracks approximately eight feet apart. Hmm, contemplated Twiggs. Perhaps a wain of some kind. Certainly not a train.

  Sarking Wuld was larger than Twiggs had originally thought. An unnatural fog seemed to shroud it. That’s about right for a place called Sarking Wuld, thought Twiggs. Won’t ever get mistaken for a pastry shop.

  There it was again: the thought of chocolate pies. And cream cakes and lemon splendors. If he made it out of here, he needed to pay Wibblegleet’s a visit. So many preposterously delicious things to make a gnome fat.

  And thirsty.

  Twiggs couldn’t recall the last drink of water he’d had. “Say, lads, would I be stepping out of line if I was to inquire where I might procure some water to drink?”

  Vinkbort laughed. “We just came through a swamp, silly gnome. If you were thirsty, you should have drank your fill back there.”

  Zizweck smacked a large green silo-shaped bug away from his head. “Look at them, Vink. Do you suppose their frail little bodies could tolerate swamp water? My guess is they like the brown stuff, just not brown stuff from a swamp.”

  Ogford perked up. “You wouldn’t be speaking of ale, would you?”

  “I would indeed, little gnome. You didn’t bring any with you, did you?” asked Zizweck.

  Gleedge and Vinkbort hooted with laughter.

  Ogford’s expression was again crestfallen. He didn’t respond.

  “You aren’t going to die of thirst, little gnome. Gupstack keeps us well-provisioned. Some of it might even be from Jigville.” Zizweck winked wickedly. “Gnomish beverages for gnomes. You’d like that, wouldn’t you?”

  “I’m a gnome, aren’t I?” Ogford replied testily.

  Zizweck sent a withering look at Ogford as Vinkbort pounded on a massive oak door with the butt of his spear.

  A rectangular slit opened and a nose—or rather, snout—poked through. There were two pale green eyeballs behind it that regarded them. “Grollops. Well, you’ll still need the password. Orders are orders.”

  “Open up, Zatwidge. It’s us.” Zizweck’s mood had grown fouler with every insect he swatted. And he had swatted a lot of insects since they left the Cagglebrist.

  “Still need the password, Ziz.” Zatwidge pushed his head a little further through the opening to favor them with a brown smile.

  “Blink, stink, frag and frack. Boils and toils on your blubber rack,” intoned Zizweck.

  “More soothing words than those I haven’t heard today,” replied Zatwidge.

  “Well, we’re delighted to be the source of your soothing, Zatwidge. Now open these scuppered doors before I climb up there, pull you through and lock you out!”

  Zatwidge gave a rattling laugh as three large metal bolts were thrown. The door was thrown wide to reveal a grollop on a ledge and hundreds more scattered throughout the warren of wood and metal that sprawled before them.

  Twiggs wasn’t sure whether to be appalled or fascinated.

  Two of the largest grollops in sight stepped forward. “These are gnomes?” asked one whose right arm was half again as big as his left, but whose left side of his head was considerably smaller than his right.

  “You can have two more guesses, Grundle, and then I’ll tell you,” replied Zizweck, his expression serious.

  Grundle wrinkled his brow, which caused the left side of his head to appear as if it might cave completely in on itself. Twiggs felt bad for the fellow. Perhaps his mother had dropped him out of a dirigible when he was a baby. He almost snickered at the notion.

  Grundle looked at the guard to his right. “You got any other guesses, Jumjink?”

  “Nope,” the other grollop replied. “Gnomes is my th
ree guesses.”

  “Well, Jum,” replied Zizweck, “Grundle got it in only one guess. Took you three.” He slapped the huge grollop on the shoulder. “Take these three to see Gupstack. They’re engineers. They could probably go for some gaccatosh and radish water.”

  Sounds delightful, thought Twiggs.

  “From there, take them to the Black Pens. I’ll come visit them tonight with…well, you know who.” Zizweck stared at the gnomes. “Get some sleep. You won’t want to be addled and dim when next I clap eyes on you.”

  Jumjink poked Dewey with the blunt edge of his ax, “Follow Grundle, gnome. And no sneaky stuff.”

  Dewey yelped. “No need to hit me with that thing. I’m one of the three smartest gnomes. If he can lead, I can follow.”

  Jumjink eyed Dewey skeptically. “You don’t look so smart.”

  “Well, inasmuch as you seem to be an expert in smartness, perhaps you could tell me what smartness looks like.”

  Twiggs cringed at Dewey’s cheek, but silently lauded his foolish and sudden brazenness.

  Jumjink studied the other guard for a moment. “Well, best I know is Grundle doesn’t look smart.”

  Grundle smiled lopsidedly. “Jumjink, which insect is smarter: a dragonfly or a marsh tick?”

  “How should I know?” replied Jumjink.

  “I’ve seen you try to kill both with an ax. Seems like both are smarter than you,” laughed Grundle.

  “Ax works,” protested Jumjink.

  “You see, little gnomes,” replied Grundle, “when an ax is always the solution, one should be careful about being the problem.”

  “Oh, we’re here to provide solutions not create problems,” declared Twiggs. “I’m sure that a smart fellow like Jumjink here spotted that about us right off. Didn’t you, Jumjink?”

  “Spotted what?” asked Jumjink as he waved absently with his ax at a huge beetle that fluttered lazily around his ear.

  “Nothing, Jum,” replied Grundle. “Let’s get these ugly little gnomes to Gupstack and to the Pens. Mogwick has another game of tumble-stones brewing. Said he’d cut us in if we hurried up with our rounds.”

  “Mog is a thief. I always come back with empty pockets,” Jumjink said petulantly.

  Grundle managed a smirk with his lopsided face. “If Mog takes your coins again tonight, perhaps you should show him how you handle problems.”

  Jumjink knocked the beetle from the air with his ax. The creature squirmed for a moment in the mud before he brought the sharp end down and cleaved it in two. “Problem solved,” he said proudly.

  Chapter 4

  The Barkvalve

  The Black Pens were well-named. Sheets of burnt wood had been lashed together with metal strips and tied to wooden beams driven into the earth. The gnomes used machinery to do such things, but Twiggs suspected the grollops relied on brute force. Scaffolding and sledgehammers had likely been the means to erect this dark gallery of prison cells.

  The floors had knotholes through which he caught occasional glimpses of other creatures. Large beasts of prey, or perhaps of burden, yellow-eyed and emitting deep rumbling sounds that evinced sleep. What kind of creature slept with its eyes open? thought Twiggs. Whatever they were, they, like the grollops, stank. So many kinds of stink in the world and I am getting to experience so many of them.

  At least the creatures didn’t stink of unwashed sour grollop sweat. The grollops had a corner on that market of stink. However, the stink of wet fur reminded Twiggs of rancid onions, which somehow wasn’t as offensive to his keen sense of smell as the grollops.

  Jumjink gave them a rough push with a meaty hand into the cramped dark room and then slammed the sheet metal door behind them. A lock turned and Twiggs heard the grollop say, “I got nothing in my pockets tonight, Grundle. We gamble with your coins.”

  Grundle laughed. “Not likely, Jum. My coins come out of my pocket and then go back into my pocket with more coins. If I give them to you, then I will have a lonely pocket.”

  Twiggs didn’t hear Jumjink’s reply and could have cared less whether the stupid grollop lost all his coins or fell off the catwalk leading to the Black Pens.

  Slits in the metal let in light from an unknown source, allowing Twiggs to make out the faces of his companions. “Well, lads, the accommodations are, how shall I put it, a bit rough?”

  “And here I’d worked up this image of feather beds with overstuffed pillows, a down-filled comforter and a nice silky robe,” Ogford replied sarcastically.

  “I never figured you for the silky robe type,” chided Twiggs.

  “Yeah, and what did you have me figured for?” asked Ogford.

  “To tell you the truth, Oggy, the image of what you wore to bed had never crossed my mind until you brought up the silky robe business,” retorted Twiggs.

  “Well, I sleep with a teddy bear and a nice plaid comforter my mother made me before she went completely batty a few years ago.”

  Dewey, who was hunkered in a corner with his knees drawn up to his chest and his eyes locked onto a knothole said, “If this floor falls through, you realize those creatures will eat us.”

  “Not if we fall just so,” said Twiggs. “There is a decent probability that our weight and the weight of the falling ceiling would crush them. But just the same, perhaps we should all take a corner.” He knocked quietly on the floorboards. “There, you can tell where the support beams are. Get situated over one of them and you’ll be fine.”

  “Fine?” replied Dewey. “Spindle may as well have consigned us to crossbolt practice for the gnomish army. We’ll be dead soon.”

  Twiggs considered moving across the floor to his companion, but thought better of it. “Now listen, Dewey Needleworth. We’re going to slow feed these loutish creatures what we know about wayports and make them think they’re gaining knowledge. We’ve got a while before we have to completely empty our buckets, and between now and then, I’m not so ready to climb into a coffin.”

  Neither of them bothered correcting him. They wouldn’t receive the favor of a coffin, they’d likely end up as filler in a pie.

  “Get some sleep. Both of you. I may have a plan to get us out of here, but I can’t think about it if both of you are whining about our wretched state of affairs. At least we had some food and drink before they brought us here.”

  “Regular gourmet, that Poopstack,” grumbled Ogford.

  Twiggs laughed. “Next time you see him, Oggy, be sure to call him that. You’ll have a friend for life.”

  Ogford chuckled. “He did look like a big stack of poop. You’ve got to admit I’m right, Twiggs.”

  “Oh, I don’t know about that, Oggy. As grollops go, I’d say he was one of the handsome ones,” retorted Twiggs.

  Dewey sniffed. “If the Wayfarer made an uglier, stinkier race than grollops, then I hope they rescue us from this and then crawl back into whatever compost pile they crawled out of.”

  Twiggs grinned at his morose companion. “That’s what this place smells like, Dewey! A gigantic seething mass of vibrant, organic compost! Thank you for solving that mental dilemma. I’d been laboring on it since we arrived.”

  “Grollops, a euphemism for compost,” agreed Ogford.

  “Focus on the stink of the creatures below us. It’s only half as bad as the grollop stink,” suggested Twiggs.

  Dewey yawned. “Perhaps I’ll wake up and discover this was all a bad dream. Think I’ll shuttle off to sleep.”

  “There’s a good lad!” Twiggs said brightly. “You too, Oggy. I’m right behind you after I’ve had a few minutes to let my wheels turn.”

  “Think up a good one,” Oggy replied tiredly. “I’m with Dewey. These creatures aren’t going to be playing paddy-cake with us.”

  “No, they’re not. But we’re gnomes and we are smarter than them. And smarts wins out over brawn. Most of the time,” Twiggs added belatedly.

  It took a while, but the measured breathing of his companions eventually told Twiggs they were both asleep. He knew the time
had come to put his plan into motion.

  He took the small beveled piece of glass from his pocket and caught one of the stray beams of light in it. He moved one of the tiny switches on it and the light briefly illuminated the room, taking an image of it. He returned the switch back to its original position and turned a small dial on the back of it. Holding it up to his eye, he again caught the sliver of light. Turning it slowly, he channeled through several images: his sitting room, his bedroom, the dining room at Wibblegleet’s, his office at Copperworks, the foundry floor at Copperworks, the main valve board of the Jigville nocket, the entrance to Copperworks. “Come on, where is it,” he muttered.

  Image after image flew by and then he had it: the main corridor of the Dreggenfort. King Kigzul’s home.

  He had only tried this going from his sitting room to his bedroom and back, but the principle was surely the same, wasn’t it? He had to try. If he got splintered into a bunch of pieces and didn’t come back together, well…he didn’t let himself finish the thought.

  I’ll be back, lads, he thought. He kept the image of the Dreggenfort corridor on the device and pushed on the knobs at either end of it.

  He supposed there was a flash of light or something, but he wasn’t there to tell.

  The next thing he knew he was sitting on the main corridor floor of the Dreggenfort. He almost let out celebratory whoop. First for simply being alive and second because he had traveled precisely to the place he had envisioned.

  Two guards were asleep at their post, flanking a pair of ornate brass doors. The only light was from an oily taper burning in a wall sconce behind him.

  No, the celebratory whoop would have been a decidedly bad idea. The trick was to awaken them without either of them burying a short spear in his belly.

  Fleetingly, he realized he hadn’t even come up with a name yet for the device. Time enough for that later.

  He cleared his throat, “Sorry…ahem, sorry to awaken you lads.”

  The fatter of the two guards remained in his slumber, but the other shook himself. “What? Who? What do you think…? You can’t be…What are you doing here?”