have pulled his blow, and she would have killed us all.”
“But he believes a lie!” groaned Kali, still keeping his
voice down.
Eton shrugged. “From what I know of humans, that is
a standard state of affairs. They excel at self-deception.
Sometimes the lie is the unity of a nation, or the
perfection of a cause. Or the love of a good woman – ”
” – who doesn’t really exist,” muttered Kali.
“Exactly.” Eton nodded. “It might even be preferred
that way. Less fuss and bother. I might create one for
myself. . .”
Kali hrumphed weakly and drifted off to sleep. After a
few days he came around to seeing things as Eton did.
And Oster did heal over time and come to conquer the
wound in his heart made by Columbine’s death at the
hands of the Highlord. And after a time it became less and
less important for Kali to tell Oster the truth of the matter.
Even so, he himself pledged to tell no more lies. No more
dangerous ones, at least.
And so it has been from that day to this. There still is a
gnome village so remote that other gnomes refer to it
when talking about remote villages, a noisy place of
clanging hammers and the occasional explosion. And it
has as its protector a champion in bronze armor, a human
in clock-work attire. And its healer is a gnome who has an
air of satisfaction because he made something that works,
though, even if pressed, he won’t reveal the nature of his
discovery.
Now, if you ever encounter this Clockwork Hero, you
can ask him the tale, and he will tell, as best he is able
with his human tongue and direct manner, of the story of
his reluctant heroism, of finding himself entrusted to
protect a group of small, foolish gnomes. He will speak of
encountering a beauty wrapped in slumber, a fair maiden
who never spoke to him, yet captured his heart. And he
will tell of the fell creature who killed her and threatened
his newfound people, such that they called upon him for
salvation. And he will speak of sacrifices made and
mighty oaths sworn and horrible battles fought and how
justice and valor prevailed at the end, though at terrible
cost.
But that, of course, is a Human Story, and as such we
shall not worry about it.
THE NIGHT WOLF
Nancy Varian Berberick
The village of Dimmin lay snugly in a fold of the
Kharolis Mountains, tucked between the elves’ Qualinesti
and Thorbardin of the dwarves. On the outskirts of that
little village, beyond the bend of the brook where willows
overhung the water on both sides, stood a small stone
house. It was the mage’s house, and Thorne had lived there
for twenty years. To the eye, he was a man just come into
his prime, but he’d been looking like that for all these
twenty years past, never a hair turned gray, and so folk
reckoned that he had an elf lurking in his ancestry
somewhere.
Mages enjoyed no good reputation in those days just
after the Cataclysm, but the villagers liked Thorne. From
the headman to the lowliest dairy maid, they knew him as
“our mage.” Even Guarinn Hammerfell – the dwarf who
did the blacksmithing – couldn’t hide a grudging fondness
for Thorne, and that was saying something. Until the
mage’s arrival, Guarinn could name only one friend – Tam
the potter. But for Tam the potter, Guarinn had always
kept to himself, a grim fellow, without much warmth of
feeling. Yet, when Thorne arrived, Guarinn made room in
his lean heart for another friend. Long-lived dwarf and
long-lived mage . . . the villagers joked that Guarinn must
have reckoned Thorne would be around for a while, so he
might as well get used to him.
The people in Dimmin didn’t know the half of what was
to be known about Guarinn and Tam and Thorne, though
they did consider it natural that Roulant Potter, grown to
manhood tagging at the heels of Tam and his friends,
stepped into his father’s place after the potter’s death – and
became just as friendly with Guarinn and Thorne.