“Where in the abyss have you been?” Drakis yelled at Belag, trying to be heard over the noise.
“Here,” Belag roared back. “They caught me last night trying to get a better look at them. They have a rather impressive defensive plan that . . .”
“Not now,” Drakis yelled back. “Why didn’t you come back?”
“They wouldn’t let me,” Belag replied. “We need their help, and I didn’t want to hurt any of them.”
“So you just sat here?” Drakis barked.
“No,” Belag shook his great head. “The Hak’kaarin are mud gnomes . . . wanderers of the wasteland. About the only thing they love better than surprising other creatures is hearing their stories.”
Drakis was not sure he heard the manticore correctly over the noise. “Did you say ‘stories’?”
“Yes!” the manticore bellowed in reply.
Drakis looked up, suddenly aware that the cheering had become rhythmic.
“Oh, no!” Drakis’ murmured words were completely obscured by the chanting.
“DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS! DRAKIS! . . .”
The human warrior turned to the manticore and smiled grimly as he yelled. “I think I can guess which story you’ve been telling!”
CHAPTER 33
Caliph
“SOEN TJEN-REI, Inquisitor of the Iblisi,” the brilliantly robed gnome shouted from the far end of the Great House Hall, throwing his chubby arms wide. “My dear old friend! The sight of you fills my eyes with joy!”
Soen bowed deeply at the hall entrance, dust billowing from his robes as he quickly returned upright and threw his own arms wide, his narrow face split into a sharp-toothed smile. “Argos Helm, Caliph of the Dje’kaarin and my most honored citizen of the north! The burdens of my journey are lightened at your sight!”
Argos Helm slapped both his fat hands down on the top of his trouser-covered thighs with a resounding clap. This caused both his short legs to jerk forward slightly in reflex, his ornate silk shoes swinging away from the tall throne where they hung two full handbreadths above the floor.
Soen determinedly held his fixed smile, fingering his Matei staff in his right hand and mentally reviewing the many ways in which he might use it to most satisfactorily obliterate the pompous, scheming, slippery, and utterly corrupt gnome who sat so cheerfully before him. Argos was the latest in an unfortunately long line of Caliphs who had ruled the Stone Gnome tribes of the northern coastal regions of Vestasia since the Grand Army of the Emperor had come to a disappointing end to its march at these miserable shores three centuries before. Mortis Helm was only one of several dozen self-proclaimed warlords, but it was he alone who had both the shrewd foresight and unbridled pragmatic opportunism to ally himself and his family with the weary invaders. Mortis was in awe of the might and splendor of the Rhonas Imperium from the distant south—especially their stand against the humans who had, in his mind, long ignored and dismissed his people as unworthy of their attentions. He envisioned a day when all his people would be a part of that Empire, forever giving up the wandering ways of the tribes, living in one place in sheltering walls of stone while enjoying at their ease the luxurious splendors of a more civilized world. Of course, being the only visionary he knew, Mortis would rule them on behalf of the greater good. The Dje’kaarin would no longer govern themselves, but then governance was such a burden for the unworthy and unenlightened. Better that he should do their thinking for them.
Not all of the other warlords agreed with this view of the world, but Mortis Helm was not bound by such mundane considerations as ethics, and he had the support of the Rhonas Legions of Conquest. A little treachery went a long way, especially when it was coupled to an incredibly huge lie: He convinced the stone gnomes that he and his tribe had actually affected the surrender of the elven Legions to him. At the same time, Mortis offered to hand over the effective rule of the stone gnomes to the elves so long as they were discreet about their arrangement and supported his deception. Soon the elven commanders with smiles on their faces—not unlike the one which Soen now wore—fulfilled their promise and installed Mortis Helm as the first Caliph of the Dje’kaarin—master of all the stone gnomes of the Vestasian Coast.
Succeeding generations saw the dreadfully accurate fulfillment of Mortis Helm’s original vision. With the establishment of an Occuran Trade Portal in Yurani Keep—the farthest portal of the northwest fold chain—trade goods from the heart of the Empire were soon flooding the village. The stone gnomes, once proud nomadic warriors, were enslaved at last not by chains or whips but by soft clothes, easily bartered meals, and their own complacency. The old stories were still told to their children, but with each generation it was harder to believe that gnomes had lived any other way than as a drone outpost of Rhonas civilization.
The one thing that never seemed to fade was the general hatred of the Dje’kaarin gnome citizens for their Helm Caliphate rulers. The Helm dynasty’s treachery was by no means limited to the origins of the Caliphate and over time had become the stuff of legend among the Stone Gnomes. Down the centuries there had been repeated attempts by various factions—usually descendants of the ancient warlord families—to oust the contemporary Helm Caliph, install their own warlord, and foment a radical change in the Dje’kaarin government. Time and again, the Iblisi were called upon by the successive Caliphs to journey to this miserable outpost of the Empire and shore up the sagging fortunes of the Helm dynasty.
Soen’s shining black eyes studied the Caliph even as he strained at his studied, pleasant grin. Argos was only the latest incarnation of the line of succession and, if anything, had proved himself as typical an example of his forbearers as possible. He was short even for a gnome, the top of his head—minus the ridiculous crown—barely coming to the midpoint of Soen’s thigh. His gray beard was carefully groomed, coming to two separated points just below his waist. These he kept tucked inside a wide belt that he wore incongruously over an elven Imperial tunic. His skin was of a reddish brown color reminiscent of cherrywood. He had the large, hooked nose that was typical of his race and bright, narrow eyes with perpetual smile lines at the corners. The top of his head was bald—shaved, Soen suspected, so that he might look more like the elves with whom he did his most important business.
Indeed, the Great House Hall itself was a ridiculously bad imitation of the Emperor’s audience hall in Rhonas. The great domed ceiling was reincarnated as a stick framework tied together with rawhide thongs. Even then it was not properly put together and sagged badly toward the eastern wall. Someone had shored it up with additional long poles inside the dome, which destroyed any marvelous architectural affect the dome might have presented in the first place, but at least it didn’t look on the verge of collapse. The walls were entirely of native stone covered in a thick adobe mud, but the mud itself had been scratched at by gnome artists with sticks in an attempt to reproduce the delicate marble friezes of the Emperor’s throne room. The mud had proved to be a poor medium for such reproductions, and Soen often had to remind himself not to look at them. The throne was bad enough—a vulgar and unintentionally sacrilegious copy of the Seat of the Empire that, were its existence generally known, might have been deemed sufficient to put an end to the Helm Caliph line once and for all. The throne was, like most things, entirely too big for Argos Helm.
The Caliph had to bounce twice on the cushion before he could gain enough momentum to hop down from his perch. “You honor me and all my people. For you the generous nature of my heart is laid open without reserve—but, how it is you have come to me in such a state? What long roads have brought my favorite son of the Empire to my humble self?”
“I regret that my mission requires urgency, oh great Caliph,” Soen said, letting a hint of deference into his voice. “I would have made myself more presentable to you, but I am on the Emperor’s errand and time is against me.”
“The Emperor’s errand!” Argos’ rubbery face affected astonishment as he waved the Iblisi to approach him. “Perhaps from t
he Imperial City itself?”
“Yes, oh great Caliph,” Soen began.
“Ah, to visit the heart of the Empire!” Argos opined. “To see its towers and walk its streets! I have heard of your citadels that float among the clouds and the magic of your Aether that flows like water from your Wells. I should dearly love one day to make the journey and stand among my fellow citizens!”
Soen gripped his staff until his fingers lost all color. Argos was a citizen of the Empire, but only just; he was considered to be of the Sixth Estate—technically a citizen by the laws of the Empire but devoid of any real rights. It was reserved largely for elves who had no social station whatever and was the last refuge of elven criminals. It was also a status held out as a reward to slaves who had performed some heinous deed for the Empire: betrayal, murder, assassination, spying, and the like. It was rarely granted to slaves—and was relatively meaningless when it was given.
“Perhaps the Caliph shall see it one day,” Soen said as evenly as he could. “But the way is long and arduous. I myself had some trouble along the way . . .”
“No! May the gods forbid!”
“The Northmarch Folds can be treacherous,” Soen advised. “And dusty, as you can see . . . but my need is great and my time short.”
“Then come at once, my friend! I shall forgive at once your ill manners to the need of haste and history—for no doubt you are on a mission that impacts both!”
Soen tried for a moment to make sense out of Argos’ words but realized it was pointless. The Caliph often misspoke—a problem that had been the root cause of several assassination attempts. The Inquisitor simply took in a long breath, nodded, and walked quickly toward the short ruler with his staff in hand. “Oh great Caliph, your words are as wise as they are meaningful. You have no doubt already divined that I have come to request a boon of your eminent self.”
Argos frowned uncertainly.
“I need a favor,” Soen urged.
“Ah!” The Caliph’s face brightened. “Of course! I am most anxious to assist the Will of the Emperor in all things! You have but to ask, and Argos Helm shall grant all that is in my power to give! Please . . . sit with me as brothers and we shall discuss your needs.”
The Caliph indicated three curved benches set at one side of the hall. Together they formed a broken circle—a mychural in the gnome tongue—which translated into “story circle.” It was where gnomes traditionally gathered to converse, discuss, and listen to stories. It was, Soen noted, the only gnomish conceit in the entire hall.
The tall elven Inquisitor sat down on one of the benches. It was, unfortunately, built to gnome specifications. Soen was more stooping than sitting. Argos took no notice of his guest’s discomfiture and plopped himself down on an opposite bench.
“There!” Argos leaned forward and spoke quietly. “What favor might I do for my good friend Soen?”
“I am looking for a man,” Soen began.
“A man?” Argos interrupted, stroking his beard. “I don’t know about a man. I can get you a woman—a good number of them, in fact, I should think—but ours is a backward people not as enlightened as the heart of the great Rhonas Imperium.”
“No, Argos . . .”
“Just give me a moment, friend . . . I may be able to come up with a man for you . . .”
“No!” Soen began fingering his staff once more. “I am looking for a specific man . . . a human bolter.”
Argos’ eyes were losing focus. “Bolter . . . bolter . . .”
“A runaway slave,” Soen continued. “A human male. We believe he and a number of fellow travelers left the Murialis Woods and were making their way into Vestasia.”
“Murialis . . .” Argos repeated as he nodded his head vaguely. Suddenly his eyes focused, shifting to stare at the Iblisi. “Murialis? That Murialis? The witch west of the Southern Mountains?”
“Yes,” Soen continued. “I believe they may have been traveling north.”
“But that’s over one hundred and seventy leagues from here!” Argos laughed incredulously.
“Yes,” Soen agreed, “and it is land with which I am not familiar. What can you tell me about it?”
Argos leaned back, his face turned upward as he considered the question. He began stroking his beard with his left hand as though trying to pull some answer out of it. “Ah, you believe your quarry is in the Great Savanna.”
Soen nodded. “If that is to the north of Murialis lands, then yes.”
“Difficult place, that savanna,” Argos mused. “You’ll need to travel south around the edge of Gnevis Bay, then follow the Lynadio River inland until you cross at the confluence. West, beyond the river is the Great Savanna . . . filled with wild creatures and death. Perhaps you would like some men to accompany you—our finest warrior guards and at a most reasonable price! I could get you some women also, but that would be more difficult and, naturally, more expensive . . .”
“No,” Soen said, his sharp teeth grinding slightly as he spoke. “I don’t need an army—just your—your most excellent advice. Have you any news of my prey? There are three humans, a pair of manticores, and a chimerian who . . .”
“A chimerian?” Argos laughed. “That sounds like the beginning of a joke.”
“I assure you it is not,” Soen snapped then drew in a breath. “Have you any word of such strangers?”
“In the savanna?” Argos chuckled. “No one cares what happens in the savanna!”
“Isn’t there anyone . . . any tribes who might have seen my prey?”
“Ah, perhaps the Hak’kaarin,” Argos said with a disdainful sniff.
“Hak’kaarin?” Soen urged.
“Foolish creatures . . . you could barely call them gnomes really,” Argos shrugged. “Mud gnomes of the great savanna. Backward savages that constantly wander the savanna wastes traveling from mudpile to mudpile. They have no appreciation for property, no understanding of the finer things of the world. Uncivilized and unworthy of your attentions, my friend. They cover the savanna like a river of idiots, never stopping long enough to build anything of value. But if anyone will have seen your . . . ‘bolters’ did you call them? . . . the savages of the Hak’kaarin will know of it.”
The doors were closed, and at last, Argos pulled himself back up onto his throne and sat on it with satisfaction.
The gnome Caliph relished the moment. After all, he had a family tradition to uphold. All of his Helm ancestors had been brilliant politicians and strategists, he reasoned, otherwise how could they have stayed in power so long? So he, too, had to be as masterful and cunning as his forebears.
This time he was more cunning than them all—for he would outsmart an Iblisi.
“Fon!” the Caliph yelled, and at his word a gnome guard appeared from a side door, resplendent in his ridiculous armor.
“Yes, oh great Caliph!” Fon barked.
“There is an elf awaiting word from me in the Shadow Caves—do you know them? They’re in the gully north of the city.”
“I know them, oh great Caliph!”
“Tell him his friend journeys into the Great Savanna,” the Caliph grinned. “And tell him to follow the trails of the Hak’kaarin.”
The gnome bit his lower lip for a moment. “Oh great Caliph . . . how will I know I have the right elf?”
“You idiot!” Argos screamed. “How many elves are there in this province?”
“Sorry, my Caliph!” the gnome mumbled.
“Oh, very well,” Argos grumbled. “His name is Jukung. He is an Inquisitor of the Empire and will reward us for our service.”
“Yes, oh great Caliph!”
“And we must always be grateful to the Empire,” Argos sighed, then, in a flash of inspiration, turned and put his hand in a semblance of benevolence on the helmeted head of the guard. “Quickly write this down so that we can have it written on our next wall. We must always be grateful to the Empire, for without it all the gnomes would be forced to endure terrible suffrage!”
CHAPTER 34<
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Traveler’s Tales
“A YE! There he stood, Drakis the Just, atop the very throne of the dwarven kingdoms! His hands were stained with the blood of a thousand dwarves—the sworn enemies of his cruel masters—as he took the crown from the last of the Dwarven Kings!”
The dwarf’s voice filled the cavernous space inside the mud gnomes’ city adjacent to the main fire pit. He stood in the center of an enormous crowd of mud gnomes, all staring back at him in rapt attention. On the fringes of this congregation, however, a number of gnomes were talking excitedly and gesturing wildly. These would then fall away from the crowd and meld back into the constant stream of mud gnomes that swept past them in an unending river only to be immediately replaced with yet more gnomes who would chatter away at the fringes of the group, trying, it seemed, to catch up to events in the story before they arrived. A few of these would settle more toward the middle where the dwarf was blathering on while others fell back into the perpetual parade. It was an audience whose comings and goings seemed to have little reference to the story as it was being told. The mud gnomes might love stories, but Drakis could not be sure that any one of them had heard a single one of Jugar’s tales from beginning to end. They seemed to be perpetually in motion and unable to stay in any one spot long enough for a long joke, let alone an epic tale.
At the edge of the cavern, two additional figures watched in stillness as the river of gnomes swirled around them.
“Jugar is in rare form tonight,” said Ethis, both pairs of his arms folded across his chest.
“Yes,” Drakis said in disgust. “Rare . . . almost raw.”
“You don’t approve?” Ethis asked in a calm, droll manner.
“Is that meant to be a joke!” Drakis complained. “Just listen to him!”
Jugar stood, his thick arms raised above him, his head bent backward in the drama of his storytelling. The gnomes were leaning toward him now. “There Drakis stood, gazing upon the fabled crown of the dwarves—its jewels sparkling like all the stars of the winter sky—his mighty army arrayed about him, howling in their blood-crazed frenzy for more slaughter, more violence, more death to fill their empty souls! Drakis saw in that dwarven crown all the terrible sins of his elven masters—the pain of his fellow slaves, the loss of their dignity, and their life’s blood all sacrificed on the altar of Rhonas ambition to take one more jeweled crown into the already burgeoning coffers of the elven state! What was this crown weighed in the balance against the thousands of lives he had taken to obtain it? What was this crown weighed in the balance of his own soul!”
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