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

The doctor, already in his seat, had begun to unroll the parchment, “That’s it corpsman.” Without looking up he continued, “And keep an eye on your prep- work. We’re not running some ramshackle aid station here.”

  Content with the mild reprimand, the corpsman quickly exited the building and ran into two lanky humans deep in conversation. “Drilling Peachey!” Said the first one, “that’s how you whip a bunch of savages into shape. A few longbows and a little drilling and we can take over the whole of the Great Unknown.”

  The other one shook his head as the corpsman stopped to listen, “Davie, why would we want to do that?” Peachey asked.

  “Because we can set ourselves up like kings afterwards. You and me Peachey! Kings!” Said Davie as he put his arm around his accomplice and led him away.

  The corpsman shook his head as he went the opposite way of the two scheming Humans. Many people came out to make their fortune in the Desert of the Great Unknown. They were usually the ones in the ‘bits’ category when they were discovered.

  The doctor had barely finished the second page of the parchment when the Gnome on the table began to thrash about. “Corpsman!” Bellowed the doctor as he rose to his feet. He held the chair in front of him as a shield. At times, the recently deceased were disoriented and continued to act as if they were still in the incident that resulted in their demise. If it were a duel, things could get hairy. “Calm down, Gnome,” said the doctor forcefully. “You’re fine.”

  Grimbledung sat up and looked about the room, “Whhaffm?” He asked.

  The doctor pointed to his own lips. “Clamp.” He said flatly. The Gnome apparently was not involved in a traumatic incident, he mused. In some cases, the reawaken didn’t even realize they had died- if not that much time had passed.

  “Clamfmm?” Asked the Gnome again.

  The doctor shook his head. Definitely not a violent Gnome. He stepped forward and pulled the clothespin from the Gnome’s lips. It snapped shut as he pulled it off.

  “Owwa!!” Complained the Gnome. “Heyd. Wherd am I?”

  “Plug.” The doctor said pointing at his own nose. Maybe this Gnome could pass arrows and bolts. The stockroom might prove too taxing mentally. “Plug.” He said again.

  “Plugdb?” Asked the Gnome “Where’db Plugdb?”

  “Oh for the love of Sheba’s teats.” He said as he stepped forward again and yanked out the cloth. “Try now,” he scowled.

  “Say! Where am I?” Asked Grimbledung. “And how’d I get here?” He looked at the doctor, “And who are you?” He looked at his unfamiliar surroundings. “And how’d I get here?” He added angrily.

  Doctor Marone shook his head. “Here’s the sum of it. You were dead. You were Magicked here. Nothing was missing so I fixed you. Good so far?” The Gnome nodded, so he continued, “And since we fixed you, you are now a conscript in the army of the Great Anti-Ogre Wall.” He put his hands on the operating table. “So far so good?”

  Grimbledung swung his legs off the table. “No, actually, no. Not good, Doc.” He looked around the room again, “In fact, this is as far from good as you could get.” He prepared to hop off the table.

  “I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” warned the doctor.

  Ignoring him, Grimbledung hopped off the table. His legs immediately gave out under him and he fell in a heap. “What’s wrong with my legs?” He complained from the floor, “What’d you do to my legs?”

  “You’ve been dead for a little while. I’d say it’s going to take the rest of the day for all your limbs to work properly.”

  The corpsman had been at the window listening, finally he poked his head in, “Need a hand Doc?” Often disoriented recently-deceased patients can be talked down by one person- a second entering could set them off and end up with them being re-deceased. The doctor nodded without looking at him.

  The corpsman moved to the door and entered the room slowly. “Let me help you back on the table, Mister Gnome,” he said soothingly. He picked up Grimbledung and heaved him back on the table. “Sitting or lying?”

  “Sitting” said Grimbledung flatly. “Until I get enough strength to leave.”

  “Oh you’ll have plenty of strength by the time your conscription is done,” the doctor assured him, “plenty.”

  Grimbledung blinked at the doctor, “How long’s a regular conscription?” He asked warily.

  “Six months for a regular conscription.”

  Grimbledung considered this for a moment; six months to repay not being dead. It was, overall, not a bad deal. Once he sent word to Drimblerod and had his wand sent out, that would go by quickly. After all, a service had been rendered, so payment was due. “Six months is not too bad. I’ve been in the Army twice before already.”

  “Well,” began the corpsman hesitantly, “that’s a regular conscription. That’s people who just show up or are sent here ready to serve.

  “How long is my conscription?”

  “We had to provide you with extensive treatments and procedures. That’s expensive, you know.”

  “How long?” Grimbledung asked warily.

  “And supplies were used. Both magical and non-magical. Those will have to be replenished. These are hard times...”

  “How long?” More testily than warily now.

  “Above and beyond the six months?” Asked the corpsman. He had begun to move towards the door.

  “Total,” demanded Grimbledung. “In total, how many months am I going to have to be here?”

  “Eight,” said the corpsman hesitantly. He was now at the door and he reached behind him to the latch.

  “Eight months?” Said Grimbledung. “That’s only two more months for life- returning services. That’s not so bad.” He nodded at the man. “Sounds good to me.”

  The corpsman opened the door and as he backed out of it, he corrected

  Grimbledung: “Years.” He quickly closed the door.

  “Years? EIGHT YEARS?”

  The doctor had picked up the chair and was once again holding it in front of him. “Settle down, Mister Gnome. It’s not as bad as it sounds.”

  Grimbledung glowered at the doctor. “Not bad?” He said. “You don’t know what bad is!” He scooted along the table towards the doctor, “You people haven’t experienced bad!”

  Doctor Marone moved out of reach of the rabid Gnome, “We deal with Ogres and worse up here,” he said nonchalantly, “we know what bad is.”

  “Ogres?” Grimbledung cackled, “he thinks Ogres are bad,” he said to no one in particular. “Ogres are like little cute rabbits in a field of blooming flowers that smell bad!!” He snarled. “Ogres? Ooop! Ooooop! Wait until they get a load of me!” He dropped from the table and dragged himself towards the doctor with his hands. He was snarling and to the doctor’s alarm, drooling excessively.

  “CORPSMAN!” Yelled the doctor in a frightened voice, “CORPSMAN! Guards! Golem Squad!! Someone help!”

  (the rest of) Chapter Thirty Two

  Wherein Grimbledung is Kicked

  Out of Prost Garrison.

  Forever[23]

  “Sir, I really think we made a mistake with this one” said the Master at Arms to the Garrison Commander as they looked at Grimbledung. “He’s been in the stocks for all of three weeks and he’s even more angry now that when we put him in.” The Master at Arms, a broad shouldered Warrior who had participated in scores of battles, took a step back from the snarling Gnome. He was, once again, gnawing on the wood braces that held his arms. “I think we should engage in a tactical flanking maneuver from our relationship with this conscript.”

  The Garrison Commander - Major General Granger Prost - looked at his Master at Arms. “What is that I just heard? The famed tactician that led the expedition to the bowels of the Bronze Mines against hordes of rampaging Orcs? That put down the Brownie Uprising? That secured the Steel Mines of Chalybeate? That Warrior is suggesting we retreat?” General Prost looked at the Gnome. He had managed to chew away half the wood once again. This would be the four
th time they would have to replace the stocks. He took a step back as well.

  “Kill, Kill! KILL!” Said Grimbledung between bites at the wood. He had said not much else since being put in the stocks. It had taken four Golems to put him in them. They barely managed. Afterwards, one of the Golems even had to be ‘decommissioned’ due to (some) physical and (mostly) emotional distress.

  “Sure, there is no honor in retreating, but there is a whole lot of life afterwards to pat yourself on the back for doing it!” Suggested the Warrior. “This crazy Gnome might just eat us in our sleep if we let him out. General, I say we put him on the next supply train going south and let the authorities in Aution deal with him.

  “Make it so, Master at Arms,” said the General as he turned to leave. Being this close to the Gnome made him nervous. “I’ll be on the wall inspecting the troops while you move him.” As quickly as he could go and still maintain his military bearing, the General left.

  The Warrior leaned in and growled at the Gnome, “You’re getting outta here, Gnome. Not ‘cause you won, but because I got better things to do than deal with the likes of you.” He kicked dirt at the Gnome who snarled in return. “And to top it off yer getting a dishonorable discharge, not one of them Failure to Adapt discharges other conscripts get!” He kicked another clod of dirt at the Gnome. Grimbledung caught the clod in his mouth. He stared at the Master at Arms as he silently chewed and swallowed it. Quickly as he felt he could afford to go and maintain his honor, the Master at Arms left as well. Perhaps, he would accompany the General in the inspection and let the Golems deal with the Gnome. After all, whatever parts they lost, could be slathered back on. Usually.

  As he left, the Warrior heard the Gnome singing;

  We’ll be leavin’ the Garrison in the ‘morn!

  We’ll be leavin’ the Garrison in the ‘MORN!

  We’ll be leavin’ the Garrison,

  leavin’ the Garrison,

  leavin’ the Garrison,

  IN THE ‘MORN!

  Shaking his head, The Master at Arms decided that he would definitely be accompanying the General in the inspection. The Golems would handle getting rid of the rabid Gnome.

  The next morning, a squad of regular Mark III Golems arrived at the stocks.[24] “Ahhh,, Yer suppos’d to be ... ahhh” the head Golem (appointed because it was twice as smart as the rest of his squad) stopped for a moment, “ahhh. Goin.” He looked at the Gnome. “Ahhh.. away.” It finished triumphantly. The others grunted in agreement, marveling at how eloquently their Squad Chief had put it. “So ahhh .... when we ... ahhh ...”

  The Golem looked up at a passing bird. When it looked back down at the Gnome, it had forgotten what it was saying.

  “So when we unlock the stocks” offered Grimbledung.

  “Ahhh... yeah. When we unlock the stocks,” the Golem agreed, “when we unlock the stocks.”

  Both Grimbledung and the Golem stared at each other. Finally, Grimbledung broke the silence, “You’re not supposed ...” He coaxed.

  “Yah... Ahhh you’re not supposed to make any .... any…Ahhh...” He furrowed a clay brow. “Ahhh trouble?” He offered.

  “Yes. I promise I won’t make any trouble.”

  “Kill Gnome now?” Asked another Golem. The other three nodded. Surely, this Golem was going to be the next Squad Chief.

  “Ahhh... no.” The Golem thought back to his orders. “Ahhh. Only if the Gnome squirms. Then we kill ‘im dead.”

  A third Golem popped open the shackles and appraised the Gnome. Grimbledung didn’t move a muscle. He was not sure what the threshold was between squirming and stretching. Golems were notorious for misunderstanding orders. This was mainly due to the fact that they usually had rocks, or in this case, clay for brains.

  “Ahhh... now ... ahhh,” began the Golem Squad Chief, “Ahhh ... to the wagon.” He pointed with a roughly molded clay arm as thick around as Grimbledung’s leg. “Ahhh... thataway.” His fingers looked like cut down table legs stuck into clay pot palms. The troubling part was that they might very well have been just that.

  Grimbledung hopped up smarty -with what he hoped was no squirming at all- and moved directly to the wagon. When he got there, he sat down promptly and didn’t move a muscle. The other Golems looked crestfallen that he didn’t cause a ruckus. Word had spread quickly around Prost Garrison that there was a mad Gnome inside the walls and it was discovered in an unfortunate series of events to be both a biter and a spitter. “Let’s go Golems,” said Grimbledung, “ready when you are.”

  Dejected, the Squad Chief moved to the front of the wagon. There was a Shaggy-tailed Shambler harnessed to the front of it. “Ahhh. who’s comin?” It asked.

  One of the golems trudged forward and got into the wagon beside

  Grimbledung. “Run and’ll knock yur head clean off,” it said flatly. “Clean. Off.” It swung its huge fist in an uppercut motion. Disturbingly, it made a ‘whooosh” sound as it went.

  “Ahhh. sit up ... ahhh here,” said the Squad Leader. The other Golem obliged. Since Golems weren’t made of flesh they didn’t tire in a chase, so any attempt to run from the wagon would be fruitless- even if Grimbledung weren’t a squat Gnome. “Ahhh... GO!” The Golem cracked a whip at the Shambler and it began to trot out of the Garrison.

  After an hour of bouncing around in the back of the wagon, Grimbledung was bored; it was a clear blue sky so there were no clouds to look at, so he took to hanging over the side of the wagon to look at the countryside. With a quick warning that consisted of two words- “clean off,” the Golem up front made sure that was as far as Grimbledung got to getting out of the wagon.

  Another hour later, even the rolling countryside couldn’t keep Grimbledung’s’ attention. “I’m bored” he said to no one in particular.

  The Golems didn’t respond; they were adept at ignoring prisoners; whether they were complaining or shrieking in terror, they paid no mind. Finally, Grimbledung spotted a caravan approaching. At least that’ll be interesting for a little bit. He sat up and watched it approach. It looked like a spice caravan since the Shamblers were outfitted with barrels and sacks. As they approached, the lead Shambler began to look familiar. The closer it got, the more forward Grimbledung leaned. Soon, he was sitting between the two Golems. Since sitting between them did not violate the “Do not. NOT! Let the Gnome out of the wagon. NOT out of the wagon. NOT until you get to town” rule, the two Golems allowed it.

  Much to their annoyance, Grimbledung began hopping on the seat from foot to foot, using the Golems for support. “Rat! Rat!” He was shouting. ‘Clean Off’ Golem swiveled his massive head to look at him angrily, but now, Grimbledung was ignoring it. “RAT!!” He cheered, alternating between pumping his fists in the air and holding onto the Golem’s head.

  RatShambler was lost in thought, deciding whether to pitch the Wagon Driver his business proposal or just eliminate him altogether when he heard his name being called. He looked up and there, hopping between two stern looking Golems, was Grimbledung. Grimbledung who not three weeks ago was really and truly dead. Grimbledung. The Gnome who he had mourned for the nearly three weeks- starting the next day since sneaking out of town in the dead of night (a lone Shambler does tend to draw attention – even in Aution) to avoid the Constable. Grimbledung, who had the ability to return him to his comfortable (and less identifiable) glory as Rat. He picked up a trot to close the distance quicker. “GRIMBLEDUNG!” He called, much to the surprise of not only the other Shamblers, but the men working the caravan. “I’m going to kill you!” He moved to a full gallop. “You maniacal Gnome!”

  Grimbledung leaned forward, using the Gnomes to keep him on the wagon. ‘Kill you’ wafted on the breeze to his ears. “Wait, what?” Grimbledung asked. He leaned back. “Maybe we should just keep going.” He prodded ‘Clean Off’ Golem on the side of its neck, “How’s that sound to you? Just go straight to town with no stopping.” He poked the Golem again. It peered down at him with annoyance somehow conveyed in the fist-sized rocks
that were its eyes.

  The Golem looked at its Squad Leader. “Dump’im here?” It suggested.

  The Squad Leader looked from its cohort to the Gnome and back. “Uhhmmm .... Yeah.” Without ceremony, and more importantly without stopping, ‘Clean Off’ Golem grabbed Grimbledung by the back of the neck, heaved him around to the side of the wagon, and let go. In what was a completely inadvertent act of mercy, the wagon veered away from Grimbledung as it did an arc to return to Prost Garrison.

  Grimbledung rolled to a stop and stood. RatShambler was nearly upon him. “I can explain!” Began Grimbledung. RatShambler skidded to a halt in front of him. After a moment, Grimbledung shuffled his feet in the dirt, “Actually I can’t. I have no idea how most of this happened. I think I was dead for the important bits.”

  RatShambler shook his head. “I can’t believe you. How is it you’re alive? Can you explain that?”

  “Ooohhh! That part yes! The Army doctor at Prost Garrison brought me back to life to make me a conscript.” He beamed in satisfaction.

  “How did you even get to Prost Garrison?”

  “Dead for that part,” explained Grimbledung glumly.

  “So why didn’t you contact us?”

  “Ohhh! That one I know!” He hopped back and forth. “I was in the stockade.” Grimbledung thrust his fists in the air.

  “You were in stocks for three weeks?” RatShambler Gaped.

  “Well, I don’t know how long I was dead but once I was alive again, it took just the rest of that day to be put in stocks. If it’s been three weeks, then I was in for three weeks.” He smiled proudly- He was getting answers right! He was on a roll. “Ask another one!”

  “Do you know who killed you?” Asked RatShambler hesitantly.

  Grimbledung frowned. The streak was over. “No. That’s kind of fuzzy. The last thing I remember was we were riding home in the wagon from Big Julies and we were almost to the Shop.” He furrowed his brow with concentration. “That’s about it.”