The War of the Lance t2-3

by Margaret Weis

  It was just too much for Verden Leaf glow. She had taken more than she could stand. "Dismissed? You imbecilic little twit, you dismiss we? Rats!"

  Gully dwarves backpedaled all around her, tumbling over one another. Some went over the edge, sliding and rolling away toward the shadowed depths. Others turned to watch them go. "They really movin'," someone said. "That steep." "Smooth, though," another noted. "Good slide."

  "Rats!" Verden roared again, exasperated beyond reason and reverting to the vernacular of her charges. "RATS!" Annoyed beyond control, she aimed a swat at Glitch. The Highbulp dodged aside, ducked

  … and belched. Something shot from his mouth, to bounce to a stop at Verden's foot. She scooped it up. It was her selfstone. She had it back, intact.

  "Rats," Gandy said, realizing that the good times were over.

  "That right," the Highbulp remembered, snapping his fingers. "Rats, too. Dragon promise us rats."

  "You… want… rats?" The huge, dragon face lowered itself, nose to nose with the little Highbulp. "You want rats? Very well. You shall have rats."

  Closing her eyes, she murmured a spell, and her dragon-senses heard the scurrying of tiny things in the distance — sounds below sound that grew in volume as they came closer.

  The gully dwarves heard it then, too, and stared about in wonder. The sounds grew, seeming to come from everywhere. Then there were little, dark shadows arrowing toward them, emerging from crevices, coming over rises and up gullies — dozens, then hundreds, then thousands of small, scurrying things, homing in on them. Rats. A leaping, bounding, flowing tide of rats.

  "Wow," Tagg murmured.

  "Lotta rats," Minna concurred. "Gonna make lotta stew, for sure."

  Clout, never one to be concerned with details, brandished his bashing tool and prepared to deal with dinner.

  Gandy, though, took a different view of the matter, "Too much rats," he started. "Way too much rats for…"

  The tidal wave of rats swept around them, under them, over them — and carried them with it. A second later, Verden Leafglow stood alone on the ledge, looking down at a slope awash with rats and gully dwarves, all gathering momentum on their way to Xak Tsaroth, buried city within the Pitt.

  As they disappeared into shadows, her dragon eyes picked out details: Tagg and Minna hand in hand, their hair blowing around them; old Gandy flailing his mop handle as he tried to maintain his balance at great speed; Clout busily swatting rats and gathering up their corpses; and the Highbulp — Glitch I was rolling, tumbling downward, a flailing tangle of arms, legs and whipping beard, and his panicked voice rose above the others.

  "Make way!" he shouted. "Get outta way! Highbulp on a roll!"

  Somehow, even disappearing into the depths and the shadows — and the unsuspected horrors — of the ancient, lost city that was his destination and his destiny, Glitch I, Highbulp by Persuasion and Lord Protector of Lots of Places — including, now, the Promised Place — still managed to sound arrogant.

  Clockwork Hero

  Jeff Grubb

  This is a Gnome Story. Such stories turn up now and again, around hearths and over cups of mulled wine. The talespinner of a proper Gnome Story should always state at the outset that his is a story of the gnomish type, so that the listeners are not surprised by that which follows. The Lower Planes hold no fury compared to that of an intent and dutiful audience that suddenly discovers they are trapped in a Gnome Story, with no escape other than the bodily expulsion of the talespinner. Heads have been broken, families split asunder, empires uprooted, and all because of an unannounced Gnome Story.

  This is a Gnome Story then, and that in itself is considered fair and proper warning. And it is a Gnome Story because it deals with, to a great degree, gnomes.

  Gnomes, you see, have the boundless curiosity of men, but lack the limitation of sense, the directness of thought, or the wisdom to control this curiosity. This disposition makes gnomes a vital part of talespinning, as much as the country fool who proves to be the wisest person of the party, or the holy man who arrives at the last minute to resolve all the characters' problems. In a similar fashion, gnomes — with their insatiable curiosity, their gleeful cleverness, and their perseverance through frequent (and dramatic) failure — serve as a guiding light, a beacon for other races. In holding up their failings, their ramshackle inventions and plots, we see more than a little of ourselves, and consider ourselves cautioned against their excesses. So gnomes have an important place in the universe (at least fictionally), such that if gnomes did not exist, they would demand to be invented, and nothing short of another gnome could invent such a concept.

  Fortunately for all, they do exist.

  This, then, is a Gnome Story, with all of its vantages, AD and DIS. It is an odd tale, in that it tells the story of a gnome who succeeds, a gnome who creates a most wondrous thing. But that is getting ahead of the tale.

  Gnome Stories usually begin with the talespinner speaking of some outsider stumbling onto the hidden land of the gnomes. The idea of a hidden land of the gnomes is usually an artistic "cheat," a stretching of the imagination, since there are very few places more noisy, smoky, smelly, and downright noticeable than a gnome community. Incontinent volcanos or a week-long reunion of gully dwarves would run a close second or third, and, like a cluster of volcanoes or gaggle of gully dwarves, a gnome community is generally well-noted by its neighbors and left alone. It is, therefore, remote from the rest of civilization, but at civilization's behest.

  This particular gnome community — this talespinner must assure you — was an extremely noisy place, resounding with the clang of hammers, the hiss of escaping steam, and the occasional explosion. The louder the gnomes, the more remote their home, and this was a most remote location indeed. So remote that the events of the outside world — the return of dragons, the coming of the Highlords and heroes, the war and all manner of destruction — passed this place by. In short, it was the perfect place to be an outsider, since there was much more outside than inside.

  The outsider in question was not the standard singular found in most Gnome Stories, but rather two, a doubleton of strangers, a windfall in terms of Gnome Stories. These strangers had two things in common: they were from outside this village of gnomes — yes, that's true — but more important, they were first found sprawled in awkward but comfortable-looking positions on the ground, next to a large, formerly leather-winged form. Said form had earlier been a dragon, but was now little more than an open buffet for the local scavengers.

  The outsiders were both alive, however. One was a warrior wrapped head to toe in dark armor, while the other was softer, plumper, unarmored, dressed in tattered finery and bound firmly at the wrists and ankles. The warrior was a woman, though this was not immediately apparent from her armor; the one in ragged finery was a man. For gnomes, gender is as unimportant as eye color or taste in music, but since these are HUMAN outsiders, it will become important. More on that later, because the gnome had finally arrived on the scene to survey the damage. And this is a Gnome Story.

  It was a gnome named Kalifirkinshibirin who discovered the comfortably sprawled outsiders outside (of course) his village. Kalifirkinshibirin (or Kali, shortening further a name already truncated due to space) was a smallish gnome, whose hobbies included spoon-collecting and putting dried flowers under glass. He also had what passed for healing skill, being versed in some natural poultices and potions that had the unique advantage (among gnomes) of not killing his patients outright.

  Kali was gathering ingredients for said potions and poultices in that particular field on that particular morning, and so, it fell to him to discover those particular remains of that particular dragon, and the outsiders resting comfortably nearby. He was definitely not in the field because he was looking for new discoveries to be made, new revelations to be revealed, or new objects to muck about with. Kali was, to put it delicately, different from his fellows.

  No, better to strip away the kindness of language and face this straig
ht out. Kali was a queer duck among his people. Most gnomes live to invent. They have fives, even tens of projects in the works at the same time, one often spilling into another at random. Gnomes see the world as inherently wrong (not an unpopular sentiment), but gnomes differ from the rest of the universe in that they believe it is their job to set matters right. That's why they invent — continually, relentlessly, and explosively — all manner of gimcracks and snapperdoodles and thingamabobs. It's the thing that gnomes just naturally do, like breathing or taking tea.

  But Kali didn't have that same sort of drive as his fellows. He was pretty content in doing what he was doing with potions and plants and poultices to relieve the occasional outbreak of flu or bad colds. He had his spoons/of course; inscribed with wildflowers, legendary heroes, and mythical animals (which was how he recognized the dragon, by the by), but none of them were mechanical in the least. He kept plans for a solar-powered lighthouse about his parlor — for appearances — but he hadn't added to them in years.

  In short, Kali was an underachiever. (This was not a criminal offense to Kali's fellow gnomes — they tended to be understanding about it. Indeed, the fact that Kali's healing methods would not vary from week to week did something for his reputation as a healer).

  In any event, it was Kali who found the outsiders. He determined they were within the bounds of "still breathing," and dragged the armored and unarmored forms back to his house in the village. (This is important, for it would make these outsiders — by custom — Kali's salvage and Kali's responsibility.) By the time he brought the second one (the unarmored, plumper, male one) back, a small crowd of his fellow gnomes had gathered about his front porch. They were armed with all manner of fearfullooking devices, and a sharp gleam shone in each and every eye.

  To an outsider (particularly a human outsider), these gnomes would appear to be a horde of evil torturers prepared to initiate a cruel inquisition, but Kali recognized that these were merely his fellow inventors. The devices were hastily-assembled inventions that would straighten a leg, lance an infection, or immobilize a thrashing patient (the last invention was a necessity for experimental surgery). The gleam that seemed so evil was only the heartfelt and honest lust that every gnome feels when one of his inventions might prove useful.

  To an outsider, though, the gleam would look undoubtedly and understandably malicious, and the size and number of sharp edges on the devices would tend to intensify said doubt. Were the two outsiders healthy, they would not walk into this apparently dangerous realm without at least a dozen more of their kind, and with a healthy reward promised on the other side.

  Kali was dragging the large, plumper figure onto his porch when he found his way blocked. The first outsider, the armored one, had awakened and now stood tottering in the doorway. She looked dangerous and tall, and while the last word could be attributed to all humans by all gnomes, this one looked taller still, swaying in her blood-colored leather boots like an improperly planted pine in the first windstorm of spring. The impressive nature of this outsider was further enhanced by the mass of her armor, and the great horns that rose from her helm like the misplaced pincers of some irate beetle.

  The gathered gnomes set up a sigh of disappointment. Apparently, her injuries were not serious.

  The woman unlatched the toggles on her helmet and removed it, revealing a sharp, angry face cradled in a scarf of blood-red hair. Swaying as though the ground were on unsteady terms with her, she scowled, then bellowed in a wavering voice, "You are all to surrender or — "

  She did not provide another option, for the weight of her words unbalanced her and she crumbled neatly in the doorway. It was obvious to all that she had suffered greater damage than initially thought. She needed help.

  The gathered gnomes were ecstatic.

  The pair of humans — armored and unarmored, female and male, soldier and well… the male was dressed like a merchant, mage, or alchemist — rested in Kali's house for five feverish days. Neither was strong enough to wake, take food, or make demands. The man-merchant slept the dreamless sleep of the dead, while the woman-warrior shuddered with fits that brought her half-waking into the pain of this world. During this time, Kali was forced to convince more than one of his gnomish compatriots that a newly invented device — such as the one to bore a small hole in the forehead to witness their dreams — was unnecessary, and proceeded to work his own craft upon them. Kali's craft was healing, and he was quite good at it… as gnomes go.

  On the morning of the sixth day, Kali awoke to find the tip of a sword at his throat. This was a surprise because he normally kept such things as swords in a large glass case marked "SWORDS" in the other room. Not surprisingly, given the location of the sword, the womanwarrior was at the opposite end. Kali had restrained the pair in their sleep, so they would not hurt themselves in a violent dream, but he had made their shackles of loose cloth.

  Too loose.

  "Surrender or die," she hissed.

  Kali gave careful (and rapid) thought to his options, and asked her what she wanted for breakfast.

  The news of Kali's surrender to the awakened outsider moved through the village like the fiery results of a failed chemical experiment.

  (In Gnome Stories the outsider always declares [himor] herself master of the land, and the gnomes always agree. Some uncharitable souls say this is because the gnomes are stalling while they gleefully plan their revenge. In reality, gnome tribes are truly interested in learning as much as possible from newcomers, and will try to make them happy. If surrendering is what the outsider wants, it is a small price to pay as long as the outsider remains. So it was in this case.)

  Soon, a horde of short but passionate individuals queued up outside Kali's house, each seeking to surrender to the awakened woman-warrior, who was breakfasting within on blueberry muffins and sausage. Some gnomes wrote long poems, others recited longer declarations of allegiance, while still others attempted to surrender by mime, juggling sparklers so they would not be ignored in favor of those declaring and rhyming. Some few brought swords to beat into plowshares, though these arrived last, since they had to beat the plowshares into swords in the first place (and indeed, many of the swords had a distinct plowsharish look to them).

  Rather than being pleased, the woman-warrior (the gnomes were already calling her Outsider A and her companion Outsider B in their journals) seemed threatened by this outpouring of mass poetry, oratory, and mime. Indeed, a huge collection of small people shouting and waving, with others coming up behind bearing large plowsharish-looking swords would unnerve any stern general unschooled in gnomecraft. Unfortunately the woman-warrior reacted like a typical human, and charged into a disaster of her own making.

  She strode out onto the porch to order the gnomes to scatter. The sight of her was enough to inspire a mass shout from the crowd. She, in turn — thinking that an attack was imminent — brandished her sword. The gnomes surged forward, each intent on surrendering first. The startled outsider backed into the doorway, feinted at the crowd with her sword, then rapidly backed up again…

  … And toppled backward over a cast iron boot-holder Kali kept by the door (for cast iron boots). Woman and sword went boots over boots with a resounding crash. She was soon resting comfortably on the floor again, with a small bruise on the top of her head.

  Kali shooed his friends, family, and fellow inventors out of the entranceway and, with a sigh, returned to his healing craft (which he was quite good at… as gnomes go). Her weapons and armor he hid in a back room, since twice now the warrior had become most unwell after using them.

  The warrior-woman would awake two days later, but in the meantime the other outsider, Outsider B, awoke, though with less spectacular effects. He merely wondered what was for breakfast, and, though it was noon, Kali set his clock back six hours in order to be accommodating.

  Outsider B, who astounded the surrendering gnomes by informing them his name was Oster, seemed a bit befuddled, but less violent, when the herd of half-sized humans
humbugged and mimed their absolute fealty to him. Then the assembled gnomes ran home to cross out "Outsider B" and write "Oster" in their journals. Oster went inside to have breakfast and dined pleasantly as the sound of erasers ripping through thin paper resounded through the village.

  After breakfast, Kali shooed away the last few neighbors who had stopped by to surrender (and to see if any blueberry muffins were left). He returned to ask Oster about his travels and how he and the woman came to this place, but found his ambulatory charge missing from the main room. A sudden panic gripped Kali. He feared that this stranger had wandered off and, knowing humans, gotten himself into trouble.

  A quick search revealed Oster in the second spare guest room, at the foot of the bed where the warriorwoman was resting. The human had an odd look on his face, that look that gnomes get when they realize an invention requires no more modification. Rapture would be a good word for it. So would golly-woggled-knockedoff-the-pins-in-love, but rapture is shorter and as such will be used henceforth.

  Kali moved quietly into the room and stood there for several heartbeats, shifting his weight from foot to foot and not knowing if he should leave.

  Finally the man sighed. A deep, room-filling sigh that would have driven the atmospheric pressure indicator in the bedroom up a few notches, had Kali thought well enough to install such a device. It was a human, rapturefilled sigh.

  "She is beautiful," he said. "Healer, who is she?"

  Kali was thunderstruck. He had assumed the two outsiders knew each other, since they were found near the same wreckage. Kali wondered if the man's mind had been damaged by the fall, as the woman's apparently had.

  "She, ah…" began the gnome, "she was not with you?"

  Oster snorted like he had inhaled a fish. "With me? Nay, Healer. I am a simple merchant, too bull-headed to live quietly under tyranny, but too old and fat to fight it well. My wagons were confiscated and I joined a small party that raided and ambushed the invaders, burning their supplies and freeing their slaves. For that crime we were hunted through hills and valleys by a greater force than we could have imagined. My comrades were soon dead and scattered, and I was left to face the fury of the Dragon Highlord on my own."