by Doug Niles
“I vouch for this report,” said a Knight of the Rose. Selinda recognized him as Sir Reynaud, Duke Crawford’s chief retainer, who had captured the goblin and brought it to Caergoth. “I happened to be at that temple shortly before the crime occurred.”
“It’s not just bandits. We have raiders coming down from the mountains, striking farmsteads and villages miles beyond their previous incursions!” proclaimed Duke Jarrod. “With Garnet to secure my southern flank, my troops could form a bulwark against the raiders’ inroads to the west, I can no longer afford to send a garrison to a place that provides me with no revenue.
“Bah—it is to the north that the enemy plans to strike!” objected Duke Rathskell. “That’s why Garnet is essential—essential—to the proper defense of Solanthus.”
Back and forth they went throughout a long, hot day in the great hall. Selinda had almost dozed off when she heard a commotion at the back of the large room. A messenger in the livery of the Rose knights rushed in to interrupt the debate.
“The assassin of Lord Lorimar!” the messenger gasped, to general consternation. “He has been spotted in the city! The duke’s agents have him cornered near the waterfront—he’s in the Gnome Ghetto!”
“Evil strides the streets of my city! My men will apprehend him at once!” cried Duke Crawford, leaping to his feet, shouting orders to Sir Marckus.
“Not so fast!” objected Rathskell. “This villain is the great prize of our age—let all the orders combine for the honor of bringing him to justice!
“I pledge a hundred knights!” Duke Jarrod shouted. The others swiftly followed suit, so that it was a party of three hundred veteran Solamnics, armed and armored, that presently hastened toward the Gnome Ghetto, in pursuit of the vile murderer.
Sir Mikel Horn, a veteran Knight of the Rose, had served his order in key posts for twenty years. He had guarded bands of refugees fleeing south and east to escape the depredations of the Dragon Overlord Khellendros. He had stood on the walls of Solanthus when Mina had come with her Dark Knights to sweep that ancient fortress by storm. He had led patrol after patrol against the brigands, goblins, and Dark Knight remnants that had plagued all the provinces of Solamnia since the end of the War of Souls. He helped to train the garrisons for both Solanthus and Thelgaard, earning a reputation as a man who could be trusted, a man who could think for himself, a man for whom no assignment was too difficult.
Which is why he stood here, now, on the gate-tower of the free city of Garnet, watching the last of the Solanthian knights ride away, their banners held high, their silver armor shining, amidst a fanfare of bugles. But no doubt about it, like their Crown brethren from Thelgaard, the knights of Solanthus were running away.
The goblins of the Garnet Range were on the march. All week long reports had been streaming in, describing a horde of unprecedented size—raiders who had were sweeping through small mining towns and dairy villages, plundering and killing. As the band of marauders drew closer to Garnet, many of the people had fled onto the plains while some had stayed to defend their homes. Now Sir Mikel knew that it was too late for anyone else to leave.
“Captain Horn, here are the latest reports from the scouts,” said Dynrall Wickam, Mikel’s squire and aide. Dynrall was his most loyal retainer, or had been up until this morning, when Mikel had ordered him to depart with the men of Solanthus.
“Will you be leaving, Captain?” Dynrall had asked.
“I cannot. By the Oath and the Measure, I stay here in Garnet until we are relieved. But you, lad—you should go!” the captain had replied.
“And leave the man who has shown me the true meaning of that Oath, and that Measure?” the squire had replied. “No, my lord, the only way I leave Garnet is if I follow you out. No sir, I refuse that order. Write it down on my record. I’m staying.”
Horn had been too overcome to reply. Now he looked at the young man, one of the few steadfast warriors in the town, and all he could think of was that his own stubbornness had condemned the youngster.
“What are the reports?” he asked.
“The goblin horde has been spotted on the King’s Road in the foothills,” Dyrnall reported. “Still displaying surprisingly good march discipline. Best estimates are that they will be heading down the west ridge within a matter of hours. If they desire haste, they might be able to fall upon the city before nightfall.”
“Then we had best take up positions on the wall. What are our numbers?”
“Some hundred knights remain, sir. Perhaps three or four times that many men of the city will stand watch. All have been directed to battle posts and will hasten there upon your signal.”
“Very well. It is not so bad. It could be worse. We will acquit ourselves. Summon my bugler, and sound the alarm.”
An hour later the raiders burst into view, several thousand of them blackening the summit of the low, rounded ridge that formed the eastern horizon when viewed from the town walls. They were about a mile away, standing shoulder to shoulder in silent menace.
“That big fellow there, in the middle. He’s the leader,” Horn said, studying the horde with a practiced eye. He indicated a massive, broad-shouldered warrior who swaggered out in front of the horde. The goblin chieftain wore a necklace of skulls, grisly trophies that rattled upon his chest when he walked. He held a massive spear in his hand, and for a moment he struck a pose, the haft of his weapon planted upon the ground as he glared down at the small, walled town nestled in its little hollow in the plains.
Abruptly, he raised the spear in a massive fist, whirling the weapon back and forth over his head. An eerie green light pulsed from that mighty spear, and when the glow washed over the men on the city ramparts their knees quaked, and their courage went sour in their mouths. A great roar rose from the horde, and the front rank of goblins surged forward. The next came behind, and soon the ground was teeming with them, a screaming, howling horde sweeping down toward the poorly defended town.
They reached the wall and the gate and barely slowed. Some goblins threw grapples over the parapet, while others formed crude ladders from posts and timbers scattered outside the walls. They swarmed up and over, striking down the few men who dared to stand against the tide. The attackers spread to the right and left, and within a few short minutes the outer wall was in their hands.
The great half giant stood at the city gate, smashing at it with his powerful fists, bashing the barrier down. Brandishing his glowing spear, he led a charge right down the main street of Garnet. Hundreds of savage, painted goblins, shrieking in bloodthirsty frenzy, thronged the street behind him.
Sir Mikel came down from the rampart and met the goblins at the head of the charge with his broadsword, killing the first two. The great half-giant loomed over him, lip curled in a sneer of contempt. The huge spear with the gleaming green tip thrust forward, and the knight made to parry, a forceful block with the hilt of his sword clutched in both hands.
But the thrust was a feint, and the hulking half-giant whipped the weapon around with startling speed. It was the haft of the weapon—a stick of wood as thick as a strong man’s forearm—that struck home, shattering Sir Mikel’s helmet into two pieces, crushing the man’s skull.
The knight died there, mercifully, for the suffering of his city lasted through the rest of the night.
“Great victory!” crowed Laka, pouring the contents of a bottle of red wine—a vintage that had been priced at more than fifty steel, just a few hours ago—into her mouth and down the front of her ragged tunic. The amulet of Hiddukel, the last shard of the green rock she had discovered so many years ago, glimmered almost with delight as the blood-red liquid spilled over it.
“Aye!” Ankhar crowed. He was leaning back on a feathered mattress in a wealthy merchant’s great manor. The merchant himself lay dead in the next room, while his wife and maidservants were locked in a nearby pantry. Even now, hours later, the half-giant could hear their terrified sobs. It was a very pleasant sound. He was in no hurry to kill them. Let them be
g and weep for a while.
“Many treasures,” the chieftain reflected, looking at the array of gold and silver objects in the room—goblets, candlesticks, platters, and picture frames. “Food and drink for a whole year. If we want to stay here to eat.”
His foster mother tossed the half empty wine bottle across the room, where it shattered against a canvas portrait that apparently portrayed the dead man who lay with his brains crushed in the next room.
“Now it look like him!” she cackled, as the crimson liquid spattered the painting and slowly trickled toward the floor. Then her eyes narrowed thoughtfully, as she closed her bony fingers around the amulet of the Prince of Lies. “You say if we stay here, son,” she observed.
Ankhar was up, pacing around the great room, his thoughts tumbling through his mind with increasing potential, ambition, excitement. “Yes,” he replied. “This fun, great victory for my army—but it only first victory! Now we go across plains. Take what we want. Go where we please!”
“You want war with knights?” Laka asked, her own eyes flashing.
“I destroy knights!” Ankhar pledged.
He stared at the pulsing light, and he saw the Truth.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
A HOUSE OF GNOMES
Not stay in sewer?” The Highbulp’s lower lip quivered in a dramatic pout. “We have feast and drunk! Lots of fun—women, too!”
Dram suppressed a shudder. “Sorry, but we have business with the gnomes.” He was not entirely exaggerating as he added, “We will always remember your help, though. You brought us right to the street we were looking for. Firesplasher Lane, you said, right?”
“Yep. Them Firesplashers all live here, you bet,” declared the Aghar proudly.
“We’ll go on ourselves from here,” Dram said.
“Fine by me. Humph,” sniffed the gully dwarf. “Gnome girls ugly! Gnome beer flat!”
Although Dram was inclined to agree, he knew that the standards of beauty and brewing among the Aghar were far worse. Even so, like the human, he had grown genuinely fond of the brave little fellow who had brought them through the maze of sewer tunnels unmolested, right to the short alley called Firesplasher Lane.
“Wait!” cried the Aghar with uncharacteristic emotion. “You tell me names before you go! I Highbulp Stuggleflump, Lord of Caergoth sewers. These sewers, anyway. What names yours?” He pointed a grimy finger at the mountain dwarf.
“I’m Dram Feldspar,” said the dwarf, with a stiff bow and a formal nod. “Honored to make your acquaintance, Sir Highbulp.”
“Yes! Me a Sir! Call me ‘Sir’!” said the filthy creature, beaming. His eyes narrowed as he glared up at the human, shifting the aim of his finger to the tall swordsman’s chest. “Who is you?”
The man squinted, hesitating for just a moment.
“Jaymes. I am called Jaymes Markham,” he replied. “I, too, am honored to know Sir Highbulp Stuggleflump. Now we must part ways.”
The warrior started to climb up the shaft of the drain pipe, which connected to the street overhead. At the top he pushed a heavy grate to the side, then climbed to his feet and stood, watching impatiently, as the dwarf followed him up the rusty ladder and rolled onto the worn flagstones. They were in a dead-end alley that was so narrow Dram could almost stretch his arms out and touch the buildings on either side of the street.
“This is Firesplasher Lane, huh?” the dwarf noted skeptically.
Still, it did look like a gnome neighborhood, with small wooden doors leading into little stone buildings. Just a stone’s throw away the alley joined a street. Several gnomes passed, glancing at the two unkempt figures, smeared with mud—and worse—from their passage through the wretched sewer
The swordsman strode up to a solid-looking door, only chest-high to the man, and knocked his fist sharply against the panel.
After a beat, an irascible voice squeaked from within, “Go away!”
The warrior repeated the pounding. A few seconds later they heard the same response, this time a higher-pitched squeak. When Jaymes knocked a third time, they heard a burst of noise—like a chair scraping across a stone floor, a jar slamming down hard onto a countertop, and muttered curses and complaints growing in volume as the speaker stomped closer.
The door swung inward, and a chubby gnome, long-bearded and utterly bald on his scalp, stared fiercely up at the man. “Don’t you understand Common? I said, ‘Go away’!”
Jaymes stooped and brushed past him as he squawked. The gnome turned to glare at the warrior as the dwarf, who only had to duck his head slightly, stepped past, following Jaymes.
Despite the low ceiling, the room was quite large, though most of the floor space was given over to an assortment of tables jammed haphazardly together, in some places so closely that even the gnome must have had trouble fitting between them. Near the door was a fireplace and cook stove between a pair of chairs apparently made from salvaged bits of kindling. As crowded as the floor was with tables and counters, likewise each tabletop was covered by a clutter of miscellany: jars, tins, and boxes filled with powders, ointments, liquids, and indistinguishable substances; papers and parchments scrawled with tiny handwriting, or sprawling schematics; burners and boilers busy heating little kettles, or scorching plain-glass vials. A haze of smoke made it hard to see to the far side, and a layer of fine dust covered the floor, tables, walls, and everything else with a black coating.
“Go away!” the gnome demanded once more.
“No!” Dram declared, planting his fists on his hips and meeting the indignant gnome’s eyes with a bristling glower of his own.
The little fellow shrugged, apparently undismayed by the dwarf’s stubbornness. “Then stand back,” he declared, “and cover your ears.” The gnome followed his own instructions as he turned and dashed across the room, shouting. “Ready?”
For the first time they noticed a second gnome, almost invisible behind a large kettle on the far side of the cook stove. This one, a female, replied, “Ready!” She covered her face with the crook of one arm while, with the other hand, she extended the end of a red-hot poker into the kettle.
“What are you—”
Dram was interrupted by a whoomph that drove the breath from his lungs. The blast of pressure was followed immediately by an ear-stunning crack and a great billow of black smoke, shot through with sparks of orange fire. The cloud erupted from the black kettle, quickly filling the room with choking, gagging vapors. Eyes stinging, coughing uncontrollably, Jaymes and the dwarf had no choice but to retreat to the narrow street. They stumbled out, fanning the air, leaning over until they could beathe.
The two gnomes emerged too, though they didn’t seem as discomfited. Indeed, the male seemed satisfied as he nodded and stroked his beard.
“That went well,” he said to his partner.
The female was just as chubby and short as her companion. Perhaps because she had been closer to the experiment, she was still blinking, wiping soot from her face and shaking her head as if to clear her ears.
“Who are they?” she asked, as—apparently for the first time, to judge by the widening of her eyes—she caught sight of the two visitors. “Who are you?” She promptly forgot all about the human and the dwarf, turning back to the other gnome. “Make a note: I think we are still using too much sulfir, but it went pretty well. Still, I wish Pete was here to help.”
“Well, of course, Pete,” said the male gnome. “But he’s not.”
“Look,” Dram interjected. “We are looking for someone you might know. We heard he might have come here.”
“Nope, don’t know you, don’t know anyone who knows you,” said the male, with a firm shake of his head. “Unless his name is Pete.”
“His name is Brillissander Firesplasher,” Jaymes said tersely.
The name provoked a startling reaction. Both gnomes stood at abrupt attention, the male placing his hand over his heart while his comrade let a fat tear roll through the smudge on her cheek.
“So you know hi
m?” Dram probed.
“He was our Pap,” said the male. “He’s dead, though. So if he knew you, he doesn’t know you any more.” He blinked suddenly, as if remembering something. “Go away!” he snapped.
With a roar of exasperation, Jaymes grabbed the gnome’s collar and twisted, lifting the little fellow right off of the ground. The warrior took a similar grip on the second gnome and none too gently hauled them through the door back into the still-smoky room.
“Hey! Ow! Stop!”
Ignoring their strangled protests, not to mention their flailing resistance, Jaymes and Dram firmly plopped the gnomes into a pair of chairs, both of which creaked and swayed. The man knelt so that he could confront the gnomes, leaning close into their faces, scowling.
“Now listen good. Your Pap had something that I want, and I’m not leaving here until I get it. That doesn’t have to take such a long time. Or it might last until tomorrow. That’s up to you.”
“Pap had somethin’ of yours?” snapped the bearded gnome. Abruptly, he sniffled. “Hah! Pap was no thief, and I never laid eyes on you before. How could he have something of yours?”
“Look, let’s be reasonable about this,” Dram said in a bluff attempt at friendliness. “What’s your name? The short version?”
“Pap himself named me,” said the little fellow sentimentally. “He called me Carbonfoundationremnantbasicintermixturefour partstoseven—”
“No, the short version of your name!” spluttered the dwarf.
“That is the short version. The first part of it anyway. You can call me Carbo.”
“All right. Carbo.” Dram turned to the female, his beard splitting into a grimace which he intended as a friendly smile. “And who are you?”
“I’m … well, you can call me Sulfie.”
“All right, Carbo. Sulfie. I’m sorry about your Pap. Let’s start with what happened to him. Tell us.”
“Well, it wasn’t just him. It happened to most all of Dungarden. We were just lucky that day—Pap sent us out to chop stones. Us and our brother, Salty Pete. He was working on the compound.”