My dearest Felona,
I hope my letter finds you well. It has been a month since our lord Kelar gave me my orders. I and my army have traveled long, and now find ourselves at our destination. I wish you could see it. The trees of this Green Forest seem particularly beautiful, swaying elegantly even when there is no wind. Streams run gently through the land, their whispering voices always reminding me of you in my dreams. The grass is soft, the sky blue.
We have encountered little resistance. An ambush upon our arrival led to our capturing of three of the locals,
Telir paused, his hand quivering above the word ‘locals.’ There was no need to tell her, his Felona, all of the details. He resolutely placed the pen back to the paper.
…led to our capturing of three of the locals, who are a most curious species I have not encountered before. They may very well be unique to this part of Valhalla. Indeed I hope they are, for they seem most adamant about convincing us to leave.
I feel certain that this campaign will be over soon. I look forward to the moment when I may be at your side again. Give my love to our dearest son, Taelord.
Telir scanned the page. It wasn’t as informative as Felona would like, but it would have to do. She needn’t know the odds they were up against.
A sergeant burst through the tent flap, quivering to attention as if spontaneously turned to stone.
Telir rustled his black, leathery wings, and turned to face him. “Well?” he said, raising an eyebrow.
“Two more ambushes today, sir. They came up behind us. We never saw them.”
Telir sighed. “Any casualties?”
“No, sir. Although several of the kyrie have taken to limping.”
Telir frowned. This was not how wars were fought. Not against enemies like this. “What of the prisoners? Have they spoken?”
“Not a word, sir. Hethin has been working on them, but they won’t give.”
Telir let out a long breath and turned back to his letter. “See to it that this gets to the supply wagon before they return.” He folded the piece of paper and handed it to the sergeant. “Along with this,” he added, placing a much more official-looking document on top. “That’s my report to lord Kelar. It’s a good thing he’s on the throne and not his son, Utgar. That kyrie would have all our heads for the state this army is in.”
The sergeant nodded and turned to leave.
“Also,” said Telir, halting him with the word, “tell Hethin to get some rest. I’ll try to get something out of the prisoners.”
Telir turned back to his makeshift desk and tried to organize the papers on it. Half completed maps, speculated findings, it was all useless. No one of any intelligence had been in these woods before. Telir was on his own. He had no idea what was beyond the next hill except what his eyes could tell him.
The sounds of a scuffle broke out beyond the walls of his tent. Telir listened. Several grunts, followed by a high-pitched cry. Much too high-pitched for a kyrie. Silence fell once again.
Make that three ambushes today, he thought grimly.
If we don’t make some headway with these prisoners, even Kelar won’t be pleased.
Telir got up and moved to the tent flap. Beyond was his army, the small force granted to him. They had started out full of promise, ready to face whatever challenges there were in this strange new northern forest. If only they had known. Even he would have had second thoughts. He pushed aside the flap and stepped outside.
Chaos greeted him. To one who was unfamiliar with the events of the past two days, the scene would have seemed very strange indeed. Telir’s army consisted of roughly three hundred kyrie, red skinned and muscular, their thick, black wings rising above their heads. They wore little armor, for they had always assumed – with good reason – that they did not need it. Until now.
No sooner would a soldier sit down, than he would leap up again, scrabbling at the ground below him, bellowing in rage. Those kyrie who were smart enough to stand would suddenly fall over, as if struck on the head with an iron weight. They would stagger back to their feet a moment later, wincing in pain, though no injuries could be seen. Only a few kyrie had taken to the air, and were now sitting in the trees, unaffected by the apparent discomfort of their brethren.
Ignoring this bizarre scene, Telir spread his wings and leapt into the air. His powerful down-stroke shoved him ever upwards, the wind whipping against his face. He closed his eyes for a moment, enjoying its touch, the caress that was so like that of his beloved Felona. This forest would be a truly beautiful place, especially now, at twilight, if it weren’t for the locals.
The locals. Telir’s eyes snapped open, now burning with hate and shame. What would their enemies think if they could see them now, the mightiest army on Valhalla brought low by… by… Telir couldn’t bring himself to complete the thought. They would win. They had won all other campaigns. This one would be no different.
Telir landed before an ancient stone structure. It was a tower, tall enough to see above the tops of the dark trees. Telir had wondered at first who had built it – if not the gods of old themselves – before other, more pressing matters came to his attention. Such as the ambushes.
He entered the building frowning.
An elderly kyrie greeted him. “Telir. Maren said you were coming. I’d wish you luck, but these… creatures are as tough as… as…” He struggled for words. “Well, you’ll find out,” he said, giving up.
“Get some rest, Hethin,” Telir said. “If I don’t break them, you can have another try tomorrow.”
“You need rest, too,” Hethin said, placing a hand on Telir’s shoulder.
Telir gave the old kyrie a faint smile. “We all do, friend.”
Hethin nodded, and, grasping Telir’s hand in farewell, left.
Telir looked before him, to the winding staircase that he knew led to the rooms where the prisoners were being held. Hethin was experienced. If he couldn’t break these creatures, Telir had little hope of doing so. But at least the opportunity would let him vent some of his anger. It was these creatures that had caused him all this trouble.
Telir ascended the stairs quickly, his eyes never wavering.
The first room he entered was small and dimly lit. A single torch guttered against the wall, its flame nearly spent, casting shifting shadows over the small figure tied to a chair in the center of the room. Telir crossed to the torch, and blew on it lightly. The flame burned brighter.
As if he had uttered a command, a shrill voice suddenly rent the silence.
“Isith al enilir? Ik thenip so finian. I… I… Ag gu rak arr!”
Telir turned. The figure had its head bowed, and it continued to mutter phrases in its strange tongue. The room was still dark, so that all Telir could see of it was its bowed head.
The figure was humanoid. In fact, it looked very much like a kyrie, save for the absence of wings. That and the size were all that set it apart. The size, however, was rather a large factor.
The creature, when standing, would have nearly reached Telir’s knee. Nearly. Its head was overly large for its body, but its tiny fists and feet punched and kicked with so much energy that Telir’s kyrie had been forced to tie it up.
Telir examined the prisoner with distaste. He knew what his enemies would say if they could see him now. His army was being attacked by
gnomes. If the gnomes didn’t kill him, the embarrassment would.
“What’s your name?” Telir barked harshly at the figure.
The gnome raised its head. Telir turned away, unable to stop himself.
Gnomes, it seemed, were peculiar creatures. Their skin and hair was light, but their eyes were dark and blazing. They looked harmless, but would stab the feet of any that came close enough. They were outfitted in full chainmail armor, the whole of which would have barely covered the forearm of one of the Telir’s kyrie.
“Ithinileer,” the gnome began, cordially enough. Then, in an instant, its face darkened, its miniscule fists clenched, and it swelled with a gigantic intake of breath.
“Gur akagnar! Bek tel fegith, Ikin! Ablab GUR!”
Whatever language the gnome was speaking, it seemed to possess two.
“Right,” said Telir, eyeing the gnome. “I’ll ask later.”
“Bugabuf,” the gnome huffed.
“Can you speak any of my tongue?” Telir asked.
The gnome blinked.
“Kyrien? The Common Language? Odinfel? Anything?”
The gnome glared at him. “If I could, I wouldn’t,” it said.
A moment later it seemed to realize its mistake.
“Kur agak! Telik og makort!” It banged its miniscule shins against the chair.
Telir grinned. He had it now. “Since I know you can understand me, I will ask you this only one time: why do you attack us? We are a peaceful group of explorers.”
The gnome dissolved into laughter. Not raucous, guffawing laughter. Laughter in pitch and volume equal to a pig’s squeal. Telir had all he could do not to cover his ears.
“You… you…” gasped the gnome between giggles, “you… peaceful?
Keg ilith yelien. With three hundred soldiers? You have a strange way of exploring new lands,
venimar.”
Telir frowned. “How we explore has nothing to do with you. Now,” he placed his hands on either side of the gnome’s chair and drew closer, until he was inches from its mismatched face, “I’ll ask you again: why are you attacking us?”
The gnome stared solemnly up at him, dark red eyes into light brown. It then burst into a fit of giggles.
“Do all of you winged people go back on your word so quickly? You just said you would ask me only one time!”
Telir could get nothing more out of it. It laughed and laughed, slapping the arms of its chair every time Telir tried to speak. At last he had had enough.
“Fine!” he shouted, getting to his feet. “We’ll see if you are so gleeful in the morning. Perhaps one of your other companions will be more obliging.”
He was wrong. The gnome in the next room was almost certainly female. Her voice was so shrill that he could barely understand her, and when he could, she was yelling at him so furiously that he did not care to remember the things she called him. He moved on quickly.
The third and last gnome was different. He had an oddly bluish tinge to his pale hair, but his eyes burned against his creamy complexion with a fire Telir had often seen in great kyrie commanders. This one was almost certainly a general, if the gnomes had those.
Telir got right to the point. “I know you can understand me, so don’t bother bluffing. You are going to tell me, in as few words as possible, why you are attacking me and my men.”
The gnome said nothing.
“Talk.”
“No.”
“You just did.”
The gnome smiled slyly. “Correct. I also used as few words as possible.”
Telir was getting frustrating. He usually tried to not get frustrated. Bad things tended to happen when he did, mostly to the people about him.
“Look here, gnome,” he said fiercely. The words sounded all wrong. “I am not one to be played with. I generally do not condone torture, but if you do not give me a straight answer, I will make an exception.”
The gnome blinked at him. “I did give you a straight answer: no.”
Telir clamped his mouth firmly shut to keep from swearing. It was not an example he wished to provide to his men. He strode back to the door and observed the gnome from there, trying to focus his frustration.
The gnome watched him with a slight smile. “Why don’t you let me ask you a question?”
“You just did,” echoed Telir, still not daring to close the gap between himself and the gnome.
The gnome ignored this. “Why have you invaded our lands?”
“Invaded? Who said anything about invaded?”
“The arrival of an army usually doesn’t result in a picnic and hugs all around.”
Telir frowned at the gnome. “Fine. Why are we here? Because Lord Kelar ordered it. He wants to control this piece of land. I don’t know why, and it’s not the place of captains to question their general’s orders.”
“You’re a captain, then?” asked the gnome, cocking a bluish eyebrow.
Telir brushed imaginary dust from his uniform.
“Then perhaps you could send a message to this Lord Kelar of yours,” said the gnome. “Tell him that this land is ours, and that we will fight for it. We are a warrior race, and not to be meddled with.”
Telir fixed him with a look. “You’re a gnome,” he pointed out. “I could probably drop-kick you right out the window.”
“That would be a bad idea. And we’re warrior-gnomes. Don’t underestimate us.”
Telir rolled his eyes to the ceiling. Unfortunately, this proved to be a mistake.
The gnome appeared to have been silently wiggling his way out of his bonds while he spoke. When Telir looked away, the gnome sprang forwards, launching its miniscule body right at Telir. Or so he thought.
Telir ducked the flying gnome at the last moment. The gnome took a swipe at his head as he passed, missed, and landed somewhat ungracefully on the window ledge, which had been directly behind Telir. He turned, and made a flourishing bow.
“If you will permit me, O captain, I must now leave your company and escape. And don’t bother trying to find my fellows that you captured earlier. They left the moment you did.
“I advise you and your army to flee from this land. Once the Dumutefs complete the bridge, you shall be overrun!”
Telir took a covert step towards the gnome. “Bridge?” he said. “What bridge?”
“Blast it,” muttered the gnome, clearly realizing he had said too much. He leapt to the outer edge of the window. “Know that you have had the honor of conversing with Chief Ankle-Hacker, who—”
Whatever else the gnome had been about to say was lost. A particularly strong gust of wind sprang up at that moment, and the gnome, or Chief Ankle-Hacker, was blown out of the window.
Mist clung to the ground. The woods were still and silent. It was late enough that the creatures of the night had gone to sleep, but yet too early for the creatures of the day to awaken. Telir’s army moved cautiously through the trees.
It had taken Telir’s scouts two weeks to find the bridge Chief Ankle-Hacker had spoken of. It was nearly completed, and the place was swarming with gnomes. Great beasts, evidently the Dumutefs, carried the stones and laid the foundations, and battalions of armor-clad gnomes marched across to the other side of the raging river.
The ‘raging river’ of course, could easily have been waded across in a matter of minutes by the kyrie. The gnomes however, despite their apparent warlike natures, would have been swept away like so many sticks. Once the bridge was completed, which would be any day now, the kyrie literally would be overwhelmed in a tide of angry gnomes. It was not the best way to be defeated.
Telir had told his kyrie of the situation.
“Soldiers,” he had said, “we must attack.” It was difficult to maintain focus as he spoke. Nearly half of his army was standing on one leg, trying to relieve pressure from the wounds inflicted by guerilla gnomes. The fact that they kept losing their balance and stumbling about was rather distracting.
Telir cleared his throat. “Ahem. These, ah,
gnomes present a threat. They must be taught who is in control. They mean to fight us.
“We have received word that the gnomes are building a bridge. Apparently their villages are separated from us by a creek, which they, in their diminutive state, cannot cross without losses.
“The gnomes are fighters, and will not give up. I would prefer it if we struck before the bridge was completed, beat them where they are weak, and lower their morale. I know some of you… er, most of you, are eager to jump in their midst and slay all you can. As much as I hate to say this, that would be… inadvisable. The gnomes may not look deadly, but they have strength in numbers. We attack with caution.”
And so the army had moved out. Surrounded by bands of unseen attackers, they were assailed on all sides. At night, the gnomes called to each other in what they evidentially thought were good imitations of the sounds of nature. If you have ever heard a wolf emit a high-pitched whistle, you will know what it sounded like.
On the third day after leaving camp, the army had come to the bridge. They had been forced to set up camp a good distance from it, as the gnomes ran at them brandishing their miniature weapons furiously if they got any closer. On the morning of the fourth day, they moved in.
Telir brushed aside a damp pine branch. Nearly two hundred yards away was the bridge, shrouded in mist, complete save for the walls, which were still encased in scaffolding. Even now, ranks of grim-faced gnomes were marching solemnly across it, as workers banged away at stones and bricks. Three Dumutefs, great lumbering beasts, plodded unconcernedly through the creek, carrying piles of rocks. Telir had doubts about the Dumutefs, but his scouts assured him that though they were loyal to the gnomes, they were in fact quite docile.
Telir drew back to where his kyrie were waiting. “They are unsuspecting,” he said. “You know what to do.”
Rank by rank, the kyrie began to take off. The thick mist hid them from view as they sailed soundlessly out over the bridge, positioning themselves to drop on its weakest points.
All but fifty of Telir’s kyrie had departed when a shrill voice rent the stillness.
“In the name of Havit, the Holy Toe-Stubber, charge!”
Gnomes appeared from all sides, wildly waving their weapons. Their armor gleamed in the half light, clashing gloriously with their peaceful hair. Terrible battle-cries echoed from their throats, their effect dimmed somewhat by the pitch in which they were uttered. Chief Ankle-Hacker himself leapt out of a nearby bush, leaves and twigs trailing behind him, and flew at Telir, dual daggers drawn, a maniacal gleam in his tiny eyes.
Telir sidestepped the gnome.
Chief Ankle-Hacker, who for the sake of convenience we shall now call by his true name, Delin, rolled spectacularly on the ground and came up snarling. “Attack, my brothers!” he squeaked loudly to those on the bridge. “Make them feel the pain of our blades!” he then leapt again at Telir.
Telir drew his own blade and brought it down at the gnome. He didn’t really want to kill any of the gnomes. They seemed too… small for that. Despite this, Delin brought up his own dagger, which was about the size of a pen, and blocked the blow. The gnome was surprisingly strong, for his size.
Telir brought his foot forward, but Delin jumped over it and ran at Telir’s other leg. Telir leapt up, beating the gnome back with his wings. Delin tried furiously to catch him, but could not jump high enough.
Meanwhile, the battle had dissolved into chaos. The army of gnomes, resembling nothing more than a fluffy light-colored tide, because of their hair, was rolling towards the ambushed kyrie. The main body of Telir’s army still hung suspended in the air, not knowing what was going on. The kyrie that were still on the ground had resorted to kicking the gnomes, so that balls of chainmail, squeaking curses, were constantly flying through the air.
“ATTACK!” bellowed Telir into the drifting fog. Instantly, the rest of his army descended on the bridge, behind the army of gnomes. The gnome-tide, now confused, shifted, and swayed towards them instead. The kyrie eagerly readied their weapons as the pile of gnomes surged their way.
Telir landed and aimed a kick at Delin, which he dodged with surprising speed. The instant his feet touched the ground, Telir was engulfed in a pile of furious gnomes. He threw them off with relative ease, but they left a series of painful pricks on his skin where their weapons had struck him. He took to the air again.
“Fly!” he commanded his soldiers. “Fly, and strike them down from above!”
The kyrie that did not resemble a pile of furiously stabbing heads immediately leapt up, beating back the gnomes with their wings.
Unfortunately, the air could not save them.
“Keckler!” Delin shouted.
The Dumutefs raised their fearsome heads in response, their sleepy eyes taking in the scene with unconcerned acceptance. Then they began to pick up the closest gnomes, and hurl them at the kyrie.
Telir ducked as flying gnomes assaulted him from the air. He batted them aside with his fists, preferring not to use his sword. Finding this ineffective, he loosed his sheath from his belt, and, with his sword still encased in it, proceeded to deflect the gnome-missiles.
It has always been speculated since that this encounter was the inspiration for the popular sport of Valhallian Baseball.
Meanwhile, the gnome army had reached Telir’s kyrie, now standing in front of the bridge. All the kyrie had to do was stand motionless and swing their axes back and forth. The gnomes fell like grain being reaped, but they kept coming, seemingly unaffected by the sharp axes.
Finding himself overwhelmed by flying gnomes, Telir landed back on the ground. He batted aside a trio of attackers, and turned once again to face Delin.
The chief, as it turned out, had managed to climb part way up a tree, and now launched himself at Telir at face height. Telir reached out and grabbed him before he made contact.
“Let me go!” screeched the chief, furiously hacking at the air as Telir held him at arm’s length.
“Will you surrender?” asked Telir, perfectly aware that he held his sword in his other hand, and could behead the gnome in an instant.
Delin blinked at him. “Of course not. We’re winning.”
Telir had a sudden idea. “Fine then.”
He dropped the gnome.
“GNOME-PUNT!”
Delin went flying through the trees, and was not seen again for at least a minute. Telir’s kyrie, catching on, began punting their own attackers, with the result that between the Dumutefs throwing and the kyrie punting, the air was thick with gnomes. Pile ups began as gnomes tangled mid-flight and dropped to the ground, turned about and confused.
The gnomes, however, had the advantage of numbers. Even the kyrie at the bridge were beginning to be overwhelmed. The small band about Telir had not dropped in number, though a few, covered in angry gnomes, were running about blindly and banging off of trees.
As Telir looked about for a new gnome to punt, Delin appeared out of nowhere, speeding right towards his face. Telir leapt up, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. Delin crashed into his chest, and, aided by the vast amount of chainmail he wore, bore Telir to the ground. Delin sprang to his feet and drew his dual daggers, pointing one menacingly at Telir.
“Surrender!” he cried triumphantly.
Telir looked at the gnome atop him. It would have been a simple matter for him to get up, brush the gnome off, and continue the battle. But something about the gnome, the fire in his eyes, the determination in his stance, made him stop.
Would that I had men such as this under my command, willing to defend their land against all odds.
“Surrender!” repeated Delin.
“No,” said Telir, looking the gnome in the eye. “It will not be said that this army was beaten by
gnomes.” He sat up.
“Then you must die!” cried Delin, bounding forward.
Telir grabbed him and stood, once again holding the gnome chief at arm’s length. The two of them gazed at each other for a moment.
“I’ll make you a deal instead,” Telir said at length. “We both get what we want. You get to keep your land, and I get to go back to my Felona.”
“And the forest?” asked the gnome. “Our Green Forest?”
Telir looked about him. “Forgotten,” he said. “It will be forgotten by all but you.”
Delin looked at him hard for a moment. “Deal,” he said.
Telir dropped the chief. “Retreat!” he bellowed to his men. “Back to the edge of the forest!”
The kyrie army rose as one, and sped through the air, still pursued by gnomes flung by the Dumutefs, shouting with glee as they sped through the air.
Epilogue: Telir returned to Felona, and soon after resigned as a captain in Kelar’s army. He had no further wish to fight wars and take lands that were not his. His son, Taelord, did not share his feelings, and joined Kelar’s army at a young age. He rose through the ranks quickly when Kelar’s son, Utgar, ascended to the throne.
Delin, or Chief Ankle-Hacker, long defended the Green Forest. The bridge was completed, and though Kelar sent several other forces to take the land, they all returned empty-handed. Every report they sent said that the ‘locals’ were too terrible to fight. After a while Kelar accepted that he would never own the Green Forest, and the land was forgotten. Only much later, when Utgar was on the throne, and the gnomes had mysteriously disappeared underground, would the Forgotten Forest again become a battleground…