by Kevin Hearne
“Hurrrh,” the gnome said, blinking, and shifted uncomfortably on his throne. His finely knit gnomeric hat shifted on his head and he swiped at it irritably, knocking it off entirely.
Kirsi gasped. “Are those…ears on the top of his head?”
Grinda skittered up his throne and around the gnome, who hissed and tried to shove her away. “Tsk. It’s an illusion. I should’ve known.” After scampering down, she waved her wand, and the gnome shimmered and dissolved, revealing…
“Oh, my blundering badgers! That’s the most well-fed raccoon I’ve ever seen!” Båggi shouted. “My goodness! What a fine and robust trash panda indeed! But not,” he corrected himself, “not so very good as a ruler, I suspect.”
Grinda whirled about, teeth bared at Marquant Dique. “Where is the real Porkkala?” she demanded.
The leader of the Dastardly Rogues could not answer, but one of his drubs could. “Executed!” he crowed.
Grinda shook her head. “It’s as we feared, Gustave. The halflings have committed treason at the highest level.”
“Ergot. Marquant. You’re knee-deep in metaphorical plops,” Gustave said. “I do try not to execute people, but I’m going to have to dream up something really creative to make sure you can never escape or return to power.” Then he turned his back on them, facing Grinda. “Well, that was easy, wasn’t it, thanks to these nice meddling kids?” He yawned and stretched, his eyes rolling back and forth. “Back home, then? To write some laws? Fix this kanssa-jaarli mess, appoint some new ones until an election can be held? Definitely need to make sure they’re not raccoons. I’m thinking we should confiscate that muesli, though. I’m hungry.”
“No.”
Heads turned in surprise to find Lord Ergot standing, unencumbered by foliage. His cloak was on the floor, revealing a hardened leather cuirass tooled with intricate patterns and runes but clearly hiding some bits of plate underneath for extra protection.
Gustave craned his neck around and blinked. “You mean no as in you really want that muesli? I think there’s enough to share. We could have those ‘bro-times on the town’ you used to write me about.”
“I mean no as in you don’t get to go home. It’s not really your home, after all. You made up some story about being a hero that the gullible public bought, but you are nothing but a usurper, King Gustave, and I think when it comes to usurping I can usurp better than you.” He gestured to the raccoon. “You’re right that the Skyr needs new leadership. But, first, Pell needs a better king. I think I’d serve admirably.”
Lord Ergot drew his sword and smiled the sort of smile that makes one’s bowels uncomfortably loose.
“And that muesli is mine,” he added, “because Pell is mine.”
“No.”
Surprise bloomed again at this flat statement of denial. Eyes sought out the speaker and widened in alarm. They were all looking at Båggi. And he knew exactly why. Because he was the person who had spoken.
He had divested himself of his burdens and was holding his Telling Cudgel, which was spiked and whirring and glowing as it had never glowed before, telling everyone that this particular dwarf was imbued with a clear purpose and the magical Korpåswood was in tune with it. Båggi pointed a finger at Lord Ergot.
“J’accuse! You and Marquant Dique are the authors of misery and unrest in the Skyr, preying upon those you see as too weak to fight back. And you would do the same to all of Pell, seeking power when you should be seeking peace and friendship. What you have found instead is a dwarf on his Meadschpringå. Let us dance,” he said, but feeling that might leave it a little too open to interpretation, he added, “With violence.”
“In the moment you meet your mortal enemy, there is no speech you can make that will be more powerful than simply breathing after they have ceased to do so.”
—KYRTIS KANDOR, noted warlord of Grunting, to his protégé Horris Lurgoif, quoted in The Big Privy Book of Nifty Natterings, Volume 3
Movement tore Offi’s eyes from Båggi and Lord Ergot and toward a flash of gold. It was gone almost before he could process it, and realization came soon after: Marquant Dique’s little bird automaatti had flown for the eastern doors of the Toot Suite, and it was going to tell a fresh batch of drubs to come running from the halfling tower. A second later it screeched a piercing alarm, and the violent dance to which Båggi had invited Lord Ergot began—albeit with more participants than two duelists.
Gerd immediately commanded her library bird to hunt the other one down, but the first automaatti’s screech must have broken Kirsi’s concentration or had some other deleterious effect on her spell, for the vines confining the halflings and humans all disintegrated into green dust. Everyone was looking at Lord Ergot and Båggi except for Marquant Dique, who had his eyes on King Gustave. The nastier-than-usual halfling picked up his dagger, and a malevolent grin split his face even as a Cold Sweat of Horror drenched every cubic centimeter of Offi’s flesh. Offi already knew what kind of governing the gnomes could expect if the halflings killed King Gustave: exploitation and oppression. And so he ran straight at Marquant Dique to intercept him, even though the halfling was probably twice his mass and three times taller than him.
King Gustave was clueless to his own personal peril, because he was glued to the standoff between Lord Ergot and Båggi. He hadn’t moved far enough away from the captives, and Offi was certain that the gaping ruler was about to take a knife in his left kidney from the leader of the drubs, which is what halflings always went for when they wanted to kill a human.
As both Offi and Marquant let loose with roars, a few eyes flicked in their direction; it seemed to Offi that he could sense everything in the heat of battle, but nothing mattered except protecting the king. Gerd or Faucon or Agape would have been a better protector than Offi, their skills at martial arts no doubt exceeding his, but none of them could act in time. He sensed them beginning to move—all of them, the drubs and Ergot’s guards and his friends too—but only he was in position to make a difference.
Time to see if his Iron Gnome gauntlet would work. He ran and then slid on his knees, leaning to his left so that he could reach up with his gauntleted hand and latch onto the wrist of Marquant Dique. If he missed, his body would at least trip up the halfling or force him to change course and thereby miss his clear shot at the king. That was the extent of Offi’s battle plan, and for a moment it went even better than he could have wished. His fingers grasped the crime lord’s wrist as Marquant tried to thrust his dagger into the king’s back, but Offi yanked it down to the ground in a literal iron grip, forcing the halfling to follow. There was no way Offi would let Marquant Dique slip free of his grasp, regardless of how hard he tugged.
And, suddenly, that was less of a victory and more of a grave mistake, for the halfling had more weight and muscle, and now Offi was veritably attached to him. Offi hit the release button inside the gauntlet and learned what real failure, what real hopelessness, felt like. The glove wouldn’t open. He’d been anxious to see if his first weapon had worked, and now he had an answer: No, it did not.
For all that his wrist was captured, Marquant Dique was agile and not unskilled. He growled, leapt onto Offi’s back, and redirected that knife toward Offi’s torso, not caring that his wrist was still clutched in the gauntlet. For his arm was long and strong and about to get some leverage on, and so even though Offi knew it was coming and did all he could to strain against it, he was helpless to stop that knife from entering his belly, a biting cold and searing heat at once, more pain than he’d ever known, and then it was gone and so was the halfling. The gauntlet’s release button had finally worked, and it was too late.
Offi’s gauntlet no longer clutched any wrist: Instead, he toppled to his side, cradling his guts and trying to keep them from leaking out, his eyes wide in shock. There was so much screaming.
He saw flashes of individual battles: Agape dropped underneat
h the swing of a human guard’s sword, turned and supported herself on her hands, and kicked him powerfully in the crotch with both hooves. The man doubled over as she spun around and slammed her knife into his vulnerable side, where his cuirass was tied.
Feathers flashed and Offi saw that Gerd had spread her wings protectively, King Gustave and the strange talking-possum lady behind the gryphon and safe for the moment. Marquant was telling Kirsi, who stood in front of Gerd, that she’d better move or she’d get the same as her brave stupid friend.
That’s what he was, he realized now: brave and stupid. Just like his brother, Onni.
Faucon was pulling throwing stars out of his waistcoat and tossing them into the unprotected faces and throats of drubs, shouting, “And that is for Remy! And that is for me! And that is for Onni!” as they found home in curly hair.
Lord Ergot slashed at Båggi as a feint, but the dwarf danced back, then twirled his cudgel with his wrist so that it passed in front of him, just in time to connect with Ergot’s thrust. The impact of wooden cudgel against steel should have produced no more than a dull clunk, but Båggi’s weapon was no mere length of hardwood. The coruscating energies there flashed and crackled, and the top half of Ergot’s blade was sheared away with a sound like a rung bell. It flew over Offi to thunk into one of the kanssa-jaarli thrones—the one with the raccoon sitting in it, to judge by the outraged chittering. The dwarf let the cudgel complete its circuit until it was upright, and then he swung horizontally at Lord Ergot’s midsection with all his strength. There was no way the human could duck under that or leap over it. Ergot had overcommitted on his thrust and would have to take the hit, and take it he did.
Offi was hoping for a meaty explosion like the time Båggi had taken down the troll, but that didn’t happen. There was a flash and Lord Ergot grunted, clutching his ribs as he staggered back, but he was still in one piece afterward, his cuirass charred and smoking. That must be it: His armor was enchanted against magic. Those tooled patterns were wards. That was how he’d broken free of Kirsi’s vines and how he’d survived the deadly energies of an activated Telling Cudgel.
Gerd recognized this at the same time, for Offi heard her say to the bewildered Båggi, His head is not warded against magick.
As Lord Ergot roared that he required a new sword and scrambled to snatch one up from the human guard Agape had slain—she was now fighting the last one—Offi blinked and refocused on Kirsi, because she was yelling horrible curses at Marquant Dique. Her right hand held a handful of hairs ripped from her chin, and he saw a pink and bleeding patch there, her face furious and red and streaming with angry tears. She finished her curses and crammed the red bristles into her mouth, chewing and darting out of Marquant’s way as he surged forward, leading with the dagger already coated in Offi’s blood. He missed but did not seem to care; he only wanted to get to Gustave, and now that Kirsi had removed herself, only Gerd stood between the halfling and his goal. Offi didn’t think the halfling would have much luck but worried that perhaps Marquant could pull it off; both he and Lord Ergot had proven more resourceful than expected.
Like Faucon, Marquant Dique had extra weapons tucked away in his clothing. He hurled the dagger in his hand at Gerd, and it sank partway into her breast, where feathers gave way to fur. She screeched and snapped at him, but he had anticipated this and stepped back after the throw, pulling two more knives out of his chartreuse doublet and grinning as he said, “You’re not invincible, gryphon.”
An audible gulp above and behind Offi’s head could be heard, and then Kirsi’s voice said, “Neither are you, halfling.”
Dull popping noises began firing from somewhere, and then Marquant Dique screamed as the pops increased into a rolling crumping noise, like the satisfactory sound of snow crunching underneath one’s shoes in winter, and Offi realized as the halfling collapsed that the sound was Marquant Dique’s bones—all of them—breaking into tiny pieces. And when he fell in front of Offi’s vision, the halfling was rolled up like a bad sausage, every limb poking out the wrong way, elbows and knees gone backward as the leader of the Dastardly Rogues Under Bigly-Wicke died from the powerful curse.
“That’s hardcore goth,” Offi whispered.
But whispering seemed to break something inside him, and he shuddered and twitched on the carpet. It was so cold, and his cardigan was ruined.
He couldn’t really close his eyes, so he had no choice but to watch as the battle raged on, for all that things seemed sideways and time ran strange. Agape and Faucon engaged with minions and Lord Ergot faced Båggi once more, newly armed with a dead man’s sword and much more wary this time. The Telling Cudgel still glowed with purpose and Båggi advanced on Ergot, eldritch lights shimmering and playing over his beard and eyebrows, while Ergot gave ground.
“This is ridiculous,” he shouted at Båggi. “Why are you even here, dwarf? The Skyr doesn’t concern you!”
“If that were true, then it shouldn’t concern you either. But all of Pell concerns me. High up in the Korpås Range, we dwarves hear whispers from every corner of the world. And I am certain that this is precisely where I need to be, to end your exploitation of smöl people and your treason against the king.”
“You will not end me!” Ergot snarled, and he charged with sword held high for an overhead blow. Båggi had to raise his club to deflect it, and Offi worried that Ergot had some awful plan in mind, for the attack was so clearly communicated and easily countered.
As before, Ergot’s sword broke at the point of impact on the Telling Cudgel. But Ergot was counting on this. He kept moving, yanked the half blade down, and then thrust it low at Båggi’s abdomen.
But the dwarf’s body wasn’t there. As soon as the blade broke on his cudgel, he spun around to his right, away from the thrust he’d anticipated, and swung his Telling Cudgel at the back of Lord Ergot’s legs as the human passed. They were not protected with magical wards, and as such they did not fare well against the explosive energies waiting to be released. A thump and a wet shucking sound sent Lord Ergot’s lower legs flying toward the western door and he fell heavily on his back, a raw scream of pain and disbelief erupting from his throat.
“The end,” Båggi said, and brought the cudgel down on Lord Ergot’s head with a final crunch, silencing him forever. He looked around to see if any other threats were coming. Agape and Faucon were still standing, albeit bleeding from a couple of gashes, while their opponents remained on the ground.
Kirsi knelt down in front of Offi and immediately called for the dwarf. “Båggi! We need your healing skills over here!”
The dwarf’s warlike demeanor slipped away from his face immediately. “Oh, my angry asparagus! I’ll get my picnic basket and be right there!” He dropped his cudgel and ran for his cask and basket.
The talking possum scampered out from the protective aegis of Gerd’s wings and burrowed under a pile of clothing, which soon bloomed and grew into a human woman shrouded in a cloak.
Who are you? Gerd demanded.
“I told you true: I am Grinda, adviser to King Gustave. I was the possum you were kind enough to refrain from eating. Thank you, everyone, for your invaluable help in preserving the kingdom and restoring order in the Skyr. We should probably secure the doors so we don’t have to deal with a bunch of halflings until we’re ready.”
“Yes,” Faucon said, nodding, but he cast a worried glance at Gerd. “Are you all right, Gerd?”
Wounded but in no danger, she replied.
“Thank heavens.” He and Agape rushed to secure the doors leading to the Toot Towers and prevent any interruption.
Grinda glared over Offi’s head at the throne area. “What’ll it be, Chundertoe? Will you cooperate with us or should we have you executed for treason too?”
“I’ll cooperate,” he said quickly. Offi couldn’t believe the laggard had never moved from his seat and had in fact soiled it prodigiously.
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“Good.” Grinda waved at King Gustave. “Come on over, we need to stabilize things quickly or there will be more blood.” She asked Chundertoe, “You do all your official work at those desks over there facing the north windows? Ink and paper and sealing wax and whatnot?”
“Yes.”
“Let’s go.”
The king and his adviser disappeared from Offi’s sight as Båggi Biins knelt in front of him with his picnic basket and cask. He squinted at Offi’s midsection and winced, then grabbed for his cask of mead. “Oh, piglet pants!” he said, handing the cask to Kirsi. “Give him as much of this as he can handle. I’ll get to work on a poultice.”
As the dwarf turned to riffle through his drawers of herbs, Kirsi fumbled with the cork stopper and finally popped it out with a hollow thoomp. She tilted the cask toward Offi’s mouth.
“You have to drink some of this, Onni. Open wide.”
Offi tried his best, and some of the sweet mead dribbled into his mouth. He swallowed a bit and it burned. He coughed a couple of times, and that inspired new waves of pain and chills.
“Not sure…that’s helping.”
“We have to try, Onni.” She brandished her wand and pointed it at his belly. “For real: Heal.” Nothing happened, and Kirsi frowned at the wand. “Why isn’t it working? It was short, but it rhymed.”
Offi took a deep breath—or tried. He failed. It was odd how his body seemed to be having a bit of a Panic while his brain had never been more calm, more quiet, more clear. There was a Great and Sparkling Clarity about the room, and Offi could tell that everything was going to be okay. Not for him, but for everybody else. For his friends, for the king, and for the gnomes of Pell. There was only one thing left to do. With shaking hands, he tried to straighten his cardigan, but his fingers were cold and shivering. He would’ve liked a cleaner cardigan, a black cardigan, perhaps one festooned with ravens, for what he was going to say, but this…well, it would have to do.
