Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth)

by Coney, Michael G.

  Lying in the lee of an outcropping, it would stab at the granite; and so powerful were its wing-spurs that the rock would crumble as a slow series of runes were etched into its surface. So the gnomish legends go.

  Whether the legends are true or not, the runes can still be seen.

  To Nyneve’s chagrin, Merlin held her to her offer to repair the bellows. She spent much of the day patching the worn calf hide until the old wizard pronounced himself satisfied. By the time she had finished, morning had stretched into late afternoon and she’d abandoned an intended trip to gnomedom.

  “Now you can pump the furnace for me,” said Merlin.

  “What will you be doing?”

  “Forging the sword, of course, my girl.” He fitted the bellows into position and gave them a couple of strokes. The coals began to glow. “A fine sight,” he murmured. “Take over, Nyneve.”

  Nyneve stepped on the bellows and started to pump while Merlin fetched a long strip of iron and, with some difficulty, heaved it clattering onto the furnace. The old wizard’s eyes were bright with excitement.

  “Faster!” he cried.

  “I’m doing my best.”

  “It’s not good enough!” he shouted above the roar of the furnace. “The coals must glow brighter than the sun!”

  She glanced at the sky. Dark clouds hung low over the forest, hastening the onset of night. Merlin’s face shone crimson as a demon’s as he hung over the furnace, staring into the coals, impervious to the heat. She considered pointing out that there was no sun to compare the coals to, but thought better of it. Merlin was in a funny mood tonight—and he did have powers, albeit feeble ones. It might be unwise to provoke him.

  She pumped on, thighs aching while sweat prickled her scalp, trickled down her face, joined into streams at her neck and poured down her overheated body. Her loose woolen dress began to stick uncomfortably to her back as she bent over the bellows, pumping, pumping, occasionally changing legs, pressing her knee with her hand to share the load.

  “Not good enough!” yelled Merlin again, but Nyneve ignored him, maintaining a steady pace. She assumed, correctly, that his shouting had become more of an automatic battle cry than a sensible command.

  “Now!” he cried, and seized the end of the iron with both hands, preparing to lift it to the anvil. “God damn the thing!” he screamed, as the hot metal seared his flesh. He flung himself to the ground and plunged his hands into the stream that flowed beside the cottage. “Gloves!” he shouted over his shoulder.

  “You’d better get them. We don’t want the furnace to die on us.”

  He rose quickly to his feet. “How can I be expected to create a magic sword when incompetence is all around me?” he shouted at the sky, shaking his dripping fists in the air.

  As if in answer, the clouds opened and rain began to fall heavily. The furnace hissed, darkening. Nyneve stopped pumping. “Let’s give up,” she said. “We can do it tomorrow, if you like.”

  “Tonight is the time,” he cried.

  “That’s the kind of thing Avalona would say.”

  “Starquin!” Merlin shouted at the clouds, beside himself with frustration, “Have you forsaken me?”

  “Only temporarily, I expect,” Nyneve reassured him.

  “Huh.” He made an effort to pull himself together, staring at her with eyes that bore the lingering remnants of a crazed expression. “Huh. We’ll rig a shelter, that’s what we’ll do. Poles are what we need. And a lot of cloth. Or skins.”

  “It’s getting dark, Merlin.”

  But the old wizard was not to be deterred. Nyneve cut poles, and together they rigged a tent over the furnace. By the time they’d finished, the rain had stopped—significantly, Nyneve thought. “I think perhaps tonight isn’t the time, after all,” she said. I think we’ve been given a sign.”

  “Nonsense!” he cried, glancing nervously at the emergent stars. “I know a sign when I see one, and I haven’t seen one tonight.”

  So Nyneve pumped on while Merlin, carefully gloved, beat the iron into something approximating a blade.

  “Ha!” he cried eventually. “It is done. Stop pumping, my dear.” Trembling with excitement, he fumbled under his robe and drew out a leather bag. He loosened the drawstring and took out a handful of black powder. Placing the bag carefully on the ground, he approached the dying furnace and the sword. He raised both hands to the sky. He paused.

  “Excalibur!” he cried, and threw the black powder into the coals.

  A blinding flash of light illuminated the clearing, glittering off wet leaves, throwing deep shadows. Nyneve, opening her eyes again, saw the figure of Merlin with hands still upraised, standing dramatically in a pall of black smoke, outlined against a fierce blaze.

  “Merlin!” she called. “Come away from there! The tent’s on fire!

  The heat of the furnace had rapidly dried the rain-soaked fabric and it was merrily ablaze, teetering on its poles and threatening to envelop Merlin. The wizard, with a yell of alarm, came scampering back to Nyneve’s side. The tent poles collapsed in on each other like a fan, and fell against the furnace. Flames roared into the night sky.

  Merlin watched, quickly recovering his wits. “A lesser man might have injured himself quite seriously,” he said, patting his head to extinguish a minor outbreak in his wispy hair.

  “What about the sword? Shouldn’t we get it out of there before it melts?”

  “You know nothing of the properties of a fine blade, Nyneve. It will take more than a little fire to damage Excalibur.”

  “ ‘Excalibur’? You mean the sword has a name? That’s kind of unusual, isn’t it?”

  “Henceforth,” said the wizard wisely, “the naming of fine blades will be commonplace. After all,” he said in more down-to-earth tones, “it does convey a certain dignity, an individuality, don’t you think?”

  Nyneve was doubtful. “It seems silly to me. I mean, you can’t exactly talk to it, can you? You can’t get out of bed and nod to it and say: ‘Good morning, Excalibur.’ And even if you did, you wouldn’t want that to be known around the forest. So I can’t see when you’d ever use the name.”

  “I visualize it being used in conversation with another armed man,” said Merlin. “I see Excalibur’s owner saying something like, ‘Yield, before I run Excalibur through your very soul,’ or words to that effect. He’d have to wave the sword to make his meaning clear, of course.”

  “That sounds quite good.”

  “And then his enemy would draw his own sword, but it would be a poor nameless thing, just a rusty old strip of iron with no personality whatever. And his enemy would suffer loss of confidence.”

  “Because it would be like facing two people,” suggested Nyneve. “A man, and a sword. Who will use Excalibur, Merlin? Not you, surely. You can hardly lift it.”

  “It is not for me to reveal the ifalong,” said the ancient loftily.

  “Because if you do, Avalona will give you hell. Where did you get the name Excalibur from, anyway?”

  “It came to me in a vision.”

  “I bet Avalona suggested it.” The flames were dying down now, and Excalibur lay hidden under a pile of charred cloth. “Let’s dig it out of there and take a look, shall we?”

  “It is time to temper the blade,” agreed Merlin. Adjusting his gloves, he seized the protruding end of Excalibur and with some difficulty dragged it to the stream and tipped it, sizzling, into the water. After a moment he hauled it out again and laid it on the grass. They bent to examine it by the glow of the dying furnace.

  “It doesn’t look very impressive, does it, Merlin?” Despite the incantations and gunpowder, Excalibur remained a slightly flattened, blackened strip of iron.

  “All you have seen is the first phase of production. There is the haft to be fitted. The edge to be ground. The blade to be polished.”

  “And Avalona to apply a finishing touch?”

  “There is that, too,” admitted the ancient.

  Later that evening, as th
e fire burned low, Merlin and Nyneve played their game. Battles raged through their imaginations as before. Once again the forces of King Uther Pendragon (marshaled by Merlin) met the army of the Duke and Lady Igraine (organized by Nyneve). This time, however, a new element entered the contest. During a lull in the battle, King Uther caught sight of Igraine.

  “A truce!” he cried, much to Nyneve’s surprise. Bugles sounded and the fighting ceased.

  A great feast followed, during which Uther made it clear he was attracted to Igraine—so much so that she began to get nervous about the situation. (And Nyneve began to get suspicious of Merlin’s intentions.)

  Igraine confided in the duke. “I think we should leave,” she said quietly. “Uther wants to get me into bed. There’s going to be trouble.”

  So Igraine and the duke departed and rode quickly to Tintagel. Here they prepared to defend themselves against the King’s anger. They provisioned the castle for a siege, and sent word to their secondary headquarters, Terrabyl at Penzance, to prepare likewise. It was fortunate that they did, because Uther struck at Terrabyl first. Battle was joined.

  (Nyneve stirred. “I’m tired after all that work today. Let’s play again tomorrow. It’s been fun.”

  (Opposite, Merlin’s eyes watched her fiercely. “Just a little longer.”)

  By the time Nyneve returned to their imaginary world, events had progressed. She was in time to see some kind of evil deed at night, and a group of horsemen riding away from a body that leaked a dark trickle of blood onto the ground. She felt a sudden sadness, but didn’t know why. It was strange that this death should affect her, when she had cooperated so enthusiastically in the bloody work of the day.

  Now Igraine lay in bed, and soon she was joined by the duke. He moved close to her and placed his hand on her breast, teasing her nipple between finger and thumb, murmuring words of endearment. She could feel his penis hot and hard against her thigh and she felt her own breath quicken, and her heartbeat, too. She reached down and grasped him, and heard him groan. As he slid his leg across hers, she guided him into her. She was slippery with desire for him. His fierce, grunting thrusts set her whole body aflame, and they made love until daybreak. Then he kissed her and left her.

  Later a party of men arrived, knocking on the door of her bedchamber. They were all at ease.

  “I’m sorry,” said one of them. “We have bad news, my lady.”

  “Tell me.”

  “We found a body in the forest a few hours ago. I’m afraid it’s the duke.”

  “Nonsense. The duke was with me until half an hour ago.” Alarmed, Igraine dressed and went into the great hall where the body was laid out. She regarded it in silence for a long time. At last she said, “You say you found him hours ago?”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  Igraine wept in sorrow and fear.

  Nyneve stared at Merlin. “How could that happen?”

  “It’s only a game,” said the wizard. “Just a game we’re playing, that’s all.”

  “It seems to have become very real.” Her body felt used and her heart was still beating fast; and it seemed his hands still searched her skin. “Was it a ghost who slept with Igraine?” No man had ever made love to Nyneve. She’d been saving the experience, looking forward to it with mixed curiosity, anticipation and fear. Now she felt as though it had all happened in a cheap and second-hand way. She felt outraged and close to tears. “There weren’t supposed to be any ghosts,” she said.

  “It was King Uther,” said Merlin. He looked a little ashamed.

  “How could that be? It was the duke. My duke.”

  “I made a pact with Uther. I appeared before him as a sorcerer, and told him I’d arrange for him to sleep with Igraine if he would give their child to me, afterwards. He agreed, so I killed off your duke and transferred Uther into his likeness, just for the night.”

  “It isn’t fair! We said nothing about sorcerers.” Nyneve glared at him. “All right then, if you’re going to put in personal appearances on this world, so am I! I’m going to be a sorceress! Anyway, why would you want this child? I don’t exactly see you as a foster father!”

  Avalona had come quietly into the cottage and was watching them dispassionately.

  “You’ll see,” said Merlin. “Between us, we’ll make him a great king!”

  “And suppose I don’t agree? Suppose I want him to be a starving poet?”

  Avalona spoke. “You may as well go along with Merlin, Nyneve. He’s more powerful than you. Personally, I don’t agree with his method of creating the new king, but Merlin has his reasons, reprehensible though they may be. I suggest you marry your Igraine off to his Uther, and make peace between the two armies. You’ll need to cooperate if you are to achieve the desired ifalong.”

  “After all, it’s only a game,” said Merlin.

  “An important game, Nyneve,” said Avalona, “that you have learned with commendable speed, for a human. You are now ready.”

  Avalona’s cryptic remark caused a cold shiver to trickle down Nyneve’s back—a familiar enough sensation. “Ready?” she echoed nervously. “For what?”

  “To go out from here. To tell stories in the forest of Mara Zion. And later, to tell stories further afield.”

  Relief made her gasp. “Oh, is that all? Who shall I tell stories to?”

  “Anyone you meet. You will soon develop a reputation and people will gather to hear you. You will have no shortage of listeners.”

  As Nyneve tried to get to sleep that night, visions of kings and queens, knights on horseback, tournaments and battles marched across her mind’s eye. What a glorious, glamorous world it was! How different from Mara Zion! When at last she slipped toward sleep, it seemed she knew again the gentle hands and brutal mind of King Uther Pendragon, caressing and persuading, treacherous and irresistible, stroking her to a climax of joy.

  The Memorizer

  Fang was awakened by someone shaking his shoulder roughly. Unexpected daylight met his eyes. It took him a moment to remember that he was sleeping in a forest glade instead of his warm bed at home. He’d been dreaming of the Princess, who had unaccountably dropped out of circulation recently. The sight of her gentle face had suffused his sleep with happiness, but now the Miggot’s hideous face stared down into his, frighteningly close. It was like a nightmare.

  “She’s not here,” rasped the unpleasant voice. “You’ve misled us, Fang. I’m going to find that hard to forgive.”

  Groaning, Fang rolled away and clambered to his feet. His body was stiff and chilled despite the thick wrapping of clothes. All around the gnomes were stirring. King Bison poked the embers of their fire, trying to encourage a blaze. Clubfoot Trimble tripped over the slumbering bulk of Trish, provoking a fit of uncharacteristic temper.

  “Has Nyneve come yet?” Lady Duck asked sleepily.

  “I doubt if Nyneve will ever come,” said the Miggot. “Fang has led us on a wild-goose chase.”

  “Listen,” said Fang, rubbing his eyes and trying to collect his wits. “It wasn’t my idea to wait here all night. We could have slept in our beds and met here in the morning. King Bison suggested the all-night vigil.”

  “I made a decision,” said Bison proudly.

  “It was the wrong decision,” the Miggot pointed out.

  The argument seemed destined to continue for a while, but at that moment there was a sudden gust of wind, scattering the ashes and causing the gnomes to grab their caps. Nyneve stood in the ring, towering over them.

  “There you are, you see,” said Fang triumphantly.

  “Nyneve! Nyneve!” They clustered around her, tugging at her shoes.

  “What on earth is the matter?”

  “You have to come and see!” yelled King Bison.

  “Come and see! Come and see!” The others took up the shout.

  “Mount your rabbits, gnomes!” cried Bison.

  “Wait a minute, now.” Nyneve knelt, her face looming huge before them. “Just tell me what this is all about. I do
n’t want to follow you without knowing where you’re taking me. There are things in this happentrack I don’t know much about.”

  Spector the Thinking Gnome said, “It’s just a sword, that’s all. But it’s the significance of the sword that concerns us.’

  “Just a sword?” exclaimed Bison. “It’s not just a sword. It’s a huge sword, like no sword we’ve ever seen.”

  The Miggot stepped forward, pushing Bison aside and staring at Nyneve. “The umbra is encroaching. We’re seriously concerned, Nyneve. Something’s got to be done before gnomedom becomes, uh, unlivable in.”

  “I thought we were talking about a sword.”

  “I’m talking about the umbra.”

  “The umbra!” shouted Lady Duck. “What about the umbra?”

  “The umbra is a natural phenomenon, Miggot,” said Nyneve patiently. “I explained all that before. It’s a nearby happentrack. It’s quite separate from yours. The people in there can’t harm you.”

  “I wouldn’t be too sure of that,” said the Miggot. “Not now that this sword’s appeared!”

  “All right, then,” said Nyneve. “You’d better show me.”

  “Mount your rabbits, gnomes!” shouted King Bison.

  But there weren’t enough steeds to go round, and an undignified struggle ensued for the privilege of showing Nyneve the latest manifestation of the umbra. Nyneve watched the gnomes, amused, reflecting on the difference between her imaginary world of chivalry and this rabble. Lady Duck was on her back, tiny plump legs waving in the air, having been pushed from her rabbit by Clubfoot Trimble. Even the sinister Miggot was being challenged for possession of his rabbit by King Bison, who had lost his own mount to Trish. The rabbits, made nervous by the melee, began to hop about uncontrollably, unseating their riders and adding to the confusion.

  Eventually the mounted gnomes headed into the forest at a great pace, soon leaving Nyneve behind. Fang heard her shout and hauled on Thunderer’s ears, Grinning up at her, he said, “We forget how slow you giants are.”