by Demi Harper
I cycled through the other military-type vocation options until I came across a likely-looking alternative:
Militia fighter
Vocation type: military
Pre-requisite: barracks
A militia fighter is less disciplined than a warrior, but makes up for it in zeal. Capable of wielding improvised weapons as well as basic weapons.
Hmm. So I could turn my remaining non-Faithful denizens into what were essentially less skilled but more enthusiastic versions of warriors. What could possibly go wrong?
I gave a mental shrug. At this point, we’ve nothing to lose by trying.
I assigned the militia vocation to my last eighteen gnomes. The fact that they reluctantly began to plod in the general direction of the other warriors told me they were able to make use of the barracks’ training facilities despite there not being enough room for them to actually take up residence there.
Perfect.
I scanned the Grotto with more than a little satisfaction. All eighty-four of my gnomes had now been provided with vocations and accommodation. Over two-thirds of my denizens had been converted to military fighters in a matter of hours. The builders were working smoothly and efficiently on the armory, and the clack of wooden practice weapons was now coming steadily from the barracks next door.
My tribe was becoming a well-oiled machine, and it gave me hope that soon they’d be able to stand on their own two feet and protect themselves from whatever might come.
Forty-Seven
Hammer
Yes, I had high hopes for my new gnome army.
Those hopes were squashed when I revisited the trainees in the barracks several hours later.
As per my latest assignations, there were forty warriors and eighteen militia currently undergoing training. To my dismay, each and every one of them was already covered in bruises.
Well, almost every one.
The stocky female – the one who’d instigated that first training injury by smacking one of her fellows about the back of his head – was confidently laying about the others with her practice weapon. She’d picked up the technique impressively fast, though her approach seemed to be founded on brute strength rather than skill.
From now on, I’ll call you ‘Hammer’, I thought, a little bit in awe of her prowess.
Hammer swung the wooden blade effortlessly with one hand. Around her, the others cowered beneath the heavy blows that rained down like falling mallets. My wonder at seeing Hammer’s proficiency rapidly wilted upon witnessing her opponents’ performance.
Though many of her fellow combatants were equipped with shroomtree-wood practice shields, they still struggled to block Hammer’s attacks. Those that weren’t nursing arms made numb from the battering their shields had taken were instead attempting to dodge her blows. They were failing miserably, resulting in a stumbling dance punctuated by an occasional yelp as wood met flesh.
Meanwhile, at the far end of the yard, a handful of the most bruised gnomes had gravitated toward the slingshot practice range, perhaps assuming it would be less painful. This assumption was apparently incorrect. I winced as one of the slingers drastically misjudged his shot; his stone bullet flew from the sling’s cradle and thwacked into the gnome beside him, catching her in the ear. She yelled, then glared at the offending slinger. He flinched as she bared her teeth at him.
There was a loud crash from the other side of the yard. I zoomed back over there in time to see one of the melee fighters sprawled on the ground, surrounded by wooden swords, having apparently collided hard with the weapons rack. Nearby, Hammer shrugged, as if to say, ‘I didn’t do it.’
The fallen gnome groaned as two of the other warriors helped him to his feet. He swayed, looking around unsteadily.
This won’t do. This won’t do at all.
From what I’d witnessed, the gnomes causing most of the havoc – aside from Hammer – were those I’d assigned to the militia. They were hampering the warriors, who were becoming increasingly more irate. It was clear the militia and warriors should be training separately; but how to convince them of that?
Based on the few vague memories I had of my former life, I knew with certainty I hadn’t been a fighter. I had no idea how any of this was supposed to work. Still, common sense dictated that these would-be warriors were unlikely to improve without some kind of instruction. Perhaps Hammer would redirect her efforts from harming her fellow warriors to helping them if I assigned her a training profession.
But do I have that option?
After several minutes cycling through the various vocations, I finally found an appropriate-looking title:
Drill Officer
Vocation type: martial
Pre-requisite: barracks; warrior vocation
A drill officer’s role is to train warrior denizens in basic combat.
That sounded about right.
By now, Hammer was already sparring with her next opponent. I recognized the skinny male warrior from before, and winced in anticipation of the beating he was surely about to receive. But the man’s earlier meekness had vanished – or rather, it was now hidden behind the round practice shield he’d since acquired. Feet set firmly apart, he’d rooted himself in place, and despite his scrawny frame, he was somehow managing to block Hammer’s attacks. Not one of the formidable brawler’s blows got through his guard.
As I watched, the smaller gnome lunged beneath the next downward strike to land a touch of his own wooden blade against Hammer’s shins. He straightened, grinning triumphantly. Then he lurched forward, almost falling on his face as Hammer gave him a congratulatory – and extremely forceful – pat on the back.
The two warriors couldn’t have been more different, yet each looked potentially effective in their own way. I was no military genius, but I knew that a good balance of skills and styles would be essential in a rag-tag bunch of would-be warriors like these. Without hesitation, I assigned both Hammer and her redoubtable opponent the drill officer vocation.
Hammer immediately began to bark orders. Some of the bolder warriors stood to attention in front of her. Hammer’s fellow officer – Graywall, I decided to name him, after the drab color of the shroom-wood shield he carried – gestured to those nearby who were cowering from the bigger gnome’s strident voice; they moved to a different corner of the yard, and watched carefully as Graywall began to demonstrate some basic footwork.
After a moment’s thought, I also assigned the drill officer vocation to the gnome who showed the most skill with the slingshots: a former builder whose undersized frame belied the strength and accuracy of his ranged shots. I decided to name him Bullet, after the flung stones that were doing so much damage to the shroomtree-gill-stuffed training dummies. As soon as I made Bullet a drill officer, the other slingers gathered around him, the two who’d had their earlier disagreement now reluctantly standing shoulder to shoulder once again.
A large group of gnomes were still milling around in the center of the yard. A quick glance confirmed these were my eighteen militia; apparently, a drill officer’s duties did not extend to training non-warriors. My attempt to promote a drill officer from within the militia was met with flat refusal from the Augmentary, which remained stoically inflexible in cases where I hadn’t met the pre-requisites. In this case, only warriors could become drill officers, and drill officers could only command warriors.
Then what the hell do I do with this lot?
I was distracted from my quandary by a commotion within Hammer’s group. She was shouting at two of the warriors, both of whom were staring dolefully back at her. One of them was rubbing a recently-acquired bump on his forehead. The other was holding his sword the wrong way round. A quick check told me these were two of the four non-Faithful gnomes to whom I’d assigned the warrior vocation.
Figures.
I looked around for the other two non-Faithful warriors I’d assigned, wondering what sort of trouble Swift and Cheer were already getting into, and realized they were nowhere in sight.
After a few moments spent searching, I spotted them over near the cavern’s edge, where they were sitting cross-legged, watching over Granny. The two inept former scouts had become strangely attached to the old female in recent days – perhaps because Granny’s distraction with the redcap mushrooms allowed them to sit and do nothing without fear of reprisal. Right now, Granny was predictably engaged in her favorite pursuit: ‘tending’ the redcaps. She treated them much like she treated the badger cubs, and could often be seen patting the toadstools gently while murmuring to them in an encouraging manner.
Perhaps she’s going senile in her old age.
She was of significantly more advanced years than any other gnome in the tribe, after all. It was a miracle Grimrock’s kobolds had never taken her for sacrifice. How has she survived so many raids, anyway?
Whatever the reason, I’d figured Granny had earned a bit of rest.
As I watched, she cocked her head to one side. I realized she was listening to the conversation Swift and Cheer were having behind her. The two younger gnomes were sniggering about something, and waving their arms in an exaggerated impression of what I could only assume was meant to be a sword fight.
When Swift began to feign dumb confusion in an uncanny impersonation of the hapless militia soldiers, causing Cheer to topple sideways in hysterical laughter, Granny struggled to her feet. She angled her cane at the two gnomes seated on the ground before them, then pointed toward the barracks.
The grins fell from their faces and they hauled themselves to their feet, grumbling. Under Granny’s stern gaze, they turned and trudged back toward the barracks.
With a last fond stroke of the nearest redcap mushroom, Granny followed Swift and Cheer to the training yard, where, to my great surprise, she proceeded to bark orders at the milling militia. They jumped clumsily to attention in a clatter of wooden practice weapons.
Curious, I opened the Augmentary and refamiliarized myself with Granny’s overseer vocation.
Overseer
Vocation type: general
Pre-requisite: altar
An overseer takes charge of day-to-day activities, ensuring work is carried out efficiently. This includes managing denizens of all vocation types, including military and construction, with holy being the sole exception.
That explained her decision to take over the militia. One less thing I have to worry about. Good.
As I watched Granny use her cane to knock the weapon out of an inattentive gnome’s hands, I could only hope these new fighters would be up to the task.
Forty-Eight
Yee-haw!
Leaving Granny, Hammer and the other fighters to it, I gazed around the rest of the Grotto. With Bruce the badger’s assistance in hauling building materials from the lumberyard, the new armory was looking very close to completion.
Seeing the gnomes working so adroitly with their new badger allies gave me an idea. I looked again at the armory’s description:
Armory I
Tier 2 building
Provides warrior denizens and their mounts with weapons and armor.
Mounts…
Hmm.
I studied Bruce the badger and his harness with new eyes. Now, there was an idea. A good one? Possibly not, but it was an idea nonetheless.
All I had to do was find a way to convey it to my denizens.
I’d learned from previous experience that Divine Inspiration was only effective when used upon my acolytes. The acolytes in question were still absorbed in the build-knock down-rebuild cycle of that ridiculous statue, and I had no qualms about interrupting their pointless non-work. It would be good to drag them back into the present. What better way to do that than by inspiring their spiritual leader?
I focused intently on my brilliant idea. Then I projected this image as vividly as I could into the mind of my high cleric, Gneil.
For a few moments the cleric stood there, drooling a little, his expression blank as he attempted to comprehend the majesty of what I’d sent him. Then his eyes focused once more on the world around him. He garbled something at his acolytes, who ignored him in favor of continuing to work on the latest incarnation of the Ris’kin statue, which was now up to its shoulders and missing only a head and tail.
Gneil, his eyes now shining with inspiration, waved an impatient hand at his unresponsive flock and instead raced off down the hillock and across the bridge toward where Bruce was returning from hauling lumber to the in-progress armory.
The badger’s handler – one of the four remaining builders – simply stared at the high cleric as he babbled about his new idea. The builder’s reaction was unsurprising, given that my idea was designed with combat in mind, and would have no benefit to the construction team whatsoever.
Resisting the urge to palm my non-existent face, I activated Divine Inspiration again. This time, I conveyed a more detailed image to my cleric, making a point of showing him a weapon-wielding gnome atop the badger’s furry back.
Gneil’s face lit up again. He turned his back on the confused builder and hurtled into the barracks, returning a moment later followed by Hammer. The warrior had left her weapon behind, but she still looked fearsome. This wasn’t so much a result of her size as it was her demeanor; by the gods, the woman could scowl.
My high cleric was caught in the throes of Divine Inspiration, however, and remained completely unfazed by her presence. He began his hurried explanation once more, gesturing excitedly at Bruce the badger and miming the act of riding by bending his knees and bouncing up and down with his arms held out in front of him. Hammer regarded this performance through narrowed eyes. If she’d still carried her weapon, I had no doubt she’d be smacking it into her palm impatiently.
By now, other warriors had begun trickling out of the barracks to see what the fuss was about. They gathered in a semicircle, bruised faces looking on curiously. Having an audience added fuel to Gneil’s zealous fire; he bounced up and down even more enthusiastically, using one hand to slap the air behind him, spurring on his imaginary steed.
There were more than a few raised eyebrows among the onlookers by the time my cleric finally realized his display was not achieving the intended effect. He ceased his performance, then stepped hesitantly toward the badger. Bruce waddled to a halt and sniffed the cleric in an amicable sort of way.
Some of the zeal had faded from Gneil’s eyes now, yet his face was set in a determined grimace. He stood on tiptoes, stretching up and over the badger’s back to grasp a handful of Bruce’s fur. The cleric took a deep breath. Then, eyes squeezed shut, he hauled himself up and on to Bruce’s gray-furred back.
For a fraction of a second, the badger appeared too surprised to react. Then he let out an outraged sound – somewhere between a huff and a bark – and reared up onto his hind legs. Miraculously, Gneil remained clinging to his back. The badger dropped back to all fours and then immediately rose up again, but the little gnome would not be dislodged. Something – presumably terror – had set him to clutch with white-knuckled hands to maintain his position on the creature that wanted nothing more than to be rid of him.
Bruce reared up a few more times, but to no avail. Luckily, Bruce had been on a return run, and so the travois attached to his harness was empty of lumber. If it had not been, who knew how many bystanders might have been harmed in the resulting pandemonium?
Eventually, the badger changed tactics. He charged straight into the stream, which was shoulder-deep for a gnome. He stopped in the middle, then rolled onto his back. My squeaking cleric disappeared beneath the surface.
Gneil! Oh, hells, what have I done?
For what felt like an age, all I could see were the badger’s short legs waving in the air as it wriggled. Then it righted itself and shambled onto the opposite bank, shaking the water off its fur as it went.
An instant later, relief filled me as Gneil splashed to the surface. He thrashed and spluttered, wading back toward the waiting gnomes on the shore and then just standing unsteadily in the
shallows.
He regarded Bruce on the other side of the stream. Then the cleric lurched sideways and vomited water.
The surrounding gnomes burst into applause. Hammer even strode forward to give Gneil one of her rough pats on the back, which didn’t appear to help much with the vomiting situation.
I felt a bit guilty for putting my high cleric through the whole experience. Still, it was nice to see the other gnomes suitably awed by my idea. Maybe with a bit of practice, badger-riding gnome warriors would become a common sight in the Grotto.
Gneil heaved again, bent double with his hands on his knees. The small crowd of gnomes gave a cheer. Bruce the badger simply looked on suspiciously, keeping his distance.
Then again, maybe not.
Forty-Nine
Team Building
I decided not to try and prompt any more badger-related antics for now. I’d done my part; the gnomes had the idea. Let them do with it what they would.
As it turned out - to my slight disappointment - they elected to focus on regular weapons training instead. Under the instruction of their new drill officers, the warriors had formed themselves into two distinct groups. Hammer and Graywall had combined their skills and joined forces to command a large unit of sword-and-shield wielders, while a smaller group of ranged slingshot bearers were led by Bullet. The former consisted of twenty-eight warriors in total; the latter, ten. Meanwhile, Granny had somehow managed to recruit Swift and Cheer to the militia instead, bringing their total numbers up to twenty-one.
After just a day, the melee fighters’ sparring was already much less chaotic than before, and the slingers seemed thankfully more inclined to aim at the practice targets than each other. Even the militia looked almost capable of dealing as much damage to their opponents as they did to their allies, thanks to Granny’s efforts.
