The War Of The Lance (19 page)

The fact that in the former case he was accompanied by a party of gnomes armed with Eton's
automatic lasso- projectors and in the latter the sword he found had been forged
specifically to slay beholders did nothing to diminish his prestige. Oster was well-loved
by the gnomes, never more so than when he rescued the Kastonopolintar sisters when their
alchemy shop decided to blow up on Solstice Eve.

Yet most of the time when he was not out adventuring or attending this dinner or that test
in his honor, Oster sat by the bedside of the lady, now known in the community as Oster's
Lady, waiting for her to recover, watching her passive, quiet face in the moonlight as her
coverlets rose and fell with each breath. The gnomes respected Oster, and in turn
respected his sleeping lady, so none of them mentioned her erratic behavior when she had
first arrived, or that Kali seemed less effective than normal in working a cure. They did
not want to worry the human needlessly.

Kali was miserable, of course. He knew the truth,

more than any of his comrades, and it hurt him to see that he himself was responsible for
Oster's heartache. It was clear that the human had built up an imagined image for his
lady, a lady who, once awake, would undoubtedly shred Oster limb from limb. On more than
one occasion, Kali screwed up his courage to the point where he decided to confront Oster
with the truth. The gnome mentally rehearsed his lines and thought of every reason or
argument why he should tell the human the truth. And each time he attempted the truth, the
following would happen:

Kali would say, “Oster, we must talk.”

Oster would sigh, clutching the hand of his beloved, and say, “Yes, I know I spend all my
time here when I am not elsewhere. You think it unhealthy.”

Kali would say, “Well yes, but ...”

And Oster would break in with, “I just worry that some time when I am not here, the
thrice-damned Highlord will return and hurt you and my friends and my lady.” And here
would be another room-filling sigh as he would add, “Is she not beautiful?”

At this point, Kali, hating himself every step of the way, would always remember a project
that was half finished and leave the sighing Oster with his lady. The plate mail of the
Clockwork Hero fit better as he got more exercise, and old skills he thought
long-forgotten returned to him. He gathered many weapons and strange items in his travels
around the valley, keeping for himself a clutch of silver daggers worn at the belt and a
magical cape, but giving the rest to friends. Kali sent the hero out on none- such
missions for unneeded materials, while he and Organathoran the painter - whom Kali had
bonded to silence - set about their craft.

Each day, when Oster was gone, they would mix plaster and make a mold of some part of the
lady - her hand or her arm or foot. The molds would then be filled with hot wax. It took
several weeks of work to finally get adequate casts of the hands, and longer for the legs,
torso, and face. The poor castings were melted in the hearth, as were a few good molds
that had to be jettisoned when Oster returned in triumph too early.

Once, when taking the mold of the woman's head, Kali thought for a moment of covering her
fully with

plaster, of letting her perish. It would solve the problem, and make everything so much
easier. Even if it did break Oster's heart.

But as the thoughts crossed his mind, Kali's hands began to shake, and he had to step
outside to compose himself. They were unworthy thoughts, for both a healer and a gnome.
Humans may take the easy route, but a little complexity never stopped a gnome. He would
proceed as he had planned.

When the model was finished, Kali stored it in a hidden back room next to the Highlord
armor. Using the hair of a long-haired fox, Kali fashioned a suitable wig, and Or
ganathoran worked on duplicating the looks of a sick but living human being.

As the work completed, Kali placed an order with his fellow gnomes for a stonework
mausoleum and a sepulchre. In true gnome fashion, the work took several 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 leapt forward,
lunging with a straight sword blow toward Oster's chest. The Clockwork Hero brought his
own blade up quickly and parried the lunge, tossing his helmet at the Highlord. She
dodged, but the bronze helm grazed her head, disorienting her for a moment. Oster used the
moment to draw back into the room, waving to Kali and Eton to move away.

Kali and Eton scurried to the fireplace, which was graced by a number of Eton's new
plow-share-shovels. These fireplace tools had a graceful sweep of metal welded to the
base, making them useless for scooping ashes, but excellent for small gardening tasks and
fair for bashing. The pair edged around the perimeter of the battle. Kali had heard that
kender could merge into the stone itself and move without leaving a shadow. He desperately
wished for that ability now.

Oster's attention was riveted on the dark-armored form before him. Kali expected the
Highlord to taunt, laugh, snarl, and behave in the way of all good bad people when
confronted with virtue, but the Highlord kept her input to a few growls of the mid-gear
type. She lunged forward in a flurry of blows, lunges, and backswings. Oster parried them
easily, and drove her back with a swing to the mid-section, a swipe to the head. What he
lacked in form, he made up in force, and the Highlord was staggered when one of Oster's
strong lunges caught her in the left arm.

They fought for a minute, two minutes, an eternity of three. The Highlord never lost track
of the two gnomes (learning from her experience), and avoided all their attempts to get
behind her. The two main combatants made quick work of most of Kali's living room
furniture - every breakable was introduced to the dangers of being inadvertently close to
clashing steel. The Highlord would charge, locking steel with Oster. The pair would
stagger against each other in a few deadly dance steps, then one or the other would be
flung backward, usually just far enough to reduce some other furnishing to its component
parts. Lunge, the clash of locked blades, the stagger, the destruction of a chair. Lunge,
lock, stagger, writing desk.

Lunge, lock, stagger, spoon collection. Sweat was now running down Oster's face in
rivulets,

but his eyes burned with fury. The battle had run long now, and Kali knew that all their
deaths were long overdue. A bud of insight blossomed within his skull, and he suddenly
understood why the Highlord had not made quick work of all of them. While Oster had been
in training as the local hero of the gnomes, the Highlord had been under an enforced and
extended rest for six months. While the Highlord was sufficiently powerful to make short
work of a pair of gnomes, or a surprised cleric expecting a demure young lady, she was
having more trouble with someone trained for combat.

The length of the battle was telling on the Highlord. Blood leaked between the epaulets of
her wounded upper arm, forming a deadly calligraphy on her armor. Even Kali could see she
was favoring that arm, and Oster pressed his advantage, driving her back, step by step, to
the bedroom door.

Kali's eyes took in the battle, but his mind whirled with options, all of them bad. At
first it seemed to him that Oster would surely perish under the attack, which was good in
that at least he would die without finding out his ladylove was his murderer, but bad
considering that said murderer would probably avenge herself on the rest of the community.
Now it looked like Oster would be victorious, which would be equally disastrous, for once
he discovered the Highlord was his Columbine, he would perish just as surely of a broken
heart, if not busted ribs.

Kali chewed on his beard, fidgeted, raised his weapon, fidgeted again. Eton was a statue
next to him, working out his own thoughts, or perhaps preparing himself for the afterlife.
The pair were enraptured by the deadly ballet played out before them.

Oster was now beating the Highlord's attacks easily, reducing her to weak parries and
dodges. The two locked blades again (Kali made a mental check to see if there was any
surviving furniture). This time, when they broke, the Highlord's sword separated from its
owner, burying its point in the china cabinet (shattering the last of the unbroken
teapots). Oster brought his sword around in a mighty blow, aimed at his opponents' throat,
as smooth and as level as carpenter's beam.

Kali stepped forward and, in a loud voice, shouted, “Oster, don't do it! It's your
Columbine!” Or rather, he fully intended to. A great, soft explosion blossomed at the base
of his own skull and he toppled forward. The room pitched and the floor rose up to meet
the gnome. He was dimly aware of two other forms striking the floor before he reached it,
one the shape of a full human helmet, the other resembling a human sans both helmet and
head. A part of Kali's mind paused to calculate how long it would take a plummeting gnome,
a falling severed head, and a crumbled body to all hit the ground at the same time. Then
the void closed up over him.

Kali awoke to find himself in his own bed, looking up at a grim Oster and a
worried-looking Eton. The expression on his fellow gnome's face told the story - that
shamed-dog look of gnomish responsibility when an invention goes slightly awry, combined
with a mild sense of pride that the idea proved feasible. He still had his combination
plowshare-shovel in his hands.

Oster's face was human and therefore unreadable. Gray. It looked like that of a gnome who
has realized his invention is unworkable, and nothing could change that fact. A look of
defeat, tinged with worry.

“She's dead,” Kali croaked. Not a question, but a notation, a footnote.

“They both are,” said Oster, putting a hand on the reclining gnome's shoulder. “And the
priest, too, I'm afraid.”

“Both?” Kali's brow clouded.

“The Highlord, and . . . and . . .” Oster shook his head. “Eton showed me the tomb you
made for her. It is very sweet. Almost as if she were alive. When I pointed the priest
toward the bedroom, the Highlord was waiting. If you hadn't come home, he would have
caught us both.”