by Terry Brooks
A caravan of traders traveling north into the Melchor to obtain metal implements and weapons from the Trolls crossed their path around midday, and they shared lunch. The gossip was all connected with the hunt for the black unicorn and the strange events of the past few days. The King had gone into seclusion, refusing to see anyone, even the Lords of the Greensward. Public works projects had been put on hold, judicial and grievance councils had been dismissed, envoys had been sent home from Sterling Silver, and everything in general had come to a dead halt. No one knew what was happening. There were rumors of demons flying the night skies, monstrous things that carried off livestock and stray children in the manner that the dragons once had. There were even rumors that the King himself was responsible, that he had made some devil’s bargain to give the demons of Abaddon their way in Landover if they in turn would bring him the unicorn.
Everything seemed to revolve around the unicorn. The King had let it be known in no uncertain terms that he meant to have the creature, and the one who brought it to him would be hugely rewarded.
“If you can catch smoke, you’re a rich man,” one trader joked, and the others all laughed.
Ben didn’t laugh. He took his leave hastily and continued north at an even quicker pace. Things were getting out of hand, and a good part of that was clearly his fault.
By midafternoon, he was in the country of the G’home Gnomes.
The G’home Gnomes were a burrow people he had encountered during his early days as Landover’s King. They were small, furry, grimy creatures that looked something like overgrown moles. They were scavengers and thieves and they couldn’t be trusted any farther than your pet dog could be with the evening roast. As a matter of fact, they couldn’t be trusted with your pet dog, because they considered dogs, cats, and other small domesticated animals quite a delicacy. Abernathy considered the G’home Gnomes cannibals. Questor Thews considered them trouble. Everyone considered them a nuisance. The appellation “G’home Gnome” came from the almost universally expressed demand of those who had the misfortune to come in contact with them: “Go home, gnome!” Two of these gnomes, Fillip and Sot, had made a pilgrimage to Sterling Silver to seek Ben’s aid in freeing some of their people from Crag Trolls after the Trolls had carted the unfortunates away for stealing and eating a number of their pet tree sloths. Ben had almost lost his life in that venture, but the G’home Gnomes had proven to be among the most loyal of his subjects—if not the most reformed.
And Fillip and Sot had once confided to him that they knew the Deep Fell as they knew the backs of their hands.
“That’s exactly the kind of help we need,” Ben told Dirk, despite his vow not to tell the cat anything. “Nightshade will never be persuaded to give up the bridle willingly. Willow has to know that, too—but that won’t stop her from trying. She’ll probably be direct rather than circumspect; she’s too honest for her own good. Whatever the case, if she’s gone into the Deep Fell, she’s likely in trouble. She’ll need help. Fillip and Sot can let us know. They can sneak down without being seen. If Willow or Nightshade is there, they can tell us. If the bridle is there, perhaps they can steal it for us. Don’t you see? They can go where we can’t.”
“Speak for yourself,” Dirk replied.
“Do you have a better plan?” Ben snapped back immediately.
Dirk was oblivious to his anger. “I have no plan,” he answered. “This is your problem, not mine.”
“Thank you very much. I gather you wouldn’t consider undertaking this reconnaissance and theft yourself then?”
“Hardly. I am your companion, not your lackey.”
“You are a pain, Dirk.”
“I am a cat, High Lord.”
Ben terminated the discussion with a scowl and stalked off toward the burrow community. The G’home Gnomes lived in towns in the same manner as prairie dogs, and sentinels warned of his approach long before he could see anything. By the time he reached the town, there wasn’t a G’home Gnome anywhere—just a lot of empty-looking holes. Ben walked to the center of the town, seated himself on a stump and waited. He had been here a number of times since becoming King, and he knew how the game was played.
A few minutes later, Dirk joined him. The cat curled up beside him without a word and closed its eyes against the late afternoon sun.
Shortly after that, a furry face poked up from one of the burrows. Eyes squinted weakly against the daylight, and a wrinkled nose sniffed the air tentatively.
“Good day, sir,” the gnome addressed Ben and tipped his battered leather cap with its single red feather.
“Good day,” Ben replied.
“Out for a walk, are you, sir?”
“Out for a healthy dose of fresh air and sunshine. Good for what ails you.”
“Yes, oh yes indeed, good for what ails you. Must be careful of colds that settle in the throat and chest during the passing of fall.”
“Certainly must. Colds can be tricky.” They were dancing on eggshells, and Ben let the music play itself out. The G’home Gnomes were like this with strangers—scared to death. One always tested you. If you posed no threat, the rest came out. If any menace was sensed, you never saw more than the one. “I hope your family is well?” Ben went on, trying to sound casual. “And your community?”
“Oh, quite well, thank you, sir. All quite well.”
“That’s good to hear.”
“Yes, good to hear.” The gnome glanced about furtively, looking to see if Ben was alone, looking to see if he was hiding anything. “You must have walked quite a distance north from the Greensward, sir. Are you a craftsman?”
“Not exactly.”
“A trader, then?”
Ben hesitated a moment and then nodded. “On occasion, I am.”
“Oh?” The gnome’s squint seemed to deepen. “But you do not appear to have any wares with you this trip, sir.”
“Ah! Well, sometimes appearances are deceiving. Some trading wares can be quite small, you know.” He patted his tunic. “Pocket-sized.”
The gnome’s front teeth flashed nervously out of its grimy face. “Yes, of course—that is so. Could it be that you are interested in trading here, sir?”
“Could be.” Ben set the hook and waited.
The gnome did not disappoint him. “With someone in particular?”
Ben shrugged. “I have done some business in the past with two members of your community—Fillip and Sot. Do you know them?”
The gnome blinked. “Yes, Fillip and Sot live here.”
Ben smiled his most disarming smile. “Are they about?”
The gnome smiled back. “Perhaps. Yes, perhaps. Would you wait a moment, please? Just a moment?”
He ducked back into his burrow and was gone. Ben waited. The minutes slipped past and no one appeared. Ben kept his place on the stump and tried to look as if he were enjoying himself. He could feel eyes watching him from everywhere. Doubts began to creep into his mind. What if Fillip and Sot took a look at him and decided he was no one they had ever seen? After all, he wasn’t the Ben Holiday they knew any longer. He was a stranger—and not a particularly well-dressed one either. He glanced down at his clothing, reminded of his sorry state. He made a rather shabby-looking trader, he thought ruefully. Fillip and Sot might decide he wasn’t worth their bother. They might decide to stay right where they were. And if he couldn’t get close enough to talk to them, he wasn’t about to have any success obtaining their help.
The afternoon shadows lengthened. Ben’s patience simmered like hot water over an open fire. He glanced irritably at Edgewood Dirk. No help was there. Eyes closed, paws tucked under, breathing slowed to nothing, the cat might have been sleeping or it might have been stuffed.
The burrow holes continued to yawn back at him in empty disinterest. The sun continued to slip into the western hills. No one appeared.
Ben had just about decided to throw in the towel when a furry, dirt-lined face poked up suddenly from a burrow opening not a dozen yards away, closely
followed by a second directly beside it. Two snouts sniffed the late afternoon air warily. Two pairs of weakened eyes peered cautiously about.
Ben heaved a sigh of relief. They were Fillip and Sot.
The squinting eyes fixed on him.
“Good day, sir,” said Fillip.
“Good day, sir,” said Sot.
“Good day, indeed.” Ben beamed, sitting up straight again on the stump.
“You wish to trade, sir?” asked Fillip.
“You wish to trade with us?” asked Sot.
“Yes. Yes, I most certainly do.” Ben paused. “Would you gentlemen mind coming over here? That way I can be certain you understand what it is that I have to trade.”
The G’home Gnomes glanced at each other, then emerged into the fading sunlight. Stout, hairy bodies were clothed in what looked like Salvation Army rejects. Bearded, ferretlike faces with tiny, squinted eyes and wrinkled noses tested the air like weather vanes directed by the wind. Dirt and grime covered them from head to foot.
Fillip and Sot without a doubt.
Ben waited until they had stopped just a few feet in front of him, beckoned them closer still, then said, “I want you to listen to me very closely, do you understand? Just listen. I’m Ben Holiday. I’m High Lord of Landover. A magic has been used to change my appearance, but that’s only temporary. I’ll change myself back sooner or later. When I do, I’ll remember who helped me and who didn’t. And I need your help right now.”
He glanced from one furry face to the other. The gnomes were staring at him voicelessly, eyes squinting, noses testing. They looked for a moment at each other, then back again at Ben.
“You are not the High Lord,” said Fillip.
“No, you are not,” agreed Sot.
“Yes, I am,” Ben insisted.
“The High Lord would not be here alone,” said Fillip.
“The High Lord would come with his friends, the wizard, the talking dog, the kobolds, and the girl Willow—the pretty sylph,” said Sot.
“The High Lord would come with his guards and retainers,” said Fillip.
“The High Lord would come with his standards of office,” said Sot.
“You are not the High Lord,” repeated Fillip.
“No, you are not,” repeated Sot.
Ben took a deep breath. “I lost all those things to a bad wizard—the wizard who brought me into Landover in the first place, the wizard we saw in the crystal after we freed ourselves from the Crag Trolls—remember? You were the ones who came to Sterling Silver to ask my help in the first place. I went with you to help you free your people from the Trolls—the same gnomes who had eaten the furry tree sloths that were the Trolls’ favorite pets. Now if I’m not the High Lord, how do I know all this?”
Fillip and Sot looked at each other again. They looked a bit uncertain this time.
“We don’t know,” admitted Fillip.
“No, we have no idea,” agreed Sot.
“But you are not the High Lord,” repeated Fillip.
“No, you are not,” agreed Sot.
Ben took another deep breath. “I smashed the crystal against some rocks after we discovered its purpose. Questor Thews admitted his part in its use. You were there, Abernathy and Willow were there, the kobolds Bunion and Parsnip were there. Then we went down into the Deep Fell. You took Willow and me in. Remember? We used Io Dust to turn Nightshade back into a crow and fly her into the fairy mists. Then we went after the dragon Strabo. Remember? How could I know this if I’m not the High Lord?”
The gnomes were shifting their feet as if fire ants had crawled into their ruined boots.
“We don’t know,” Fillip said again.
“No, we don’t,” Sot agreed.
“Nevertheless, you are not the High Lord,” repeated Fillip.
“No, you are not,” repeated Sot.
Ben’s patience slipped several notches despite his resolve. “How do you know that I’m not the High Lord?” he asked tightly.
Fillip and Sot fidgeted nervously. Their small hands wrung together, and their eyes shifted here and there and back again.
“You don’t smell like him,” said Fillip finally.
“No, you smell like us,” said Sot.
Ben stared, then flushed, then lost whatever control he had managed to exercise up to this point. “Now you listen to me! I am the High Lord, I am Ben Holiday, I am exactly who I said I was, and you had better accept that right now or you are going to be in the biggest trouble of your entire lives, bigger even than when you stole and ate that pet dog at the celebration banquet after the defeat of the Iron Mark! I’ll see you hung out to dry, damn it! Look at me!” He wrenched the medallion from his tunic, covering the face and the image of Meeks with his palm, and thrust it forward like a weapon. “Would you like to see what I can do to you with this?”
Fillip and Sot collapsed prone upon the earth, tiny bodies shaking from head to foot. They went down so fast it looked as if their feet had been yanked from beneath them.
“Great High Lord!” cried Fillip.
“Mighty High Lord!” wailed Sot.
“Our lives are yours!” sobbed Fillip.
“Yours!” sniffled Sot.
“Forgive us, High Lord!” pleaded Fillip.
“Forgive us!” echoed Sot.
Now that’s much better, Ben thought, more than slightly astonished at the rapid turnabout. A little intimidation seemed to go a whole lot further than a reasonable explanation with the G’home Gnomes. He was a bit ashamed of himself for having had to resort to such tactics, but he was more desperate than anything.
“Get up,” he told them. They climbed to their feet and stood looking at him fearfully. “It’s all right,” he assured them gently. “I understand why this is confusing, so let’s just put it all behind us. All right?” Two ferretlike faces nodded as one. “Fine. Now we have a problem. Willow—the pretty sylph—may be in a lot of trouble, and we have to help her the same way she helped us when the Crag Trolls had us in their pens. Remember?” He was using that word “remember” a lot, but dealing with gnomes was like dealing with small children. “She’s gone down into the Deep Fell in search of something, and we have to find her to be certain that she’s all right.”
“I do not like the Deep Fell, High Lord,” complained Fillip hesitantly.
“Nor I,” agreed Sot.
“I know you don’t,” Ben acknowledged. “I don’t like it either. But you two have told me before that you can go down there without beeing seen. I can’t do that. All I want you to do is to go down there long enough to look around and see if Willow is there—and to look for something that I need that’s hidden down there. Fair enough? Just look around. No one has to know you’re even there.”
“Nightshade came back to the Deep Fell, High Lord,” announced Fillip softly, confirming Ben’s worst fears.
“We have seen her, High Lord,” agreed Sot.
“She hates everything now,” said Fillip.
“But you most,” added Sot.
There was a period of silence. Ben tried to imagine for a moment the extent of Nightshade’s hatred for him and could not. It was probably just as well.
He bent close to the gnomes. “You’ve been back to the Deep Fell, then?” Fillip and Sot nodded miserably. “And you weren’t seen, were you?” Again, the nods. “Then you can do this favor for me, can’t you? You can do it for me and for Willow. It will be a favor that I won’t forget, I can promise you that.”
There was another long moment of silence as Fillip and Sot looked at him, then at each other. They bent their heads close and whispered. Their nervousness had been transformed into agitation.
Finally they looked back at him again, eyes glinting.
“If we do this, High Lord, can we have the cat?” asked Fillip.
“Yes, can we have the cat?” echoed Sot.
Ben stared. He had forgotten Dirk momentarily. He glanced down at the cat, and then back at the gnomes. “Don’t even think about it,�
� he advised. “That cat is not what it seems.”
Fillip and Sot nodded reluctantly, but their eyes remained locked on Dirk.
“I’m warning you,” Ben said pointedly.
Again the gnomes nodded, but Ben had the distinct feeling that he was addressing a brick wall.
He shook his head helplessly. “Okay. We’ll sleep here tonight and leave at daylight.” He took an extra moment to draw their attention. “Try to remember what I just said about the cat. All right?”
A third time the gnomes nodded. But their eyes never left Dirk.
Ben ate another Spartan meal of Bonnie Blues, drank spring water, and watched the sun sink into the horizon and night settle over the valley. He thought of the old world and the old life and wondered for the first time in a long time whether he might have been better off staying where he was instead of coming here. Then he pushed his maudlin thoughts aside, wrapped himself in his travel cloak, and settled down against the base of the stump for an uncomfortable night’s rest.
Dirk hadn’t moved from the stump top. Dirk looked dead.
Sometime during the night there was a shriek so dreadful and so prolonged that it brought Ben right up off the ground. It sounded as if it were almost on top of him; but when he finally got his bearings and peered bleary-eyed about the campsite, all he found was Dirk crouched down atop the stump with his hackles up and a sort of steam rising from his back.
In the distance, something—or someone—whimpered.
“Those gnomes are persistent to the point of stupidity,” Dirk commented softly before settling back down again, eyes glistening in the night like emerald fire.
The whimpering faded and Ben lay back down as well. So much for his well-intentioned advice to Fillip and Sot. Some lessons had to be learned the hard way.
That same night found an altogether different scene unfolding some miles south of Rhyndweir at an abandoned stock pen and line shack perched on a ridgeline that overlooked the eastern expanse of the Greensward. A sagging roof and shutterless windows marked the line shack as a derelict, and the stock pen was missing rails in half-a-dozen spots. Shadows draped the whole in a web of black lace. A white-bearded scarecrow and an Ozian shaggy dog, both decidely unkempt, bracketed a brightly burning campfire built a dozen yards or so from the line shack and hurtled accusations at each other with a vehemence that seemed to refute utterly the fact that they had ever been best friends. A wiry, monkey-faced creature with elephant ears and big teeth watched the dispute in bemused silence.
