2 - The Dragons at War

by The Dragons At War

  "What does this 'special' rock do?" asked the wing captain, turning it over roughly between his fingers.

  The gnome giggled, a high-pitched whinny. "It explodes. Boom."

  Moros froze and bobbled the stone, almost dropping it. The gnome giggled again.

  "Don't worry, that one won't blow up," said the small creature. "I have to refine it-like iron ore is refined to produce steel-in order to create the explosive material. I call the unrefined rock Gnomite. The enhanced, final product would be called Plus-Gnomium."

  Even so reassured, Moros set down the stone carefully. He waved the innkeep to bring the twisted gnome an ale. The wing captain noticed that the innkeep approached the table with all the caution usually used for encountering venomous porcupines, then set down a mug with the care of a safecracker.

  "Do you have any of this material... refined?" asked Moros, almost dreading the answer.

  "They didn't believe me, the fools," said Boom suddenly, ignoring the question. He grabbed the mug and emptied about half of it in one gulp. Moros nodded at the innkeep to keep bringing more ale.

  "They?" prompted Moros.

  "I am not one of these country tinkerers," said the gnome haughtily. "I hail from Nevermind itself, the great citadel of the gnomes. There I was known as a genius, as a visionary, until I told them of Plus-Gnomium and its power. The cowards took my work from me, and cast me out. It took me years to find this place, where Gnomite was abundant, and more years to recreate my confiscated notes."

  The gnome leveled a hard stare at Moros. "Understand this, human. They took me away from my work. Do you know what happens when a gnome is prevented from pursuing his life's work?"

  It twists him, apparently, thought Moros; bends his soul in on itself until it collapses in a intense ball of hatred. That would explain the gnome's frenetic spasms and nervous glance, his unblinking eyes.

  "So this exploding material is already in the hands of the gnomes of Nevermind?" the human asked. Surely if the gnomes had a super-weapon, they would have used it by now.

  The fidgeting gnome shook his head. "They don't know how to make it work. It is harmless in their hands. My notes have likely been misfiled, and my prototype has probably been turned into a lamp or something." He giggled again, and Moros was reminded of metal claws scratching on a chalkboard.

  "You said the rock would not explode unless refined. Now you're saying that the refined product won't explode either?" Moros was too weary to hide the tired tone in his voice. This was just another gnome pipe dream-all moonbeams and guesses.

  "Let me start again," said the gnome, picking up the rock with one hand, and draining the mug with the other. "When you cut this rock in two, what do you get?"

  Moros shrugged. "A smaller rock?"

  "And if you cut that in two?"

  "A smaller rock still."

  "And if you keep splitting the rock in two?"

  The mild pain in Moros's head was starting to blossom into a full-fledged ache. "Eventually," said the wing captain, "you'd get a piece too small to cut, a piece that would be smaller than the blade you're cutting it with."

  "Good, good," said the gnome. "Now assume you have some type of vorpal weapon, a sword of amazing sharpness, that can cut anything, no matter how small the fragment. What then?"

  "I suppose," said Moros, "you would end up with flecks of dust."

  "And if you split the flecks of dust?"

  "Smaller dust?"

  The gnome nodded in enthusiastic agreement. "At some point you'll come to the smallest possible particle of the rock. If you cut this, it will cease to be a rock entirely. I named this smallest particle after the smallest member of the pixie family, the atomie."

  The ache was reaching its tendrils through Moros's brain, curling behind his sinuses. "What happens then?" he said.

  "You split the atomie in two," said the gnome.

  "And?"

  "Boom," said the gnome, cackling and leaning back. He grabbed the second mug of ale the barkeep had brought and downed it twice as quickly as before.

  Moros made a growling noise. "So you have a material that causes an explosion only if you have a sword of amazing sharpness to cut it with. Now, why do I need such an explosion if I have a sword of amazing sharpness in the first place?"

  The gnome held up both hands, a sour-milk look on his face, "That's background. I want you to understand what I am saying."

  "Background," muttered Moros, and looked at the sergeant, who was staring into space. It was clear the subordinate had stepped out of the discussion about the time they began cutting things that were too small to cut.

  The innkeep set another foaming mug down before the gnome, recovering the empties with a single swipe of his massive hand. From the innkeep's face, Moros assumed that the fat human understood something of what the gnome was saying.

  Which put him one step ahead of the wing captain.

  The gnome ignored the reactions of the humans and grabbed at the newly proffered mug. "Now, you're right, it's very difficult to cut something into so many pieces that it gets down to the atomies. In fact, some materials provide new homes for atomies, preventing them from flying off into space. But other things, like the metal refined from the hunk of Gnomite here, aren't as well held together as others. Their atomies are loose, unstable, and easier to cut."

  Boom the gnome pulled what looked like a small insect from a shirt pocket, and set it on the table. "Another device of mine." He beamed proudly. "It lets out a chirp whenever it consumes an active atomie, one that has escaped from rocks like this."

  The gnome flicked a switch on the insect's back, and it let out a bored chirp. After a few seconds, it emitted another metallic chirp.

  "Watch what happens when I bring the rock near it," said the gnome. "It will become more agitated, more eager to consume atomies."

  Indeed, as the gnome brought the rock near the insectoid automaton its antenna pivoted and the chirps became a clatter of clicks, finally melding into a dull, humming buzz that rattled Moros's teeth and drove spikes into his already-aching brain. He motioned for the gnome to cease the demonstration.

  The nervous gnome smiled a lopsided grin and shoved the insect-device back into his pocket. It continued to click eagerly. Boom slapped his pocket, hard, and the chirping ceased.

  Moros harrumphed. "So you have an unstable rock and an eager counter of atomies. How does this make a weapon?"

  The gnome drained the remainder of his third mug and smiled. "These stray atomies act like a sword of amazing sharpness, cutting off more atomies from unstable surfaces. The refined Gnomite metal, Plus-Gnomium, is oozing with stray atomies which, if brought into contact with more refined Plus-Gnomium, find more stray atomies, until the entire pile of material ignites from all these atomies bouncing around and-"

  "Boom," finished Moros.

  "Like links in a chain, the reaction continues until the atomie pile is consumed in a fireball." The gnome glowed, as if lit from within by stray atomies.

  Moros scowled, picked up the rock again, and said, "How big? The blast, I mean? Let's say we take a pound of your refined Plus-Gnomium and set it off outside the inn, here..."

  He stopped because the gnome was giggling. "If we set it off right outside, this entire building would be vaporized by the blast, reduced to its component atomies and scattered to the edges of the world. There would not be enough of you left to fill a snuffbox."

  Moros fought the pounding in his head and said, "All right, then at the creek at the bottom of the hill..."

  "The inn would still be caught in the crater from the force of the blast. Your bones would be mixed with the flaming earth, and turned to steam by the power of the blast."

  "Well, then, across the creek, near the gnomish settlement."

  "The firestorm sweeping outward from the blast would fry the inn and all its inhabitants about one second after detonation," said the gnome matter-of-factly. "There would be ninety-eight percent fatalities among the gnomes in the first seco
nds of the blast."

  "Fine. At the far end of the valley, then."

  The gnome tapped a pudgy digit against his lips for a moment, then said, "You might avoid the firestorm, but the wind from the blast would level this place, reducing the timbers to kindling. And, of course, if you were watching it, it would be like looking at the sun. Your eyes would be reduced to molten pools in their sockets."

  Moros was suddenly aware that the innkeep was standing next to him, with another ale for the gnome. The man's knuckles gripping the mug's handle were white.

  "Thank you," said the wing captain pointedly. The barkeep set the ale down sharply, then retreated. "How big a blast are you talking about?" Moros asked the gnome, trying to get down to specifics.

  "Given a pound of material, I'd estimate about a half-mile across for the crater itself, with the firestorm spreading up to four to six miles across. And, of course, the land itself would be blasted and barren for a few human generations to come."

  "A few... generations," said the wing captain slowly, taking in what the gnome was proposing. This was no wizardly fireball, no cunning battlefield tactic, no simple siege engine. This was pulling a piece of the sun to Krynn in a single second and letting it blaze its way across the surface of the land. If true, Plus-Gnomium was a weapon that could bring the last rebellious elves and humans into line.

  If true.

  But who would detonate the bomb? Gnomish timers were horribly unreliable. Perhaps a suicide unit? No one could hope to outrun the effects of the blast. Even a dragon would be unlikely to outfly the fireball, or survive the effects Boom was describing. Involuntarily Moros looked toward the door, toward the stables that billeted Shalebreak. Could he bear to see his mount incinerated, even if it meant defeating an enemy army? Could any Dragon Highlord?

  And the cost of such an attack on the land! What general in his right mind would lay waste to a place for generations? How would people eat? And what good was a land without people? Even keeping Plus-Gnomium in the armory would be folly, because it could be stolen, or-worse yet-duplicated.

  If it worked at all. Could you base an entire military campaign on a gnome's promise?

  Moros shook his head.

  "I'm sorry, Boom," he said, trying to let the crazed gnome down gently. "But I don't think your idea meets our present needs. I'm sure that your reasoning is very sound, but the whole idea of cutting tiny rocks and small faeries producing big explosions sounds like so much moonshine. I mean, I have great respect for your obvious personal talent, but gnomes in general, well, you know ..."

  The wing captain's voice trailed off.

  The gnome's face had the complexion of a ripe turnip. The gnome's eyes were wide and white against the purple background of his apoplectic face. The gnome's entire form shook, vibrating with rage. Moros feared the twisted little creature would ignite in a small fireball all his own.

  "Of course, I can file a report with my superiors, and if they are interested . . ." Moros began, but it was too late.

  The gnome shot a stubby arm forward, accusing finger pointed at Moros. "You're just as bad as the fools at Nevermind! Wrapped in the past, afraid to see the future! But this time, I'm ready for you!"

  The twisted creature's other hand shot into its left coat pocket. It pulled out a cube the size of a man's fist. The cube was smooth and reflective on all sides, and had a thick, grayish rod jutting from the top. The end of the rod was flattened into a grip, like that of a key.

  A pound, the gnome had said. This looked as if it might weigh a pound ...

  "I built a working prototype!" cried the gnome. "I can prove my theories are fact!"

  He pulled the key from the box.

  Moros dove beneath the table, as if a slab of oak would protect him from the promised explosion. As he fell, he saw the innkeep dive behind his bar, and realized both of their actions were futile in the face of the coming fireball. The sergeant, thick-headed and only half-comprehending, was charging toward the gnome, figuring the creature had lit some type of grenade.

  The bomb did not go off.

  Ignoring a sharp pain in his shoulder, Moros pulled himself to his feet. The sergeant and the gnome were wrestling in the center of the common room. The sergeant had three feet of height and one hundred twenty pounds of mass on the small creature, but the gnome fought with the strength of the insane. The sergeant's face was already gouged with deep scratches, and the mad gnome kept slipping out of his grasp.

  Across the room, the innkeep was slowly recovering as well, his wide face appearing cautiously behind the counter. Between him and Moros were the brawling man and gnome, and the scattered contents of the gnome's pockets-gears, bits of string, notepads with pages half-torn out, the mysterious rock, chewed-on pieces of chalk, and the insect-automaton.

  The insect-automaton, which eagerly counted atomies, was active again, and chirping loudly. The chittering increased with each passing moment.

  The sound made the wing captain freeze. More noise meant more spare atomies were in the area. As far as Moros could remember, this meant that the Plus-Gnomium was already caught in the reaction the gnome had described, the chain of events leading to an explosion. The atomie pile was starting to ignite.

  They weren't safe. The cube-shaped bomb was about to go off.

  Moros looked frantically around the room. He could find no sign of the cube. It must have fallen from the gnome's hand when the sergeant tackled him, and rolled to some corner like a thrown die. He had to find the cube before it consumed them in a fireball.

  An idea cut through the cloud of buzzing now kicked up by the insect-device. Moros grabbed the unliving creature by the thorax, and began to wave it back and forth. If the gnome spoke true, the insect would chatter loudly when it drew nearer the cube.

  To the right, beneath the overturned chair, the chittering increased, and jumped another order of magnitude as Moros stepped toward it. The wing captain shoved the chair aside. The box was there, radiating from the power of the bouncing atomies within it. Grabbing the cube, he felt it was warm to the touch.

  The key was still missing! The insect chattered louder and louder now, its voice a bone-grating buzz that carved its way into Moros's brain. The wing captain turned about, searching for the grayish peg that would defuse the box. He panicked. He couldn't find it!

  The sergeant had the gnome in a choke-hold. The gnome was gnawing on the sergeant's knuckles.

  Where was that damned key? The clicking grew louder, faster.

  A pudgy hand grasped Moros's wrist, and a second set of fat fingers slammed the gray peg home into its slot in the cube. The chatter of the eager atomie counter subsided at once.

  Moros and the innkeep looked at each other, exhaling a single breath as one. Then the fat man let go of Moros's wrist and stepped back, wiping his forehead with his dishcloth. Moros set the cube back on the table, next to overturned mugs of ale.

  The sergeant had finally brought his human strength to bear and now stood in the center of the room with his captive, his arms wrapped around the small mad gnome's midsection. The gnome kicked and screamed, but the subordinate stoically ignored both verbal and physical abuse. From the look on his subordinate's face, it was clear that the sergeant thought he had performed a most important task.

  Moros brought his face level with the enraged, now-helpless gnome. "Attacking an officer of the Dragon forces is an offense punishable by death," the human snarled. The gnome blanched visibly as the sergeant pulled his blade. "I find you guilty of that charge, and commute your sentence to imprisonment in the mines. Sergeant, lock this one up until the fewmaster comes by with his slave wagon."

  The gnome spat a few more curses and threats as the sergeant dragged him outside. The sunlight flashed in a single burst as they passed through the door, leaving Moros and the innkeep alone.

  Moros turned back to the nondescript cube. He picked up the device and cradled it in one hand. Already the warmth was gone. The atomie-counting cricket was chirping softly and errat
ically. Should he turn this over to his superiors along with the gnome? What if he gave it to them and it didn't work?

  What if he gave it to them and it did?

  He looked at the innkeep, who was watching him warily, intently. "I'm going out on patrol now with Shalebreak," Moros announced. "We're going to check out those tall mountains to the west. I'd better bring the Plus-Gnomium along for safekeeping."

  There was a brief silence, then the innkeep said, "You'd best be careful. Those mountains are impassable and uninhabitable. It would be a shame if you happened to lose the Plus-Gnomium while in flight."

  "A definite shame," said the wing captain. He looked at the innkeep, who had picked up the piece of raw Gnomite. The larger human was turning the nondescript stone over in his hands, as if his pudgy fingers could unlock its secrets.

  "You can keep that rock," said Moros, "as a reminder that you should never listen to a gnome, regardless of how good his offer sounds. Even when he invents what he intends to, he is nothing but trouble. But then, who would believe that such power could be held in a hunk of stone?"

  "No one would," muttered the innkeep quietly, slipping the stone into his apron pocket, "and we can thank the gods for that."

  Storytellers

  Nick O'Donohoe

  Night had fallen long since, and the moon-harvest moon, red and full-was up in the mountains to the east. Traders, pilgrims, all manner of travelers had taken advantage of the extra light to make longer journeys, but by now all sensible travelers had made camp or had arrived at inns and homes. Moonlight or no, travel by night could be dangerous.

  At the Inn of the Waiting Fire, the logs were blazing and the stew pot already empty. A second crock of cider simmered beside it; the barmaid hurried over, filled a pitcher with several scoops of the huge ladle, and crossed to the tables where tonight's guests took up every bench, talking quietly and finishing the last of the bread.

  The barkeep called across to her, "Refill the cider pot, Peilanne." She nodded, spinning nimbly and gracefully as she set the hot pitcher down, carefully out of reach of the little girl gnawing determinedly at the end of a fresh loaf as the girl's mother stroked and untangled the girl's hair.