The sergeant scowled. Was the tree breaking under the weight of the hobgoblins on the rope? There was another sharp snap, and he realized he was close but not fully on the mark. The tree was holding. However, the added weight of the patrol on the rope was enough to start uprooting it. Large cracks began to spider through the stone as the hobgoblins’ collective weight drove the tree’s roots deeper into the hilltop.
It threatened to bring the cliff down on top of the hobgoblin patrol. A human leader might have called down to his men to tell them to abandon the rope or even to jump. The sergeant was a hobgoblin, and his first worry was his own skin. Already the smaller hobgoblin was bounding for the far side of the tree, and the sergeant was ready to follow.
The ground shifted as the sergeant began to run, the spidering cracks quickly becoming large chasms, and then larger chasms, and the ground beneath his feet started to disintegrate beneath the soles of his feet. He heard cursing screams below him from the patrol, soon lost in a torrent of sliding rock. Then something large passed him-the ancient tree itself, still tethered to the hobgoblin-strung rope.
The sergeant leapt forward as the last part of the cliff-side vaporized beneath him, dragged down by the trailing roots of the tree. He landed on something solid and dug his claws into the earth in hopes that it would hold and not cascade back down the cliffside.
His prayers were answered. He felt the world sway for a moment, then right itself, while the rest of the hillside, except the tree, held firm.
Slowly the sergeant opened his eyes. The avalanche had pushed the rainy clouds back for the moment, and he had a clear view of the devastation below. The entire north half of the hill had fallen in on itself, forming a wide fan as it gained speed as it surged into the valley. He saw a few bits of armor and what might either be tree trunks or goblin torsos, but the patrol, big complainer and all, was gone.
The small hobgoblin sat down beside the sergeant. “Cor, whatta mess!” he breathed.
The sergeant considered for a moment adding the small hobgoblin to the body count, but decided against it. He shook his head.
“Bloody mess,” was all he said.
The small hobgoblin nodded, and said, “Whaddaya gonna tell the Louey?”
The sergeant winced. The commanding lieutenant was not going to like his report. “Lemme think,” he managed. “Lemme think.”
The small hobgoblin shook his head and said, “Looks like a battle. Whatta mess.”
The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Yeah, a battle. We got ambushed.”
“Won’t work,” said the small hobgoblin. “No other bodies. You gonna tell them our boys got smoked without taking any enemies with ‘em?”
The sergeant stroked his chin, then said, “Dragons. We got attacked by dragons?”
“We got dragons,” said the small one. “They don’t.”
“Right.” The sergeant scowled again. “Gnomes, then. Gnomes are always blowing things up! Yeah, dat’s it! We got caught by some gnomish secret weapon!”
The smaller hobgoblin rocked back on his heels. “Dat’s it! Who would ever want to go looking for a gnome?”
Augie took a long pull on his tankard and wiped the ale from his beard. “So this is really a hobgoblin story?” he said.
Brack drained the last of his own drink, and another appeared almost instantaneously by his side. “I like to think it was a gnome story, since the hobgoblins blamed their misfortunes on the gnomes.”
“I take it you were the Louey they reported back to?”
Brack gave a shrug and said, “Of course. And of course since their story had more holes in it than Soth’s soul, the Dark Lady blast him, I soon coerced the truth of the matter out of them.”
“So that was the end of it, right?” said Augie.
“Not by half,” replied Brack. “You see, I still had to report to my superiors what had happened, and I had to admit to them that the hobgoblins under my command- hobgoblins they recruited-were below average, even as hobgoblins go.”
“Hmph,” said Augie, draining his own mug, holding it out at arm’s length to the side, then letting it go. Brack noted that a very fast gnome grabbed the heavy clay tankard before it had shattered and smoothly placed a new one, dripping foam, on the table.
“So you might have lost your command if you told them they had incompetent hobgoblins,” said the larger man.
“Worse,” said Brack, “I might have been forced to accompany them into the field the next time.”
“You let the report stand,” said Augie.
“With some minor clarifications,” said Brack. “I made it one gnome leader, in particular, made it an accident as opposed to an ambush, and named the gnome. Rumtuggle. It sounded like a gnomish name.”
“Your leaders bought it?” snarled Augie. “Old Verminaard would have seen through that in a moment if I laid it on him.”
“Ah, but old Verminaard is no longer around, is he?” countered Brack. “No, my superiors bought it, because they assumed there would be some resistance anyway, which up to that point had been pretty nonexistent. Gnomes were considered the least dangerous of the lot. Kender, for example, would rob you blind and then come back for your seeing-eye lizard.”
“So you used this Rumtuggle to explain a patrol’s decimation,” said Augie. “What’s the problem?”
“Well, the saying is that once something is created, it has to be used. You make a plow, you have to farm. You make a sail, you have to explore.”
“You make a sword,” put in Augie, “you have to lop off a few heads.”
“Exactly,” said Brack, “and Rumtuggle proved to be a very capable excuse. A few head of cattle went missing and were blamed on Rumtuggle. A patrol got lost: Rumtuggle. The cash box was a few hundred steel light: Rumtuggle.”
“Your superiors never saw through it?” spat Augie, astounded.
“The rear echelons had other, more important matters to worry about,” said Brack. “I was careful never to put too much blame on Rumruggle at a time. One or two of my fellow lieutenants caught wind of it, and a captain as well, eventually. They saw the value of Rumtuggle, and soon most of the mischances of our unit were blamed on a single gnome.”
“Your superiors, the dragonlords themselves, must have caught wise at last,” guessed Augie. “Did you admit your deceit?”
“I wish it were that easy,” said Brack. “Actually it was much, much worse.”
The gnomish delegation arrived at dawn. There were fifteen of them, all looking about as threatening as a pack of rabbits. Some were dressed in leather work-aprons, and others in farmer’s shirts and slacks. One or two looked as if they had been rousted from their beds and dragged along by the mob.
They were led by a short gnomish woman with fire-red hair braided down her back and a stern look plastered across her face. The gnomes presented themselves to one of the guards by the outer paddocks, demanding to see someone in charge.
In another part of Ansalon, a band of gnomes suddenly appearing at an oupost would be cause for alarm, but this part of the front had been pacified, and this outpost was little more than a garrison with a few scout units. The guard, amused by the small delegation, demanded the gnomes’ business.
“We are here to see about release of one of our people, unfairly held,” said the flame-haired gnome.
The guard raised an eyebrow. He was unaware that the army had even taken “good faith” hostages. He asked what hostage the short woman was talking about.
She told him, and the guard fought the urge to laugh. He thought about it a moment, and asked the gnomes to wait. Then the guard beetled his way quickly to Lieutenant Brack’s quarters.
“Rumtuggle?” said Lieutenant Brack, commanding officer of this particular outpost in the Green Dragon-army. “They want us to release Rumtuggle?”