Chapter II

He ran straight through the woods with little thought as to any specific destination. He realized he neared Toadstool Meadows, the closest gnome village and veered away from it, not wanting to guide any trouble to them. Gasping for air, he slowed his pace to a steady walk

“Silly gnome,” he thought, “you’re really in it deep this time. The thing to do is to go to
Fesselwick and give that meddling druid a lashing for bringing this down upon you.”

He stopped and leaned against a tree and rubbed the sweat off his face. The good news was that zombies were notoriously slow though they would not lose his scent and pursue him night and day tirelessly until they just rotted apart if not given fresh meat and ordered to sleep in order to regenerate. Red Caps on the other hand needed to rest like any living creature and were not really trained for tracking and long treks, their use was for striking from the shadows at more or less stationary targets. So, while they could follow him thanks to the zombies, they were forced to move at the zombies’ slower pace and find places to hole up during the daylight hours when both were more conspicuous and least powerful. He could possibly rouse the villages and form a hunting party and trap his pursuers. The idea was attractive, but he didn’t know the real size of the group. For the first time he considered the thought that there might be more than just those that attacked his home. Which brought him back to heading to Fesselwick and the druid. Fesselwick was quite a journey, on the other side of the mostly human lands of Holfurd. Even as far South as the Green Woods that housed the Gnomes and other lesser fay, he knew of the rumors and whispers of war and unrest and of fell creatures that emanated from the “North Lands” that Reven wrote of, the lands that bordered Holfurd. Any journey north was too dangerous for a lone traveler. Yet, he could not afford to go into a nearby town and join in any caravan. He’d have to wait for one leaving and they would move too slow, delays that would allow the doom that pursued him to catch up. Which brought him back to traveling alone.

“There’s just no way around it,” he thought. “I’ll have to get Gnuckles. It will be only a slight detour and if he’s half as tough as he was, he’s as good as a score of caravan guards.”


Gnestor struck a more easterly path, jogging at an easy pace. Dawn was just breaking when he got to Old Road that ran towards the small gathering of gnome and haufling communities, on the outskirts of which Gnuckles ran his smithy and inn. It would still be a two-day journey by foot, even with the quick pace Gnestor was setting. There was little crime on the road and some regular traffic during the day, so he felt he had less to fear of the Red Caps sneaking up on him.

As he traveled, he formulated a plan. He did not want to actually approach Gnuckles’ place too closely lest his pursuers strike it looking for him, even after he was long gone. That afternoon he caught up with a small group of gnomes heading the same way at a slightly more leisurely pace.

“Ahoi,” he called out. They paused and turned to look at him. He knew that he didn’t look the most respectable, his clothes being somewhat soiled but it would fit the look of a fellow on the road for awhile.

“Aah-hoi to ya,” called an older gnome with a long beard down to his stomach. He was a light-bearer, carrying a staff with a lantern hanging off the end through which he could channel light among other magicks. His presence marked him as the leader of this small group. The gnome with the pony driven wagon clucked a few times and brought the wagon to a halt.

“Ye fellows be heading home, to Thistledown,” he asked, guessing from their accent. Thistledown was the largest community of gnomes up this road but their proximity to the hauflin communities massacred the language. “Mind if I be joining ye for part of the way? I’ve got some copper for some fresh food and a turn on the wagon to rest me tired feet. After a little nap, I can take watch for most of the night.”
“’Ginst wot?” laughed the light-bearer. “Most ‘armful ding outs ‘ere would be wood-sprites and sprigs wid dere pranks and sense of ‘umor. Still, we won’t begrudging da comp’ny if for no udder reason dan to ‘ear some new tales instead of ‘nudder variashen of da farmer’s daughter by Krunkel.” The wagon driver gave a toothy grin.

“Got yerself a deal,” he said and climbed aboard the wagon. “Name’s Gnestor.” He thought about using an alias but decided against it. As a falcon-rider, he had traveled most of these lands and villages. A lot of people would recognize him even when not wearing the tell-tale red hooded cloak.

“Randel,” said the light-bearer. “Burrberry and Grig,” he said pointing at the two younger gnomes walking alongside the wagon. “Back from bidness wid Mischal’s Wall.”

“Mischal’s Wall? Ye be carrying goods from smitty Gnuckles, then?” Mischal’s Wall was a small keep a day or two south that overlooked the eastern coastline

“Dat’s right,” said Krunkel. “Ye be lookin’ at a couple of ‘is ‘ssistants ‘ere. ‘Cepting ole Randel ‘oo is comin’ ‘ome on ‘oliday from ‘is ‘ppointment dere, ‘e is.”

“So happens, I’m an ole pal of Gnuckles,” said Gnestor. “Was hoping to stop by and see him… although his last wife never really glommed on to me too well. Maybe ye could deliver him a message for me when we get close. Not too close mind ye, she see me and it’s crows for dinner a long walk home for me, if ye catch me drift.”

Randel laughed and said, “Gor save us from our best friends’ girlfriends and wives.”

“And, may the twain never meet,” said Gnestor, giving the common reply. His fellow travelers all laughed. And, for a little bit, Gnestor was able to forget about his troubles.

Chapter One: Gnestor the Gnome

Gnome Falconrider Gnestor landed the facoln outside his home that was backed to a small hill where a large old oak stood. His shift of patrolling the outslaying lands of the burrows was over and he was looking forward to a couple of quiet evenings in his home on the outskirts. He whistled to himself as removed the harness and sacks from Greyfeather’s back. He tossed them by the door to his home then went to the rain barrel and filled a water dish for the large bird.

“There you are sweetie,” he said putting the dish at her feet. She bent her head, bumped against him lovingly and he patted her neck. “Good girl. Now go, hunt or visit your family or what have you. See you in a few days.” He and other falconriders had that tendency to talk to their birds as if they actually understood, and who knows, maybe they did. He knew she wouldn’t fly too far. Falconriders’ birds never did, seeing their little masters as part of the family. A feeling reciprocated by most gnome riders though they wouldn't admit it.

As she drank the water, he picked up the bags and went into his home. He latched the door behind him and lit the candles. He prepared himself a supper of some crackers, dried meat, cheese and wine. The advantage of not settling down with a family upon returning from service in the human lands, his needs and wants were fairly simple. He settled into his favorite chair and started going through the papers from the sacks he had brought with him. In addition to patrolling and keeping watch, Falconriders often served as messengers and mail carriers. For the first time in years, one of the messages was for him.

He looked at the seal, one of a rose with a thorned stem that formed an almost complete circle around the rose. It looked authentic. “Witches’ Bones,” he silently swore to himself and he opened the letter.

“Salutations Gnestor,

I fear that any hopes that the laird Dennon had perished must be put aside. If you’ve not heard, many of our old comrades have perished under what is best termed questionable circumstances. We fear that Dennon at best has found allies to the North Lands where little good news is heard these days. At the end of the third month, there will be a gathering in the village of Fesselwick at the Blue Rat Inn. I understand if you choose not to come but allies and sympathetic ears to the Order are few these days and I hope you will reconsider. Whatever you decide, I fear Dennon’s reach and power has grown greater than we feared, watch yourself.

Reyen Thull,

Order of the White Rose

“Meddling, busybody druids,” muttered Gnestor. "Always with the bad news and then the worse news." He sighed and muttered a few more curses. He thought of the days he spent helping the druids in the disastrous hunt for the vampyre Bloody Red Jakk and his harem and brood. Every nightmare he had in the decade and half since stemmed from those few weeks he and a handful of Gerrold's guardsmen served under the direction of a pair of druids. He was most certainly not going to join him in another ghost hunt. He quickly downed the glass of wine and got up to retrieve the bottle. He was going to need a lot more if he was going to sleep tonight. As an extra precaution, he secured the extra chain lock on the door, touched the runes on the door frame and whispered a little prayer to Friya, the Goddess of the Woods.

“Whuzza,” he drowsily said, waking in his chair. Something was banging against the door. He could hear Greyfeathers screaming as she did when fully riled, a sound he only heard that one time when they fought some winter-starved wolves to protect a farmer’s twin daughters. He remembered the druid’s letter and jumped up, fully awake.

Only one candle was still lit but the ward runes on the door glowed, indicating there was magic involved as well as pure physical force. It wouldn’t be long before the door gave way.

“Bloody, stupid, bothersome druids and their missions,” said Gnestor. He ran through the house. From the outside, the house looked little more than a hut, but it was built against a hill and the whole hill was part of his home. Most outsiders didn’t know much about gnome homes since they couldn’t fit in them. Most had several rooms and tunnels, drawing in the magic of the earth that they loved so much. In a village, the tunnels were often interconnected. Alone like he was, he had built his own network including an emergency exit tunnel. It helped him sleep at night.

He threw back the trap door in the floor, entered the hole and secured it behind him. He climbed down the ladder for several feet. At the foot of the ladder laid an emergency traveling backpack, a cloak, walking stick, a hatchet and his old short sword and sheath bearing the markings of the guardsmen of King Gerrold. He grabbed these and ran down the tunnel. These tunnels were marked different from the rest of his home, the walls were unworked in any manner and tree roots still protruded in places. He went through one small section where the dirt walls gave way to one of stones and wooden beams and columns. At the end of this part of the passage, he paused and swung the blunt end of his hatchet against a small bit of wooden framework. Two blows and a piece broke away and the wood along the whole passage groaned and then gave way, caving in the section of the tunnel and sealing off his secret exit. Gnestor ran on.

The tunnel sloped upwards now and he came to the end of the tunnel. He climbed the ladder and lifted up the turf covered trap door, just a little bit to peer out. The tunnel came out several feet in the woods that bordered his hill on one side. There were no stars and it was dark so he widened his senses to encompass the nature around him. He didn’t sense any kind of major animal life in the vicinity. He sniffed, the smell of death was on the wind. It reminded him of the lair of Bloody Red Jakk though different. Greyfeathers’ cries were clearer now and his heart beat harder in his chest. She had been his bird for several years now. He climbed out of the concealed hole and ran quietly to the edge of the woods and crouched down, hiding in the brush.

Greyfeathers was scarred in several places, fighting several human-sized figures with pale yellow rotting skin. Gnestor fought back the cry that rose in his throat. Zombies. They bore several wounds themselves, and one’s arm was lying on the ground, but she didn’t have the strength or ability to fight them off by herself. And, Gnestor knew that he alone was unable to aid her even as good as he was. With her were several smaller figures who had managed to get one zombie to work on breaking down his door. These were almost gnomish in size and appearance but with sharper features, and even in the low light, he could make out their spiked iron boots and their caps, colored a dark red. Red Caps. A special type of gnome and goblin, assassins trained by the Old Man of the Mountain also called the Gnome King though he ruled no real kingdom. They dipped their caps in the blood of their victims, giving them special abilities and almost all possessed some rudimentary magic. It was rumored some were full blown wizards and witches.

“Never heard of a Red Cap necromancer, so none of them raised these zombies. Which means one has a ring or artifact. But, I cannot tell which one. And the ole saying, if you see one Red Cap, there’s another one behind you that you cannot see.”

Gnestor couldn’t see or sense any Red Caps in the woods but they were masters of hiding in the shadows. Right now, Greyfeathers was buying him time calling all attention to her, her cries hiding any sounds he might make. Tears ran down his face but he couldn’t see any other way.

“Goodbye ole girl,” he thought to herself and he slipped further into the shadows. As much as he could manage in his fear and moving at a rapid but stealthy pace, he focused his senses around him. He couldn’t spot anything but that meant less to him than the fact he didn’t hear any warning alarm given up by the Red Caps that he was escaping. Once he was confident that he hadn’t been spotted and that he’d be outside any kind of sentries they had set up, he focused solely on running as fast as he could, to get as far away from Greyfeather’s dying cries. He figured he about an hour’s head start before they discovered his hidden passage and tracked which direction he was heading. He decided to cover as much ground as possible between him and the hunters.