by Peter Plasse
There was a prolonged wait as Loquitar Coral took advantage of as simple a fact as a closed door to hammer home the message that this was their castle now; that the Gnomes would bow to a new rule.
“Permission to enter,” came the call, and the door swung open.
They entered the reception room, a long affair with a massive table and seating for forty or so. At the far end was a huge fireplace capable of holding three whole plains-deer. Hanz Night noticed immediately that Loquitar Coral now sat on what had been the Gnome Emperor’s throne, which the Troll had ordered removed from the throne room to this less formal setting. It was a magnificent structure, carved from a solid piece of oak from one of the largest trees in the Glacier Forest. The edges were adorned with hundreds of gems that sparkled furiously by the firelight. To celebrate a birthday many years ago, his wonderful wife had arranged that the chair be permanently mounted in the throne room. To remove it, Loquitar Coral had ordered it smashed free of its mounts, and it now tilted crazily on three legs. To see his beautiful gift, a physical testimony to the memory of his wife, demolished in such a wanton fashion, caused him to wince slightly.
Loquitar picked right up on this and said, “We had a little trouble getting this stupid piece of junk unseated and moved. I think we should burn it. Imagine. A throne made from wood. An Emperor should sit on gold, don’t you think?” He stood. “Yes,” he said, motioning casually with his hand towards the destroyed throne, “Have them burn it. Yes, to the fireplace with it.”
Half a dozen Gnomes raced forward to comply. All turned their faces away from Hanz Night as they bent to their labors. In a few minutes it was burning, as the rest of the Vulturan government officials filed into the reception room and milled about.
“Well now, let us sit at the table. No use not being civilized. We have matters to discuss. The usual ground rules.” He walked calmly to the head of it. Six monstrous Trolls took up positions beside him in full battle armor.
“Basically it comes down to this,” he began calmly enough. “Everything you do from now on … for the rest of time … you do for us!” he screamed, banging his fist so hard on the table that it shattered into pieces. He seemed to not notice as he continued his tirade. “Understand that, and we will not have serious problems. Forget about it, and we will kill you,” he roared while pounding his fist into the palm of his other hand. “We honestly don’t care if we have to kill every single one of you, but we do care about the rock you harvest in the quarries, the grain you grow in the fields, the cattle you raise on the plains, and the metal your forge in the foundries. And you are helping us to hunt down and eat every one of those pesky Humans, so we don’t want you eliminated right away … That comes later.”
There was complete silence in the hall as he waited for them all to get his little joke. Nobody uttered a sound. He roared in laughter anyway. “All right then, let us eat some of your fine Gnome food.”
All found seats as the Gnome waiters scurried this way and that to serve the food and drink. It was extremely awkward to handle it all, in light of the fact that the table had been broken to pieces, but they made do with cradling their platters and setting their drinks on the floor. The Gnomes were permitted to eat their meat cooked, a small concession made by the new ruler of their land. The Trolls, of course, ate theirs raw, disdaining any of the other foodstuffs the waiters offered them, as though by doing this they demonstrated some sort of superiority in the way they approached culinary matters.
For a time the only sounds were those of eating. Absent was the usual social chatter that was ordinarily part of a feast in the royal reception room. The Trolls smacked and grunted and showed themselves to be the pigs that they were as they tore off huge chunks of the raw flesh and slurped them down. The Gnomes ate slowly, deliberately, awaiting with dread the official proclamation that was soon to come, that their country was no more to be - that they were now a nation of slaves to their loathsome conquerors.
After the meal was done, Loquitar ordered entertainment. Gnome dancers appeared and tried their best to put on a show of sorts, but in the middle of the performance one of them slipped and fell to the floor. Loquitar stood up and raised his arms in dramatic fashion. “What is this?” he cried. “This is supposed to entertain us? You are supposed to dance, fool, not fall on your face. Unfortunately, this will cost you your head.” He motioned to his six bodyguards, one of which went straight away to the dance floor and beheaded the poor Gnome before he had a chance to get up. The hall went completely silent as his blood ran red over the polished stone. Ironically, his head rolled in such a way that it ended up at the feet of Hanz Night, the dead eyes staring up at him.
“Let it be known,” said Loquitar Coral. “We will not tolerate such ineptness. Not here on this ceremony floor, not in the mining camps, not in the mills, not in the fields, and not in the foundries. We will demand your best, and you will give it to us. Anything less and you will suffer the same fate.”
He turned and left the room, followed by his entourage of bodyguards, low-level aides, and assorted other attendants. Soon only Gnomes occupied the hall, as all the Trolls had left.
Several of the high-level government officials gathered around their lame-duck Emperor. Nobody spoke for a while, all maintaining a respectful silence. Glasses of spirits were silently lifted and sipped while all thought on how to tactfully bring up their concerns, all of which were immense. None wanted to be the first to speak. Finally, Saviar Murlis took the lead. “My Lord,” he spoke gently, “All of us here are saddened beyond comprehension over the loss of your wife … our first lady … our friend … In spite of everything, there are questions that must be asked … ”
Hanz Night wearily held up a hand, cutting his friend short. “There are,” he acknowledged. “And we will have the time, after we bury her, to ask and answer them all. But we will surely not hold any conversations such as these in an open hall with listening ears everywhere around us. As my last decree as your Emperor, Saviar Murlis, bite your tongue. Bite it off if you have to. After the funeral, and the official surrender ceremony, we will all meet. For now, the only question before us is how we can best serve the Trolls. Tonight, and tomorrow, and the next day … and the day after that. That is the key to our survival as a race. In a way, we are fortunate that they have use of us, or we would not even be having this conversation, now would we?
“Time has a way of evening things out in the long run, but for now we will throw ourselves at our appointed labors with a fervor that has never before been witnessed on this, our planet, Inam'Ra. We meet their demands; they let us live. We do not, and we are disposed of. It is that simple.
“That said, I am going to see my son.”
He stood, and faltered. Strong hands grabbed him from all sides and held him upright until he had recovered enough to make his way on his own across the hall, past the ruined table, and out through the doors. Saviar started after him, but Hanz waved him away. “No,” he said. “Prepare for the proclamation ceremony. We have seen what happens when we slip up. Let no more Gnome blood be spilt today.”
He walked slowly down the hallway outside of the reception room. He hardly noticed that the once proud murals, documenting the Gnome history all the way back to the Great War, had been ripped and torn to shreds. He walked like a man going to his death, struggling greatly to put one foot in front of the other. He thought of something his wife had said to him, many years back, one day when he was feeling glum. “Keep your face to the sunshine, and things will always work out.”
With that thought on his mind he entered the nursery, where Gnome women bustled all about taking care of the newborn Prince of Vultura.
He eased himself onto a stool beside the enormous crib.
One of the women approached him, bowing low. “My name is Cassandrea, Your Excellency,” she said. “Cassandrea Jebwickett. I will be the Prince’s wet nurse. Well, one of them anyway. I am pleased to tell you he feeds well. He has already taken a good feeding and relieved hims
elf without difficulty.”
Hanz didn’t answer her, but kept staring at his son. Grieving as he was he didn’t notice it right away, but as sure as a thunderclap he finally saw it. The young Prince’s face definitely carried a glow. “There it is,” he mused, silently thanking his wife for her wise words. “My son,” he murmured to the baby who slept peacefully before him, “Someday you will rule this land. Let your face always be the sunshine towards which your people can turn in difficult times.”
Then, he leaned over the crib, held him close, and silently wept.
The proclamation ceremony went smoothly enough. Loquitar Coral stood on the archway between the twin turrets of the main gate, looking down on the masses gathered before him in the large courtyard in front of the castle. He didn’t say anything unexpected, but clearly amused himself by hurling insults at the now officially subjugated Gnome nation, shouting again and again how their purpose was now all about serving their Troll conquerors.
He screamed about subservience, production quotas, allegiance to Leopold Malance Venomisis, and the new order. Nobody else spoke. It was the beginning of terrible times, and the Gnomes entered them biting their collective tongues. At least no more Gnome blood was spilt.
That evening, Saviar Murlis was about to retire to his official quarters in the castle when, on a whim, he decided to check in on his old friend and former Emperor. He went to His Excellency’s quarters. He ordered the two guards outside the entrance to stand down and knocked softly.
“Come,” Hanz called out. Official protocol mandated that he ask the visitor to identify him or herself before giving the order to enter, but he just didn’t care. If it were an assassin, so be it …
Saviar entered to find Hanz sitting in a chair, slumped forward, his face buried in his hands.
He waited a few moments for Hanz to speak. When no words were forthcoming, he cleared his voice. “My Lord …” he began.
“Better not let one of our Troll brothers hear you address me as ‘My Lord’,” Hanz said, “It will cost you your head. No more, my friend. I have lost too
much today, I cannot lose you also.”
“Yes, of course,” he said. “Hanz it is, then. It shouldn’t be too hard. Hanz it was when we were young, after all.”
Hanz offered a wan smile. “Indeed,” he murmured.
“Hanz,” said Saviar, “I know it is an unlikely time to be offering you counsel on how you need to comport yourself in the days, weeks, months, and years to come, but I would not have been able to sleep had I gone directly to bed. Here’s the thing. Under your rule, and the rule of your incomparable wife, we entered an age unlike any other in our history. Nobody had a crystal ball in which to look and predict that these Troll brutes would take over our world and up and decide to wipe out as many non-Trolls as they could. But it will never do us any good to look back. What we need to do now is look forward to a day when we once again exist as a free race. That movement will depend entirely on you. You have never been sneaky. Your way has never been one of hidden agendas. You have always bargained from positions of honor and truth.
“Well, that time is over. We will kiss the backsides of these thugs as much as we need to during the day, but during the wee hours we will be working on a movement to defeat them. It won’t happen overnight, but the fact that we are all willing to die for the cause will be our most powerful weapon. An army that has no fear of the consequences that befall it is the strongest army of all. Let them get fat. Let them think we are as happy as the children at spring festival, as we toil to grow the crops to feed the cattle that they will eat, as we mine the granite and marble that they will use to build their homes and castles, and as we forge the iron and craft the very weapons that they will use to rule us. Then, when they are least expecting it, we will rise up and overthrow them. We need a vision, My Lord, and it must come from you.”
“Saviar, my old friend, I have this day buried my wife … and surrendered my nation … please.”
“Of course, My Lord.”
“And Saviar.”
“Yes, My Lord.”
“Call me Hanz. If we are going to have a revolution, it will do us no good to have you executed for treason.”
Saviar smiled. “Very well. Good night, Hanz.”
“Good night, Saviar.”
Saviar retired to his quarters. To his surprise, his wife, Kerlix, was waiting for him. “My love,” he greeted her with a warm embrace. “I had thought you would be at home with the children.”
“I left them with my sister,” she said. “I thought you would need some support tonight. How is Hanz doing?”
“As well as can be expected, I guess. At least she did not suffer her fate at the hands of the Trolls. Still, it is a terrible tragedy. He loved her so … ”
Neither spoke for a while as each attempted to come to some sort of grip on the enormity of all that had come to pass. Saviar stood in front of his huge desk and fiddled with papers. So many projects were now on hold. He picked up one document that had to do with building a recreation/learning center in Vultura, the capital city of their homeland. It was supposed to have been for the children. It had all of the features one would want in such a project: Supervised study, a large game hall and a performing arts theater, complete with stages. What’s more, they had gotten the funding from the Queen to staff it in such a way that children could be cared for during their parents’ busy work hours. Now it was all out the window.
“I heard that you will be moved out of the castle tomorrow.”
“I heard the same,” said Saviar. “But I don’t think that will happen. We still have a country to run, and these Troll morons will never be able to run it without us. At least not right off. No, I am fairly certain that they will allow the leadership to remain in order to get done what they want us to get done. Goods still need to be produced and shipped, and we will be necessary in the logistics of all of that.”
Once again it was silent for several moments.
“What we will need is a plan to get out from under this mess,” he said softly. “Better to die free than to live as a slave.”
She approached him and encircled him with her arms. “You will figure it out,” she said. “You have always loved a challenge.”
Leopold Malance Venomisis awoke. It was after 11:00. He was hungry and had a splitting headache. He was always hungry, and his late night debauchery often gave him headaches. He roared for his attendants, who scrambled to the ready.
He scratched his mammoth head. His eyes were bloodshot. His breath stunk like rotten cheese.
“Bring me some food!” he roared. “Now! And get her out of here,” jerking his thumb in the direction of a large, walk-in closet on the opposite side of the room.
One of the servants went to retrieve the Troll girl. “She’s … she’s dead,” he said.
“I know she’s dead,” said Malance. “I said, get her out of here. I don’t want to have to say it again.”
Two of the servants dragged the body from the room while one sat a huge tray of assorted meats in front of his Emperor. He tore into it. Soon, blood dripped down his chin, and he smacked his lips in delight.
“Bring me Uncutus,” he commanded. “Where is that numbskull anyway? How does he expect me to run things if he’s never around when I need him? Have him here in ten minutes, or your head is forfeit.” The servant raced from the room.
He finished his meal, consuming the entire tray. Then he drank an entire jug of spirits in huge gulps, much of which ran down his neck and onto his chest. He casually wiped at the spills as though trying to blend them in so that nobody would notice.
Uncutus Twit, his second in command and Minister of the Interior, arrived quite out of breath, having run all the way from the dungeons where he had been interrogating one of the Human prisoners. It had not gone well. The beatings had proven slightly too harsh, and he was now unconscious and unresponsive. He knew Malance would not take this well. He had already decided that he would try and steer
the conversation away from the interrogation of the prisoner and towards the happenings in Ravenwild.
He entered and bowed his head immediately. “My Lord.”
“You are late,” he said. “Were you not lathered, I would have your head. Sit. We have much to discuss.”
He waved impatiently at a chair next to his pedestal desk. Uncutus hurriedly took his seat.
“I have gotten word that there was a very strange occurrence in the border woodlands to the north,” he growled. “There was a sighting of two, no, three Humans in the company of a lone, to date, unidentified Troll. There was some sort of fight. Two dozen or more Gnomes were killed, not surprising the way those scrawny weaklings fight, and the Troll was captured but then escaped, out from under their very noses! I want Captain Ineptitude, and what remains of his squad, brought to Ghasten immediately for public execution. No delays.”
Uncutus was surprised that Malance would order the execution of an entire Gnome delegation, but there was no way he would challenge his order. He had his own hide to worry about.
“I will attend to it at once, My Lord,” then,
“I hear that the Humans have all fled their walled capital. In no time we will have killed and eaten the last of them I would think.”
“Get out of my sight, fool. The Humans are a crafty lot. They will now be even harder to exterminate. I gave the order to have them all killed in their sleep when they were all inside the wall, but those dimwits charged in like banshees and allowed thousands to escape. Not to mention that we are unable to account for more than fifty thousand of their troops. No, there is no doubt we could have done it smarter. Where do you think you are going when I am talking to you? You treasonous dog, I will have your head.”
He was about to holler for his personal guard when Uncutus dropped to his knees. “My Lord,” he pleaded. “My profoundest apologies. I thought you ordered me out of your sight for my ridiculously inaccurate assessment of the Human situation. I was wrong. I beg of you, My Lord. I have been your faithful servant for … ”
