No Country for Old Gnomes

by Kevin Hearne

  “Not again,” Reegor moaned. “How many locks do we have to buy for a building in which most of the visitors are incorporeal?”

  Much to everyone’s surprise, a giant Pruneshute boar burst into the dining room, its bristles gently smoking.

  “Doooooc!” the boar squealed. “Reeeeegor!”

  “Ugbüt! Vhat’s vrong?” Dr. Murkimer asked. “Is it your left tusk again?”

  “Forget my tusk,” the boar grunted. “We’re under attack! By halflings! With bombs!” He turned around to show a singed tail and a large spot of pink broiled ham on his bare boar bottom.

  Kirsi ran for the door, and everyone followed her—except for Båggi, who stayed to offer Ugbüt a dollop of Frau Thistle’s One-Time Bristle & Grizzle Tonic for Hearty Hair Growth. Through the open door they saw that the boar was right on the money.

  A halfling army was on the march toward them while eating their second dinner, their torches glowing in the darkness, their mouths making loud smacking noises as they ripped flesh off turkey legs and licked grease from their fingers. Forest animals fled in terror that they might be eaten next, or blown up with a firebomb, or both in any order. The halflings were chucking the incendiary devices ahead at intervals to clear the way, and Agape assumed Ugbüt had been singed by such.

  “Vhy vould an army be marching through here?” Dr. Murkimer said. “They don’t hate dentists that much, do they? Vhy vould anyone ever hate a dentist?” His slim black brows drew down. “Or did you tell them I vas a vampire?”

  “No, but good question,” Onni said. “Here’s another one: Why is no one surprised that a boar just burst in and talked to us?”

  “All pig species can talk,” Reegor replied. “They just usually don’t, unless they need to tell you where on the tusk it hurts.”

  “Oh, no,” Onni said, hand flying to his heart. “Please, nobody tell Ugbüt I had candied bacon on my tea cake at Dinny’s.” He hung his head. “Oh, gods of Pell, why must bacon be so delicious?”

  “Focus less on guilt and more on saving our own bacon. I bet that army is headed to Nokanen,” Kirsi muttered, hiding behind Dr. Murkimer’s cloak in case one of the halflings spotted a fresh target. “They’re escalating.”

  “By traveling south of the main route through the forest, they will avoid gnomeric scouts,” Faucon mused. “But…they do not have the look of drubs, do they? And they are marching in ranks. Disciplined.” Faucon squinted, unable to make out details in the darkness. “Gerd, can you see what they wear? Is it a uniform?”

  Gerd cocked her head and blinked at the torches, then reported: Uniforms, yes. Mostly they are covered in food staynes, but underneath that they are redde with many yellö buttons.

  “Oh, no,” Faucon said, his voice pained. “That’s the city watch of Caskcooper. They’ve been corrupted too.” Only when she heard the two contractions did Agape understand how this news struck the halfling to the heart.

  “I think ve should all be leaving now,” Dr. Murkimer said. “You kids be safe. Don’t forget to floss!” He and Reegor disappeared into the old house, presumably to fetch the puppy and whatever else they could take with them, and Ugbüt emerged directly afterward, thanking Båggi for being so helpful and handy at healing his hocks.

  “We’ve got to hurry,” Agape said.

  They turned to look at her.

  “Are you always going to run?” Onni asked as if disappointed.

  She shook her head. “Not away. To. We’ve got to get to the Toot Towers to stop all this maaadness.”

  Because she’d finally realized: These were her friends, and she wasn’t going to wait until she was dead, like Ghost Toby, to appreciate them.

  But before she could tell them so and initiate her first group hug, a firebomb detonated near the porch, setting the ancient boards of the ghostel aflame.

  “I’d give up three of my toes for a pudding like that!”

  —OLD HALFLING IDIOM

  “Them halfling folks who say they’d give up three of their toes always have ten, and they ain’t never broke a bone, never gone hungry, never lost a part of themselves, or else they’d never say that. They don’t know what it means to go without. Because I’ll tell you right now: I’d give up pudding altogether if I could have my toes back, and I’m mad about pudding.”

  —TWO-TOE TITANIA TOOTENFIFE, in Yes, I Still Love Socks: Now Let’s Talk About Anything Else

  The scramble to evacuate the ghostel was somewhat less frantic than anticipated, considering all the guests were already dead. Faucon stood there for a moment, watching the ghosts puff and squeeze out of the ghostel, but then Reegor limped by, dragging the puppy and a huge suitcase, hollering, “Move it, guys! Fire: bad!” and they all surged into movement.

  Kirsi and Onni were still walking tenderly, their tiny boots full of blood and blister juice, so it was no surprise when the assertive gnome girl strode purposefully to Gerd and said, “Mighty gryphon, might we beg a ride to safety? For the spirit is courageous but the legs are dainty and suffering from overproduction of lactic acid.”

  Gerd consented, and that gave Faucon an idea.

  “Mighty Ugbüt,” he asked, sweeping a bow, “my mechanical prostheses are perfectly serviceable for a leisurely stroll or even a long hike, but they have not been tested whilst running for my life amidst an ejaculation of ghosts. Would you consent to carry me to safety, if it is not against your personal code?”

  “That’s a lot of words,” Ugbüt said, “but I suppose that could do, as long as you and your spry-fingered friends will gently rub some numbing unguents on my fricasseed nethers once we’re on the other side.”

  Båggi and Agape would hoof it—literally, in Agape’s case—but both of them could easily outpace halflings on the march. Faucon had just settled himself onto Ugbüt’s back, fists clenched into the bristles of his shoulders and legs braced against the sides of the boar, when a new firebomb detonating behind them made urging Ugbüt forward entirely unnecessary.

  The boar squealed and shot off into the darkness like a greased cork, and it was all Faucon could do to hold on, quickly forming a new appreciation for alpacas and ponies and saddlery in general. Praises, he realized in an excruciating moment of agony, should be heaped upon saddlers, for they were the saviors of delicate and tender bits, and such bits had little chance of emerging unscathed when riding boarback, said boar being in a panic and leaving a trail of fragrant smoke in his wake. For all that his bacon had been literally saved, Faucon couldn’t help rolling his eyes heavenward in recognition that his bangers and mash were being most severely banged into mush.

  Faucon heard the cries of the rest of his party, calling after him and Ugbüt to wait, but the boar was in no mood for conversation. He was in the mood to plunge through the brush and not give a tusk whether the halfling on his back got shredded by thorns, impaled by a branch, or simply fell off.

  The flaying of his hide as they barreled through the brush was very painful, and the bruising punishment to his nethers was likewise painful and might be doing permanent damage to his personal pudding factories.

  But none of it, he suspected, would be as painful as being set on fire by the city watch of Caskcooper, and since Ugbüt was doing his utmost to make sure that didn’t happen, Faucon clenched his teeth and endured, his entire body a haze of pain anchored by the iron will to hold on. He was certain his friends would catch up with him eventually, and if they didn’t, well, then he was more than capable of surviving on his own and knew, at least, where they were headed. Ever since her introduction to omelets, Gerd had possessed a nearly preternatural ability to find Faucon when she was hungry.

  He attempted, at intervals, to get Ugbüt to slow down, but the boar snarled at him each time: “I still smell smoke!”

  “That could be your own hind end and not the army,” Faucon pointed out. “Your bristles are still sizzling somewhat. Look,
it is always impossible to outrun your own ass.”

  Ugbüt snorted and downshifted to a more conservative if still jarring pace. “I feel like I need to try. You can jump off anytime.”

  Faucon assured the boar that he was grateful for the ride and would continue to hold on for safety’s sake.

  “Safety’s sake. Yes. That’s why I have to keep going. I know what happens to animals that get too close to armies. Especially delicious animals too close to halfling armies.”

  Gerd’s mental voice spoke to them faintly after a while. Faucon? Ugbüt? Where are you?

  Faucon turned his head to the right and looked up, seeing no stars or moon. They were completely hidden by the canopy of the Pruneshute Forest.

  “Where are we headed, Ugbüt?”

  “Southwest, to the Figgish Fen. No armies ever go there. And I suspect the sluggish waters will be ideal for butt dippage.”

  That was a long way and meant no sleep through the night, but the boar was right: There would be no danger of meeting any armies. “I’m going to shout back to Gerd and hope she hears me,” he warned, then followed through. “Headed southwest!” he shouted, hoping the gryphon’s sharp ears would hear him. He repeated it a couple of times until Gerd spoke again, slightly louder this time.

  I hear you. We will follow. It is not difficult; your wake smells of barbecue.

  The Figgish Fen was not the most direct route, but they would probably be no farther away from the Toot Towers than they had been at Dr. Murkimer’s ghostel and dental practice. They would not lose time so much as lose sleep.

  Faucon entered a limbic semiconscious state as the night wore on, a trance of endurance as he clung to the boar’s back and the leagues bounced underneath them. The forest and the darkness ended at once: A gray dawn at first, and then a brilliant one as the trees receded behind them and Ugbüt’s hooves began to make soft splashing sounds. They were entering the Figgish Fen, miles and miles of reeds and grasses mixed in with strange and exotic plants and always, always, plenty of standing water.

  The boar slowed from a trot to a walk and made a series of wet snorty noises as he calmed down and began the process of recovery.

  “Fair warning, I’m gonna lower my back end,” the boar said, and Faucon held on as the boar sat down in the standing water and groaned in pleasure, his toasted hocks getting some relief. “Ahh, that’s better. Don’t mind telling you, Faucon, that was not a good night for me.”

  “Nor for me.” Faucon ached everywhere and his muscles trembled. He doubted he’d be able to stand.

  “I know where some edible mushrooms grow nearby. Join me for breakfast?”

  “Sure. Until my companions find me, I will happily remain with you.”

  “All right, let’s go. I’m hungry.”

  Ugbüt rose and they traveled for perhaps five minutes into the fen, until they came to a mushroom colony that had spread its spores liberally around the area. Halflings called them purple helmets, owing to their lavender color and the shape of their caps. They nestled next to some woody shrubbery on some sodden islands of black soil, surrounded by dark waters perhaps three inches deep on which floated lily pads and fen orchids. Frogs croaked and insects buzzed.

  The boar had taken only a few purple helmets into his mouth before he looked up, startled. “You hear that?” he said around a mouthful.

  Faucon listened. The water was gurgling ahead of them. Soft, high-pitched chirps of some kind could be heard. Perhaps a coterie of waterfowl was headed their way?

  “I do,” he whispered. “But said sound is unfamiliar and not reminiscent of predators.”

  Ugbüt grunted his agreement and kept chewing, his snout wriggling in the direction of the noises. The sounds grew louder behind an island of shrubs, and then they spied movement coming around it on either side.

  Rodents of extraordinary size came into view: They were capybaras, the gentle giants of the Figgish Fen, laden with saddlebags but no proper saddles.

  And riding on top of the capybaras were tiny monkeys that squeaked and chattered once they spied the boar and halfling. These wee beasties dug into their saddlebags and brandished what looked to be seedpods as if they were weapons. Faucon did not immediately recognize the seedpods, having never hunted in the Figgish Fen; he was most familiar with the flora of the Pruneshute Forest and the plains of the Skyr. The strange company of capybara calvary moved to surround them.

  “Hey, uh,” Ugbüt said, “that doesn’t look like friendly behavior.” He took a few steps back, and the newcomers stepped forward, or their capybaras did, which was far more impactful.

  “I agree. But we should strive to avoid antagonizing them. We may be simply trespassing on their territory and they will subside when we exit, so I suggest continuing to back away. Do you recognize those seedpods they carry?”

  “No. My eyesight’s not that great. I do much better with smells. They don’t smell like anything in particular, though. I just smell monkey and rat and fen. And snake.”

  “Snake?”

  “Not surprising. Fens are full of snakes. They don’t bother me.”

  “Nor I, my good boar. I simply do not see any snakes.”

  “They’re sneaky. And, wow, these monkeys just keep coming. How many do you think there are now?”

  Faucon counted quickly. “Twenty. And still moving to surround us if they can.”

  “At what point do I turn and run while squealing?” Ugbüt asked.

  “Soon, I think, unless something changes.”

  Something changed. A shrill cry from above caused everyone to look up. A massive winged silhouette descended and the monkeys screeched and pointed.

  Hello, smöl monkeys, Faucon heard in his head. Please do not hurt my friends and I will not devour you.

  The monkeys clearly understood this, for one of them chittered something at the others and they turned their capybaras around to form a wedge behind the leader; Gerd, meanwhile, braked in the air with her wings and landed next to Ugbüt, mincing a couple of times once she touched down.

  Ew, she commented, registering her disapproval of the footing. Faucon was relieved to see that Kirsi and Onni were safe on her back.

  “Are the others all right?” he asked Kirsi.

  “Yes, they’re just catching up,” she replied. “That was quite a chase you led us on. Are you okay?”

  “Bruised but otherwise fine,” he assured them.

  “Sorry about that,” Ugbüt said. “I really don’t like fire.”

  Gerd introduced them to the smöl monkeys, her peculiar gryphon magic heard by all of them in a language they understood. The lead monkey chittered back to her at some length, and Gerd translated.

  These smöl monkeys call themselves the Tym tamarins, and the leader’s name is Gleek. They live with the capybaras in a cooperative community, each contributing to the prosperity and defense of the other. Gleek says we are welcome to not eat them.

  “Ah! Tamarins I have heard of,” Faucon said, then added, “Not this particular kind, though. What makes them Tym tamarins, specifically?”

  There was some spirited explanation on Gleek’s part before Gerd translated.

  Tym was the legendary tamarin who forged their shared culture with the capybaras. They have lived by his ideals for untold generations. But now the Figgish Fen Wyrm threatens all of that. It wants to eat them all. Its hunger is endless.

  “What wyrm?”

  I was getting to that. The giant wyrm that they were trying to lead away from their village and that has eaten half their party so far. The one that’s tracking them now.

  “Now?” Ugbüt said. “Well, hey, uh, nice to meet you all, but I’m out. Plain old snakes are reasonable, but any reptile with that many capital letters in its name is bound to suck. Faucon, if you could get off my back, that would be great.”

  “Sure,” Faucon
said, then grunted as he slid off the boar’s back and splashed in the muck of the fen, falling to all fours since he was unable to use his legs correctly after the stress of the ride. His fingers sank into the squelchy mud, and the scummy water was directly under his nose with his arms fully extended. And his golden toes—well.

  “Oh, ah. This is not optimal. Onni?”

  “Yes?”

  “I think I’m about to lose my golden toes in the mud.”

  “Oh, no. Stay there, I’ll come help,” the gnome said, and he tumbled somewhat ungracefully off Gerd’s back to land in the fen on his teeny gnomebutt, utterly mucking up his cardigan. He disappeared under the surface but rose quickly and spluttered, his entire person covered in viscid mud and remaining waist-deep in the water. “That! Was not! Sanitary!” he declared.

  “Sorry about your situation, there, but I really need to go,” Ugbüt said, turning around and trotting back in the direction of the Pruneshute Forest. “That snake smell is getting stronger and I want to live longer, know what I mean?” They knew precisely what he meant and bade farewell to his ham hocks as he departed. He stopped once to call over his shoulder, “Did Dr. Murkimer and Reegor get out okay with the puppy?”

  They assured him that they did and were en route to their satellite location, the Spook Spa at Bicuspid Cove. The boar grunted in reply and was soon lost in the tall reeds of the fen.

  Onni’s tiny fingers found Faucon’s right heel, and shortly thereafter he felt the golden toes braced against the stump of his foot. “Okay, you can move that foot now to get it underneath you. If we can get you on your back instead of your front so we can lift your feet out of the water, I’ll see if I can readjust the fit.”

  With much sloshing and splashing and muttering of “gross” and even the foulest of words, “grody,” they safely extracted Faucon’s toes from the sucking mud. Onni pulled a set of tools out of his squelchy cardigan and set about working on the fit. In order to do so, he had to remove the toes first and wash off the prosthesis, leaving Faucon’s bare stumps in the air, a sight that filled up a deep well of rage within him. Still, Faucon knew it would be as wrong to drink from that well as to drink from the fen. Either option would do him no good and possibly poison his innards.