The giff froze in mid-handshake and opened his mouth to protest, but Teldin cut him short by clenching down on the big fellow’s hand. “You can’t command a platoon without a rank. Congratulations, Sergeant Gomja.”
The flustered giff stammered a reply. “Th-thank you, Commander. I think it’s rather irregular, though.” The giff unconsciously squeezed Teldin’s hand back until the farmer winced and wrenched his hand from the giff’s grasp. The giff was so overcome with the honor of his new rank that he didn’t notice.
Teldin discretely shook out the pain, took Gomja by the elbow, and steered the giff toward the door. “Since you’re now an officer, I want to buy you a drink. Then we’d better find you a gnome tailor and see about getting a proper uniform.” Gomja, still dumbfounded, followed without protest.
Night or day made little difference to the gnomes of Mount Nevermind. With few windows around the outside conical peak, most never saw the sun for hours, days, even weeks, at a stretch. Each gnome adopted his own pattern and schedule, comfortable for him- or herself, yet utterly impractical for everyone else. One slept while another worked and a third ate, all in the same quarters. Some of the agricultural engineers tended their terraced outdoor fields by the light of the moon while others enjoyed their breakfasts when the sun hung directly overhead. All this confusion and disorganization did not seem to matter one whit to the gnomes. They blissfully accepted the strange routines of their neighbors and adjusted their own schedules accordingly.
For Teldin, though, it meant that within the dark heart of the mountain, the cacophony of deep-throated whistles, rippling bells, and gnashing gears continued unabated and the shafts through the rock throbbed with the jarring, unmusical rhythm of grotesque machines. In time, his senses dulled and he became immune to even the infrequent but distant explosions that belched from dark workrooms. Mount Nevermind never stopped doing something, but the human eventually found it necessary to collapse with exhaustion.
Floating on these waves of noise, Teldin tried to sleep after his very long day. While Gomja seemed to have no problem falling into a deep, rumbling slumber, the constant thrumming kept Teldin awake, each change in pitch and rhythm rousing him just as he started to doze off. The giffs burbling snores only added to the racket. It had been difficult for Teldin to convince the gnomes that he and Gomja needed rest, but finally the little tinkers had arranged a room, deep in the heart of Mount Nevermind, for their use. Suspicious, lest the curious, scientific types- Niggil in particular-decide to attempt some nocturnal testing on his cloak, Teldin had locked the door carefully before retiring.
Eventually, exhaustion overtook the farmer, though even in slumber there was no rest. Neogi, perhaps stirred by the turmoil of the mountain, lurked in Teldin’s dreams. The eel-like monsters paraded through Nevermind’s dark and unending halls, bloody trophies in the arms of their brutish umber hulk slaves; behind these came more of their malicious kind clutching vile treasures in their ridiculously tiny claws. Each neogi appeared before Teldin’s dream self, laying gruesome spoils at his feet. Struggling, the farmer tried to rise with the exaggerated care of a nightmare, but all his efforts came to naught.
The charnel mound grew before him: Vandoorm’s bloodless, blue head, Liam’s body gutted and bound, a necklace made from Gomja’s hands and ears, and a bundle of gnome-skin cloaks. Old memories of flesh were added to the new: blubbery sheets of butchered dragon flesh, Knights of Solamnia frozen on the battle plain, their icy limbs thrust out at odd angles. Finally, the pyre of dead was taller than Teldin’s cabin, even in a dream. At its apex was the hacked and burned head of a dragon, again from the High Clerist’s Tower.
Teldin’s dream irresistibly panned upward, lingering over each monstrosity of the bloody heap. Perched precariously atop the macabre pyre was a golden-skinned neogi, it’s loathsome, bulbous body covered with tattoos. The spiderlike legs gripped the fleshy mound. The creature glared malevolently down at Teldin. “Give me the cloak,” it hissed. A slender, snapping claw reached out and slowly grew longer, stretching toward the paralyzed human.
Teldin awoke with a choked scream and his body tangled in the blankets. He shook his head, trying to drive the monstrous apparitions from the shadows of his mind. Breath came in quick pants as the farmer nervously unwound himself from the sweat-dampened covers.
After straightening the blankets and fluffing his pillow, Teldin experimentally closed his eyes. Almost immediately the bloody procession filled his thoughts again, forcing the human to snap his eyes open once more. “No sleep for me,” he mumbled, trying to rub away the pressure building on his temples. The single wavering candle transformed the room into a dreary cavern. Gomja’s shadow became a hibernating bear. Teldin sat up, and he debated getting dressed. Unable to face sleep again, there was really nothing else to do.
From beyond their room came a distant boom, like a peal of thunder, even deeper and more resonant than Gomja’s snores. Whatever it was, Teldin realized, it had triggered a whole clamor of alarms and whistles. Another invention gone wrong, the farmer concluded as he pulled his worn trousers over his long, lean legs.
Teldin was fumbling with his shoes when frantic knocking began rattling their door. “Open up! Open up! Hurry! Wake up! We're under attack!" shouted a high-pitched voice from the other side. Teldin could hear the scratching and jangling sound of someone fumbling with the lock. All at once, the tumblers caught and the door burst open.
Chapter Twenty
“Attackers have invaded the upper levels!” a frantic gnome shouted in a single breath as he charged into the room. Almost as fast as he had entered, the gnome hurried out, joining the stream of his fellows rushing through the hail, carrying an ad hoc collection of weapons. Teldin, half-dressed, sat stunned on the edge of his bed.
The previously gloomy passage was awash with torchlight. A din of bells and whistles reverberated through the air while thundering booms rocked the floor. A delegation of gnomes, led by Snowball and Niggil, rushed through the open doorway. “We are under attack! Invaders in the upper levels! It is terrible! Come on, we have to go fight them!” shouted Snowball. Gomja practically sprang bolt upright on his bed at all the noise.
“Slow down! What’s happening? Who’s invading and where?” Teldin demanded. He tried to pull on his shirt and buckle his belt at the same time. Gomja had already grabbed his weapons, ignoring his clothes for the moment.
The doorkeeper began, his hands flying as he tried to pantomime the scene. “I do not know how many, but there seem to be quite a few, and they are killing people-”
“Quiet,” rumbled the giffs deep voice, authoritative in all the confusion. “Answer the commander’s question. "Where? Keep it short, gnome.” The dark, warlike look on Gomja’s face chilled any argument from the assembled tinkers. Teldin nodded his approval to Gomja.
“Level thirty. They’re hovering over the lake in a big ship-”
“Who’s attacking?” Gomja pressed, trying to extract precious information from the skittish lot. Teldin grabbed his spear and was ready.
Snowball, Niggil, and the others looked at each other, confusion clear on their faces. “We do not know, but Thromvangilherskisl-” Snowball began a fellow gnome’s endless name, only to be cut short by Gomja’s growl. The gnome gulped and tried again. “He says there are big creatures with funny eyes and little, talking spiders with the heads of snakes, and they-”
“It’s neogi and umber hulks,” Teldin confirmed. Gomja nodded. “The big ones, umber hulks, are the fighters. The little spiders are neogi, the brains,” the human quickly explained, seeing the gnomes’ vacant looks. For safety’s sake, he made sure the cloak was at its smallest dimensions, a collar about his neck.