Heroes And Fools

Gnomebody
Jeff Grubb

“This is a gnome story, right?” asked Augie, staring over the rim of his tankard. There was derision in both his glare and his voice-they had traded a number of tales that evening, each more implausible than the last.

“Not exactly,” replied Brack, the older and more slender of the two sellswords.

The pair had met by chance in the tavern. They were veterans of separate units from the same side in the War of the Lance, now reduced to mere mercenary work in these years of chaos. As a youth, Augie had served in the personal guard of Verminaard himself, and Brack had been a lieutenant in the Green Dragonarmy. Now older, and presumably wiser, they chose their battles and their employers more carefully.

After a few moments of sizing each other up and determining that they had both fought for the same masters at one time, they slid into an easy conversation. They spoke of what regions would need their services, which wars and rumors of war would pan out, and the chaos they’d seen brought on the backs of the great dragons. The gnome wait staff brought the drinks quickly, and the dwarf at the bar kept a running tab.

Of course, over time, the conversation drifted to how the world in general had gone into the midden and that nothing was as good as it once was. This line of discussion quickly gave way (after a few more tankards) to stories of how things were in the old days.

Which of course brought Brack to mention of his last battle in the Green Dragonarmy, a disaster brought about in the pursuit of one man-or, to be more specific, one gnome and that gnome’s invention.

Which brought Augie’s question and Brack’s answer and Augie’s reply, “Whadayah mean, not exactly?”

Brack shifted in his chair, noted that his mug was more half-empty than half-full, and signaled to the serving gnome. He paused as the diminutive being brought him a full, foaming tankard, then continued, “I mean yes, it’s a gnome story, in that it’s about a gnome, but no, it’s not a gnome story because it’s not about a gnome at all.”

The big man’s bushy brows hovered over bleary eyes stained by many a drink that evening. “How can it be about a gnome and not about a gnome?”

“When the gnome does not exist,” said Brack, “but his greatest invention survives to this day. Let me explain.”

The patrol of hobgoblins, scouts in the service of the Green Dragonarmy, were having a bad time of it. Scouts were at their best in clear terrain and moderate climate, but ever since their invasion force had landed, they had been deluged by heavy rain and forced to reconnoiter through thick, bramble-filled overgrowth. Little to see, less to smell (other than wet hobgoblin), and nothing to report. They had been gone four days from the main encampment and were soaked to the skin. After a brief, heated discussion (the only heat the dozen creatures had experienced in three days), they decided to ascend one of the hills for a better view of the rain-damp fog.

“We shudda stayed in camp,” said one particularly large hobgoblin.

“And what?” growled another. “It’s just as marshy there. There’s a swamp where our bivvie should be.”

“At least then we don’t hafta march around in wet boots,” said the big one.

“At least yah have boots,” returned the sergeant, a scarred hobgoblin with one good eye. “When I first signs up, we had to do this barefoot.”

The big complainer bared his lower fangs, and the other hobgoblins assumed that a fight was coming and drifted into normal positions, a circle surrounding the sergeant and the big one. But the sergeant stared at the hobgoblin with an icy ferocity, and the big one closed his mouth and at last shook his head in agreement.

“Where we go?” said the big one, finally.

“Up,” replied the sergeant.

The ground grew no drier as they climbed the small tor. Indeed, it now had the added difficulty of being steep as well as damp. The hill was completely saturated, and the hobgoblins began to slip as they climbed. Their trail became a broad swath of mud-stained grass, and their armor was soon decorated with clumps of hanging sod.

“Where we going?” asked the big one again.

“Up,” said the sergeant.

“Down is easier,” said one of the smaller hobgoblins, which earned another icy glare from the one-eyed sergeant.

The fog-shrouded hilltop loomed above them, and a great granite cliff suddenly reared from the tor, blocking their path. “Up,” said the sergeant a third time, pointing at the small complainer.

“It’s wet and slippery,” protested the small hobgoblin.

“Stone is harder than mud,” said the sergeant. “Therefore it’s less slippery than mud.” The other hobgoblins in the group looked around for anyone to gainsay this bit of wisdom. There was no one.

The small hobgoblin was soon scrabbling up the granite cliff, a rope tied around his waist. He started strong, but tired halfway up, and the sergeant had to bellow threats to get him to finish the climb. The sergeant made it clear it was safer to climb up than to climb down, so up the small hobgoblin went.

He disappeared at the cliff’s edge and was gone, finding some tree or rock to secure the line. A moment later he appeared over the edge again and gave a thumbs-up to the patrol below.

The sergeant hooked a thumb at the rope. “Up you go,” he said.

The big complainer looked at the thin strand of hemp. “Don’t look safe,” he said. He looked more afraid than challenging.

“Neither am I,” snapped the sergeant, but the big complainer still stared at the rope. The sergeant sighed, “I go first, but when I get to the top, you follow, unnerstand?”

The big one (and most of the others) nodded in agreement as the sergeant began the climb. He found the stone was more slippery than the mud after all, and he had to clutch the rope tightly in order to keep from falling. At last he arrived at the top. The view was less than spectacular. There was slightly less rain up this high, but the hilltop was still wrapped in clouds. The surrounding whiteness parted slightly, allowing a brief glimpse of the neighboring hills before wrapping the hobgoblins in another gray, wool blanket.

They were on a gray promontory of bare rock, broken only by a single twisted tree, its thick and ancient roots shattering the surrounding stone. The small hobgoblin had tied the rope to one of the more prominent, arching roots.

“Not much to see,” said the small hobgoblin. “We go down now?”

The sergeant scowled. He’d had to scrabble up here. He’d be damned if the rest of the patrol got off scot-free. Instead he leaned over the edge and let out an assault of obscenities, promising all manner of torture for the last hobgoblin up.

The rest of the patrol sprang into action, fighting among themselves for the opportunity to clamber up the rope. The big one, the complainer, was the first up the rope, but the others followed closely, not waiting for him to get more than a quarter of the way up before following. Soon most of the patrol was hanging on the rope up the cliffside, their twisted paws clutching the rope and the surrounding rocks. Some lost their grips and slid down, bashing into others, who in turn lost their hold and slid a few feet into the rest of the patrol.

The sergeant watched their attempts and muttered a curse, thinking of the (relative) warmth and the (relative) dryness of their base camp. His ruminations were broken off by a sharp snapping noise directly behind him.

It sounded like the noise a crossbow made when sprung. He wheeled but saw nothing else on the tor except the small hobgoblin and the gnarl-rooted tree. The small hobgoblin was looking at the tree, his eyes round like platters.

The sergeant scowled. Was the tree breaking under the weight of the hobgoblins on the rope? There was another sharp snap, and he realized he was close but not fully on the mark. The tree was holding. However, the added weight of the patrol on the rope was enough to start uprooting it. Large cracks began to spider through the stone as the hobgoblins’ collective weight drove the tree’s roots deeper into the hilltop.

It threatened to bring the cliff down on top of the hobgoblin patrol. A human leader might have called down to his men to tell them to abandon the rope or even to jump. The sergeant was a hobgoblin, and his first worry was his own skin. Already the smaller hobgoblin was bounding for the far side of the tree, and the sergeant was ready to follow.

The ground shifted as the sergeant began to run, the spidering cracks quickly becoming large chasms, and then larger chasms, and the ground beneath his feet started to disintegrate beneath the soles of his feet. He heard cursing screams below him from the patrol, soon lost in a torrent of sliding rock. Then something large passed him-the ancient tree itself, still tethered to the hobgoblin-strung rope.

The sergeant leapt forward as the last part of the cliff-side vaporized beneath him, dragged down by the trailing roots of the tree. He landed on something solid and dug his claws into the earth in hopes that it would hold and not cascade back down the cliffside.

His prayers were answered. He felt the world sway for a moment, then right itself, while the rest of the hillside, except the tree, held firm.

Slowly the sergeant opened his eyes. The avalanche had pushed the rainy clouds back for the moment, and he had a clear view of the devastation below. The entire north half of the hill had fallen in on itself, forming a wide fan as it gained speed as it surged into the valley. He saw a few bits of armor and what might either be tree trunks or goblin torsos, but the patrol, big complainer and all, was gone.

The small hobgoblin sat down beside the sergeant. “Cor, whatta mess!” he breathed.

The sergeant considered for a moment adding the small hobgoblin to the body count, but decided against it. He shook his head.

“Bloody mess,” was all he said.

The small hobgoblin nodded, and said, “Whaddaya gonna tell the Louey?”

The sergeant winced. The commanding lieutenant was not going to like his report. “Lemme think,” he managed. “Lemme think.”

The small hobgoblin shook his head and said, “Looks like a battle. Whatta mess.”

The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Yeah, a battle. We got ambushed.”

“Won’t work,” said the small hobgoblin. “No other bodies. You gonna tell them our boys got smoked without taking any enemies with ‘em?”

The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Dragons. We got attacked by dragons?”

“We got dragons,” said the small one. “They don’t.”

“Right.” The sergeant scowled again. “Gnomes, then. Gnomes are always blowing things up! Yeah, dat’s it! We got caught by some gnomish secret weapon!”

The smaller hobgoblin rocked back on his heels. “Dat’s it! Who would ever want to go looking for a gnome?”

Augie took a long pull on his tankard and wiped the ale from his beard. “So this is really a hobgoblin story?” he said.

Brack drained the last of his own drink, and another appeared almost instantaneously by his side. “I like to think it was a gnome story, since the hobgoblins blamed their misfortunes on the gnomes.”

“I take it you were the Louey they reported back to?”

Brack gave a shrug and said, “Of course. And of course since their story had more holes in it than Soth’s soul, the Dark Lady blast him, I soon coerced the truth of the matter out of them.”

“So that was the end of it, right?” said Augie.

“Not by half,” replied Brack. “You see, I still had to report to my superiors what had happened, and I had to admit to them that the hobgoblins under my command- hobgoblins they recruited-were below average, even as hobgoblins go.”

“Hmph,” said Augie, draining his own mug, holding it out at arm’s length to the side, then letting it go. Brack noted that a very fast gnome grabbed the heavy clay tankard before it had shattered and smoothly placed a new one, dripping foam, on the table.

“So you might have lost your command if you told them they had incompetent hobgoblins,” said the larger man.

“Worse,” said Brack, “I might have been forced to accompany them into the field the next time.”

“You let the report stand,” said Augie.

“With some minor clarifications,” said Brack. “I made it one gnome leader, in particular, made it an accident as opposed to an ambush, and named the gnome. Rumtuggle. It sounded like a gnomish name.”

“Your leaders bought it?” snarled Augie. “Old Verminaard would have seen through that in a moment if I laid it on him.”

“Ah, but old Verminaard is no longer around, is he?” countered Brack. “No, my superiors bought it, because they assumed there would be some resistance anyway, which up to that point had been pretty nonexistent. Gnomes were considered the least dangerous of the lot. Kender, for example, would rob you blind and then come back for your seeing-eye lizard.”

“So you used this Rumtuggle to explain a patrol’s decimation,” said Augie. “What’s the problem?”

“Well, the saying is that once something is created, it has to be used. You make a plow, you have to farm. You make a sail, you have to explore.”

“You make a sword,” put in Augie, “you have to lop off a few heads.”

“Exactly,” said Brack, “and Rumtuggle proved to be a very capable excuse. A few head of cattle went missing and were blamed on Rumtuggle. A patrol got lost: Rumtuggle. The cash box was a few hundred steel light: Rumtuggle.”

“Your superiors never saw through it?” spat Augie, astounded.

“The rear echelons had other, more important matters to worry about,” said Brack. “I was careful never to put too much blame on Rumruggle at a time. One or two of my fellow lieutenants caught wind of it, and a captain as well, eventually. They saw the value of Rumtuggle, and soon most of the mischances of our unit were blamed on a single gnome.”

“Your superiors, the dragonlords themselves, must have caught wise at last,” guessed Augie. “Did you admit your deceit?”

“I wish it were that easy,” said Brack. “Actually it was much, much worse.”

The gnomish delegation arrived at dawn. There were fifteen of them, all looking about as threatening as a pack of rabbits. Some were dressed in leather work-aprons, and others in farmer’s shirts and slacks. One or two looked as if they had been rousted from their beds and dragged along by the mob.

They were led by a short gnomish woman with fire-red hair braided down her back and a stern look plastered across her face. The gnomes presented themselves to one of the guards by the outer paddocks, demanding to see someone in charge.

In another part of Ansalon, a band of gnomes suddenly appearing at an oupost would be cause for alarm, but this part of the front had been pacified, and this outpost was little more than a garrison with a few scout units. The guard, amused by the small delegation, demanded the gnomes’ business.

“We are here to see about release of one of our people, unfairly held,” said the flame-haired gnome.

The guard raised an eyebrow. He was unaware that the army had even taken “good faith” hostages. He asked what hostage the short woman was talking about.

She told him, and the guard fought the urge to laugh. He thought about it a moment, and asked the gnomes to wait. Then the guard beetled his way quickly to Lieutenant Brack’s quarters.

“Rumtuggle?” said Lieutenant Brack, commanding officer of this particular outpost in the Green Dragon-army. “They want us to release Rumtuggle?”

The guard nodded, snorting a laugh in the process. “They say they heard that we were holding him captive, and they have demanded his release.”

“You told them he doesn’t exist?” Brack asked, wide-eyed.

“I thought about doing exactly that,” said the guard, “but then I thought they might not understand and might go somewhere else and ask someone else about it. The people they ask might not think to come to you about it.”

“Hmmm. .” Brack ran a thumb along his jawline. “I see your point. They might ask questions, which may cause others to ask questions.” Brack sighed. “Send them to my tent.”

The guard nodded, and within five minutes the delegation was in Brack’s command tent. Several of the gnomes became immediately distracted and started sketching the design of the tent supports for future application. The red-haired gnomish woman would not be turned from her purpose and zeroed in on Brack with a sniper’s precision.

“We understand you have one of our numbers here as a prisoner,” she said curtly.

Brack managed his widest, sternest smile. “You have been misinformed. We hold no prisoners at this camp, not even good-faith hostages.”

“We understand you have had problems with a gnome named Rumtuggle,” said the woman.

Brack paused for a moment, then nodded slowly. There was no telling who else the gnomes would be talking to. “There have been reports of small accidents involving someone of that name.” He chose his words carefully, telling the truth only as far as it served him.

“We”-she motioned to her motley crew-”represent the various small gnomish communities in our area. Rumtuggle is not among any of our communities. Therefore,” she growled, screwing up her face and glowering at the lieutenant, “he must be your prisoner. You should release him at once.”

Brack looked at the guard, who stood at the doorway. The guard shrugged. To the gnome the lieutenant said, “I assure you we don’t have your Rumtuggle at this camp.”

“You have him at another camp?” asked the woman.

Brack sighed. “No. We don’t have him at any camp.”

“We don’t have him in any of our communities!” said the gnome woman. “No one has seen him for months!”

“Had anyone seen him before?” said Brack.

The gnome bridled and said, “I don’t think you’re taking this matter with the proper seriousness.”

Brack took a deep breath and regarded the group. A small, heated discussion had broken out in the back of the party about how the lantern wicks in the tent could be better cut. These were not rebels, Brack decided. These were barely targets. Gently he said, “Your Rumtuggle was probably a wanderer. He wandered into our lives, caused some havoc among our occupying forces, and now will wander out. I doubt,” Brack added with a hard look at the guard, “that we will ever hear about him again.”

The gnome woman was not mollified. “Your answers are evasive, human. You have three days to release Rumtuggle. After that we will have to take action.” She stomped her foot for effect. “Three days, human!” She spun on her heel and left the tent, her gaggle of gnomes in tow. One took a lantern with him, peering at the wick.

The guard waited behind, looking at Brack. The lieutenant sighed deeply and said, “I think we may have a small problem.”

“Emphasis on the small,” said the guard, breaking into a smile.

Brack smiled as well. “Very small, but for the next while, Rumtuggle should vanish from the reports. No point in stirring up the locals.”

“And when she demands his release?” asked the guard.

Brack shrugged. “She’s a gnome,” he said. “In three days she’ll have found something else to worry about.”

Of course the gnome leader did not. Each day, for the next three days, a gnomish messenger arrived at the edge of the camp, demanding Rumtuggle’s release. Each day Brack explained that they did not have Rumtuggle in their keeping.

On the morning of the fourth day, the cattle disappeared.

Brack never figured out how they did it. One night the cows were in the pasturage, the guards keeping an eye on them between games of dice. Then the sun came up on empty fields. Several hundred head of cattle, the provisions for most of the outpost, had vanished.

A messenger arrived, declaring that the cattle would be returned when Rumtuggle was released.

Brack looked at the messenger. He counted to five, then to ten. He explained that he could not release what he did not have and unless the gnomes gave back the cattle pretty damned fast he would unleash the entire fury of his unit on the surrounding area. A hungry army was an angry army. The gnome said he would be back the next day.

Privately, Brack worried. A hungry army was an angry army, but most of that anger would be directed at those responsible for feeding them-like their officers. Brack sent out scouts in all directions, both the hapless hobgoblins and real horsemen, in the hopes of finding whatever secluded valley the cattle had been squirreled away in.

They found nothing. The next day the gnome messenger returned. Brack counted to five, then to ten, and then to fifteen, then told him that they did not have Rumtuggle. The gnome said that he would return the next day.

Brack doubled the patrols, calling in favors from other commanders who knew about his fictitious gnome. Already the troops were restricted to salted meat, and would have to get by on hardtack if the cows were not returned. Brack sent word back up the line for additional supplies.

The patrols found nothing: no secluded vales, no herds of cattle in secret hiding places. All they found was increased evidence of lumbering in the area. Going into the gnomish towns was considered hazardous, since several gnomish inventions had gotten loose in the past and harmed some hobgoblins, and none of the nonhuman troops wanted to go anywhere near the gnomes, particularly now that Rumtuggle was apparently helping them.

The troops were getting hungry. And angry.

A query came from HQ asking what Brack had done about the cattle problem and notifying him that the rear echelon would be sending the provisioner-general to find out what happened to the missing cattle. The official would arrive the next day.

Hot on the heels of that message, the gnomish messenger returned, repeating the demand that Rumtuggle be released.

Brack counted to twenty but finally gave up trying to hold his temper. “I can’t give you Rumtuggle!” he shouted at last. “There is no Rumtuggle! Rumtuggle isn’t alive!”

The gnome’s eyes grew wide, and he practically squealed, “You mean, you killed him?”

Brack stared down at the little figure. “What are you going to do about it?” he shouted.

The gnome seemed to quail for a moment, then said, “I guess we’ll have to give back your cows, then.” He departed, leaving Brack speechless.

The cows did not reappear immediately, not for the rest of that day, nor with dawn of the next day. The pro-visioner-general did appear at dawn, and Brack found him inspecting the vacant paddocks.

“You had four hundred and fifty-three head of cattle,” said the provisioner-general, an officious skeleton of a man, regarding Brack over the top of his glasses. “They seem to be missing.”

“Well, yes,” started Brack, “we have had a problem with gnomes taking the cattle.”

The provisioner-general looked dubious. “Gnomes? Raiding cattle? Unlikely.”

“Ah,” said the guard at Brack’s side, “Well, these gnomes have had, uh, exceptional leadership.” He was trying to help, but Brack shot him a venomous look.

“Yes.” The provisioner-general flipped through a sheaf of papers attached to his clipboard. “This would be the ‘Rumtuggle’ mentioned in your earlier reports.”

Brack looked at the guard again, then sighed. “Yes, that would be correct, but we have ordered the gnomes to return the cattle, and they have said they will do so.”

“Hmmm,” said the provisioner-general. “Did they give you any idea when they would be returning said cattle?”

Brack opened his mouth to respond, but instead there was only the noise of a distant twanging, followed by the approaching sound of a lowing, panic-stricken cow. From overhead.

The gnomes were returning the cattle-by catapult. The first of the four hundred and fifty-three head of cattle smashed into the ground between Brack and the provi-sioner-general, knocking both off their feet. Brack immediately started scrabbling away as the provisioner-gener-al held his clipboard over his head in hopes that paperwork would stop the rain of cows over the dragonarmy camp.

Augie slapped the table with the fleshy part of his palm. “So it’s a cow story, then!” he said laughing.

Brack managed a thin, patient smile. “It’s a gnome story, one of those where you underestimate the gnomes and they turn out to be more intelligent, inventive, and dangerous than you thought. They found a way to hide the cattle, then built catapults. . ”

“Cattle-pults,” snorted Augie, almost spitting beer out his nose.

Brack sipped at his tankard, and Augie waved for another round. Another gnome appeared with more ales. Augie pulled himself slowly back together and rubbed the tears from his eyes.

“So the jig was up,” he said at last. “Your little imaginary friend was revealed at last, and you were cashiered.”

Brack shook his head. “Not yet. The cow-shot attack was only the beginning. We sent out forces, of course, but the gnome towns were abandoned.”

“They fled before your victorious armies?”

“They had abandoned them earlier,” said Brack. “They were keeping the cows inside the buildings. Of course none of our hobgoblins wanted to go find out because. .”

“These gnomes were dangerous!” shouted Augie, almost losing his composure again. “They were followers of Rumtuggle!”

“Rumtuggle the Rebel,” said Brack. “Who was supposedly dead, but now was being sighted everywhere, rallying the gnomes and the kender and whatever other races they could find against us. That just brought out the worst elements of all.”

“Oh no, not. .”

“Adventurers,” said Brack, staring into his mug. “Any tinpenny warrior with a dream and a sword. They started rallying the gnomes into a real organized force. And if we caught and killed any of them, then more showed up.”

“So what did your highlords do when all this activity suddenly showed up in your comfortable backwater?” asked Augie, smiling.

Brack sighed. “The worst thing they could possibly do.”

“You mean?”

“Yes.” Brack set down his empty tankard and picked up the refilled one, “They sent more troops in. To help us put down the imaginary gnome.”

The dragonlord’s armor was a shiny jet-black, and he rode an emerald-colored mount, its reptilian scales shimmering greenly in the wet morning fog. What Lieutenant Brack remembered most of all was his nose. It was a thin, aquiline nose with a great distance from tip to bridge, and the dragonlord looked down the entire length of said nose to regard Brack.

“You have rebel troubles,” said the dragonlord icily, in the tone of a man who had far more important things to do. Brack wished the dragonlord was doing them.

“In a manner of speaking,” said Brack, as calmly as possible. “There were some thefts-”

“Cows,” said the dragonlord. “You lost some cows.”

“But we got them back,” put in Brack.

“Not in the same shape as you lost them,” said the dragonlord. He struck a pose. “Rebellion must be crushed wherever it raises its head!”

Brack wondered if the pose was supposed to be heroic or just uncomfortable. “It has been a very peaceful area.”

“Until now,” said the dragonlord in a voice as serious as the grave. “Until this. . Rumtuggle chose to challenge the might of our armies. He will live to regret it.”

The dragon snorted in agreement. Lieutenant Brack looked at the dragonlord, wondering if he should laugh or scream.

By the end of the first week, he would have opted for screaming. More forces arrived, and with them a plethora of lieutenants, captains, and colonels. All answered to the dragonlord, and Brack was reduced to little more than a concierge, rushing about and making sure that all their needs were met. Most of these units had served together and had rivalries ranging from friendly and competitive to bitter and dangerous. Most of Brack’s forces were now kept busy keeping the other encampments from raiding each other over slights, real and imagined.

The dragonlord was oblivious to such problems within the ranks, as was usual with those in charge. The various commanders jumped when he shouted orders, and they scuttled away to enact them. Usually that involved some new demand upon outpost commander Brack.

While overseeing a crew to clear still more land for the encampment of a newly arrived unit, Brack realized what was bothering him-he had suddenly rejoined the army, and he did not like it one bit.

The weather did nothing to help. The fogs that had helped created Rumtuggle in the first place had continued and, if anything, had gotten worse. They were combined with continual rains that drenched the area. Given the large number of troops now contained in the immediate vicinity of the outpost, the entire region was now a foot-sloshing bog.

Each day the dragonlord flew through the grayish fog atop his mount and spent the day reconnoitering the area. However, with the exception of more fog, broken by the occasional shattered, rocky hilltop, there was nothing to be seen, and each day the dragonlord returned in a fouler mood, resulting in more orders for the subordinates and ultimately more irritation for Brack.

Finally the dragonlord drew up a plan. Since the weather was against them (undoubtedly influenced by foul rebel wizards), they would press outward, putting any settlements discovered to the torch until the combined forces of the enemy were forced to either flee or engage them on the field of honorable battle.

Only Brack, unused to blind obedience, asked the question, “What if the enemy has already fled?”

The dragonlord chortled and said, “These rebels are fanatics, and this Rumtuggle is the worst of all. No, they want to fight, and we will triumph!”

The other subordinates glared harshly at Brack for lengthening the briefing by asking stupid questions. The dragonlord laid out his plans for which units would be where, how to form a huge, sweeping formation that would course over the land like a wave, sweeping everything in its path. They would ride forth on the morrow morn, rain or shine. He looked at Brack with piercing eyes and asked if there were any questions.

Brack kept his thoughts to himself, and the sub-commanders were left to their units. Brack noted at the time that at least the dragonlord had showed the good sense to keep the most quarrelsome units on opposite flanks of the force, where they would not be able to taunt each other.

The next day was rain, not shine, but that did not slow the juggernaut of the dragonarmy. The dragonlord was at its head, astride his mount, and Brack’s forces were slightly to the left, just outside the vanguard. Most of the hobgoblins scouted, and his few cavalry forces were to act as skirmishers. The rain grew heavier, and struck with such force that the soft earth spattered on the assembled soldiers.

Brack considered telling the dragonlord the truth but felt that after a few days’ march and finding no official resistance, the dragonlord would fly away and things would get back to normal.

In truth, they barely got out of camp. As the dragonlord raised his hand to give the order to move out, a hobgoblin scout came staggering up, covered with mud.

“Gnomes!” shouted the hobgoblin. “Rumtuggle is waiting with his army!”

Upon reflection, Brack was to decide that the muddy scout, survivor of some other mishap while on patrol, had decided that Rumtuggle would be a suitable target to blame. Upon reflection, Brack was to decide this, but there was no time for reflection.

The entire army was electrified by the news and sloshed forward over the muddy parade fields and into the even muddier hills of the surrounding areas. The hillocks broke up the lines of units into packets of swordsmen and archers, of hobgoblins and cavalry. The rain grew worse, which Brack had thought was not possible, and the fog closed in so that an entire unit could walk into a river without seeing it-not that the drag-onlord would notice if a unit completely vanished.

Actually Brack did notice something as the ground dropped away at his feet. He found himself half-falling, half-sliding down an embankment. Other swordsmen and archers nearby cursed as they were similarly caught unawares. Mud caked on his armor and greaves as Brack and his unit fought to clear the far side of this particular gully.

That was when he and the others saw them-tall shadows among the fog, along the upper ridge of the embankment. Some had swords, some had bows and arrows. They were waiting for the dragonarmy.

Someone to Brack’s right gave a shout and let loose an arrow. Five arrows returned out of the rain and caught the original archer in the chest and belly. He went down, but five of his companions unleashed their arrows, and several of the shadows fell away. There were shouts now, as the sword-wielders above half-ran, half-slid down the embankment to meet Brack’s unit.

Behind Brack a horn sounded charge. Ahead of him, beyond the enemy line, a similar horn responded. Brack was heartened for the moment. They had the enemy surrounded!

A shape loomed up in the fog, no more than silhouette. It was large and man-sized, and Brack lashed out with his blade. As he struck, he wondered if this was some human ally of the gnomes, some adventurer who was helping the small rebels.

Brack’s thoughts were interrupted as his blade pierced the man’s armor and the soldier he fought collapsed. The blade had skittered over armor of a type similar to that found in the dragonarmies. No, not similar. Exactly like it.

Brack wiped the rain from his eyes and stared down at the wounded soldier clutching his side. He had not recognized his foe in the mud and fog. The man was a soldier in dragonarmy armor.

They were fighting themselves. Some group had gotten turned around and they were attacking each other.

Brack shouted for his men to stop fighting, but there was no stopping the juggernaut once it had begun collapsing on itself. Other horns were sounding now as various flanks swept forward to enclose an enemy that was not there. They collided with each other and locked themselves in battle. Most did not recognize their own forces. Some fought only because they were themselves being attacked. A few recognized their foes but blamed sorcery. A few, particularly the last to arrive from the outer flanks, saw it as a chance to settle old scores.

Brack saw only carnage, as his troops ceased to be anything more than a bloodied and bloodthirsty mob. He tried to retreat and ended up almost skewered on a brace of pikemen charging at full tilt into the muddle. He ran forward and danced as arrows stuck in the soft earth at his feet. At last he found a tributary of the muddy river and followed it upward, away from the battle.

The fog was clearing only slightly as he poked his head up out of the dell. He saw a huge, immobile form laving in the grass. Carefully he approached it and saw that it was the green dragon, its emerald scales now striped with blood, its wings and torso peppered with dragonarmy arrows.

Beside the great beast’s head was the dragonlord, his helmet off, his long face buried in grief in his hands. Brack walked up, put a hand on the dragonlord’s shoulder. The warrior looked up, and Brack was unsure if the dragonlord was crying or if it was only rain washing down his face.

“Our own troops,” the dragonlord said at last, looking at his dead mount. “The gnomes turned our own troops against us. What mysterious power could turn our mighty forces against each other?”

Brack did not say what his first thought was. Instead, he knelt down next to the dragonlord, and said, “Let me tell you about gnomes. . ”

“And that’s my story,” said Brack, setting the empty mug down on the table. A serving gnome made to remove it, but Brack held up his hand-no more for him.

“What did you tell the dragonlord?” asked Brack.

“I told him that Rumtuggle the Rebel Gnome had come up with his greatest invention, a device so powerful that even the dragonarmy could not find him and defeat him. Any attempt would end in frustration if the enemy was lucky, and disaster if he was not.” Brack rose unsteadily to his feet.

“Did he believe it?” wondered Augie, still seated. “Did the dragonlord believe you?”

Brack shrugged. “I don’t know. I tendered my resignation then and there and walked away. Been fighting small-unit engagements ever since, for whoever can pay. Fighting against real opponents, for real reasons.”

“What about the dragonlord?” asked Augie.

“He might have done the same,” said Brack, fishing a sack of coins from his belt, “or he might still be out there, trying to hunt down a gnome that isn’t there, sacrificing more armies to the altar of his own stupidity.”

“What of the gnome’s invention?” said Augie, “the cattle-pult? Where were the gnomes hiding? What was it that spooked the hobgoblin scout?”

Brack shook his head, and said, “You don’t understand.” He handed the sack of coins to the gnome waiter and asked, “Gnome, do you know of one of your race named Rumtuggle?”

The gnome, who had been bringing the drinks all evening, brightened visibly. “Yes! I have a great uncle named Rumtuggle. He was a mighty warrior and gifted inventor and fought in the war! Everyone knows about Rumtuggle!”

Brack smiled, fished out a few more coins, and handed them to the gnome, who scuttled off. “Every family has at least one Rumtuggle in it, nowadays,” said Brack. “That’s the greatest gnomish invention. Rumtuggle-the gnome so powerful that he invented himself! Think about that the next time you fight gnomes.”

Brack disappeared, leaving Augie at the table. The old warrior looked deep into his near-empty mug and began chuckling. The chuckling became laughter, and the laughter became a roaring bellow.

The gnome waiter brought Augie another ale, while the dwarven barkeep counted Brack’s coins.