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.