No Country for Old Gnomes

by Kevin Hearne

  Agape’s chin wagged and her ears twitched with sheepish surprise, but she shook her head and refocused. “Oh, no, the automaatti is harmless. And if I may say so, I’m very sorry to hear what haaappened to Remy.”

  Faucon relaxed just a little, as if a storm had passed. “Thank you. For the sympathy, and for your patience with this interrogation. It would seem the drubs want to eliminate all gnomeric constructs and are not above lying and even manipulating the law to make sure it happens. I was told that all such automatons posed an imminent danger to halflings. I do not doubt a word of what you’ve told me, and of course Gerd’s word is impeccable, but I have much cause to doubt the word of Marquant Dique. That does present me with a problem, however.”

  “Which is?”

  Faucon spun around at the approach of malevolent footsteps.

  “What is it, Bernaud?”

  The drub’s body language contained no hint of deference, Faucon noted. It was aggressive, ready to attack. And his chest hair was full of onion skin.

  “Thought I heard you say you doubt Marquant Dique.”

  “And if I did say that?”

  “Well, then, we’d have something to say about that. Wouldn’t we, lads?” Behind Bernaud, eleven halflings with soiled toenails and dirty gold medallions entered the tent and fanned out. Faucon noted that none of them had brought their bags of ordnance with them. It would be fists and hand weapons only, but twelve against one. They were not good odds, and the law would not provide any aid.

  “What is this?” Faucon asked, moving around the table and behind Agape.

  “You been listening to that stupid chicken and this dumb sheep,” Bernaud sneered.

  “Gryphons are not in the habit of lying, Bernaud. Drubs, on the other hand—”

  “You told Marquant you would destroy the automaton, and you didn’t do it. So who’s the liar here?”

  Faucon slipped a hand into his pocket, grasping his pocketknife. “It cannot be done.”

  “What do you mean? Make the mutton take us to it!”

  Moving his hand to Agape’s wrists, Faucon used his pocketknife to slice the ropes there, hoping the ovitaur had the good sense not to show her hand.

  “She is free to go.”

  “She’s heckin’ not!” Bernaud waved his hand. “Get her, boys. Get ’em all!”

  As two of the halflings moved to obey, Faucon whipped five-pointed throwing stars out of his waistcoat and tossed them at the drubs. It was so unexpected—the thought of him physically attacking them so unthinkable—that they didn’t even duck. The stars thunked into their foreheads and the two fell over in a mortal chorus of surprise.

  “As I said, she is free to go,” Faucon repeated. “But you are not. You have all mutinied, the sentence for which is death, and as the captain in the field, I must administer justice by myself. Such is the law.”

  Ten against one now, but Faucon didn’t care if he died just so long as that sneering, mutinous, and profoundly unhygienic Bernaud Cobbleshod died first. He drew the daggers strapped inside his blazer sleeves, leapt over the table, and charged the leader of the drubs.

  Cobbleshod slapped away Faucon’s first knife, but the other one plunged into the ample belly fat on his right side. Cobbleshod howled and backed up, and Faucon helped him with a swift kick to the chest. The drub fought to keep his feet but then tumbled on his back. The hunter leapt after him and stomped on Cobbleshod’s throat, crushing it with his recently exfoliated and moisturized foot.

  But Faucon was only able to enjoy the victory for a mere fraction of a second.

  Two drubs hooked him under either arm and pulled him off their leader, driving him to the ground and pounding the breath out of his lungs. A third and fourth dove for his hands and methodically broke his fingers until he surrendered his knives.

  “My hands!” he muttered. “My beautiful, hairy fingers—”

  A savage kick to his ribs from the side robbed him of breath, and his eyes filled since his lungs couldn’t. He saw another drub raise his foot to stomp down on his privates, and he bid his precious stones a private farewell even as he wished the drubs would be as quick about dispatching him as he had been with Cobbleshod. Such politesse was not in the nature of Dastardly Rogues, however.

  A blurred shape landed a flying kick to the mid-stomp drub. He squealed and fell across Faucon’s legs as the blur resolved into Agape, who stuck the landing. She planted her hoof and lashed out with another kick to the forehead of the drub who’d broken Faucon’s left hand and taken his knife. The halfling’s noggin squelched like a melon, and Faucon looked up at the ovitaur with a new respect.

  “How’s thaaat for mutton legs?” she spat.

  The other drubs could have simply backed away at that point and escaped, but instead they made the fatal error of trying to attack Agape.

  Do not touch the Vartija! a voice shouted in his brain, and then Faucon saw halflings halved by a swipe of talons or their heads neatly snapped off their bodies like dead marigolds by a quick and darting beak. Gryphons were efficient killers when they wished to be, and Gerd was no exception. The gryphon made quick work of the remaining drubs as Faucon coughed and wheezed, trying to catch his breath.

  “Aaare you all right?” Agape asked.

  “No. Fingers broken,” he managed. “But alive. You performed admirably, and I thank you.”

  “I would glaaadly throw in with aaanyone who’s fighting drubs,” she said. “But now I need to know…” He looked up and she had raised a leg, her blood-splashed hoof hovering threateningly over his face. “Are you truly finished hunting my faaamily?”

  With a dead drub over his legs and his fingers broken, Faucon couldn’t even defend himself, and Gerd had made it clear she wouldn’t hurt the ovitaur—even if said ovitaur was threatening Faucon. So he spoke honestly, because that was his way.

  “I meant what I said. I renounce this task. You are free to go.”

  “Oh. Well, then. Uh.”

  The hoof returned to the ground, and the sheep girl looked sheepish. Faucon almost smiled, because she was so clearly grasping for something polite to say in such a situation but could not think of anything.

  “May I ask if there might be a healer wherever you are heading? I think I require one.”

  Agape squatted, and their eyes met. “Are you sure I can trust you?”

  I trust him with my life, Gerd said. As I trust you. And I am pledged to protect you both. Which presents a conundrum.

  With a sigh, Agape stood. She looked to Gerd, then Faucon, then back to Gerd. Ever so slowly, she picked up the rest of the omelet she’d been denied, tossed half of it to Gerd, and took her time eating her portion with her hands. Finally she said, “Well, I was going to head to Bruding in Borix. That’s where my faaamily was supposed to meet up if we were separated.” At Faucon’s flash of annoyance, she snorted. “I didn’t lie, though—I don’t know exaaactly where they are. Just that we’re meeting there eventually. I’m sure Bruding has maaany healers.”

  “In that case, may I accompany you?”

  Agape shrugged and turned to Gerd. “What do you think?”

  I will happily fly you both to Bruding, the gryphon said, for thirty ladybugge omlets.

  “A skilled and well-supplied dwarvelish herbalist can whip up potions of near-miraculous powers. Unfortunately, they’re not often abroad in the world, but you can find them in either Grundelbård or Sküterlånd in the winters, when their high-elevation herb and flower fields are covered in snow. For that reason, the absolute best time and place to become deathly ill is in the winter on the west side of the Korpås Range.”

  —MÜDDI BLÜS, in Competitive Aging: How to Outlive All Your Classmates

  Kirsi had never been particularly interested in machines, but she honestly didn’t have much else to do in the refugee center, so she watched Offi inspect the
automaton.

  “What’s his name?” he asked.

  “According to the information on his back, he’s called Piini Automaatti. Now, let’s see what he has to say for himself.”

  Offi pressed something on the construct’s ankle, and the gem in Piini’s face flared green and then gold, and he appeared to peer down at the gnomes.

  “Hello, my metal friend!” Båggi boomed, but the automaton did not react. “He must have crust in his ears,” the dwarf finished weakly, fidgeting at being ignored.

  In a commanding voice, Offi said, “Piini Automaatti, reveal your secrets.”

  For a long moment, Kirsi thought something might happen. And then she spent another long moment wishing she had blessing magic instead of cursing magic, as she could’ve blessed Offi to succeed but definitely couldn’t curse him to do so. It was a shame he didn’t need his chest hair set on fire—she was quite good at that. But even she had to admit that nothing was happening.

  “Well, at least he isn’t chasing after those stuck-up sheep people,” Kirsi said, struggling, as always, to remain positive. “Perhaps he would make a nice coat rack?”

  Just then there was a mighty din down the hall, replete with human cursing and inhuman shrieking, and Kirsi hurried to look toward whatever was clattering through the front door of the refugee center.

  “That thing ain’t allowed in here!” a human hollered. “Take it to the hostler or the knacker—”

  “How daaare you? She’ll take you to the knaaacker!” someone shouted. “This is a refugee center, so why don’t you offer a refuge instead of threats?”

  The first one through the door was a distrustful-looking young sheep person in a camouflage-print tunic, still shouting at the human guard. Then came the most terrifying of creatures, a halfling. Last came a slightly less terrifying beast Kirsi knew only from her Gnome-Eating Monsters book: a gryphon.

  “Is there a designated area for foot sanitation?” the halfling asked the human, frowning at the drab gray walls. He was sweating and something was clearly wrong with his hands.

  But the human, of course, merely slammed the door, nearly catching the gryphon’s tail.

  These tall, hairless creatures are quite rüde, someone said, almost as if in Kirsi’s head. She shook herself, wondering if perhaps Piini’s ear crust was somehow catching. As if sensing someone was in pain, Båggi bustled out into the hallway and hurried, much to Kirsi’s dismay and without any proper introductions, toward the injured halfling, who probably deserved any ouchies he was suffering.

  “Oh, my crumbled cookies,” Båggi said. “Would you like a handkerchief? I do think it’s a proper time for a handkerchief, and you’ll definitely need one embroidered with something cheerful.” The dwarf laid down his burdens, dug around in one of his pockets, and came out with an array of colorful squares. “Here. A bluebird suitable for, er, bleeding.”

  He handed over the handkerchief, his dark-brown eyes shining with concern, and the halfling tried to take it and failed. It fluttered to the ground, and he looked away, pained.

  “Thank you for that kindness, but I am afraid that what I really require is a healer. The last one, well…they were not quite this bad before. My knuckles. And I would greatly appreciate it if someone might protect my velvet-lined toe-ring case from varlets. They are always…trying to steal…my lucky charms…”

  And with that, the halfling fainted.

  Oh, no! As the gryphon fluttered worriedly around the halfling, Kirsi realized it had to be the monster’s voice echoing in her mind. Faucon has abandoned us for the realm of dreams! Quickly, smöl people! Douse him with Salubrious Juice at once!

  “We don’t have that,” Kirsi said, a bit sniffy. “Although I might have an Aide of Band.”

  “Oh, great gibbering gumdrop trees,” Båggi murmured. “An Aide of Band will never do! Perhaps I can be of service? I do have some training in the healing arts. Although I’ve never heard of Salubrious Juice, and I’d be most interested in the recipe, I do have several calming salves and a collection of loose-leaf teas.”

  “His fingers are broken,” the young sheep person said, angrily frowning over the fallen halfling. “I don’t think tea caaan help thaaat.”

  Båggi awarded her the full shine of a dwarvelish grin. “Oh, my dear durian dumplings, but the right tea can cure most anything!”

  Kirsi had only known Båggi for an hour or so, but the dwarf’s transformation was impressive. As soon as he had a job to do, he went from shy and clumsy to determined and cheerful—well, more cheerful. Båggi’s eyes sparkled as he carefully picked up the fainted halfling, carried him back into the room where Offi was still working on his beloved automaton, and placed Faucon on one of the many human-sized beds.

  “Piini Automaatti?” the sheep person cried, running to the machine and throwing her arms gently around him to avoid bruising herself.

  Offi, who had nearly gotten trampled by her wayward hooves, frowned. “Wait, you know this guy? Oh, I get it. You must be Agape. Your parents are—”

  The ovitaur looked down and sniffled resentfully. “A piece of work, yeah. I guess they went to buy new pillows and throw themselves a housewarming paaarty, right?”

  “They left Piini with us,” Offi said, and Kirsi could tell he was terrified that Agape would take the metal man with her and leave forever. “I just reset him.”

  Agape looked up with interest. “Wait, he caaan be reset?”

  “My best of bosom buddies,” Båggi said nervously, “I don’t wish to interrupt your rousing discussion of metal men and throw pillows, ha ha! But this halfling is in dire need of our most very immediate help.”

  The focus returned to the halfling on the bed, and Kirsi bit her tongue to avoid saying anything rude before she heard the full story—although she had many rude things primed and ready for when it was the correct time.

  “What happened to him?” Båggi asked as they all stood around the bed, whether on the stone floor or, in the case of the gnomes, on a wooden chair, looking down on a halfling that Kirsi found both fascinating and disturbing.

  “Drubs,” Agape said, and everyone nodded in understanding.

  Agape told them the tale of their fight with Marquant Dique’s unwashed rogues, and as Gerd added her own perspective with an abundance of umlauts, Kirsi was forced to admit that perhaps Faucon was not as terrible as the halflings she’d grown up fearing. Perhaps the creature on the cot was not a monstrous enemy and a danger, especially as he was gnomerically fastidious and had placed his own body in peril fighting the rogues. Everything she heard suggested Faucon was righteous, reasonable, generous, driven by heartbreak and nobility. It happened that suddenly, as she listened to the tale: She now saw this halfling, of all halflings, as a person.

  As for Båggi, he had his picnic basket laid out before him, which was unlike any basket Kirsi had ever seen. The top opened up into a collection of tiny cupboards, while the bottom was likewise filled with cleverly interlocking boxes, each beautifully labeled in dwarvelish script. Båggi murmured to himself as he selected bits of dried herbs and flowers, added them to a collapsible cup, and stirred in a crystalline liquid.

  “Bunions and butter beans, where did I put that bonewort? Can’t make a proper boning tea without that! Going to need some more powdered moth ear, that’s ever so certain. And, finally, a dash of honey mead to sweeten the healing.”

  “Are you sure this is going to work?” Agape asked. Kirsi guessed from the wrinkles already forming on her forehead that the sheep girl spent a lot of time being skeptical and distrusting.

  The dwarf didn’t look up as he mixed his powders. “Of course! And why wouldn’t it?”

  “Perhaaaps it’s poison.”

  At that, Båggi gave the distrustful ovitaur a look of horror and no small amount of hurt pride. “And why would I, a born and trained healer, attempt to hurt my patient? My heal
ing basket contains no poisons, only healthful teas and tonics. Do you know nothing of dwarves? Or healing? Or, goodness help me, honey mead?”

  “It’s not the honey mead thaaat’s the problem.” Agape had the grace to look ashamed. “My paaarents told me not to trust anyone. They said dwarves were crude muscle armed with cudgels, which I see you haaave. Anytime we saw a dwarf on the road, we raaan the other way so we couldn’t get turned in.”

  “Turned into what? A frog?” Kirsi asked, her curiosity piqued.

  “No. Turned in, aaas in, given up to the authorities. Jailed. Our whereabouts sold to someone hunting Vartijas.” Agape sighed. “We’ve always been hunted. For the past year, it waaas by that haaalfling right there.”

  Kirsi put a hand on Båggi’s knee, since that was all she could reach. “Well, I trust you, Båggi. I’m sure he’ll be all better in no time.”

  The dwarf smiled at her, and a bit of cherry pink returned to his cheeks. “Bust my bright-blue boutonniere, that’s kind of you,” he said. “Now, Agape, if you’ll help the halfling sit up, I’ll help him drink. But beware.” He looked around the curious circle, his face advising them to be cautious. “This boning tea is extraordinarily potent. There could be…spluttering.”

  Everyone stood back and watched as the dwarf funneled tea into the unconscious halfling. At first, there was indeed spluttering, but then Faucon began to stir, and soon he locked his lips on the rim, gulping thirstily. As she watched, Kirsi realized that the purple bruises on his hands were fading back to a normal warm brown, and his crooked fingers were straightening like a spider stretching amid the morning dewdrops.

  “Zat’s verr fine,” Faucon said. “Dersn’t hurt atall, rilly. Smuch better.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Kirsi whispered.