The gnomes were returning the cattle-by catapult. The first of the four hundred and fifty-three head of cattle smashed into the ground between Brack and the provi-sioner-general, knocking both off their feet. Brack immediately started scrabbling away as the provisioner-gener-al held his clipboard over his head in hopes that paperwork would stop the rain of cows over the dragonarmy camp.
Augie slapped the table with the fleshy part of his palm. “So it’s a cow story, then!” he said laughing.
Brack managed a thin, patient smile. “It’s a gnome story, one of those where you underestimate the gnomes and they turn out to be more intelligent, inventive, and dangerous than you thought. They found a way to hide the cattle, then built catapults. . ”
“Cattle-pults,” snorted Augie, almost spitting beer out his nose.
Brack sipped at his tankard, and Augie waved for another round. Another gnome appeared with more ales. Augie pulled himself slowly back together and rubbed the tears from his eyes.
“So the jig was up,” he said at last. “Your little imaginary friend was revealed at last, and you were cashiered.”
Brack shook his head. “Not yet. The cow-shot attack was only the beginning. We sent out forces, of course, but the gnome towns were abandoned.”
“They fled before your victorious armies?”
“They had abandoned them earlier,” said Brack. “They were keeping the cows inside the buildings. Of course none of our hobgoblins wanted to go find out because. .”
“These gnomes were dangerous!” shouted Augie, almost losing his composure again. “They were followers of Rumtuggle!”
“Rumtuggle the Rebel,” said Brack. “Who was supposedly dead, but now was being sighted everywhere, rallying the gnomes and the kender and whatever other races they could find against us. That just brought out the worst elements of all.”
“Oh no, not. .”
“Adventurers,” said Brack, staring into his mug. “Any tinpenny warrior with a dream and a sword. They started rallying the gnomes into a real organized force. And if we caught and killed any of them, then more showed up.”
“So what did your highlords do when all this activity suddenly showed up in your comfortable backwater?” asked Augie, smiling.
Brack sighed. “The worst thing they could possibly do.”
“You mean?”
“Yes.” Brack set down his empty tankard and picked up the refilled one, “They sent more troops in. To help us put down the imaginary gnome.”
The dragonlord’s armor was a shiny jet-black, and he rode an emerald-colored mount, its reptilian scales shimmering greenly in the wet morning fog. What Lieutenant Brack remembered most of all was his nose. It was a thin, aquiline nose with a great distance from tip to bridge, and the dragonlord looked down the entire length of said nose to regard Brack.
“You have rebel troubles,” said the dragonlord icily, in the tone of a man who had far more important things to do. Brack wished the dragonlord was doing them.
“In a manner of speaking,” said Brack, as calmly as possible. “There were some thefts-”
“Cows,” said the dragonlord. “You lost some cows.”
“But we got them back,” put in Brack.
“Not in the same shape as you lost them,” said the dragonlord. He struck a pose. “Rebellion must be crushed wherever it raises its head!”
Brack wondered if the pose was supposed to be heroic or just uncomfortable. “It has been a very peaceful area.”
“Until now,” said the dragonlord in a voice as serious as the grave. “Until this. . Rumtuggle chose to challenge the might of our armies. He will live to regret it.”
The dragon snorted in agreement. Lieutenant Brack looked at the dragonlord, wondering if he should laugh or scream.
By the end of the first week, he would have opted for screaming. More forces arrived, and with them a plethora of lieutenants, captains, and colonels. All answered to the dragonlord, and Brack was reduced to little more than a concierge, rushing about and making sure that all their needs were met. Most of these units had served together and had rivalries ranging from friendly and competitive to bitter and dangerous. Most of Brack’s forces were now kept busy keeping the other encampments from raiding each other over slights, real and imagined.
The dragonlord was oblivious to such problems within the ranks, as was usual with those in charge. The various commanders jumped when he shouted orders, and they scuttled away to enact them. Usually that involved some new demand upon outpost commander Brack.
While overseeing a crew to clear still more land for the encampment of a newly arrived unit, Brack realized what was bothering him-he had suddenly rejoined the army, and he did not like it one bit.
The weather did nothing to help. The fogs that had helped created Rumtuggle in the first place had continued and, if anything, had gotten worse. They were combined with continual rains that drenched the area. Given the large number of troops now contained in the immediate vicinity of the outpost, the entire region was now a foot-sloshing bog.
Each day the dragonlord flew through the grayish fog atop his mount and spent the day reconnoitering the area. However, with the exception of more fog, broken by the occasional shattered, rocky hilltop, there was nothing to be seen, and each day the dragonlord returned in a fouler mood, resulting in more orders for the subordinates and ultimately more irritation for Brack.
Finally the dragonlord drew up a plan. Since the weather was against them (undoubtedly influenced by foul rebel wizards), they would press outward, putting any settlements discovered to the torch until the combined forces of the enemy were forced to either flee or engage them on the field of honorable battle.
Only Brack, unused to blind obedience, asked the question, “What if the enemy has already fled?”
The dragonlord chortled and said, “These rebels are fanatics, and this Rumtuggle is the worst of all. No, they want to fight, and we will triumph!”
The other subordinates glared harshly at Brack for lengthening the briefing by asking stupid questions. The dragonlord laid out his plans for which units would be where, how to form a huge, sweeping formation that would course over the land like a wave, sweeping everything in its path. They would ride forth on the morrow morn, rain or shine. He looked at Brack with piercing eyes and asked if there were any questions.
Brack kept his thoughts to himself, and the sub-commanders were left to their units. Brack noted at the time that at least the dragonlord had showed the good sense to keep the most quarrelsome units on opposite flanks of the force, where they would not be able to taunt each other.
The next day was rain, not shine, but that did not slow the juggernaut of the dragonarmy. The dragonlord was at its head, astride his mount, and Brack’s forces were slightly to the left, just outside the vanguard. Most of the hobgoblins scouted, and his few cavalry forces were to act as skirmishers. The rain grew heavier, and struck with such force that the soft earth spattered on the assembled soldiers.
Brack considered telling the dragonlord the truth but felt that after a few days’ march and finding no official resistance, the dragonlord would fly away and things would get back to normal.
In truth, they barely got out of camp. As the dragonlord raised his hand to give the order to move out, a hobgoblin scout came staggering up, covered with mud.
“Gnomes!” shouted the hobgoblin. “Rumtuggle is waiting with his army!”
Upon reflection, Brack was to decide that the muddy scout, survivor of some other mishap while on patrol, had decided that Rumtuggle would be a suitable target to blame. Upon reflection, Brack was to decide this, but there was no time for reflection.
The entire army was electrified by the news and sloshed forward over the muddy parade fields and into the even muddier hills of the surrounding areas. The hillocks broke up the lines of units into packets of swordsmen and archers, of hobgoblins and cavalry. The rain grew worse, which Brack had thought was not possible, and the fog closed in so that an entire unit could walk into a river without seeing it-not that the drag-onlord would notice if a unit completely vanished.