To the right, beneath the overturned chair, the chittering increased, and jumped another order of magnitude as Moros stepped toward it. The wing captain shoved the chair aside. The box was there, radiating from the power of the bouncing atomies within it. Grabbing the cube, he felt it was warm to the touch.
The key was still missing! The insect chattered louder and louder now, its voice a bone-grating buzz that carved its way into Moros’s brain. The wing captain turned about, searching for the grayish peg that would defuse the box. He panicked. He couldn’t find it!
The sergeant had the gnome in a choke-hold. The gnome was gnawing on the sergeant’s knuckles.
Where was that damned key? The clicking grew louder, faster.
A pudgy hand grasped Moros’s wrist, and a second set of fat fingers slammed the gray peg home into its slot in the cube. The chatter of the eager atomie counter subsided at once.
Moros and the innkeep looked at each other, exhaling a single breath as one. Then the fat man let go of Moros’s wrist and stepped back, wiping his forehead with his dishcloth. Moros set the cube back on the table, next to overturned mugs of ale.
The sergeant had finally brought his human strength to bear and now stood in the center of the room with his captive, his arms wrapped around the small mad gnome’s midsection. The gnome kicked and screamed, but the subordinate stoically ignored both verbal and physical abuse. From the look on his subordinate’s face, it was clear that the sergeant thought he had performed a most important task.
Moros brought his face level with the enraged, now-helpless gnome. “Attacking an officer of the Dragon forces is an offense punishable by death,” the human snarled. The gnome blanched visibly as the sergeant pulled his blade. “I find you guilty of that charge, and commute your sentence to imprisonment in the mines. Sergeant, lock this one up until the fewmaster comes by with his slave wagon.”
The gnome spat a few more curses and threats as the sergeant dragged him outside. The sunlight flashed in a single burst as they passed through the door, leaving Moros and the innkeep alone.
Moros turned back to the nondescript cube. He picked up the device and cradled it in one hand. Already the warmth was gone. The atomie-counting cricket was chirping softly and erratically. Should he turn this over to his superiors along with the gnome? What if he gave it to them and it didn’t work?
What if he gave it to them and it did?
He looked at the innkeep, who was watching him warily, intently. “I’m going out on patrol now with Shalebreak,” Moros announced. “We’re going to check out those tall mountains to the west. I’d better bring the Plus-Gnomium along for safekeeping.”
There was a brief silence, then the innkeep said, “You’d best be careful. Those mountains are impassable and uninhabitable. It would be a shame if you happened to lose the Plus-Gnomium while in flight.”
“A definite shame,” said the wing captain. He looked at the innkeep, who had picked up the piece of raw Gnomite. The larger human was turning the nondescript stone over in his hands, as if his pudgy fingers could unlock its secrets.
“You can keep that rock,” said Moros, “as a reminder that you should never listen to a gnome, regardless of how good his offer sounds. Even when he invents what he intends to, he is nothing but trouble. But then, who would believe that such power could be held in a hunk of stone?”
“No one would,” muttered the innkeep quietly, slipping the stone into his apron pocket, “and we can thank the gods for that.”
Storytellers
Nick O’Donohoe
Night had fallen long since, and the moon-harvest moon, red and full-was up in the mountains to the east. Traders, pilgrims, all manner of travelers had taken advantage of the extra light to make longer journeys, but by now all sensible travelers had made camp or had arrived at inns and homes. Moonlight or no, travel by night could be dangerous.
At the Inn of the Waiting Fire, the logs were blazing and the stew pot already empty. A second crock of cider simmered beside it; the barmaid hurried over, filled a pitcher with several scoops of the huge ladle, and crossed to the tables where tonight’s guests took up every bench, talking quietly and finishing the last of the bread.