by Peter Plasse
“But with this one, it’s hard to say. I, for one, do not believe that they have taken up the cause of Malance Venomisis by choice. Their fate was decided when the Trolls slew Hanz Night years ago and left the nation with no leader, save for his second in command, who saved his own gray hide by slipping away in the middle of the night to parts unknown. Word was that there had been born a prince, but as with their second in command, nobody has ever seen or heard from him since that fateful day.
“By my reckoning he would still be as yet just a boy, if he survived, and nowhere near old enough to speak to policy in his land. So the biggest problem, as I see it, with striking an alliance with the Gnomes is: With whom would we strike it, even if that were the path down which we decided to walk?
“Our spies tell us that the country has gone completely to the dogs. Their citizens, like ours, have largely fled to the wilds, although now, of course, they are all inside somewhere taking refuge from the winter cold.
“But, bottom line, desperate times call for desperate measures, and these are the most desperate of times.
“I say this then, while we lay siege to the fortress in Ghasten, the chance for success of which I see as too small to measure, take a small party and try to seek out the leader of the Gnome nation, whoever that might be, and see if an alliance is in our best interests. If you, My Lord, decide that it is, I see no downside. If we’re lucky enough to survive, we can always kill them all later.” He laughed at his own joke. Nobody else did.
“All right. Dorin?” asked Rolan, “What say the Elves?”
“My King,” answered Dorin, “There are so few of us remaining, it almost seems preposterous for me to speak on behalf of the few of us that have managed to survive. However, if Prophecy holds true that most of my people remain trapped in a lost city somewhere in the Northland, perhaps there are enough to be spoken for.”
Heads all around the table nodded at Dorin’s words, for such was the teaching: That the Elves had mostly disappeared shortly after the Great War and had been living for centuries in some sort of enchanted place in the Northland.
“But having said that, we cannot begin to guess how the hearts of the Gnomes lie, and this we would have to know before we were to consider a united effort. So, make the journey to Round Lake. Seek out the witch who lives there and find out if the Gnome nation even has a leader that can speak for it. If one can be found, and we can trust that he indeed does speak for the Gnome nation, and he will have it, strike the agreement. As Luke said, there’s no downside. If we don’t, we will all, as free races, surely die. Not right away, but certainly before our children’s children have grown old in their beds.”
“Very well. The vote stands at two for and two against. My Queen?”
“My Lord,” she said, “I will abstain. If you and I vote differently, we get a tie, and our situation is such that we cannot afford that. You, My King, will cast the final vote.”
Rolan folded his hands. “We leave in the morning for Round Lake,” he said. “We will attempt to meet with the witch. Provided we can locate her. Provided she even exists. I must confess, I feel the fool chasing a fairytale. But as Luke pointed out, desperate times call for desperate measures. This said, if there is a suitable leader of the Gnome nation, and we can find him, we will attempt to strike an accord. If there is not, we will meet in Ghasten and fight to the death. Agreed?”
All clasped fist-to-heart and said, “Agreed.”
Ubri Gall cried. His father, Andar Gall, and his mother, Isandora, both wore long faces, but neither could bring themselves to cry for the passing of Bram’s father. It was not that either of them did not feel sadness at his passing. They did. But both felt, in truth, that his passing was for the best. It had been years since they had more or less adopted his son Bramwith in order to save him from the beatings at the hands of his father. Bramwith’s father had put up a terrible fight, repeatedly petitioning the Kohansk town council to force a decision that would send his son back home, but Andar and Isandora Gall had had the overwhelming support of virtually every citizen of Kohansk, all of whom knew that as long as Ansten could not avoid spirits, he would always be not only useless, but a dangerous abuser of his only son. All agreed it was a shame, and that his problem with spirits had only surfaced with the passing of his wife, but nevertheless, to continue to allow Bramwith to live under the same roof with him was indisputably wrong. Consequently, it was decided by due process that Bramwith would continue to live with the Galls, and there was nothing Ansten Jebwickett could do about it. Some said the decision broke his heart, and that was why he died. Most did not, saying that he had plain drunk himself to death while Bramwith grew up in the home of the Galls.
Bramwith not only did not cry, he barely paid any attention to the whole affair, clearly more interested in two pretty young Gnome girls than he was in paying his last respects to his father.
As they made their way from the grave, he made it a point to position himself in between Ubri and his mother.
“Mrs. Gall,” he said softly.
“Yes, Bram.”
“I want to thank you for all you have done for me; taking me in and all. I know we just buried my father, and … and I know I should feel sad, but I don’t. He was a terrible father, a terrible Gnome, really. It wasn’t so bad until Mother passed away, but after that… he turned mean as a snake.” His eyes filled with tears as he flashed back to the horror that had been his childhood after his mother had passed on.
Isandora put her arm around him and said, “You go ahead and cry, Bram. Don’t be ashamed. You’ll need time to heal. Don’t worry, in time you will, and then you’ll be able to forgive him. I think the pain of your mother’s passing was too much for him to handle. It pushed him to some dark place from which he could never escape. In time, you’ll be able to remember the good times and make peace with him.”
Hearing her words, and the love woven into them, proved too much for the young Gnome to bear, and he broke down completely, sobbing inconsolably for several minutes. All the while Isandora held him and made soft, reassuring sounds, the kind only a mother can make, as he buried his face in her chest.
Ubri and Andar wandered on a bit to give the lad a chance to get it all out. Ubri looked nervously at his father. He had never seen anyone carry on like this before.
“He’ll be all right,” said Andar, “He needs to get some things out of him, that’s all. He carries some very bad memories. We’ll give him some time. He’ll be okay.”
“Promise?” asked Ubri.
“I promise,” said Andar, and put an arm around his son. “Come on,” he said, “Let’s walk on over to the inn and make sure that we’re ready to receive company. We’ll give him the space that he needs.”
They walked along the main street of Kohansk in silence. Andar looked around at the town that had grown up as much as it had since he and Isandora had founded their inn. The population had nearly tripled and was still growing. New houses were being built everywhere, and it gave Andar a warm feeling that prosperity was now a word that could be used to describe the place they called home.
“Smell that,” he said.
Ubri took a whiff.
“Is there any smell that is better than that?”
“Than what?”
“The smell of summer, of course. You can smell the hay in the fields, the beets growing, the fruit ripening on the trees. I tell you son, there is no finer smell than that of the earth producing all the things we need to live. And of course half of those smells would not be there, were it not for the labors of our fellow Gnomes. Always remember to take the time to smell the world we live in. Good smells mean good times. Plenty for all.” He took another giant sniff and sighed in satisfaction.
“You’re right, of course,” said Ubri, with a smile. “But Mother’s cooking will always be the finest smell.”
Andar tousled the head of his son. “No argument there,” he said, “No argument there.”
“Father,” he said, “don
’t you think it’s time that we gave the inn a proper name? All it has ever been called is ‘The Inn’. Shouldn’t we come up with an actual name?”
“Interesting,” said Andar. “All right, your idea, what should we call her?”
Ubri concentrated hard, scrunching up his face in thought.
“I don’t know,” he said. “Hmmm. I know, let’s ask Bramwith to help. This is a very hard day for him, and it might make him feel a little better if he helped name it. It must be terrible to go through what he’s going through. What do you think?”
Andar stopped and looked down at his son. He kept his voice under control, but inside he was swollen with pride. “Ubri,” he said, “that is a beautiful thought. Yes, tonight we’ll propose it at dinner. You boys are going fishing tomorrow, right? Why don’t you talk it over then and try to come up with something. Yes, a proper name. Great idea.” He began to whistle a traditional Gnome ballad. Ubri hummed along with him.
Arriving at the inn, Ubri went immediately to the kitchen where at least a dozen workers bustled all about preparing for the dinner that would wrap the day. They were expecting at least a hundred, and all were engrossed in their chores. Spoons clattered on pots and pans. Spatulas made scraping sounds on the frying pans as the cooks cleaned them. Stacks of flat bread stood proudly on the great oak tables. Roasts over the coal fires made sputtering noises as they sizzled their way to perfection. Ubri’s thoughts drifted back to when he was a little guy and how he had loved this kitchen so.
Isandora and Bramwith entered. She went right to the task of organizing the final preparations. One of the cooks approached the boys and said, “Come here now, and don’t be touching anything. I have made you each a plate. Get yourselves a glass of cider and sit here.” She gestured to a table where two plates were stacked high with slices of roast, mashed potatoes and gravy, and a mixture of greens. “Now, don’t touch anything,” she repeated with a broad smile, waving a large spoon in mock warning for emphasis.
The next morning the boys were up early. With all the chores required to keep the inn functioning as a smooth operation, it was a rare day indeed that they were allowed to take off and spend fishing, but both Isandora and Andar felt it was important that the boys have a day to themselves to have some fun and catch a few fish. Besides, they both felt it might afford Bramwith the opportunity to talk about the death of his father with his best friend, now stepbrother, and help him to get some closure to the obviously mixed feelings he had towards him.
On the banks of Walder Creek they lounged, bait in the water. Ubri lay on his back, chewing on a long piece of sweet grass, studying the clouds. “Hey Bram,” he called to his friend, who was sitting a few feet away trying to sort out a giant bird’s-nest in one of the lines. “Look at that one, it looks like a giant turtle. See, there’s the head, and it even has four legs and a tail.” Ubri looked over at him. He continued to struggle with the tangle in the line, not looking up. Ubri glanced at his face, which was suddenly twisted in rage. Bram threw down the line and stomped up and down on it, all the while screaming, “Stupid, stupid, stupid line, why won’t you straighten out?” He continued to jump up and down on it until he fell down in exhaustion. Ubri looked on with a puzzled expression on his face, wondering why his stepbrother would get this upset over a tangled fishing line.
He got a bite, and his own line pulled taut. “Bram,” he called out, “I got one, and it feels like a really big one. Give me a hand.”
The fish made a series of runs, each time the line chafing and cutting into Ubri’s hands. “Ouch,” he cried out. He whipped off his shirt and wrapped his hands, which were already bleeding. In the end, he hauled the fish closer and closer to shore where Bram waited. “Gotcha,” he cried, grabbing it by the tail and dragging it backwards up onto the shore. Ubri at this point couldn’t have cared less. He was too concerned about the injuries to his hands. There were several deep cuts that were bleeding profusely. Bram looked up towards him, his face beaming, obviously happy as could be that they had beached this monster of a fish. He noticed Ubri staring at his bloody hands, and his expression turned from joy to dark anger. He drew his belt knife and plunged it into the fish. He did it again and again, shrieking, “Bad fish. Bad fish. I hate you, you rotten, putrid, moldy old fish. Die fish. Die fish. Rotten fish.”
He kept it up until what had been a trophy fish, capable of feeding a family of four for two meals, was now a mess of bloody flesh and guts. Ubri, meanwhile, got his hands wrapped up and sat quietly watching the frenzy, wondering all the while what had overtaken Bram that was causing him to act in this way. He wanted to tell him to stop, that he was ruining a beautiful fish, but he kept silent. When it was over, Bram sat back and stared at the tangle and mass of the bloody carcass. His face bore a look of wonder. It was the look of someone who has witnessed a miracle.
“Bram … Bram! Hey Bram.”
Bram looked at Ubri, his expression still detached.
“Bram,” said Ubri. “What did you ever want to go and do a thing like that for? That was a champion fish. It was the biggest one we’ve ever caught, and now it’s ruined. Jees, Bram.”
Bram looked at him with a twisted smile. “Maybe I should do the same thing to you,” he said. “Lucky boy that has always had everything. Lucky boy to catch the biggest fish. Lucky boy with the beautiful mother and the handsome father. Maybe I should do the same to all of you … ”
He brandished his knife in a threatening fashion, waving it around and around in small circles. Now Ubri felt terrified. He had never seen Bram act any such way. He looked carefully at his eyes. They did not seem to be focused on this world. They were the eyes of someone possessed.
He turned and raced back a few steps, stopping abruptly and turning back. “Bram,” he shouted, “what’s gotten into you? You’re acting crazy. Is this what you want? To see me and my family, our family Bram, killed? Or suffer? Bram. Quit it! Quit it right now!”
In a split-second Bram’s countenance changed, and his eyes seemed to be once again focused on the here and now. He looked down at the macerated pile of what used to be a fish in front of him and grinned sheepishly. “I sure made a mess out of that, didn’t I?” he asked quietly. “I guess I got confused for a second.” He turned genuinely remorseful. “I’m sorry, Ubri,” he said. “I forgot who I am. With my dad dying and all... I don’t know… ” He sat down hard and began to softly cry.
In the stillness of the moment, with not another sound to be heard except that of his best friend and stepbrother weeping, Ubri could not help but be moved. Cautiously, he approached him and put his arm around his shoulder, keeping a watchful eye on the knife, which Bram still held despite his collapse. “I know,” he said, gently removing the blade from his hand. “I know it must be hard for you right now, Brother. We are brothers you know. Your father didn’t want you to have these feelings, he couldn’t help himself, I imagine… you know… ”
He hugged him for a long time, thinking there was a lot in there.
If Ubri had known how much was in there, he would have turned and run for home.
Turman Pandieth, Seth Queslian, and Mandel Ott crouched by the bank of one of the rivulets that led out of the swamp and dumped into Round Lake.
Something was out there. They could sense it. The feeling was palpable. The all-night trudge had proven nearly overwhelming, and they were almost out of the Burnfast mixture that smoldered in the inner pockets of their outer longcoats.
The rivulet was a slow moving stream the color of bilious vomit. Slime balls dotted the surface like so many pimples. The smell was one of rot. There was no sound except for that of their breathing. No animals would be found here. This was a place of death. Even the shoreline was devoid of the usual plant growth that normally crowds a water’s edge, for to set down roots here was to suck pure poison out of the earth.
“We have to cross this,” whispered Turman. “We have to make it by this stinking stream if we are to have any chance of finding the old woman’s place.
”
“How are we going to manage that?” asked Seth.
“Carefully,” muttered Mandel.
“There is something in there,” said Seth. “I can feel it. It is there as sure as we are standing here. Can you feel it?”
Both nodded in response. “Is there another way?” asked Mandel.
“No,” said Turman. “This is it. To turn back now will be sure death for all of us. We’ll freeze to death before we ever make it back to the cabin.”
As if to try and make them reconsider, the waters of the stream swirled near the middle. Something was in there, without question. Something big.
“Well, I don’t know about you,” said Seth, “But I’m tired of waiting. I’m tired of this slog through nothing but mud all night. And I’m tired of freezing my butt off. I say we split up; twenty yards apart. That way, whatever is in there will have less of a chance to get all of us.”
“Assuming there’s only one of them,” said Mandel.
Seth grunted and moved away slowly along the bank of the stream, his eyes never leaving the water. When he had gotten around twenty yards away, Mandel got up and started along as well. When the spacing met Turman’s approval, he motioned with his hand to start in. All drew their short swords, although none believed they would be of much use against whatever was in there. Turman took the first step. He was surprised that the water was pleasantly warm, and the bottom, which he had thought would be the same mud through which they had been trudging ahead for hours now, was actually firm. He glanced quickly at his comrades and noticed that they too seemed to be experiencing the same footing. He was about halfway across when something bumped his leg. He thought for a moment that he had merely run into something but, no, whatever it was, was gone. He forced himself to loosen his grip on his sword. A tense fighting hand made for poor swordplay. Again he glanced at Seth and Mandel. They were about halfway across as well.
