They Were The Best of Gnomes, They Were The Worst of Gnomes (Tales From a Second-Hand Wand Shop Book 1)

by Robert P. Wills

  “So you weren’t listening at all before, were you? What kind of haggling was that?” Drimblerod sighed. “No. I said we could be partners. Split everything fifty-fifty.” In his mind Drimblerod thought sixty-forty when I do the books.

  “Fifty- Fifty you say?” Said Grimbledung leaning forward, as he thought I’ll just keep everything I can until I get caught. Numbers are for sissies. “So what am I supposed to do with my well established store?”

  “Well established store?” Asked Drimblerod.

  “Tons of floor space.”

  “Where is it?”

  “Well ventilated too.”

  “What part of town is it in? I haven’t heard of another wand shop around here.”

  “Plenty of foot traffic, all day long.”

  “It’s not even a store, is it?”

  “Excellent security at night.”

  “It sounds like a cart to me.”

  “Freshly painted with custom shelves throughout.”

  “It’s a cart. Isn’t it?”

  Grimbledung sneered. “It’s much bigger than a mere cart, thank you very much.”

  “A wagon then.”

  “Now I’m offended!”

  “Don’t you even dare to think about growling.”

  “It’s a wagon,” said Grimbledung meekly.

  “Fine. All the better. We wheel your ... store over to my ... actual store and combine our inventory there.”

  “Tell me again how that makes me more money?” Grimbledung said warily. “All I hear is that you’ve incorporated my inventory into your store.”

  “Respectability,” began Drimblerod, “by being in a shop, you appear to be a respectable member of society. People think you have roots in the community. Roots and overhead, so they expect you to charge more.”

  “But what happens if something goes wrong?”

  “We sneak out of town in the middle of the night with all we can carry on your wagon. Nice and respectable like.”

  Grimbledung mulled this over for a full minute. “Deal” he said finally. “But don’t you dare touch my nose again.”

  “Deal” said Drimblerod as he held out his hand.

  Grimbledung slapped then rolled to his feet. He picked up the black wand and his staff. “I have an anti-magic bag so we’ll put the Wizard wands in my bag.”

  “I bought the same bag last year from the Gally Wuck traveling merchant, so we’ll split them.”

  Grimbledung scowled. “Deal.” This time Grimbledung held out his hand and Drimblerod slapped it.

  The pair spent the day gathering wands. By nightfall both bags were bulging to the point they didn’t even close completely. Several wands were stuck in their belts and pockets as well. “Of course we need to figure out what all these wands do. It will take a month just to do that,” complained Grimbledung.

  “Not at all. I have what most all other shop owners have- hapless employees to do the drudgery. It keeps the profits up by keeping the inventory up to date. No sludge,” explained Drimblerod.

  “Don’t you lose the added profits by paying your employees?” Asked Grimbledung. Shop ownership seemed confusing all of a sudden.

  “Let me ask you ... Say, I never did get your name.” With Gnomes, names were not necessary to form legal, binding contracts. In fact, sometimes they were specifically avoided.

  “Grimbledung. Grimbledung Sixtoes. Esquire that is.”

  “Drimblerod. Drimblerod Axebreath. So let me ask you Grimbledung- what times do we live in?”

  “You mean the date? It’s Grunsday.”

  “Not the date time, the time- time. Times time.” Drimblerod raised his voice. “I’m trying to teach you something.”

  “The time we live in? Elven Standard Time? To the south near the mines I think they are on Dwarven Savings Time.” Grimbledung tapped his chin. “What’s that, about an hour later?”

  Drimblerod shook his fists, each held two wands. They crackled ominously. “Answer the question you daft Gnome!” The wands crackled dangerously.

  “Hard?” Grimbledung offered.

  Drimblerod lowered his fists. “What?”

  “Hard? We live in hard times?”

  “Exactly!” Cheered Drimblerod as he thrust his fists in the air, incinerating two crows, and sending a vulture on a high arc off into the distance. A fourth bird promptly turned into a Newt. Being a very non-aerodynamic Newt, it fell to its death. “Hard times are what we live in. I always remind my employees that. ‘A down economy is no economy to be out of work’. That’s what I tell them. If they complain, I shout it at them.” Drimblerod said. “That keeps profits high.”

  Suddenly shop ownership did not seem all that complicated to Grimbledung. It was much like running a Brute Squad or a Chain Gang, but apparently much more respectable. Or maybe only slightly more so. “And I can shout at the employees too?

  “Fifty percent of the time,” assured Drimblerod.

  Sucker, thought Grimbledung, even though he wasn’t sure what fifty percent of anything was. He put his arm over the shoulder of his new partner. “I think this is the beginning of a profitable relationship.”

  They both started walking up the hill Grimbledung had originally come down. When they were half way up it, Grimbledung shrugged out from under Drimblerod’s arm, “Just one question before we go.”

  Drimblerod looked as his new partner appraisingly, “Yes?”

  Grimbledung squinted at him, “Where do Dragons come from?”

  “From the Ring of Fire, of course,” he lied without even hesitating.

  Grimbledung replaced his partner’s arm on his shoulder. “That’s all I wanted to hear partner. That’s all I wanted to hear.”

  The two left the valley and gingerly headed towards town, crackling and sizzling as they went.

  Chapter Four

  Wherein Grimbledung Closes his Shoppe

  (which is, in fact, a wagon)

  Grimbledung looked around his home. He had lived here for nearly six years. It was ramshackle, drafty and smelled of animals. It was an abandoned livery stable in the West End of the town of Aution where even respectable thieves did not venture. Not even the residents of West End enjoyed coming home, and when they did, they made a mad dash of it. The only person in Aution who walked the streets of West End slowly and calmly was the Constable; he didn’t rush anywhere. And being who he was, he didn’t need to. Or what, to be more specific. Thugs and ruffians moved out of his way and tried not to catch his eye. Beggars acted as if they had full bellies so he wouldn’t approach them to discuss their vagrancy issues. Aution was tough, but its Constable was tougher.

  The town of Aution had actually started out as a small crossroads trader’s shack that was established to sell wares to soldiers moving between the towns along the Great Salt River and the Anti-Ogre wall to the north. Sheward Delberger, a conniving Halfling ran the shop with a Ruthless Hand (a variation on the Finger of Death but five times as powerful). A disgruntled traveler, trying to warn others of Sheward’s shady business practices had hastily tried to put up a warning sign which proclaimed “Caution!” In thick red letters. An Ogre skull and crossbones were painted underneath it. Sheward saw the traveler hammering the sign into the ground and promptly blasted him with the Ruthless Hand. The traveler was reduced to a pile of bones, and the sign lost its “C”. Not bothering to go kick down the rest of the sign, Sheward left it in place and the town of aution was born.

  The “a” was later capitalized by the town’s first schoolteacher – Margareta Barlow, for grammar’s sake. However, for what they called “historical’s sake,” the townsfolk fought the change tooth and nail. Miss Barlow pointed out at the time (testily) that “historical’s” was not even a word, but the issue was put to a vote anyway. When it finally came time to actually vote however, Miss Barlow showed up at the town council meeting with a four-foot ruler that she wielded like a katana (comfortably, thanks to the leather wrapped handle). Prior to the vote, an eagle-eyed citizen made a Point of Order
to bring to everyone’s attention the usually present metal edge of the ruler seemed to be sharpened. This led to some quick mental calculations by the townsfolk prior to the vote[2].

  Thanks to no one daring to raise their hand (lest they lose it) to vote against Miss Barlow, Aution was added to the maps.

  The rest is history. We’d say historical, but that’s actually a word but not the right one for this occasion. Obviously.

  Grimbledung’s brightly colored wagon was pushed into a corner. A large banner was pulled almost tight between the upturned side slats. “Grim’s Wands” it proclaimed in large blue letters. Much, much smaller in a color nearly identical to the banner itself, whispered ‘no refunds whatsoever, so don’t even ask!’ Grimbledung put his bedroll, cooking gear, and various odds and ends onto the wagon. There was not a lot to show for nearly three and a half centuries of living. Of course, the Great Flood took most of my treasured possessions Grimbledung mused trying to defend his life choices. Right, the other half of him responded, what treasures exactly? - A leaky cauldron, dented skillet, and a ladle with half a handle. Grimbledung scowled; sometimes he annoyed himself thoroughly.

  “Ah well, time to start a new chapter,” he said aloud. “There’s always tomorrow.” He clapped his hands twice, summoning the kindly old rat that he had befriended. You enchanted it so it has to come when you clap. It can’t even find rest in death, the other half reminded him. ‘Shaddap you!’ He clapped twice again, and finally a haggard looking grey rat trotted in. One of its eyes was black, the other a milky grey. Its tail ended at what should have been the midway point. It looked up at him, head cocked to one side. From that angle, Grimbledung could see that its whiskers were no longer even on both sides.

  “Rough day? You look a mess!”

  “You don’t know the half of it,” replied Grimbledung. “I’m moving out and I think this is the last I’ll need of your service. Unless you want to hang around for kicks.”

  “Just kill me,” the rat rasped, “after a hundred years, I think I’m ready for The Long Dirt Nap.” The rat pondered the thought for a moment, “Wait, moving? Where?” Added the rat. “Is it someplace inside where I could lay by a fire all day?” A slight gleam appeared in the rat’s good eye, the other remained like month-old milk.

  “It’s some fancy shop on the East Side. I have acquired fifty percent of an actual Wand Shop. Whatever that is. You can probably hang out there all day, chat with customers.” He considered that for a moment, “Or insult them. Relax in your golden years. What a lucky rat you are!” Grimbledung smiled at the foot-long rat.

  It sat back on its haunches like a lap dog. A century old, beaten, boiled, and baked lapdog kept alive by a poorly executed Enchant spell. “Don’t start with me, Grim.” It snarled through a mouthful of razor sharp teeth. Thanks to rat physiology, its teeth continued to grow no matter how long it lived. Rat’s teeth were as fresh as the day he was born. The rest of it was another matter entirely.

  “Well-p, it’s settled then! Let’s get going. To the wagon, Rat!’ Grimbledung drew a short gold wand- a Pixie Stick- from his boot as Rat moved to the front of the wagon. Much too large to be used by Pixies, Pixie Sticks were to be used against Pixies. Contrary to how they were portrayed in popular literature, Pixies were ill-tempered, spiteful creatures and considered a nuisance by most everyone. An infestation of rats was more tolerable than a Thrush of Pixies (as all groupings of Pixies were called) moving into one’s attic. At one point, the gold wand was imbued with the Gallinas Rotisserie spell, which turned the vile Cornish Pixie into a delicious Cornish Hen. It had been modified since then to transmute a variety of creatures. Presently, it turned rats into a Green Toed Shamblers- a useful beast of burden. Grimbledung pointed the wand at the impatiently waiting rat.

  It squinted its eye in anticipation.

  Rodentus Grigo!

  Transmutis completes

  Shambli Verdes!

  Intoned Grimbledung.

  A gold bolt arced from the wand and struck Rat. It was enveloped with the golden light for a fraction of a second. In a flash, Rat sprung in height to six feet at the shoulder. Shamblers, a distant cousin of the Moose, were effective beasts of burden. Unlike moose, they were calm tempered and easy to reason with. Slightly smaller and missing the antlers, they still possessed the elongated snout, barrel body, and gangly legs. They could easily pull twice their weight and walk for days on end. They were a majestic animal, proudly displayed on the standards of several kingdoms. The one presently before Grimbledung was such a beast in species, but not quite in appearance. The milky eye was larger, yet still present and instead of a gleaming brown coat, it was mottled and grey.

  “I should remind you that I still, at this point, despise you” said Rat-Shambler. It’s characteristically emerald green-furred feet were more akin to moat green.

  “Buck up, Rat,” Grimbledung said as he hopped up to grab the harness and hook it under the massive beast, “we’ll at least give this a shot for a couple of months. If it doesn’t work out, I’ll kill you then.”

  “Promise?”

  “Absolutely. Right after I kill Drimblerod for talking me into this scheme.” He scowled “Dead as a winter turnip”. He hopped up onto the wagon and pulled the whip from its notch and cracked it over Rat-Shambler’s head. It craned its neck around and glared at him with its large black eye. Slowly and deliberately, he began out of the stable at an absurdly slow pace. “Come on Rat! I’ve got a reputation to maintain here and I might be back in a few weeks,” pleaded Grimbledung. He was rewarded with a slightly faster than a walk shuffle. “Thanks, Rat!” Grimbledung sneered at passers-by as they went; smiling was the mark of a patsy in this part of town.

  Chapter Five

  Wherein Drimblerod Prepares for His New Partner

  Drimblerod entered his shop. From the outside, the shop appeared to be only a little wider than a standard six-pane window and a door. “Second Hand Sorcery” was painted across the top of both. Below it hung a bright banner- “Psychotic Readings” it proclaimed in neon-red letters. The shop was nestled between a Haberdashery and a Cobbler. It was an ideal location as adventurers on their way out of town stopped by the latter for comfortable adventuring shoes of some sort and the former for their essentials. The shop itself was painted a mystical flat black with stars scattered here and there that twinkled on their own. A moon was magicked over the door so it mimicked the phases of the actual moon. It hovered a full foot away from the building- just enough to catch the eye of pedestrians but just not enough to break any local codes. Variances cost money (especially with institutionalized graft) and that was bad for profits. He closed the door behind him, the small bell dinging yet again as the door hit it. The shop was easily three times as wide as it appeared from the street. A simple Disburse! Spell keep the actual boundaries of the neighboring stores from infringing on Drimblerod’s magically maintained square footage. A broom swept haphazardly in the corner. It never really cleaned anything; an automatic Disintegrate spell handled that, but Drimblerod felt that the brooms added a bit of expected magical ambiance to the shop.

  “You only have to do that when we’re open!” Drimblerod sighed. “Wow, many times do I have to tell you that?”

  The broom stopped, seemed to flex in the middle in a slight shrug, and then leaned against the wall. Drimblerod moved behind the counter and dumped his full sack onto it. Emptying his pockets, he added to the sizzling pile of wands. Since his staff of testers had called his bluff and he was forced to fire them (who would have thought?!) it would take the better part of two weeks to test them all. He went to the back room- it was again as big as the front showroom. He pulled down his Murphy bed and sat on it. He would have to add another bed back here as well, as well as make room for whatever junk Grimbledung brought with him.

  “We give it a couple of months, then I shove him into the Abyssmal Box and keep his wagon” he said to another sweeping broom, “How does that sound to you?” The broom kept up its ineffectual sweep
ing. “I really need to work on that enchantment so you brooms actually do some work.”

  The broom perked up.

  “No I do not count the incident with the buckets of water as working.”

  The broom perked down.

  “Work?” Drimblerod dug through a pile of boxes, tossing wrapping and random items about. The brooms would at least sweep everything back into a pile later. “Success!” He cheered. “Brooms! Clean up this mess!” He moved to the living area of the shop, “Caldrons make some stew!” He called to a corner of the area. He was rewarded with the clattering of lids and spoons clanking. Drimblerod pulled a crate to the edge of the bed and put a battered and beaten jousting dummy torso on it. “My precious tester! You would never leave me, would you?” He asked the dummy. “No, no you won’t” he cooed at it. “Now to make those arms move. He tilted the box lid back, careful not to dump the dummy as he blindly felt in the crate. He was rewarded with a charred wooden box. “Let’s see,” he muttered as he rummaged through his personal stash of wands. “Reanimators? Displacers?” He glanced at the dummy, “How about a good old fashioned Mechanimator?” The dummy sat silent. “You agree? Excellent.” He took the wand and stepped back from the dummy. He thought for a moment, cleared his throat and intoned:

  Hacking and Slashing not towards the living

  To do that, never are you willing!

  Discover a wand’s purpose and use and sort them in some way

  he paused and considered for a moment

  However you choose!

  He jabbed the wand at the dummy. It bucked and jerked- if it had legs it would have done a jig. After a few moments Drimblerod approached it cautiously. It spasmed several times but seemed to be accepting its new enchantment. He poked it with the tip of its wand and it tried to grab it. “No! You’d set the whole shop running amok through town!”