Dragonlance 02 - Dragons of Winter Night (43 page)

N
ow, remember. No gnome living or dead ever in his life completed a sentence. The only way you get anywhere is to interrupt them. Don’t worry about being rude. They expect it.”

The old mage himself was interrupted by the appearance of a gnome dressed in long brown robes, who came up to them and bowed respectfully.

Tasslehoff studied the gnome with excited curiosity, the kender had never seen a gnome before, although old legends concerning the Graygem of Gargath indicated that the two races were distantly connected. Certainly there was something kenderish in the young gnome, his slender hands, eager expression, and sharp, bright eyes intent on observing everything. But here the resemblance ended. There was nothing of the kender’s easy-going manner. The gnome was nervous, serious, and businesslike.

“Tasslehoff Burrfoot,” said the kender politely, extending his hand. The gnome took Tas’s hand, peered at it intently, then, finding nothing of interest—shook it limply. “And this—” Tas started to introduce Fizban, but stopped when the gnome reached out and calmly took hold of the kender’s hoopak.

“Ah …” the gnome said, his eyes shining as he grasped the weapon. “Send for a member of the Weapons Guild—”

The guard at the ground-level entrance to the great mountain did not wait for the gnome to finish. Reaching up, he pulled a lever and a shriek sounded. Certain that a dragon had landed behind him, Tas whirled around, ready to defend himself.

“Whistle,” said Fizban. “Better get used to it.”

“Whistle?” repeated Tas, intrigued. “I never heard one like that before. Smoke comes out of it! How does it wor—Hey! Come back! Bring back my hoopak!” he cried as his staff went speeding down the corridor, carried by three eager gnomes.

“Examination room,” said the gnome, “upon Skimbosh—”

“What?”

“Examination Room,” Fizban translated. “I missed the rest. You really must speak slower,” he said, shaking his staff at the gnome.

The gnome nodded, but his bright eyes were fixed on Fizban’s staff. Then, seeing it was just plain, slightly battered wood, the gnome returned his attention to the mage and kender.

“Outsiders,” he said. “I’ll try and’ member … I will try and remember, so do not worry because”—he now spoke slowly and distinctly—“your weapon will not be harmed since we are merely going to render a drawing—”

“Really,” interrupted Tas, rather flattered. “I could give you a demonstration of how it works, if you like.”

The gnome’s eyes brightened. “That would be much—”

“And now,” interrupted the kender again, feeling pleased that he was learning to communicate, “what is your name?”

Fizban made a quick gesture, but too late.

“Gnoshoshallamarionininillisyylphanitdisdisslishxdie—”

He paused to draw a breath.

“Is that your
name
?” Tas asked, astounded.

The gnome let his breath out. “Yes,” he snapped, a bit disconcerted. “It’s my first name, and now if you’ll let me proceed—”

“Wait!” cried Fizban. “What do your friends call you?”

The gnome sucked in a breath again. “Gnoshoshallamarioninillis—”

“What do the knights call you?”

“Oh”—the gnome seemed downcast—“Gnosh, if you—”

“Thank you,” snapped Fizban. “Now, Gnosh, we’re in rather a hurry. War going on and all that. As Lord Gunthar stated in his communique, we must see this dragon orb.”

Gnosh’s small, dark eyes glittered. His hands twisted nervously. “Of course, you may see the dragon orb since Lord Gunthar has requested it, but, if I might ask, what is your interest in the orb besides normalcuri—?”

“I am a magic-user—” Fizban began.

“Magicuser!” the gnome stated, forgetting, in his excitement, to speak slowly. “Come this way immediately to the Examination room since the dragon orb was made by magic user—”

Both Tas and Fizban blinked uncomprehendingly.

“Oh, just come—” the gnome said impatiently.

Before they quite knew what was happening, the gnome, still talking, hustled them through the mountain’s entrance, setting off an inordinate number of bells and whistles.

“Examination Room?” Tas said in an undertone to Fizban as they hurried after Gnosh. “What does that mean? They wouldn’t have hurt it, would they?”

“I don’t think so,” Fizban muttered, his bushy white eyebrows coming together in an ominous V-shape over his nose. “Gunthar sent knights to guard it, remember.”

“Then what are you worried about?” Tas asked.

“The dragon orbs are strange things. Very powerful. My fear,” said Fizban more to himself than to Tas, “is that they may try to
use
it!”

“But the book I read in Tarsis said the orb could control dragons!” Tas whispered. “Isn’t that good? I mean, the orbs aren’t evil, are they?”

“Evil? Oh, no! Not evil.” Fizban shook his head. “That’s the danger. They’re not good, not evil. They’re not
anything!
Or perhaps I should say, they’re
everything.”

Tas saw he would probably never get a straight answer out of Fizban, whose mind was far away. In need of diversion, the kender turned his attention to their host.

“What does your name mean?” Tas asked.

Gnosh smiled happily. “In The Beginning, The Gods
Created the Gnomes, and One of the First They Created Was Named Gnosh I and these are the Notable Events Which Occurred in His Life: He Married Marioninillis …”

Tas had a sinking feeling. “Wait—” he interrupted. “How long is your name?”

“It fills a book this big in the library,” Gnosh said proudly, holding his hands out, “because we are a very old family as you will see when I contin—”

“That’s all right,” Tas said quickly. Not watching where he was going, he stumbled over a rope. Gnosh helped him to his feet. Looking up, Tas saw the rope led up into a nest of ropes connected to each other, snaking out in all directions. He wondered where they led. “Perhaps another time.”

“But there are some very good parts,” Gnosh said as they walked toward a huge steel door, “and I could skip to those, if you like, such as the part where great-great-great-grandmother Gnosh invented boiling water—”

“I’d love to hear it.” Tas gulped. “But, no time—”

“Yes, I suppose so,” Gnosh said, “and anyway, here we are at the entrance to the main chamber, so if you’ll excuse me—”

Still talking, he reached up and pulled a cord. A whistle blew. Two bells and a gong rang out. Then, with a tremendous blast of steam that nearly parboiled all of them, two huge steel doors located in the interior of the mountain began to slide open. Almost immediately, the doors stuck, and within minutes the place was swarming with gnomes, yelling and pointing and arguing about whose fault it was.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot had been making plans in the back of his mind as to what he would do after this adventure had ended and all the dragons were slain (the kender tried to maintain a positive outlook). The first thing he had planned to do was to go and spend a few months with his friend, Sestun, the gully dwarf in Pax Tharkas. The gully dwarves led interesting lives, and Tas knew he could settle there quite happily, as long as he didn’t have to eat their cooking.

But the moment Tas entered Mount Nevermind, he decided the first thing he would do was come back and live with the gnomes. The kender had never seen anything quite so wonderful in his entire life. He stopped dead in his tracks.

Gnosh glanced at him. “Impressive, isn’t it?” he asked.

“Not quite the word
I’d
use,” Fizban muttered. They stood in the central portion of the gnome city. Built within an old shaft of a volcano, it was hundreds of yards across and miles high. The city was constructed in levels around the shaft. Tas stared up … and up … and up.…

“How many levels are there?” the kender asked, nearly falling over backward trying to see.

“Thirty-five and—”

“Thirty-five!” Tas repeated in awe. “I’d hate to live on that thirty-fifth level. How many stairs do you have to climb?”

Gnosh sniffed. “Primitive devices we improved upon long ago and now”—he gestured—“view someofthemarvelsoftechnologywehaveinoperat—”

“I can see,” said Tas, lowering his eyes to ground level. “You must be preparing for a great battle. I never saw so many catapults in my life …”

The kender’s voice died. Even as he watched, a whistle sounded, a catapult went off with a twang, and a gnome went sailing through the air. Tas wasn’t looking at machines of war, he was looking at the devices that had replaced stairs!

The bottom floor of the chamber was filled with catapults, every type of catapult ever conceived by gnomes. There were sling catapults, cross-bow catapults, willow-sprung catapults, steam-driven catapults (still experimental—they were working on adjusting the water temperature).

Surrounding the catapults, over the catapults, under the catapults, and through the catapults were strung miles and miles of rope which operated a crazed assortment of gears and wheels and pulleys, all turning and squeaking and cranking. Out of the floor, out of the machines themselves, and thrusting out from the sides of the walls were huge levers which scores of gnomes were either pushing or pulling or sometimes both at once.

“I don’t suppose,” Fizban asked in a hopeless tone, “that the Examination Room would be on the ground level?”

Gnosh shook his head. “Examination Room on level fifteen—”

The old mage heaved a heart-rending sigh.

Suddenly there was a horrible grinding sound that set Tas’s teeth on edge.

“Ah, they’re ready for us. Come along,” Gnosh said.

Tas leaped after him gleefully as they approached a giant catapult. A gnome gestured at them irritably, pointing to a long line of gnomes waiting their turn. Tas jumped into the seat of the huge sling catapult, staring eagerly up into the shaft. Above him, he could see gnomes peering down at him from various balconies, all of them surrounded by great machines, whistles, ropes, and huge, shapeless things hanging from the sides of the wall like bats. Gnosh stood beside him, scolding.

“Elders first, young man, so get out of there this instant and let”—he dragged Tasslehoff out of the seat with remarkable strength—“the magic user go first—”

“Uh, that’s quite all right,” Fizban protested, stumbling backward into a pile of rope. “I—I seem to recall a spell of mine that will take me right to the top. Levitate. How did that g-go? Just give me a moment.”

“You
were the one in a hurry—” Gnosh said severely, glaring at Fizban. The gnomes standing in line began to shout rudely, pushing and shoving and jostling.

“Oh, very well,” the old mage snarled, and he climbed into the seat, with Gnosh’s help.

The gnome operating the lever that launched the catapult yelled something at Gnosh which sounded like “whalevel?”

Gnosh pointed up, yelling back.
“Skimbosh!”

The chief walked over to stand in front of the first of a series of five levers. An inordinate number of ropes stretched upward into infinity. Fizban sat miserably in the seat of the catapult, still trying to recall his spell.

“Now,” yelled Gnosh, drawing Tas closer so he could have the advantage of an excellent view, “in just a moment, the chief will give the signal—yes, there it is—”

The chief pulled on one of the ropes.

“What does that do?” Tas interrupted.

“The rope rings a bell on
Skimbosh
, er, level fifteen, telling them to expect an arrival—”

“What if the bell doesn’t ring?” Fizban demanded loudly.

“Then a second bell rings telling them that the first bell didn’t—”

“What happens down here if the bell didn’t ring?”

“Nothing. It’s Skimbosh’sproblemnotyours—”

“It’s my problem if they don’t know I’m coming!” Fizban shouted. “Or do I just drop in and surprise them!”

“Ah,” Gnosh said proudly, “you see—”

“I’m getting out …” stated Fizban.

“No, wait,” Gnosh said, talking faster and faster in his anguish, “they’re ready—”

“Who’s ready?” Fizban demanded irritably.

“Skimbosh! With the net to catch you, you see—”

“Net!” Fizban turned pale. “That does it!” He flung a foot over the edge.

But before he could move, the chief reached out and pulled on the first lever. The grinding sound started again as the catapult began pivoting in its mooring. The sudden motion threw Fizban back, knocking his hat over his eyes.

“What’s happening?” Tas shouted.

“They’re getting him in position,” Gnosh yelled. “The longitude and latitude have been precalculated and the catapult set to come into the correct location to send the passenger—”

“What about the net?” Tas yelled.

“The magician flies up to Skimbosh—oh, quite safely, I assure you—we’ve done studies, in fact, proving that flying is safer than walking—and just when he’s at the height of his trajectory, beginning to drop a bit, Skimbosh throws a net out underneath him, catching him just like this”—Gnosh demonstrated with his hand, making a snapping motion like catching a fly—“and hauls him—”

“What incredible timing that must take!”

“The timing is ingenious since it all depends on a certain hook we’ve developed, though”—Gnosh pursed his lips, his eyebrows drawing together—“something is throwing the timing off a bit, but there’s a committee—”

The gnome pulled down on the lever and Fizban—with a shriek—went sailing through the air.

“Oh dear,” said Gnosh, staring, “it appears—”

“What? What?” Tas yelled, trying to see.

“The net’s opened too soon again”—Gnosh shook his head—“and that’s the second time today that’s happened on Skimbosh alone and this definitely will be brought up at the next meeting of the Net Guild—”

Tas stared, open-mouthed, at the sight of Fizban whizzing through the air, propelled from below by the tremendous force of the catapult, and suddenly the kender saw what Gnosh was talking about. The net on level fifteen—instead of
opening
after
the mage had flown past and then catching him as he started to fall—opened
before
the mage reached level fifteen. Fizban hit the net and was flattened like a squashed spider. For a moment he clung there precariously—arms and legs akimbo, then he fell.