by Sean Hinn
Generations passed. He did not die, nor did he age, his appearance remaining that of a gnome in the prime of his life. The gnome knew sorrow as he outlived his wife, his sons and daughters, and even his grandchildren. But in time he found joy in his longevity; he became a wise and trusted Elder, the de facto leader of his people, advisor to gnomish kings. He became a master of all things gnomish: swordplay, gem cutting, mining, hunting and more. His bloodline flourished, his wealth grew, and none of his descendants wanted for anything.
The Call came. The demon had bided his time until the blood of his servant had intermingled with that of the g’naar people. The descendants of the Living Gnome numbered as many as those who were not descended from him, and the order was given: all those not descended from the Living Gnome were to be rounded up and placed into pens.
The Living Gnome did not receive the Call himself. He watched in terror and confusion as his descendants began to carry out the awful deed. When the Call came, his people had been powerless to resist it. Their eyes glassed over; they would not respond to his commands, to his pleadings. They simply began rounding up gnomes silently, working in grim concert with one another. The screaming protestations of gnomish males, females, and children fell on deaf ears as the progeny of the Living Gnome put the great atrocity into motion. They worked tirelessly, sweeping from one side of the swamp city to the next, taking family by family until none remained. Some died as they resisted, but most did not; overwhelmingly, the gnomes allowed themselves to be herded into the pens.
When the first sacrifice was carried out, the Living Gnome was not present to bear witness – he had been questioning one of his young descendants to learn the demon’s intent. A sufficient amount of pain had forced the gnome’s consciousness to bubble to the surface, but only long enough to reveal what had been intended: the gnomes in the pens were to be sacrificed in the name of the demon, one by one, once per hour, every hour, until they had all been slaughtered. This would release the demon from the pits of Fury. The act would have amounted to the deaths of over a thousand gnomes. Shortly after furnishing the grisly intelligence, the gnome died, and the Living Gnome armed himself.
He heard the shrieks. A young gnomish female had been burnt at the stake. He arrived too late to the scene; her life had been spent. Dozens of stakes had been set in the ground throughout a clearing, leaves and wood piled at their base. The next sacrifice would come within the hour.
The Living Gnome collapsed in sorrow and remorse; he had doomed his people for his own selfish sake. The young female’s horrific death was his to bear, as much as if he had lit the flame himself. He wept and moaned, gnawed at his cheeks, pounded the ground in despair and revulsion. As his horror abated, it was clear what would be required of him.
He approached the first pen silently, short sword in hand, slicing through the necks of his kin that were guarding the captured gnomes. He opened the pen and whispered the instruction quietly: the children must flee, the adults must arm themselves, and they must free all those who were being held, at any cost. A few protested, at least until the Living Gnome told them how his dark bargain had betrayed them and the manner in which they would soon die.
He led the murderous charge through the ranks of his descendants. His own sword slew over two hundred of his own family; the clubs and knives and shortbows of those freed killed the rest. The battle lasted nearly two days, and when the last drop of gnomish blood had been spilt, only the handful of his kin who had fled retained their lives.
The population of the gnomes was reduced to less than half of what it had been. The freed captives surrounded the Living Gnome, who stood among a sea of fallen g’naar. He raised his sword to his throat, prepared to end his own life, but an arrow flew through the air and lodged in his shoulder, disarming him. The g’naar seized him.
The Living Gnome was tied to the stake. Around him, in an unbroken mound three and four deep, were piled his dead descendants, more than a thousand broken bodies. The stench of death attracted flocks of carrion birds. Buckets of pitch were poured over the corpses. The task took an entire day to complete, and at sunset, the torches were lit.
The conflagration spread quickly, the smoke of his roasting kin filling the lungs of the Living Gnome. Yet he did not suffocate. The flames rose, his skin blistered and blackened, but it did not fall from his bones. He screamed in agony, but he did not die.
For the Living Gnome’s progeny had done what they had been promised to do, and the demon’s will had been done. A thousand deaths in the demon’s name had been required to free him; it did not matter if they had been burned at the stake or slain by weapons of the g’naar. It only mattered that they had died in his name, through his own machination, and that they most certainly had.
The Living Gnome had earned his immortality–a bargain was a bargain, after all.
~
The topaz ring began to oscillate, and Cindra Sandshingle Listened. Words of the old language filtered into her consciousness, words spoken by Ky’rl Gypstone.
“Ver ein?” Are we alone?
The sound of a closing door, footsteps.
“Jhar, ein.” Yes, alone. Cindra recognized the voice of Rane Sarsen.
The Elder continued to speak in g’naari. “We do not have much time. Is everything prepared?”
“Mostly. Some are reluctant, but they have been warned.”
“There can be no error. Kenter, what of the circle?”
Kenter Loamknoll replied. “It is as close as I can make it, Ky’rl. The Sisters need only bring the vessel.”
“And we shall,” said Heina. “It has been filled. Shabi has already begun the distillation.”
Silence for a moment.
“I am uneasy,” said Ky’rl.
“You are always uneasy,” replied Rane.
“What happens if we fail?”
“We die, fool,” snapped Shabi.
“We have not failed yet,” said Rane. “And now we have gained experience.”
“So be it. Let us go, then. We will not meet again until the Old Ones call.”
Cindra shuddered. The idea froze her bones. She continued to Listen, hearing the shuffle of many footsteps. A door opened.
“Wait.” Heina Ridge.
“What is it?” said Ky’rl.
A door closing. Silence. The sound of rustling fabric.
Heina spoke, her voice suddenly much louder. “Ver nei ein.” We are not alone.
Cindra broke the connection. They had discovered the stone. Cindra threw her Speech.
“Thinsel! Oort! Yeh must come to me, now!”
XVIII: MOR
Vincent Thomison completed his circuit. He had spent the day surveying the streets of Mor, visiting with the occasional merchant, pressing his interests while learning what he could about the state of affairs in the city. He had slept for only an hour the night before; he was beyond weary, but he had learned much.
Unlike the rest of the city, the northwestern corner of Mor was immaculate. Streets were swept clean, damage to homes and shops from the quake had already been repaired, and the wall towered at nearly double its usual height. Men and women, hundreds of each, busied themselves in a variety of tasks, working diligently, oblivious to anything but their appointed chores, as if the world had not begun to crumble around them.
One crew had been shoveling out the sewers, which had been clogged with ash and soot. Another loaded the muck into wagons, removing it to Fury knew where. Another swept, another worked the wall. This one carried lumber, that one clay, that one straw. Thomison had never seen such well-coordinated work, and at the center of it all, barking orders, stood James Thallinson.
Thomison was careful not to let James see him, though his caution was probably not necessary. No one would expect to see Vincent Thomison, the malevolent Merchant Master of Mor, riding alone in the daylight. Cowl pulled over his head, riding a brown that was not his well-recognized mount Steelwind, a plain scabbard about his waist, Thomison went about unnoticed in the st
reets of the city that day just another citizen or traveler, gawking at the crews and surveying the damage.
Thomison bypassed Kings Way on his return ride to Concord. The Defenders along the route would certainly harass him, and he would be forced to reveal his identity. He did not want word getting around that he traveled the city without protection. As if I need protection, he quipped to himself. It would not do, however, to invite his enemies to make an attempt on his life, and he most assuredly had enemies. Such trouble was best avoided.
By the time he turned down Southern, the light of day had begun to fade; it was clear that he would be late arriving for the very meet he had called for, but it was of no consequence. The Merchants would wait.
He had decided on his course of action. Halsen must fall, he had resolved. Sartean’s plot must be stopped, dead in its tracks. A proper ruler must be installed, one who would command the loyalty of the people of Mor. One who could garner the respect of the Defenders. One young enough to serve for at least a generation, to find a queen, to beget children. One old enough to not be a damnable fool. He had a short list in mind; he and the Merchants would decide upon the successor to the throne this night, and the next day Thomison would set in motion that which needed to be done. There was no other way.
He approached Concord to find the gatekeeper from the night before wearing the cloak he had gifted him. The man stood at parade attention as Thomison approached.
“Stand easy. I’m not the bloody king.”
The ash-covered man looked to Thomison. “A word, sir?”
Thomison pulled up his mount, nodding.
“Name’s Bryan, sir. Kel Bryan. Why did you give me your cloak?” His tone was blunt.
Thomison regarded the man. “Because you lacked one, Kel Bryan. I’ll not have my men standing on the road looking like rats.”
Bryan curled a lip. “Just that, then. No other reason.”
“Do I need one?”
Bryan watched his employer for a moment, considering what to say next.
“They’re right about you,” he said.
“Are they? And what do they say?”
“That you’re a right bastard, Master Thomison,” he said with the slightest grin. Thomison nodded at the man, an understanding passing between them.
“And don’t forget it. I’ll expect to see that cloak cleaned before you stand my gate tomorrow.”
“It will be. Good evening to you, sir.” The man bowed respectfully. Thomison continued through the gate. Bold, that one, he laughed to himself.
Thomison rode to the main house. He dismounted the brown, glad to be home where he could shed his darker persona. He handed the reins to his stablemaster, whom he found waiting at the porch. “Good timing. Saved me a walk.”
“Was just comin’ to see if you’d returned, sir. Good timing,” he agreed. Thomison knew better; the man had likely been ferrying his guests’ mounts to the stables for the past hour, and was waiting dutifully to do the same for the lord of Concord.
He tossed the man a coin. “Feed and brush him. And all the water he can drink. I’m afraid he was poorly used today.”
“Will do, sir.”
Thomison nodded. “Are the stables repaired?”
“They are, sir. Just finished. And we found Steelwind; he wandered over to Argus’ place.”
“Probably missed Nik. Damned good with a horse, that one.”
“Damned good, sir. You should hire him.”
“Then what would I need you for?”
“Mucking out stables, of course,” replied the man with a laugh.
“Nik’s good where he is. Argus needs him. Take care, Cam.”
“You as well, sir.”
Thomison climbed the steps. Gerald met him at the door and ushered him in.
“Are they all here?” asked Thomison.
“They are.” Gerald stood passively. Thomison sensed something odd.
“What?”
“I’m sorry?” Gerald’s tone was too innocent.
“What did you do, Gerald?”
The wizard sighed. “Only my duty. Come join us in the dining room when you get cleaned up, sir.” Gerald walked away, not bothering to wait to be dismissed.
“Well. Thanks for the invitation, jackass.”
“Anytime, sir,” Gerald called over his shoulder.
~
Thomison entered the library, his drab, ash-drifted rags replaced with his customary finery, white shirt and black leggings tucked into his polished black boots. Gerald stood at the head of the table, holding out a chair for his master.
“Gentlemen,” he nodded. “Ladies.” He stood beside Gerald.
“Ha! He called you a lady again, Maris,” said Kalindra, the beautiful and lethal mistress of the brothels of Mor.
“I’m sure he meant you, sister,” said her twin. The brunettes wore matching slim red dresses with high necklines, as per usual.
Six others, all men, were seated quietly around the table, their expressions sober as they awaited…something. The wine glasses were full, Vincent noticed. None moved to drink. Moments passed in silence.
“What in Fury is going on here, Gerald?”
“First, your sword, sir.” Gerald handed Vincent his bejeweled scabbard.
“Am I going to need this?” asked Vincent, tying it to his waist.
“Hard to say, sir.”
Vincent frowned and took his seat. “Is someone going to tell me what in Tahr is going on around here? You all look like you’ve seen a ghoul.”
“The opposite, Vincent,” said Mahl, head of the jewelers’ guild and unofficial diplomat of the group. “Quite the opposite.”
“We know, Vincent,” said Kalindra, her voice heavy with meaning.
“What do you know?”
“They know your secret, Master Thomison,” said Gerald. “Most of it, at least.”
Vincent swallowed.
“Do they.” Not a question.
“They do. I told them,” said Gerald.
Vincent looked to his right, eying his friend of many years. “And why in Fury did you do that?” he asked, panic rising in his voice.
Jons Ganner, master of the smiths’ guild, spoke up. “Because we all knew anyhow, Vincent, and it was about time somebody said it out loud.”
“And what exactly do you think you know, Ganner?”
“Well, for one, we all know you’re not the rotten bastard you portray yourself to be.”
“You do not know me, Jons. Not nearly. Do not pretend–”
“Cut the crap, Vincent. We’re your friends. We know you as well as anyone,” said Eriks Lane, former Defender, current enforcer of the group.
Friends, thought Vincent. Now that’s a word I never thought I’d hear uttered in this company.
“Gerald, what did you tell them?”
Gerald cleared his throat. “I told them about Thallinson, sir.”
Vincent reddened.
“And your late wife, sir.”
Vincent landed the punch before he knew he had thrown it, a vicious left hook that knocked Gerald from his seat.
He jumped up, standing over the wizard. “You rotten bastard! You had no right!” He reared back to kick the man, barely missing as Lane grabbed him from behind. He kicked and squirmed, trying to break Lane’s grasp, but the former Defender knew how to handle a man.
“Let me go! I’ll kill you, Gerald!” Vincent spat.
Gerald regained his feet. He wiped the blood from his mouth and spat out a fragment of tooth.
“Let him go, Lane.”
“Gerald–”
“I said, let him go! I brought him his sword for a reason.”
Lane released Vincent, who immediately drew his sword–a thin, razor-sharp fencing blade named Nail that had once belonged to a Sapphire pirate. He pressed the tip to Gerald’s throat and stepped in; a shrug of his shoulder would bury it in the wizard’s neck. Gerald met his friend’s enraged gaze.
“You think I won’t kill you?” Vincent
spoke through clenched teeth.
Gerald swallowed, or tried to. His throat was a desert. “You might, but I would ask for something in exchange for my life.”
“And what’s that, betrayer?”
The wizard closed his eyes, wounded more by the word than the blade pricking his neck. He opened them. “I would ask that after you dispatch me, you hear your Merchants. They have much to say.”
Vincent was trembling with fury. He pressed the blade; blood trickled from the wizard’s pierced skin, yet he did not withdraw. The two men stood looking at one another, hatred in Vincent’s eyes, love in Gerald’s. No one spoke or moved for a turn. Vincent sheathed his blade.
His voice was defeated, dejected. “I will not kill you, Gerald. That would do her dishonor. But you have crossed a line you had no right to cross.” Tears welled in his eyes. “You bastard.”
“I am so sorry, Vincent. I had no choice.”
“Didn’t you?”
“No, he didn’t,” said Mahl. “Too much is at stake. It’s time for truth now, among us all.”
The Merchants nodded in agreement.
“Fine,” Vincent huffed, taking his seat. “Truth then. My wife was raped by that dung-eating bastard Thallinson, and I sawed his dung-eating head off. What in Fury difference does that make? I killed him just the same. The reason doesn’t matter.”
Maris spoke, her voice gentle. “The reason means everything, Vincent. She was your bride. She took her own life after what he did to her. You were married less than a cycle. You did what any man would have done.”
“No, I did not. I sawed his head off, Maris. In front of a dozen people. I left it on his porch for his wife to find.”
“Because she knew what kind of man he was, and did nothing,” said Eriks Lane.
“Allegedly. I had no proof.”
“You had plenty, sir,” said Gerald. Vincent shot him a look, but he continued. “For Tahr’s sake, the woman helped him bury the body of another–”
