Chapter Three
Wherein Grimbledung and Drimblerod
Come to an Agreement
Without even thinking, Drimblerod followed the orb on the staff as the Gnome pointed with it and continued on the same arc with his eyes. Not 200 paces in that direction was a heap of brown cloaks. “That sounds like an excellent suggestion, thanks friend!” He said over his shoulder, already trotting toward the pile of cloaks.
Grimbledung blinked in surprise. Never had he suspected the strange Gnome to quickly accept defeat and move off. He watched the Gnome trotting off and in between bounds he spied the brown cloaks over his shoulder. Cloaks? At least three or four wizards had died in one spot! Grimbledung broke off into a run, careful not to let his staff bounce too much.
By the time they were 100 paces away from the cloaks, they were neck and neck. And tiring. Gnomes, at four feet tall and almost three feet wide, are not known as sprinters. “It’s my pile! I saw it first!” Puffed Drimblerod, “Besides, you gave it to me!”
“Did not!” Huffed Grimbledung back, “Did not! I was clearly pointing at someplace else and I saw them first!”
It was another ten paces before either had the breath to speak again. “I distinctly heard you tell me to look over here and to go here to get the wands!” said Drimblerod. “Here!”
By now, the pace was down to a quick walk and slowing. Grimbledung tried to get the orb of his staff in front of the other Gnome but was too tired to hold it out that far. ‘It worked once, it may work again’, he thought. “Look here!” He coaxed as he banged the base of the staff against his thigh. It flashed brightly. Several now-blinded birds careened out of the sky.
“Ah Hah!” Cheered Drimblerod, who was not looking at the staff at all. He was completely focused on the cloaks. Sticking out of the pile of cloaks was the shaft of a nearly black wand. Sheathing his own wand, he made a dive for the black wand. He came up short. Grimbledung spied the wand moments after Drimblerod’s cheer. Holding his staff like a spear, he hurled it ahead of himself and also dove. Also short.
Both Gnomes looked up at the wand and began to scamper towards it just as the staff clattered to the ground directly behind it. It went off three times in quick succession, blinding both Gnomes. “If this is permanent you will be hearing from my Troll Lawyers!” Cried Drimblerod as he rolled onto his back, palms over his eyes.
“Relax, it’s temporary. Just wait thr ... sit very still with your eyes closed for about ten minutes so the effect will wear off quicklier.”
“You were going to say ‘three’ weren’t you? You’re still trying to cheat me out of the wands you gave me!” Shouted Drimblerod.
“I was not going to say three,” said Grimbledung. What was I going to say? he thought. What could I have said that started with ‘thr’? What a corner to paint myself into! This Gnome seems pretty smart, as all Gnomes are, he mused. Really, we are a much maligned race, we Gnomes. Smarter than Elves, nimbler than Dwarves- what’s not to like? Wait, what was I supposed to be ...
“Liar! LIAAAR! Can’t believe you’d try to cheat a fellow Gnome!” Bellowed Drimblerod. “Three minutes says you? I’ll have found the wand by then says I!” With that he began to search on all fours for the black wand.
“You sound piratey when you’re angry.” Grimbledung opened his eyes wide, willing himself to see past the floating blue spheres. He began to feel around for the wand frantically hoping to have it first. Two minutes later, with the telltales of shapes and colors finally beginning to return to their eyes, both spotted the outline of the wand, still sticking out of the robes. Both grabbed at the wand, and both had it. Struggling to their feet, they wrestled for possession of the wand, when suddenly their grunts and curses were silenced by a very familiar “Ka-Clack”. Both Gnomes froze. Each had one hand on the hilt and one on the shaft.
“Well I’m dashed!” Said Drimblerod, “Look what you did!”
“Me? You started this entire festival of absurdness by collecting copper-anty wands! If you were a respectable Gatherer, none of this ...” He stopped to listen, “Why are you humming?”
“That’s not me.” Both Gnomes looked down at the now humming wand which also seemed to be getting warmer. “Well, I’m dashed.”
“Stop saying that! I don’t even know what that means! We need to get rid of this wand before we’re both obliterated- or worse!” The wand was now uncomfortably hot. “What kind of wand is this? Can you tell?” Grimbledung squinted past fading, but still present blue spheres. He could not make out the wand.
Many wand makers imbued fail-safes into their wands; Anti-Grappling was one of the more common types. It worked like this: if a caster prepared a spell and (usually a couple of seconds) after preparing it, more hands were sensed on the wand by the Anti-Grapple fail-safe, the wand would go into overload and explode. This kept people from grabbing a spell caster’s wand by the business end. Another only slightly less common fail-safe involved the wand exploding if after a spell caster prepared a spell, the wand was knocked from his hand. The Warrior Guild routinely complained about the unfairness of this at the annual Guilds Jubilee and Cookout to the Wizard’s Guild. After all, nothing exploded if someone grabbed a Warrior’s sword or knocked a mace from their hand. The official reply from the Wizard’s Guild was always a very polite “We’ll get right on that.” Followed by slightly less polite sniggering.
Blue and purple spots floated by allowing Drimblerod glimpses of the wand. “It’s black and I think it’s wood! Acacia or Oak, maybe?” He had to speak loudly over the humming. Hairs on his hand were beginning to curl. “Do we toss it or not? I say we toss it! Yes?”
“You’re just saying that so that I’ll let go and then you’ll keep the wand!”
Drimblerod let go of the wand.
“Gah!” Grimbledung’s unfocused eyes got huge as he tossed the wand straight up.
Both Gnomes dove away from the wand as it spun in a lazy arc over their heads. A crack of thunder sounded and a blue bolt of energy crackled out of the wand. It spun in the opposite direction like a hose whipping about spraying water- except much more lethal. Great scorches ground across the wet earth as the wand flailed about. Aiming upward, clouds were cut in half. Finally, with the spell spent, the wand clattered to the ground. On top of the Flash! Staff which promptly went off. Both Gnomes, intently watching the wand -hoping to save themselves from obliteration- were both blinded.
“Well, I’m dashed.”
Grimbledung picked up a rock and heaved it in Drimblerod’s direction. His luck for the day still had not changed; he missed completely. Furious, he flopped to the ground, thrashed around for good measure, then sat up.
Both Gnomes sat in silence for three full minutes. When their eyesight finally returned, they were sitting less than a foot apart, practically touching noses.
“I think I may very well kill you with my bare hands. That, I have to tell you, is saying a lot. If you even try to say you’re dashed, it will happen. Right here. Right now.”
“Where do you sell your wands? I really think you’d do well in my shop.” Drimblerod said. He leaned forward just enough so their noses touched. “Deal?”
Even though his eyes were finally clear, Grimbledung saw red. Red air. Red on the ground. Red on his hand. Red! Red! Red! Red all over the insane Gnome in front of him. He rolled to his feet and assumed a semi-crouching stance. “I AM going to kill you now!”
“Hear me out. I have a proposition for you.”
“Here’s a proposition- DIE!” Grimbledung growled and snarled as he circled. “Grrr! Kill. Kill! KILL! Stand up and die like a Gnome!” He snarled as he clawed at the air in front of him.
“Listen, friend. Just listen to my proposal.” Started Drimblerod.
Grimbledung circled the seated Gnome, snarling and shadowboxing as he went. “Oooh, the unimaginable poundings I am going to heap on you!” He said as he punched the air.
“You sell wands- I sell wands; by combining our efforts we can maximize our profits.”
Grimbledung threw his head back and howled, arms splayed out to his side in what he hoped was a formidable pose. He held it for a full five seconds past the end of his long howl.
“So, I have this store,” continued Drimblerod nonplussed, “it’s in a nice rent-controlled part of town. Real cheap, lots of foot traffic.”
Another howl erupted from Grimbledung. This time he was on all fours. And drooling. Heavily.
Drimblerod ignored the drooling and continued: “Sales could be better, that’s true. It’s the window lickers that cause undecided customers to leave. I want a teetering customer to fall on the side of a sale. You could help with...”
“Now you die!” Interrupted Grimbledung. He feigned several attacks, clawed at the air and snarled. Then he spat at Drimblerod’s feet. The Faux Pas. As soon as he did it, he realized his mistake and his eyes grew large.
Drimblerod narrowed his eye as he drew his wand, “Now that’s getting personal.” ‘Ka-Clack’ it went, menacingly as he aimed at the other Gnome. “I truly hope you brought more than a Flash! Staff with you today.” Ethereal wisps began to materialize and swirl over Drimblerod’s head. They were not part of a lightshow. “The posturing I accept as valid haggling. Even the shadow boxing was well presented. Howling was a nice addition as well. But. You. Spat. At me.” The Ethereal wisps became arm-thick tendrils as if a magical octopus was forming. A very angry magical octopus.
Grimbledung stood arms in front of him, hands bent like claws and crouched to attack, but he was frozen in place. Since spitting, he had not moved a muscle. He had just turned down Faux Pas Avenue onto the Cul-de-Sac of Inappropriateness. And parked in a loading-only zone. His hazard lights weren’t even on.
There are a great many rites and haggling gestures that are universal- the typically human antic of spreading coins between various pockets and pouches to hide wealth, feinting displeasure with size or color, even noticing phantom flaws were tolerated by most races. Some race-specific bargaining techniques include ear rubbing (buyer’s or seller’s) by elves; offering a random child and/or pet instead of currency (Golems), a punch to the chest (Ogres), a swift kick (Trolls), and ear slapping (Gnomes). Only one race included spitting; Orcs.
Uncouth and ill-tempered creatures, even Trolls and Ogres refused to deal with them on endeavors of a business nature -war related endeavors were however, acceptable. Goblins openly traded with Orcs and it caused them all sorts of problems in their dealings with other races. Elves and Dwarves killed them both on sight, just because they believed it good for the general populace. They considered it their community service. For anyone else to spit in negotiations was the Negotiate-or calling the Negotiate-ee the aforementioned uncouth, ill-mannered Orc. Fighting words in one globule of spittle.
The tendrils of Ethereal magic coalesced over Drimblerod’s head, forming a halo of green power angry green power.
“Wait ...” Was all Grimbledung managed to say as Drimblerod slashed the wand at him. In an instant, the ethereal tendrils flew to envelop Grimbledung. Still frozen in his pose, he now hovered a foot off the ground with a thin green line connecting Drimblerod’s wand to the green mass that was Grimbledung’s prison. He was, for all intents and purposes, a Grimbledung Flail. Grimbledung’s eyes trained on Drimblerod.
“To the moon!”
Grimbledung blinked. His eyelids seemed to be the only thing that still worked despite the spell. He hoped absently that his major organs still did so as well. Or at least his various sphincters. Especially one in particular.
“That is where I will send you!” Drimblerod glanced up and there, in the late afternoon sky hung a waning moon.
Grimbledung’s eyes moved up in his head until they were almost white. He could see the moon just barely. He blinked again.
“They say it’s over 5,000 leagues away, but that’s where I will send you. And when it goes away for the new moon to replace it, you will go with it.
-Blink-
“You will solve first-hand one of the great mysteries of our time; where does the old moon go?”
-Blink - Blink- Grimbledung lowered his eyes back to Drimblerod.
“Just so you know that I can and will do it, I will show you what’s half way there.” Drimblerod squinted his eyes again.
- Blink- went Grimbledung. Squinting seemed beyond him.
With a quick jab of his wand, Drimblerod pointed at the moon.
Grimbledung thought his stomach was in his feet. Both of them. Feet- not stomachs. He was a Gnome, not a cow, after all. Up he went like a sparrow chasing a hawk. He strained to look down and was surprised how small The Region looked. He could see the Anti- Ogre Wall as a thin line arcing all the way down to the mountains in Orcistan. His town of Aution was a mere speck. He craned his eyes upward. The moon was still the same size. Odd. Was it avoiding him he thought? Sometimes when he walked, he felt that the new full moon followed him. Very odd. He could also still breathe- which was a relief. The Ring of Fire that enveloped the world must still be higher up. That would have been dangerous- to actually be close to the Ring of Fire, where all dragons were born. No one could survive being that close to so many newly-spawned dragons, thought Grimbledung. There were those who said that dragons were born out of eggs. Crackpots. These were the same people who said that snakes came from eggs. Snakes from Eggs? Ludicrous. Grimbledung had tried one evening at a local pub to explain to one such crackpot that snakes, as everyone knew, came out of the ground when lightning struck it. It was common knowledge. Some people, mused Grimbledung, why even ... Grimbledung was snapped out of his musings when he thought his stomach was in his head. One each. He could definitely taste his breakfast. Down like a late spring, greenish grey Grimbledung-shaped hailstone he fell. He lurched to a stop, once again a foot off the ground.
“Will you hear me out now?” Drimblerod asked.
-Blink-
Drimblerod lowered his wand, breaking the thin line. The Ethereal magic seeped back into the ground around Grimbledung like Night Crawlers returning to their earthly domain after a rain. Unless they were struck by lightning- then they’d become full-grown snakes. Of course.
Grimbledung lay in a heap, panting.
“Now where was I? Oh yes- teetering customers,” continued Drimblerod as if nothing had happened. “You can help them teeter toward being a wand owner by using your ... unique character quirks we’ll call them… to keep the window lickers away.”
“So ... you want me to close my successful business and be your bouncer? Send me to the Moon because that will never happen.” Said Grimbledung as he moved to a seated position. He was afraid that if he stood, the breakfast he had tasted earlier would make a sudden reappearance.
“You weren’t listening at all before, were you? What kind of haggling was that?” Drimblerod sighed. “No. I said we could be partners. Split everything fifty-fifty.” In his mind Drimblerod thought sixty-forty when I do the books.
“Fifty- Fifty you say?” Said Grimbledung leaning forward, as he thought I’ll just keep everything I can until I get caught. Numbers are for sissies. “But what am I supposed to do with my well established store?”
“Well established store?” Asked Drimblerod.
“Tons of floor space.”
“Where is it?”
“Well ventilated too.”
“What part of town is it in? I haven’t heard of another wand shop around here.”
“Plenty of foot traffic, all day long.”
“It’s not even a store, is it?”
“Excellent security at night.”
“It sounds like a cart to me.”
“Freshly painted with custom shelves throughout.”
“It’s a cart. Isn’t it?”
Grimbledung sneered. “It’s much bigger than a mere cart, thank you very much.”
“A wagon then.”
“Now I’m offended!”
“Don’t you even dare to think about growling.”
“It’s a wagon,” said Grimbledung m
eekly.
“Fine. All’s the better. We wheel your ... store over to my ... actual store and combine our inventory there.”
“Tell me again how that makes me more money?” Grimbledung said warily. “All I hear is that you’ve incorporated my inventory into your store.”
“Respectability,” began Drimblerod, “by being in a shop, you appear to be a respectable member of society. People think you have roots in the community. Roots and overhead, so they expect you to charge more.”
“But what happens if something goes wrong?”
“We sneak out of town in the middle of the night with all we can carry on your wagon. Nice and respectable like.”
“But the authorities…”
“Along with nice and respectable like. We do it real fast.”
Grimbledung mulled this over for a full minute. “Deal” he said finally. “But don’t you dare touch my nose again.”
“Deal” said Drimblerod as he held out his hand.
Grimbledung slapped it then rolled to his feet. He picked up the black wand and his staff. “I have an anti-magic bag so we’ll put the Wizard wands in my bag.”
“I bought the same bag last year from the Gally Wuck traveling merchant, so we’ll split them.”
Grimbledung scowled. “Deal.” This time Grimbledung held out his hand and Drimblerod slapped it.
The pair spent the day gathering wands. By nightfall both bags were bulging to the point they didn’t even close completely. Several wands were stuck in their belts and pockets as well. “Of course, we need to figure out what all these wands do. It will take a month just to do that,” complained Grimbledung. “That’s the part I hate.”
“Well the I’ve got some good news for you.” Drimblerod winked. “I have what most all other shop owners have- hapless employees to do the drudgery. It keeps the profits up by keeping the inventory up to date. No sludge,” explained Drimblerod.
“Don’t you lose the added profits by paying your employees?” Asked Grimbledung. Shop ownership seemed confusing all of a sudden. “Or are they slaves?”
“Let me ask you ... Say, I never did get your name.” With Gnomes, names were not necessary to form legal, binding contracts. In fact, sometimes they were specifically avoided.
“Grimbledung. Grimbledung Sixtoes. Esquire that is.”
“Drimblerod. Drimblerod Axebreath. So, let me ask you Grimbledung- what times do we live in?”
“You mean the date?” Grimbledung nodded. “It’s Grunsday today.”
“Not the date time, the time- time. Times time.” Drimblerod raised his voice. “I’m trying to teach you something.”
“The time we live in? Elven Standard Time, of course. To the south near the mines I think they are on Dwarven Savings Time.” Grimbledung tapped his chin. “What’s that, about an hour later?”
Drimblerod shook his fists, each held two wands. They crackled ominously. “Answer the question you daft Gnome!”
“Hard?” Grimbledung offered.
Drimblerod lowered his fists. “What?”
“Hard? We live in hard times?”
“Exactly!” Cheered Drimblerod as he thrust his fists in the air, incinerating two crows, and sending a vulture on a high arc off into the distance. A fourth bird promptly turned into a Newt. Being a very non-aerodynamic Newt, it fell to its death. “Hard times are what we live in. I always remind my employees that. ‘A down economy is no economy to be out of work’. That’s what I tell them. If they complain, I shout it at them.” Drimblerod said. “That keeps profits high.”
Suddenly shop ownership did not seem all that complicated to Grimbledung. It was much like running a Brute Squad or a Chain Gang, but apparently much more respectable. Or maybe only slightly more so. “And I can shout at the employees too?
“Fifty percent of the time,” assured Drimblerod.
Sucker, thought Grimbledung, even though he wasn’t sure what fifty percent of anything was. He put his arm over the shoulder of his new partner. “I think this is the beginning of a profitable relationship.”
They both started walking up the hill Grimbledung had originally come down. When they were half way up it, Grimbledung shrugged out from under Drimblerod’s arm, “Just one question before we go.”
Drimblerod looked as his new partner appraisingly, “Yes?”
Grimbledung squinted at him, “Where do Dragons come from?”
“From the Ring of Fire, of course,” Drimblerod lied without even hesitating.
Grimbledung replaced his partner’s arm on his shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to hear partner. That’s all I wanted to hear.”
The two left the valley and gingerly headed towards town, crackling and sizzling as they went.
Tales From a Second Hand Wand Shop- Book 1: They Were the Best of Gnomes. They Were the Worst of Gnomes. Page 5