Dayn said nothing.
“So, have you given any thought to how you’re going to compose our epic ballad?” Kresean asked. “I’ve got some titles I’ve been playing around with, if you want to hear. I was thinking maybe Kresean and the Cave of Doom. Or maybe Flashing Swords and Dragon’s Teeth. How about-”
“How about Cowardly Kresean and the Poisoned Piglet!” Dayn yelled at the warrior. “How about He Won by a Landslide1. You’re a fraud! You lied to me!”
“I never lied to you,” Kresean said, holding up his hand. “You’re a bard. You have an active imagination. That’s good. That’s fine. That’s what you’re supposed to have. That’s what will make the ballad something to cheer for. I came here to help these villagers, and I have. They were afraid of that dragon. The dragon’s dead now. We did what they asked us to do.”
“Stop calling it a dragon. It’s not a real dragon! You told me we were going to fight a dragon!”
“You can make it as big as you want in your ballad, the bigger, the better. Don’t go diminishing people’s fears. They’ll hate you for it. I thought you wanted to bring light into people’s lives. You don’t make people feel better by calling them cowards.”
“I bet you weren’t even in the Chaos War,” Dayn said.
“Yes, I was!”
Kresean whirled his horse around and grabbed Dayn by the shirtfront.
“Don’t you judge me! You have no idea what it was like. No idea what we went through! You would have run, too. Do you know what it’s like to hold your best friend in your arms as the life seeps out of him? Have you ever seen a dozen of your comrades cut down all at once? Blood flying through the air? No! You’ve never even handled a sword! Don’t propose to tell me how to be a hero!”
Dayn was shocked. He’d never seen this side of the man before. He looked at his horse’s mane. “You’re right. I haven’t seen those things.”
“We each have our specialty, Dayn,” Kresean said, gentle again. “Yours is singing. Use it for something good. People need something to believe in.”
“But-”
“After all, their dragon is dead-”
Dayn shot him a sharp look.
Kresean chuckled. “Okay, I mean the big lizard is dead. I’m just asking you to embellish the deed a little, for their sake and ours. Let them think they were saved by a hero. It’s better that way for everybody.”
Dayn frowned, and said nothing else on the ride back. He thought about what Kresean said. He had to admit that the warrior had a point. Songwriting was about embellishing. It was about delivering the most magical moments from real life to those who had very little magic in their own lives. Perhaps real life never matched up to the tales of bravery found in songs and stories.
As his voice slowly lowered on the last word of his new ballad, Dayn looked around at the villagers of Feergu. They were packed into every possible space in Chandael’s tavern, and each person’s face glowed. Dayn had sung his song masterfully, with just enough detail to make it realistic. There wasn’t a dry eye in the entire tavern. After Dayn stopped, there was a long, reverent pause. Applause exploded in the room. The entire floor shook with stomping feet. A few people got up, hooked arms and began dancing in circles. More beer was called for.
Kresean rose from where he sat and came over to Dayn. “How do you feel, my lad?”
Dayn was surprised to hear himself say, “Not bad. Not bad at all.”
Kresean tossed a bag of coins on the table in front of Dayn. “Fifty-fifty.”
“A little reward never hurts,” Dayn grinned, pocketing the coins.
The big man clapped him on the shoulder.
“I say we keep this up. Take it on the road, town to town. Your voice, my looks. There’s no telling where it will end. We could milk this partnership until we’re swimming in cream, until I’m a councilman in Palanthas and you’re singing for a king. Until-”
“Until a real dragon comes along?” Dayn offered.
“What?” Kresean raised an eyebrow warily, then realized Dayne was kidding. Kresean bellowed with laughter, and the young bard joined in. The celebrating villagers surrounded them with cheers, and they laughed until the tears ran down their faces.
Gnomebody
Jeff Grubb
“This is a gnome story, right?” asked Augie, staring over the rim of his tankard. There was derision in both his glare and his voice-they had traded a number of tales that evening, each more implausible than the last.
“Not exactly,” replied Brack, the older and more slender of the two sellswords.
The pair had met by chance in the tavern. They were veterans of separate units from the same side in the War of the Lance, now reduced to mere mercenary work in these years of chaos. As a youth, Augie had served in the personal guard of Verminaard himself, and Brack had been a lieutenant in the Green Dragonarmy. Now older, and presumably wiser, they chose their battles and their employers more carefully.
After a few moments of sizing each other up and determining that they had both fought for the same masters at one time, they slid into an easy conversation. They spoke of what regions would need their services, which wars and rumors of war would pan out, and the chaos they’d seen brought on the backs of the great dragons. The gnome wait staff brought the drinks quickly, and the dwarf at the bar kept a running tab.
Of course, over time, the conversation drifted to how the world in general had gone into the midden and that nothing was as good as it once was. This line of discussion quickly gave way (after a few more tankards) to stories of how things were in the old days.
Which of course brought Brack to mention of his last battle in the Green Dragonarmy, a disaster brought about in the pursuit of one man-or, to be more specific, one gnome and that gnome’s invention.
Which brought Augie’s question and Brack’s answer and Augie’s reply, “Whadayah mean, not exactly?”
Brack shifted in his chair, noted that his mug was more half-empty than half-full, and signaled to the serving gnome. He paused as the diminutive being brought him a full, foaming tankard, then continued, “I mean yes, it’s a gnome story, in that it’s about a gnome, but no, it’s not a gnome story because it’s not about a gnome at all.”
The big man’s bushy brows hovered over bleary eyes stained by many a drink that evening. “How can it be about a gnome and not about a gnome?”
“When the gnome does not exist,” said Brack, “but his greatest invention survives to this day. Let me explain.”
The patrol of hobgoblins, scouts in the service of the Green Dragonarmy, were having a bad time of it. Scouts were at their best in clear terrain and moderate climate, but ever since their invasion force had landed, they had been deluged by heavy rain and forced to reconnoiter through thick, bramble-filled overgrowth. Little to see, less to smell (other than wet hobgoblin), and nothing to report. They had been gone four days from the main encampment and were soaked to the skin. After a brief, heated discussion (the only heat the dozen creatures had experienced in three days), they decided to ascend one of the hills for a better view of the rain-damp fog.
“We shudda stayed in camp,” said one particularly large hobgoblin.
“And what?” growled another. “It’s just as marshy there. There’s a swamp where our bivvie should be.”
“At least then we don’t hafta march around in wet boots,” said the big one.
“At least yah have boots,” returned the sergeant, a scarred hobgoblin with one good eye. “When I first signs up, we had to do this barefoot.”
The big complainer bared his lower fangs, and the other hobgoblins assumed that a fight was coming and drifted into normal positions, a circle surrounding the sergeant and the big one. But the sergeant stared at the hobgoblin with an icy ferocity, and the big one closed his mouth and at last shook his head in agreement.
“Where we go?” said the big one, finally.
“Up,” replied the sergeant.
The ground grew no drier as they climbed the sma
ll tor. Indeed, it now had the added difficulty of being steep as well as damp. The hill was completely saturated, and the hobgoblins began to slip as they climbed. Their trail became a broad swath of mud-stained grass, and their armor was soon decorated with clumps of hanging sod.
“Where we going?” asked the big one again.
“Up,” said the sergeant.
“Down is easier,” said one of the smaller hobgoblins, which earned another icy glare from the one-eyed sergeant.
The fog-shrouded hilltop loomed above them, and a great granite cliff suddenly reared from the tor, blocking their path. “Up,” said the sergeant a third time, pointing at the small complainer.
“It’s wet and slippery,” protested the small hobgoblin.
“Stone is harder than mud,” said the sergeant. “Therefore it’s less slippery than mud.” The other hobgoblins in the group looked around for anyone to gainsay this bit of wisdom. There was no one.
The small hobgoblin was soon scrabbling up the granite cliff, a rope tied around his waist. He started strong, but tired halfway up, and the sergeant had to bellow threats to get him to finish the climb. The sergeant made it clear it was safer to climb up than to climb down, so up the small hobgoblin went.
He disappeared at the cliff’s edge and was gone, finding some tree or rock to secure the line. A moment later he appeared over the edge again and gave a thumbs-up to the patrol below.
The sergeant hooked a thumb at the rope. “Up you go,” he said.
The big complainer looked at the thin strand of hemp. “Don’t look safe,” he said. He looked more afraid than challenging.
“Neither am I,” snapped the sergeant, but the big complainer still stared at the rope. The sergeant sighed, “I go first, but when I get to the top, you follow, unnerstand?”
The big one (and most of the others) nodded in agreement as the sergeant began the climb. He found the stone was more slippery than the mud after all, and he had to clutch the rope tightly in order to keep from falling. At last he arrived at the top. The view was less than spectacular. There was slightly less rain up this high, but the hilltop was still wrapped in clouds. The surrounding whiteness parted slightly, allowing a brief glimpse of the neighboring hills before wrapping the hobgoblins in another gray, wool blanket.
They were on a gray promontory of bare rock, broken only by a single twisted tree, its thick and ancient roots shattering the surrounding stone. The small hobgoblin had tied the rope to one of the more prominent, arching roots.
“Not much to see,” said the small hobgoblin. “We go down now?”
The sergeant scowled. He’d had to scrabble up here. He’d be damned if the rest of the patrol got off scot-free. Instead he leaned over the edge and let out an assault of obscenities, promising all manner of torture for the last hobgoblin up.
The rest of the patrol sprang into action, fighting among themselves for the opportunity to clamber up the rope. The big one, the complainer, was the first up the rope, but the others followed closely, not waiting for him to get more than a quarter of the way up before following. Soon most of the patrol was hanging on the rope up the cliffside, their twisted paws clutching the rope and the surrounding rocks. Some lost their grips and slid down, bashing into others, who in turn lost their hold and slid a few feet into the rest of the patrol.
The sergeant watched their attempts and muttered a curse, thinking of the (relative) warmth and the (relative) dryness of their base camp. His ruminations were broken off by a sharp snapping noise directly behind him.
It sounded like the noise a crossbow made when sprung. He wheeled but saw nothing else on the tor except the small hobgoblin and the gnarl-rooted tree. The small hobgoblin was looking at the tree, his eyes round like platters.
The sergeant scowled. Was the tree breaking under the weight of the hobgoblins on the rope? There was another sharp snap, and he realized he was close but not fully on the mark. The tree was holding. However, the added weight of the patrol on the rope was enough to start uprooting it. Large cracks began to spider through the stone as the hobgoblins’ collective weight drove the tree’s roots deeper into the hilltop.
It threatened to bring the cliff down on top of the hobgoblin patrol. A human leader might have called down to his men to tell them to abandon the rope or even to jump. The sergeant was a hobgoblin, and his first worry was his own skin. Already the smaller hobgoblin was bounding for the far side of the tree, and the sergeant was ready to follow.
The ground shifted as the sergeant began to run, the spidering cracks quickly becoming large chasms, and then larger chasms, and the ground beneath his feet started to disintegrate beneath the soles of his feet. He heard cursing screams below him from the patrol, soon lost in a torrent of sliding rock. Then something large passed him-the ancient tree itself, still tethered to the hobgoblin-strung rope.
The sergeant leapt forward as the last part of the cliff-side vaporized beneath him, dragged down by the trailing roots of the tree. He landed on something solid and dug his claws into the earth in hopes that it would hold and not cascade back down the cliffside.
His prayers were answered. He felt the world sway for a moment, then right itself, while the rest of the hillside, except the tree, held firm.
Slowly the sergeant opened his eyes. The avalanche had pushed the rainy clouds back for the moment, and he had a clear view of the devastation below. The entire north half of the hill had fallen in on itself, forming a wide fan as it gained speed as it surged into the valley. He saw a few bits of armor and what might either be tree trunks or goblin torsos, but the patrol, big complainer and all, was gone.
The small hobgoblin sat down beside the sergeant. “Cor, whatta mess!” he breathed.
The sergeant considered for a moment adding the small hobgoblin to the body count, but decided against it. He shook his head.
“Bloody mess,” was all he said.
The small hobgoblin nodded, and said, “Whaddaya gonna tell the Louey?”
The sergeant winced. The commanding lieutenant was not going to like his report. “Lemme think,” he managed. “Lemme think.”
The small hobgoblin shook his head and said, “Looks like a battle. Whatta mess.”
The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Yeah, a battle. We got ambushed.”
“Won’t work,” said the small hobgoblin. “No other bodies. You gonna tell them our boys got smoked without taking any enemies with ‘em?”
The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Dragons. We got attacked by dragons?”
“We got dragons,” said the small one. “They don’t.”
“Right.” The sergeant scowled again. “Gnomes, then. Gnomes are always blowing things up! Yeah, dat’s it! We got caught by some gnomish secret weapon!”
The smaller hobgoblin rocked back on his heels. “Dat’s it! Who would ever want to go looking for a gnome?”
Augie took a long pull on his tankard and wiped the ale from his beard. “So this is really a hobgoblin story?” he said.
Brack drained the last of his own drink, and another appeared almost instantaneously by his side. “I like to think it was a gnome story, since the hobgoblins blamed their misfortunes on the gnomes.”
“I take it you were the Louey they reported back to?”
Brack gave a shrug and said, “Of course. And of course since their story had more holes in it than Soth’s soul, the Dark Lady blast him, I soon coerced the truth of the matter out of them.”
“So that was the end of it, right?” said Augie.
“Not by half,” replied Brack. “You see, I still had to report to my superiors what had happened, and I had to admit to them that the hobgoblins under my command- hobgoblins they recruited-were below average, even as hobgoblins go.”
“Hmph,” said Augie, draining his own mug, holding it out at arm’s length to the side, then letting it go. Brack noted that a very fast gnome grabbed the heavy clay tankard before it had shattered and smoothly placed a new one, dripping foam, on
the table.
“So you might have lost your command if you told them they had incompetent hobgoblins,” said the larger man.
“Worse,” said Brack, “I might have been forced to accompany them into the field the next time.”
“You let the report stand,” said Augie.
“With some minor clarifications,” said Brack. “I made it one gnome leader, in particular, made it an accident as opposed to an ambush, and named the gnome. Rumtuggle. It sounded like a gnomish name.”
“Your leaders bought it?” snarled Augie. “Old Verminaard would have seen through that in a moment if I laid it on him.”
“Ah, but old Verminaard is no longer around, is he?” countered Brack. “No, my superiors bought it, because they assumed there would be some resistance anyway, which up to that point had been pretty nonexistent. Gnomes were considered the least dangerous of the lot. Kender, for example, would rob you blind and then come back for your seeing-eye lizard.”
“So you used this Rumtuggle to explain a patrol’s decimation,” said Augie. “What’s the problem?”
“Well, the saying is that once something is created, it has to be used. You make a plow, you have to farm. You make a sail, you have to explore.”
“You make a sword,” put in Augie, “you have to lop off a few heads.”
“Exactly,” said Brack, “and Rumtuggle proved to be a very capable excuse. A few head of cattle went missing and were blamed on Rumtuggle. A patrol got lost: Rumtuggle. The cash box was a few hundred steel light: Rumtuggle.”
“Your superiors never saw through it?” spat Augie, astounded.
“The rear echelons had other, more important matters to worry about,” said Brack. “I was careful never to put too much blame on Rumruggle at a time. One or two of my fellow lieutenants caught wind of it, and a captain as well, eventually. They saw the value of Rumtuggle, and soon most of the mischances of our unit were blamed on a single gnome.”
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