tries, and resulted in a building whose design would drive
mad the best human architects, complete with a long span
of glossy black stone leading up to its foot-thick doors.
The sepulchre itself was carved of crystal.
Kali’s final plan was simple (for a gnome). The
mannequin would be placed beneath the crystal in the
tomb. Oster would be told that the crystal sepulchre would
keep his lady alive in sleep for the rest of her days, for
there was no way even Kali could cure her. Oster would
be hurt, but it would be a hurt with hope for the future, a
lesser hurt than losing one you love (at least, this was
Kali’s reasoning). The hell-spawn who wanted to throttle
him would, at the same time, be placed in the ox-cart,
unconscious, and set out without a driver on the road. By
the time she awoke, she would be miles from the gnomes’
remote home, with a few months missing from her life,
and Kali would not be a murderer.
That was the plan, at least, and the leaves were just
being to rum their fall colors when all was ready. Kali and
Eton lugged the finished mannequin from its secret hiding
place one day when Oster had been sent on some quest for
Archie. They laid the figure to rest in the tomb and closed
the fasteners. Beneath its glass now lay a beautiful
princess suitable for use in a Human Story. Her lips were
cold and red, and her eyes coated with bluish-tinged blush,
never to open.
The entire task took them about two hours. When they
returned, they were shocked to discover Oster there
waiting for them.
Oster the Clockwork Hero was still in his plate armor,
helmet tucked under his arm, pacing in the drawing room.
He warmly welcomed Kali and Eton with a broad grin.
Kali coughed and launched into what he hoped was to be
his last lie. “Oster, I must tell you terrible news. The
condition of Lady Columbine has not remained constant
while you were gone. Rather, it has worsened, such that
we found it necessary to place her in a magical bier in a
stone building on the hill. I’m sorry, but I’d . . .” His voice
trailed off as he looked into Oster’s puzzled eyes.
“What are you talking about?” asked Oster. “She is
still resting within.” He motioned toward the bedroom
door and Kali, for the first time, realized they left the
secret closet open in that room. “I have glorious news.
While traveling through the hill looking for ingredients, I
chanced to rescue a priest – a true priest – one with the
skills to heal the sick and cure the diseased. I brought him
here to cure Lady Columbine. No slur on your abilities,
Kali, my dear friend, but all your potions have been for
nought. He’s been in there for half an hour, ever since – ”
Oster’s words were cut short. The door to the bedroom
snapped off its gnome-built, reinforced hinges. Through it
came hurtling the broken body of the priest. The Dragon
Highlord, dressed in full armor, strode into the room. Even
with her features masked, Kali could sense that she was
smiling. A dog-frightening, bird-throttling, cat-killing
smile.
Kali’s heart sank. The figurative jig was up, and Kali
realized for the first time that he had built his invention of
fiction without tightening the smallest bolt, building one
lie upon another until he created an edifice of falsehoods,
a structure that now swayed in the harsh wind of truth. He
thought of the old Human Stories, and wished fervently
for an easy fix – a wise old holy man to wander onto the
scene and provide the solution to all problems.
And with another start, he realized that this was
precisely what HAD almost happened. The holy man lay
in a pool of his own blood, paying the price for wandering
into the wrong tale.
But, while Kali’s mind was stopping and starting,
rushing from one revelation to another like a frightened
child in an old house, the humans thundered on in the
manner that all humans do. The Highlord laughed and