Fang fell backward and was dragged feet-first onto the forest path.
“Ah-hah! What’s this, then? A tiny little man I’ve found. Some kind of dwarf, are you?”
“Let go of me!” squeaked Fang.
“Not likely!” The huge face was inches from his. The giant lay where he’d fallen, staring at his find. “If I let you go, you’d run away. And I need a dwarf. All the best knights have dwarfs. Although you’re the smallest dwarf I’ve ever seen.”
“I … I’m a gnome,” stammered Fang.
“You mean like a piskey?” The eyes narrowed. “You wouldn’t be fooling me, would you? You wouldn’t be thinking I’m drunk and stupid?”
“No, you’re very clever!” said Fang quickly. “Just don’t squeeze my leg any harder, please!”
The giant rolled over, keeping his grip on Fang, and sat with his back against a tree. “What’s your name, gnome? I suppose gnomes do have names, don’t they?”
“My name’s Fang.”
“And mine’s Ned Palomides,” said the giant gravely, prodding Fang in the stomach with his forefinger by way of formal greeting. “What brings you to this neck of the woods, Fang?”
“I’m on a quest.”
“So am I!” exclaimed Ned, delighted at the coincidence. “So am I!”
“What are you questing for?” asked Fang.
“You don’t always have to quest for something, Fang. Often the quest is its own reason.”
“I don’t understand that.”
“Neither do I, so I’m questing for something, as a matter of fact.”
“But if you weren’t, it wouldn’t matter,” said Fang kindly. “We have a gnome who understands that kind of thing. His name is Spector. We call him the Thinking Gnome.”
“Tristan understands that kind of thing too. Tristan thinks he’s our leader,” explained Ned, “but that’s only because he’s our best swordsman. He was the one who told me a quest could be its own reason. So I asked him how you would know when it ended.”
“What did he say to that?”
“He just laughed and said, ‘You’d know’ and he stared into my eyes quite deeply. I’m sure your Proctor would have had a better answer.”
“Spector. So what are you questing for, Ned?”
“I’m questing for a creature that inhabits this part of the forest,”
“What kind of a monster?” asked Fang unhappily. Ned could be formidable competition in his search for the Sharan.
“Kind of a … Well, it’s got claws like you wouldn’t believe. And the teeth on it! And it has a long tail, and scales. Like … Like a dragon. It frightens the women in the village, and I’m not putting up with that any longer,” said Ned unctuously.
“You mean Morble, the pteroglyph,” said Fang, relieved.
“Morble! That’s the name Nyneve used. Have you seen Morble anywhere around here?” asked Ned anxiously, glancing over his shoulder.
“Not lately.”
“Good, because I wouldn’t want the quest to be over too soon. And what are you questing for, little man?”
“Well, nothing, really. It’s more of a stroll than a quest. Your flask is just behind this tree, by the way.”
“I’m very much obliged to you. Very, very much obliged.” Palomides secured the flask and drank deeply. “I know Morble’s been this way because he’s left signs on the rock back there.”
“What kind of signs?”
“The usual kind. Scratchings.”
Affecting a great interest, Fang said, “I must see those signs. They are the objective of this journey of mine.”
“If there’s one thing I can’t stand,” said Palomides thoughtfully, staring at Fang, “it’s a lying gnome.” He prodded Fang again—not in friendly fashion this time, but with rough threat. “You’re hoping I’ll be fool enough to let you go and look at the scratchings, aren’t you? But I know you’re not interested in the scratchings, Fang. You’re mind is set on something else. Something you avoided telling me about a minute ago. Well, my little red-capped friend,” and the next prod knocked the breath out of Fang, “you’re going to tell me now. Otherwise I’m going to do something very nasty to you. So tell me. What is the object of your quest, Fang? Buried treasure? Everybody knows the little people have pots of gold buried around the forest!”
“I won’t tell you!” Fang gasped defiantly.
“Oh yes you will!” roared Ned, suddenly losing his temper. “Otherwise I’ll stick a skewer through you and roast you over an open fire!”
It was a random shot but it found its target.
“I … I’m looking for the Sharan,” mumbled Fang, hating himself.
“The Sharan, eh? And what’s the Sharan when it’s at home?”
“It’s a she, actually, Ned. She’s an animal. A very beautiful animal with a golden horn sticking out of her head; and she’s useful only to gnomes. Humans wouldn’t be interested in her.”
“A unicorn, eh?” said Ned, interested. “What’s she useful for, Fang?”
“Oh, giving birth, and all that kind of thing,” said Fang carelessly. “You know what females are like.”
“And what does she give birth to, Fang? Don’t tell me baby unicorns because I won’t believe you. There’s more to it than that, or you wouldn’t be so anxious to find her. Is it golden eggs she lays?”
Fang, in despair, said, “She’ll lay anything we ask her. Any kind of living animal, but not golden eggs.”
“Ah-ha.” Ned was disappointed. Then as he thought about it, the possibilities began to mount up. A great horse of enormous strength, before which his opponents would fall like wheat. A giant eagle to carry him far away to lands where his special qualities would be appreciated. A tame dragon with which to frighten women into submission. “Ah-ha!” he repeated. “I’ll help you in your quest, Fang. Any kind of animal, you say?”
“Anything.”
“Funny,” said Ned, “I’ve always imagined unicorns to be male.” He scrambled to his feet, keeping a tight grip on Fang. “I’ll take you back to the village and you’ll stay at my place. If you mention the unicorn to anyone else I’ll skewer you. This afternoon we’ll start looking for her. I expect you have some gnomish call she answers to?”
“She’ll come,” said Fang miserably. “She’s probably very lonely and frightened by now.”
Ned began to stride down the path. “Well, Fang,” he said cheerfully, “you and I are going to be partners. Why do they call you ‘Fang,’ by the way?”
Fang told him the daggertooth story: the popular version rather than the truth. As he told it he began to regain some of his confidence. This giant could actually be of some help to him in covering the ground, and clearly he intended to keep the secret of the Sharan’s existence from his fellow giants. Then, when the time came, Fang could outwit him and lead the Sharan back to gnomedom, possibly with the help of Nyneve. And even if something went terribly wrong, the Sharan was no use to the humans without Pan.
Meanwhile, Ned was feeling a growing admiration for this resourceful little gnome, who had single-handedly overcome a frightful beast much larger than himself. Perhaps one day he, Ned, would become a force to be reckoned with in his own society. …
“Where exactly do the gnomes live, Fang?” he asked.
“On a different world,” said Fang. “That’s why you hardly ever see us. Giants can’t get onto that world.” He tried to explain happentracks.
Ned, in fact, was already dreaming of a world where he was king by reason of his size and cunning. He would have a large population of small servants, like Fang, to obey his every whim. There would be no ferocious beasts in that world because the biggest—the daggertooth—he had already identified as a mere weasel. Of course, he would need a woman. Now, if he could find a way into the gnomes’ world, he could kidnap Nyneve, for instance, and take her there, and she would never be able to escape. … It would be worthwhile gaining Fang’s confidence.
“You and I, Fang,” he said, “are goi
ng to be friends.”
In thoughtful mood, the pair arrived at the village of Mara Zion.
Life had not treated Ned too well. For reasons he could not understand, the villagers seemed to despise him and to discount anything he said. They gave him no credit for his skill as a swordsman. They had disbelieved the story of his encounter with Morble. When he’d told them he was going questing for the beast, they had laughed and told him not to hurry back. Sometimes, they said, a quest could last for many years particularly, they told him, if the beast does not exist in the first place.
It had always been like this, ever since Ned had been a child. He’d been born the son of Charles Palomides, a swordsman of note and something of a local hero. Charles Palomides had eventually been defeated in battle by the superior forces of the Baron Menheniot, following which the Baron had laid claim to the whole forest of Mara Zion and demanded fealty. Without their leader, Charles, the villagers had knuckled under. It had always been Ned’s ambition to lead the villagers out from under the baron. He’d spent countless hours dreaming how it might be done, and the glory it would bring back to the name of Palomides. Somehow, though, he’d always stopped short of actually raising a force and defying the baron.
And, as time went by, the villagers had come to regard Tristan as their leader.
It is easy to find excuses for Ned: a name he couldn’t live up to, domineering parents, the teasing of the other children, his rejection by the village maidens. All these things conspired to bestow on Ned a classic inferiority complex.
The villagers were not interested in excuses, however, and they regarded Ned, quite simply, as a jackass.
It had been Ned’s intention to brandish Fang in front of them, thus forcing them to pay attention to him. As the clutter of hovels appeared through the trees, however, he began to wonder if brandishing was a good idea. Wouldn’t it be better to find this wonderful unicorn of Fang’s first, and force it to produce a horse, eagle and dragon for him? There was no point in having a great horse of enormous strength, for instance, if the unicorn were common property and busy producing horses for everybody.
Ned was on the point of turning about and heading off into the forest again when he heard a commotion. People were exclaiming in surprise and there were shrill squeals from the younger girls. Peering through the trees, he saw a crowd gathered beyond the cottages. Curiosity overcame him and he slipped among the deserted dwellings. He took Fang into his own home and tied him to the table leg with a stout cord. Then he made his way to the gathering.
“… clad in white samite,” he heard the voice of the odious Tristan shouting. “And with this sword, I will never be defeated in battle.”
Ned pushed his way through the crowd to find Tristan displaying a remarkable weapon with a perfectly straight, sharp edge, polished to a glassy glow.
“But is it worth taking a chance,” said Torre, “on the word of an old witch? You have to admit invincibility is an unlikely property for any sword, even one as good-looking as this. You could get yourself killed, relying on it.”
“If you’d seen the arm, clad in white samite—”
“Yes, we all heard the bit about the white samite,” said Governayle. “And very remarkable it is, Tristan. But could it possibly have been a trick of the light? Could it have been a floating branch with an old rag hanging from it, and the sword somehow lodged there?”
“Look at it, damn you, Governayle,” snapped Tristan. “Does this look like your average sword? The thing speaks for itself!”
“It has the maker’s name on it,” observed Ned, looking closely at the blade. “Excalibur. I seem to remember hearing of a Ted Excalibur over Bodmin way. He does good work.”
Frustration got the better of Tristan and he made a menacing pass at Ned. “Excalibur is the name of the sword, you jackass! And don’t ask me why the sword has a name because I’m not going through all that again. Accept it.” He raised the sword above his head and the sunlight flickered on it like fire. “Excalibur!” he shouted. “Excalibur!”
There was something infectious about the word. “Excalibur!” a few villagers cried, sheep-like.
“With this sword in my hand, I will lead us out of the thrall of the baron!”
“You will?” People began to back away nervously, as from a mad dog.
“Isn’t this rather precipitate, Tristan?” asked Torre. “Shouldn’t you give the sword a trial run first, before you take on the baron? Find a lesser opponent and see how things shape up?”
“Good idea. Torre, draw your sword!”
“Me? You know I’m no match for you, Tristan. In any case, I’m not wearing my sword.”
“Then go and get it. Don’t worry, I’m not going to try very hard. I just want to see how Excalibur behaves in battle.”
So Torre fetched his sword, the villagers gathered in a large excited circle, and the two men faced each other. Torre stood a little stiffly, nervous, knowing Tristan’s prowess. Tristan, on the other hand, was totally relaxed. Excalibur drooped lazily from his hand. Torre jumped forward, but Tristan turned his thrust aside without effort, almost casually. Torre, annoyed, essayed a two-handed swing.
Instead of stepping back, Tristan stood his ground and Torre was horrified to see his own sword, now fully committed, sweeping towards his friend’s exposed neck. Then, at the last instant, Excalibur was raised in a most unusual parry and Torre’s blade, glancing off it, thudded into the ground.
“That’s enough!” cried Tristan.
“What happened?” asked Torre breathlessly.
Tristan was staring at Excalibur. “I didn’t have to do anything,” he said quietly. “I just held it. It made the strokes itself, as if it was alive.”
“My God,” whispered Torre. “It is a magic sword.”
“It seemed to know exactly what you were going to do. I could feel it twitch. It was quite strange, Torre.”
The audience closed in again, gazing at the sword with awe.
Later, Ned Palomides returned to his cottage in some gloom. He untied Fang, set him on the table and stared at him moodily, face cupped in his hands. “Well, my small friend,” he said eventually, “it looks as though we may have to postpone our search for the unicorn for a while. Added to which, we need a drink.” He filled a thimble with beer for Fang, and took a deep draft himself straight from the jug.
“What’s the problem?” Fang asked.
“That bloody fool Tristan is the problem. He’s got hold of a magic sword from somewhere, and he’s waving it around and stirring people up. He’s drunk with power, Tristan is. He’s talking about attacking Baron Menheniot in his castle. He says now he has the sword he can’t be defeated in battle, so we needn’t pay the baron fealty any more. Well,” said Ned unhappily, “Maybe Tristan can’t be defeated, but I sure as hell know I can. The rest of us aren’t invincible just because he’s got that bloody sword.”
Fang began to feel almost sorry for Ned. “Perhaps if you kind of clustered close to Tristan, the sword’s power would protect you, too.”
“You don’t go clustering close to Tristan during a battle,” Ned snorted. “He’s like a madman with his sword, slashing and chopping. God knows what he’ll be like now he’s got this bloody Excalibur. No, the only thing we can do is try to stay out of trouble, but do a lot of shouting. People always think you’re busy in a battle if you shout a lot. I’ll try to make sure we’re all right, Fang.”
“We?”
“You don’t think I’m leaving you here, do you? Anyone might come in and find you. No, you’ll ride in my saddlebag, Fang.”
“Do we have to go at all?”
“A fine coward I’d look, if I didn’t show up for a battle. I have problems enough with my image in the village.” He stood resignedly. “I’d better get my stuff ready. It’s all covered with mud, as usual. Tristan always looks so well turned out. Why is it,” he asked, drinking deeply, “that the best swordsmen are always the cleanest? More beer, Fang?”
“Thanks. My f
ather thinks gnomes live longer if they comb their beards regularly.”
“I can just hear Tristan saying a bloody stupid thing like that. ‘Look lively, men,’ “ he mimicked in a high falsetto. “ ‘Shine up your armor, oil your leather and comb your beards. A smart army is a winning army!’ And then he’ll tell some idiotic story about a loose horseshoe nail losing a battle. I can’t think of anything more unlikely, myself. But everybody gets all fired up, polishing like crazy. You know what’s at the bottom of it? Personal ambition. The baron calls his men knights, and gives them banners and flags and things to decorate their equipment. And it’s Tristan’s secret ambition to be a knight. Well, it doesn’t fool me, Fang. I’m just as likely to die whether I’m clean or dirty. And something tells me I’m going to die this afternoon. I’ve got a funny sort of feeling about it.”
“I’m sure you’re not going to die, Ned.”
Ned began to scrape accumulated grime from his harness. “This muck is going to take forever to get off. Why is it some people don’t seem to worry about getting killed, Fang? Don’t you find that’s rather unnatural?”
“Absolutely, Ned,” said Fang wholeheartedly.
“Tristan doesn’t worry about dying. Particularly since Nyneve got to him with those stories of hers. He says if it makes for a better world, his death is worthwhile. Strange. How the hell does he know the world’s better if he’s dead?”
“My feelings exactly, Ned.”
“You and I, Fang, we make a good team. Have another thimbleful.”
“Thanks. I think I can hear them, Ned.” Horses were thudding steadily past the door, and men were shouting warlike slogans to one another.
“So much for the harness,” said Ned. He took hold of Fang and slipped him into a leather purse with a drawstring, then tied the string tight around Fang’s neck. Then he pushed the immobilized gnome into his saddlebag. “You’ll be able to see the battle if you stick your head out from under the flap, Fang.” So saying, Ned began to roar with spurious enthusiasm and hurried around to the side of the cottage, where his horse was tethered. A few minutes later a swaying motion began and Fang guessed they were on their way. Cautiously, he poked his head out.
Fang, the Gnome (Song of Earth) Page 18