^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

“Why are we turning,” Tam asked, from the bow, watching the green smudge of an island slide from dead ahead to off the port side without a single order given to the wheel.

“Because that’s Elämäkäs,” Captain Senna Voss said, “and I like my crew with their wits still screwed on.”

“It’s just an island.”

“It’s just an island the way a locked door is just wood.”

Tam looked at it a moment longer. Ordinary jungle, ordinary beach, gulls even, wheeling low over the shallows like it was any patch of coastline on any map in the world.

“You’ve been,” Tam said. It wasn’t a question.

Senna kept her eyes on the wheel a moment before she answered.

“I’ve been close enough,” she said. “Close enough is the only version of that story anyone tells twice.”

She was younger than Tam when she heard the first version of it, secondhand, in a dockside bar in Seafoam that smelled of tar and turtle oil, from a Duron diver three drinks past sensible.

Eiväloä, the diver had called it. A mineral that didn’t exist anywhere else on the charted world, found only on one island, an island that belonged, by every account she’d ever half-believed, to something that wasn’t a king and wasn’t an army and definitely wasn’t in the mood to negotiate.

“Belongs to the little ones,” the diver had said. “And whatever watches over them.”

“Little ones?”

The diver nodded. “Tiny Folk,” he said.

“Watches how?”

The diver had gone quiet in a way that told her more than his answer did.

She was twenty-two. She had a half share in a leaking two-master and a debt she couldn’t pay honestly in under six years. Eiväloä sold, rumor had it, for enough coin per handful to buy the whole ship outright.

Rumor is a terrible financial advisor.

She hired on with it anyway.

They anchored well off, the way every story she’d heard said to, and rowed the last stretch in a small boat under a moon that seemed, in hindsight, entirely too willing to cooperate with a bad idea.

Four of them.

Senna, the diver who’d talked her into it, and two hands who wanted the coin worse than they wanted to keep breathing normally. In hindsight, that should have told her something about the crew she’d assembled.

The beach came up pale and quiet under the hull.

Ordinary sand.

Ordinary surf, hissing in the ordinary way surf hisses.

...over and over...

The most boring sound in the world.

She remembers being disappointed by how boring it was.

She remembers thinking, we came all this way for a beach.

Riko went first. He always went first, on everything, right up until the one time it mattered that he hadn’t.

He swung a leg over the gunwale into the shallows, boot sinking into wet sand. He took one full stride toward dry land with the kind of confidence that gets men killed slowly enough to feel it happening.

His second boot touched the beach.

Senna has told this part exactly four times in her life, and every time, she runs out of the right words at the same place.

The surf stopped.

Not faded.

Not softened.

Stopped, mid-hiss.

A hand closing around a bell already ringing.

The wind, which had been picking at the edge of her collar all night, simply wasn’t anymore.

Not calmed.

Gone, the way a word is gone the instant after you’ve said it.

Her ward-lamp, hanging off the boat’s rail, had been humming low and steady the whole crossing. A particular sound every warded flame makes when it’s fed properly.

It went out.

Not snuffed.

Not blown.

The flame just wasn’t burning anymore, mid-flame, no smoke, no smell, as if someone upstream of the entire idea of fire had reached over and unmade the concept for one square mile of ocean.

She remembers turning to say something to Riko and finding she had no idea what her own voice was supposed to sound like anymore, because there was nothing left in the world to compare it to.

There is a very specific kind of terror in hearing your own heartbeat and nothing else.

She has never once needed it explained to her since.

“What did Riko do,” Tam asked, very quietly, because the story clearly had more of him in it and clearly not the kind of more anyone wanted.

“He turned around,” Senna said. “That’s the part people leave out when they tell it scary. He wasn’t grabbed. Nothing came out of the trees. He just stood there four heartbeats, staring at something none of the rest of us could see from the boat, and then he turned around and waded back out to us.”

“And?”

“And he never said one more word for the rest of his life. Not one. Not his name, not a curse, not so much as a laugh at a joke. He lived another thirty years and every one of them was silent. I have never known, to this day, whether that was a wound the island gave him or a promise he made himself standing on that sand.”

The compass on Senna’s belt had gone dead that night too. Needle frozen exactly where it stood. It stayed dead the whole row back to the ship, only shivering back to life once they’d cleared what she guessed, from the way her own ears popped, was some kind of line drawn in the water.

Sound came back to her all at once, somewhere past that line.

The oars.

The surf, ordinary again, hissing its ordinary hiss.

Her own breathing, ragged and enormous in her ears after an hour of hearing nothing at all.

She has never been so glad to hear anything boring in her life.

“So there’s no Eiväloä on this ship,” Tam said.

“There’s no Eiväloä on any ship I’ve ever sailed, and I intend to keep it that way.” Senna adjusted the wheel another half point, easing them further from the green smudge on the horizon. “I’ve heard every theory dockside drunks have ever floated about what’s actually on that island. Some kind of hero. Some kind of children. Some kind of old power that doesn’t answer to kings or gold or anybody’s good intentions.”

“Which one’s true?”

“I don’t know, and I’ve made my peace with not knowing, because the one thing every single person who’s gotten close enough agrees on is that it isn’t interested in visitors, invited or otherwise.”

She looked at Tam a long moment, weighing whether the next part was worth saying.

She decided it was.

“Riko never said why he turned around,” she said. “But I’ve had thirty years to think about it, and here’s where I’ve landed. Some doors don’t need a lock. Some places just make it very, very clear, the instant you cross the threshold, that you were never on the guest list.”

Tam watched the island a while longer, small and green and ordinary-looking on the horizon, gulls still wheeling over water that, from this distance, gave away absolutely nothing.

“Doesn’t look like much,” Tam said.

“Neither does a held breath,” Senna said, “until you’re the one holding it.”

She brought the wheel around another point, and the green smudge slid further off the port bow. The ship sailed on into water that made ordinary, boring, blessed noise the entire rest of the way home.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Nobody in Hollowmere believed the old rhyme anymore.

Wren Aldren certainly hadn’t, not really, not until the night the raiders’ fires showed up on the ridge and every able hand in the village came back from the fight with less blood in them than they’d left with.

Her grandmother used to sing it to her as a child, the way you sing something you love without quite believing it:

One kindness paid, one word is owed.

Call it once, down the old road.

Three true names, spoken plain.

Skarvane answers. Once again.

A nursery rhyme. That’s all it had ever been.

Until it wasn’t.

Here’s the story behind the story, the one Wren’s grandmother told better than anyone.

Four generations back, a shepherd named Colm Aldren found a wyrmling half-starved in a snowdrift above the treeline, wing torn, too weak to fly home to wherever home was. Hunters were already climbing the ridge with spears, drawn by the smoke of the creature’s panicked breathing.

Colm hid it in his shepherd’s hut. Fed it goat’s milk from his own hand. Told the hunters the smoke had been his own hearth fire, carried strange on the wind.

When the wyrmling healed enough to fly, it didn’t just leave.

It spoke.

Not the shepherd’s tongue. Something older, that settled into his mind like a stone into water and left the meaning behind once the ripples cleared.

You spent a kindness on me that cost you everything you had to lose.

I have very little left to give a creature so small and so short-lived.

But I can give you this. One word, kept. Call it once, when nothing else is left. I will come.

Then it was gone, and Colm Aldren spent the rest of his life being laughed at gently by neighbors who loved him and didn’t believe a word of it.

Four generations is a long time to keep believing in a debt nobody’s ever seen paid.

Long enough that most of Hollowmere had quietly filed the rhyme next to stories about the man in the moon.

“It’s a nice thing to sing to babies,” old Ansel said, the night the raiders’ watch-fires first appeared on the ridge, “and that’s the whole use it’s ever had.”

“Grandmother believed it,” Wren said.

“Your grandmother also believed the well water cured warts.”

“It does cure warts.”

“That’s beside the point.”

The raiders hit at dawn on the third day. Not many of them, maybe thirty, but Hollowmere had never needed more than a fence and a prayer to keep itself safe, and thirty armed strangers is thirty more than that fence was built for.

The first attempt was the village standing together at the gate, farmers and shepherds with hunting bows and their fathers’ rusted swords.

They held for an hour. Lost six people doing it. The raiders pulled back at dusk only because they’d rather burn the grain stores than fight in the dark, and burning takes less courage than fighting does.

The second attempt was worse. A message rider sent for help from the garrison two days south, except the garrison had its own troubles that spring and sent back word that Hollowmere would have to hold on its own a while longer.

A while longer wasn’t a thing Hollowmere had.

By the second night, half the village was already talking about the road east, about leaving everything behind rather than staying to lose it burning.

That’s when Wren’s grandmother, too old and too tired to fight, gripped her hand across the kitchen table and said the only true thing she had left to offer.

“Climb the ridge. Say the names.”

“Grandmother, it’s a rhyme.”

“It’s a debt,” the old woman said. “And Aldrens have never once, in four generations, let a debt go unspoken. Even the ones owed to us.”

Wren climbed alone, at first light, while the village argued below about whether to run or die standing.

The ridge was farther than she remembered from childhood walks. Steeper, too, the kind of climb that makes you reconsider every choice that led you to it.

She reached the place where the rhyme said to stand, an outcrop of black stone scarred with old claw marks gone smooth with weather, and she felt extraordinarily foolish.

She said the names anyway.

Three true names, the ones her grandmother had made her memorize as a girl, syllables that felt wrong in a human mouth, too many consonants crowded too close together.

Nothing happened.

No wind. No shadow crossing the sun. Just the ridge, and the smoke rising from Hollowmere below, and thirty raiders’ watch-fires waiting to become thirty raiders’ torches.

She said the names again. Louder. Then a third time, voice cracking, because the rule of three is the rule of three even when you don’t believe in rhymes.

Still nothing.

She sat down on the black stone and put her face in her hands, and for the first time since the fires appeared on the ridge, she let herself cry.

It was never real. Grandmother’s dying and she’s dying believing a story, and I climbed a mountain for nothing, and Hollowmere burns tonight because I wasted the one morning I had.

She almost missed it. The change in the light.

A shadow, moving wrong for a cloud, too fast, too deliberate, sliding across the ridge like something pouring itself downhill.

She looked up.

Skarvane was not what four generations of bedtime stories had prepared her for.

Old. That was the first thing. Old in a way that had nothing to do with size, though the size was considerable enough, wings that blotted out half the visible sky. Old in the eyes, in the slow, careful way it folded itself onto the outcrop like something that hurt to move and had decided to move anyway.

Scars crossed its flank in old, pale lines. One eye had gone milk-white, blind.

You took your time calling.

The voice arrived the way Colm’s had arrived, four generations of story-telling ago. Not sound. Meaning, settling in like water finding its level.

“I didn’t think it was real,” Wren whispered.

Neither did your great-grandfather’s neighbors. That never once changed what I owed.

It looked past her, toward the smoke.

Thirty of them. Armed. Your village burns tonight if nothing changes.

“Can you stop it?”

The dragon was quiet a moment. When it spoke again, something in the meaning felt heavier than before.

I am old, small Aldren. Older than I look, and I did not look young to begin with. This will cost me more than it would have cost me a hundred years ago.

“Then don’t.”

A word given is a word kept, Skarvane said, or it was never a word at all. Only noise a dying thing made to feel less alone.

What happened on the ridge above Hollowmere that night became its own story eventually, one Wren still doesn’t tell the same way twice, because some of it happened too fast to hold onto clearly.

Fire from the sky where no fire should be. Thirty raiders who came expecting farmers with rusted swords and found something out of the oldest nightmares their mothers ever warned them about instead.

They didn’t stay to find out if the nightmare had limits.

By the time the sun came up, Hollowmere still stood. Scorched at the edges. Smelling of smoke that wasn’t the bad kind. Alive.

Skarvane didn’t linger for thanks. Wren found it on the ridge afterward, resting against the black stone, breathing in the slow, careful way of something that has spent everything it had and isn’t sure yet what’s left over.

“You could have died.”

I very nearly did. It has been a long time since I fought anything larger than my own hunger.

“Why keep the promise, after all this time? Nobody would have known if you hadn’t come.”

The milk-white eye turned toward her, somehow more piercing for being blind.

I would have known. And your shepherd fed a starving, dying thing from his own hand and asked for nothing back. A debt like that doesn’t get smaller because nobody’s watching to see it paid.

It rose, slow, wincing, wings unfolding.

Something that had earned every one of its scars honestly.

The debt is closed now, Aldren. Four generations, and it is closed.

“Will we ever see you again?”

Skarvane considered that a long moment, old eyes on the smoke-smudged village below, on the girl who’d climbed a mountain for a rhyme she didn’t believe.

That, it said, was never part of the promise.

But I find I am not in as much of a hurry to leave as I thought I would be.

It didn’t say anything else. Just watched the sun come up over Hollowmere a while longer, an old and terrible and patient thing, keeping company with no debt left to keep.

Wren sat beside it and let it.

Thank you…again.

Just when I think I’ve come to a wall I can’t get past, one of you shows up with a sledgehammer and says, “Stand back, I got this.”

Thank you, not only to Clockworks, who has become a Fairy Godmother to me over the past couple years, but to those who send me Coke Zero when I’m tired, incense when I need a mood to change,…and to the reader who believed in me enough to buy me a lifetime Sage account from World Anvil.

Thank you.

Okay, so here’s the microwave version of the video, cause I know it’s SO long…

1. Came home to gifts. Walls that kept me from progressing with stories and specifically audio are now gone (thank you Clockworks).

2. WantedHero.com is now in stone. A reader bought me an ‘Eternal Sage’ account with World Anvil. (Thank you)

3. Camping was amazing…and we had storms and hurricane level winds. We all survived and it was an experience we needed as a family.

4. During camping, we played The Hero Within v3.5 and it was a hit! Took a lot of notes, which will become 3.6 soon.

5. Tales from the Roadkill Tavern is being recorded this week…which will launch soon on Thursdays. We just have to convince Terrin to record the intro and outro music and it’s a go.

6. We want to collect some songs from Terrin to provide an album called “By The Hearth”…once we figure out how to record it without locals freaking out about ‘black magic’…

7. Chronicles of a Hero season 8 is delayed until I can get the full story/series arc planned out…because the new layer of fun is being engineered. In it’s place will be short stories to hold you over until the planning is done.

Knowing that I have all the tools to make more stories come to life…has me smiling so much my cheeks hurt.

Have a lovely day. Have a fanTASTIC week!

You are MORE than you THINK you are!

Until Next Time,

Jaime *Time Lord* Buckley

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Jeb had been steward of the Kotisi longer than most kingdoms had kept the same flag.

In all that time, there was one day a year they both dreaded and looked forward to, in equal measure.

Between themselves, they called it Loaf Day.

Chuck called it nothing at all. He never gave it a name.

He only appeared in the kitchen doorway on the right morning and tapped the frame twice with one knuckle. Then he said the same four words he’d said every year since Jeb first found him lost in his own hallways.

Three weeks gone, that time. Two stone lighter than he’d wandered in.

“Today’s the day, Jeb.”

By the time he finished the sentence, Jeb was already at the flour. There was no walking involved. There rarely was.

The recipe made no sense...and that, Jeb had decided a long time ago, was rather the point of it.

Bruised zaffra root. Three knuckles of it.

No more. No less.

A pinch of ash from a fire that had to be burning when you took it...never scooped cold.

Milk from a goat that did not exist...Jeb had checked. Forty years of quiet, patient, professional checking, and no such goat had ever stood on this estate or any other they’d managed.

Chuck brought the milk himself, from somewhere Jeb had learned not to watch too closely. It came in a small clay jug that smelled faintly of somewhere very far from the Cottage.

The mixing bowl came down off its high shelf, on its own, and settled softly onto the board. Jeb had not reached for a shelf in thirty years. There was no need.

The whole business took most of a day to bake.

The whole business was never, not once in Jeb’s memory, eaten.

“Smells done,” Chuck would say, hands folded behind his back at the kitchen window. He watched the loaf through the oven glass, still and unblinking. “Get the fire hot, would you?”

Jeb got the fire hot.

Chuck carried the loaf out himself. He never once let Jeb take it, not in forty years. He cradled it the whole way to the pit, like something still asleep.

Then he fed it into the flames. Whole.

He stood there until the smoke thinned out and the smell of it had left the air entirely.

Then he came back in, washed his hands twice, and asked what was for actual supper. As though the last four hours had not happened.

Jeb stopped asking why around the ninth year.

By the twentieth, they’d stopped wondering whether they ever would stop.

This Loaf Day had one complication the other nineteen hadn’t.

The complication’s name was Wendell.

He’d been at the Cottage three days, recovering from something Jeb had decided, on principle, not to ask about. The boy ate on a schedule set by his own stomach and nobody else’s.

Which meant that at the worst possible hour of the afternoon, he followed his nose into the kitchen doorway.

“Something smells amazing.” Wendell leaned in, sniffing. “Is that bread?”

“It is not for eating.” Jeb stepped sideways and filled the doorway, a move forty years of practice had made look like an accident.

“Everything in a kitchen is for eating.” Wendell craned around them for a better look. “That’s the whole rule of kitchens.”

“Not this one.”

“Why not?”

“Because.” Jeb used the voice they kept for guests who had wandered somewhere they hadn’t meant to and needed a graceful way back out. “It belongs to Master Chuck. Master Chuck has very particular feelings about his zaffra loaf. And I would take it as a personal kindness if you carried your very reasonable hunger to the dining room...where a far less complicated roast is waiting for exactly this moment.”

Wendell hovered. Boys his age always hovered near a thing they’d just been told not to touch.

He weighed his curiosity against the roast.

The roast won.

“Weird house.” He was already drifting off toward the smell of dinner. “Weird everything, honestly.”

“You have no idea,” Jeb said, to no one at all, and went back to the oven glass.

Chuck came for the loaf at the usual hour. Cradled it the usual way. Carried it out to the pit, the usual careful distance from the house.

Jeb followed. Close enough to be useful...far enough to stay out of it.

The loaf went into the fire. Whole.

Chuck watched it burn with his hands loose at his sides, his six foot snow-white beard nearly to the ground. None of the restless motion...none of the muttering he kept up over everything else in the world. From his tea to his shoelaces, to the sorry state of Ambaserre’s road tariffs...

Just still.

Jeb had watched him go still exactly one day a year for forty years. It never once stopped being strange to see. All that motion, folded up and set down. A man holding himself quiet on purpose.

The smoke climbed thin and pale.

For just a moment it smelled like snow...which made no sense in the middle of summer. In fact, it made no sense at all. Jeb had also, long ago, stopped bringing that up.

Chuck said something into the fire. Two words...maybe three. Too soft to catch.

Jeb did not ask him to say it again.

Some words aren’t meant for the room. They’re for whoever the smoke climbs up to find.

“You could just tell me,” Jeb said later, over the real supper. Chuck had gone back to his usual volume and his usual seventeen conversations at once.

“Tell you what?”

“What Loaf Day is.”

Chuck stopped with his fork halfway up, which for Chuck was a genuinely long pause.

“You’ve gone forty years without knowing.” He set the fork back down on the edge of the plate. “Best cook I ever hired. Never once burned a single other thing I asked you to burn. No questions. No fuss.”

“I have excellent professional discretion.”

“You’ve got something better than discretion.” Chuck looked at them then, and for about a breath, the wandering, muddled look went out of his eyes entirely. “You’ve got the good sense to know a thing can be private without being shameful. Some things are just mine, Jeb. Steering clear of them doesn’t make you any less trusted. It’s part of why I trust you at all.”

“I wasn’t aware I needed reassuring.”

“You didn’t.” Chuck picked the fork back up, and the twinkle came back with it. “I felt like giving it anyway. A man doesn’t get many chances to thank the people who never made him explain himself.”

Jeb said nothing to that.

There was no version of an answer that wouldn’t have come out soft. And forty years of running an impossible house for an impossible man had taught them one rule about a moment like this.

Let it pass. Don’t grab at it.

So they cleared the plates instead. Put the kettle on. Somewhere upstairs, Wendell was almost certainly halfway into something he shouldn’t be. The whole enormous, ridiculous, far-too-large-on-the-inside Cottage eased back down into its ordinary noise.

Three hundred and sixty-four ordinary days a year.

And one that wasn’t.

One that Jeb had decided, a long time ago, was never theirs to ask about.

That was enough.

It had always been enough.

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The bellows breathed. I breathed with them.

That’s the first lesson at Kelvenhearth, before they trust you with iron...before they trust you with fire, even.

Match the bellows. Don’t fight the forge.

Master Kelver used to say a smith who can’t breathe with his own bellows will never hear what the metal is telling him.

I was three years into my apprenticeship the day Aldric Ferrow walked through our door.

He came with a purse fat enough to embarrass a lord, and a deadline that would have killed the commission outright.

“Six weeks,” Kelver told him. “Not a day less.”

“My daughter’s wedding is in four.”

“Then your daughter’s wedding will happen without a bride-chain from this forge.”

I nearly dropped the tongs.

You didn’t talk to Aldric Ferrow that way. Everyone in the valley knew it. He owned half the caravan routes between Andilain and the coast. Traders who crossed him had a way of finding their contracts quietly cancelled the next season.

Master Kelver tugged at his round ear. He always did that when he’d already decided something and was only waiting for the world to catch up.

“Four weeks,” Kelver said again. “Or none at all. Your choice.”

Ferrow’s face went the color of old brick. Then he smiled. The kind of smile that costs a man something to make.

“I’ll pay double.”

“You could pay me the crown jewels of Andilain,” Kelver said, “and the sky-iron still wouldn’t fold any faster.”

Here’s what I didn’t understand yet, standing there with soot on my hands and my mouth half open.

Sky-iron isn’t ore. It’s a gift. And gifts don’t take orders.

It falls maybe once a decade, when the meteor showers pass low over the Kutollum peaks, and what lands is no bigger than a fist. Master Kelver had one piece of it...saved eleven years, waiting for a commission worth spending it on.

Ferrow’s daughter was that commission. A bride-chain. Seven links, each one folded from the raw star-metal seven times over.

Seven folds. Seven weeks. One fold every seven days, because the metal needs that long to settle into itself between the hammer and the water.

Rush it, and the folds don’t bond. They just...sit there. Pretending.

Looks perfect on the anvil.

Snaps the first cold morning it’s worn.

Ferrow came back three days later. A different approach this time.

He didn’t come alone.

The dwarf with him filled the doorway, arms crossed, saying nothing...just standing there being large while Ferrow talked.

“I’ve spoken with the Guild Council,” Ferrow said. “They tell me forge charters can be reviewed. Renewed. Or not renewed.”

Master Kelver didn’t even look up from the piece he was working.

“They can review mine anytime they like.”

“Four days, Kelver.”

“Six weeks.”

“You’ll lose this shop.”

“I’ll lose it with clean hands.”

That night, after Ferrow’s hired dwarf had gone and the shop had gone quiet, I finally asked it.

“Why not just fold it fast? Nobody would know. Not for a year. Maybe two.”

Master Kelver didn’t answer right away. He walked to the back wall, where a length of chain hung on a nail, dull and dark and coiled in on itself.

“My first commission,” he said. “Twenty-two years old. A merchant wanted a ceremonial collar for his prize hound. Needed it in three days, for a competition. I folded it twice instead of seven times, and told myself twice was close enough.”

He took it down. Handed it to me.

It was cold in my hand...and wrong somehow, though I couldn’t have told you how.

“Dog wore it eleven days,” Kelver said. “Snapped while it slept by the hearth. Nearly took an eye out.”

He didn’t say anything else for a long moment.

“The dog’s fine,” he added. “Ferrow’s daughter, though...wearing a chain that snaps at her own wedding feast, in front of every family that matters in that valley...”

He shook his head.

“That, she doesn’t come back from.”

I looked at the ruined thing in my hand.

“You kept it.”

“So I’d remember what fast costs.” He took it back and hung it on its nail. “Rushing doesn’t save time, Bram. It just moves the bill to someone who never agreed to pay it.”

Ferrow’s third visit, he came alone. No hired muscle. No Guild threats.

Just him in the doorway, looking older than he had three weeks before.

“The wedding’s in six days,” he said. “I told my daughter the chain wouldn’t be ready.”

“I’m sorry to hear it.”

“She said...” Ferrow’s voice caught. “She said she’d rather wear nothing at all than something you didn’t have the time to finish right.”

Master Kelver set down his hammer.

For the first time since Ferrow had walked through our door, he really looked at the man.

“Then she understands something her father doesn’t.”

Ferrow flinched. Fair enough. It landed exactly where it was aimed.

“I built this business on speed,” Ferrow said quietly. “Fast caravans. Fast deals. First to market, every time.” He spread his hands. “It’s never once cost me a thing.”

“It will,” Kelver said. “Everything does, eventually. You’ve just been lucky about when the bill comes due.”

The chain finished on the seventh week. One week past what Kelver had promised, because the fifth fold cracked halfway through and had to be started over from raw metal.

I watched him melt down eleven years of waiting without a flicker of hesitation. And start again.

“Doesn’t that kill you?” I asked. “Starting over?”

“What kills you,” he said, working the bellows himself now, matching his own breath to the fire, “is sending out work you know is wrong, and hoping nobody finds out before you’re dead.”

He held the finished chain up to the light. Seven links. Each one folded seven times, each fold showing as a faint grain in the metal, like rings in a very old tree.

It didn’t look flashy.

It looked like it would outlive every one of us in that room.

The wedding had already come and gone by the time the chain was ready. Small ceremony. No bride-chain. Ferrow’s daughter married in her mother’s old wedding band instead, and the word around the valley was that half the guests thought it a lovely, humble touch.

Ferrow came to collect the chain a week after, quiet now, none of the fire left from that first visit.

He turned it over in his hands for a long time.

“She’s going to wear this at the anniversary feast,” he said. “Every year. Long after the wedding’s forgotten.”

Kelver nodded. “Good. That’s what it’s for.”

Ferrow paid what he’d first offered. Not double. Just the price. Kelver had never once asked for more than that, not through any of it, and by then I understood this had never been about the money.

Fifteen years later, I run Kelvenhearth myself.

Ferrow’s daughter still wears that chain. I’ve seen it. Bright as the day it left our forge, not a hairline crack anywhere in the seven folds.

There’s a rushed chain out there too, somewhere. Made by a smith who took a fat purse and half the time. I heard it snapped at a spring fair not long after. Right off the wearer’s neck, in front of everyone.

I think about that dog collar on the wall sometimes. When a customer’s in a hurry, and their coin is very good, and their patience is very thin.

Some things can’t be rushed.

Not because the smith is stubborn.

Because the metal’s telling the truth. And the truth takes exactly as long as it takes.

I'm having a GREAT TIME!

Pretty sure, I am.

Yeah.

Hope so.

Were gonna go with definitely having a good time.

Positive thinking and all that stuff.

I'll give a full report when I get back for real.

Have a lovely day. Have a fanTASTIC week!

You are MORE than you THINK you are!

Until Next Time,

Jaime *Time Lord* Buckley

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

I sell memory.

Not a popular trade, put that way, so I don’t usually put it that way.

On the sign it says BROKER.
Under that, in smaller letters my grandsire cut, IF IT PASSED THROUGH HERE, I KNOW WHO CARRIED IT.

That’s the honest advertisement.

Crossroads like mine, where the west road crosses the river road and the Andilain trade comes down to meet the coast trade. A thing everyone needs and nobody sells is somebody who remembers.

Who bought the grey wool cheap in the spring and sold it dear in the autumn. Which drover waters his ale and which waters his horses...and which does neither...and is therefore to be watched. What a bale of Iskäri dye is truly worth, as against what a stranger will pay for it.

I keep it all.

Up here, and down here in the ledgers.
The same thing twice.
A gnome’s memory is good, but a gnome’s memory that’s also written down is a fact.

I deal in facts.

Thirty years I’ve kept this post. I have sold ten thousand small memories to folk who needed them. Just a copper or two at a time.

Thought nothing of it.

Then a courteous fellow in a grey coat laid an old coin on my counter.
He bought one, same as anyone.
But then he did a thing nobody in Thirty years had done.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

“It’s a check.”

“I know it’s a check, Telly. I’ve got eyes.”

“I’m just saying, it’s a really big check.”

Freak stood in the middle of the garage floor holding the envelope like it might go off. Nibbles had already abandoned whatever she was soldering, candy bar forgotten mid-bite in one hand, craning over his shoulder to read the number twice.

“That’s not a number,” she said. “That’s a phone number wearing a business suit.”

“It’s from the Trench brothers’ people,” Freak said. “Signed. Cleared. Actual money, in an actual bank, with our actual name on it.”

Tumbler didn’t look up from the vise he was tightening.

“Congratulations,” he said. “Now put it away before you drop grease on it.”

Nobody in that garage had ever seen a check that size in their whole lives combined, and it showed.

Telly kept picking it up off the workbench like it might have changed while he wasn’t looking. Nibbles had gone quiet, which for Nibbles meant something had actually landed. Even Tumbler, three decades a welder and allergic to being impressed by anything, kept glancing over at it between passes of his torch.

“You’re gonna stare a hole through that paper,” Freak said.

“I’m making sure it’s real,” Telly said. “Last time somebody told me good news, it was a landlord telling me the good news was I only owed him half what he thought.”

“This is different.”

“Everything’s different till it isn’t.”

Freak set the check on the workbench, dead center. lIt was a shrine now and this garage was its church.

“It’s exclusive,” he said. “The Trench brothers gave us their whole mechanical contract. Every S.L.A.G. that rolls through their operation from here out, comes through TNT first.”

“Because of Chuck,” Nibbles said.

“Because of Chuck,” Freak agreed.

There was a pause, the specific kind of pause that happened in that garage anytime somebody said the wizard’s name out loud. Where everybody silently agreed not to ask a single follow-up question.

“You ever gonna ask him how he actually did it?” Telly said.

“Nope.”

“Not even a little curious?”

“I’ve decided,” Freak said, with the solemn tone of a gnome who has genuinely wrestled this decision to the ground, “that whatever Chuck did to make three ex-convict mechanics hand us their whole business, I do not want it explained to me over breakfast. Some blessings you just say thank you for.”

“Smart,” Tumbler grunted.

Freak picked the check back up. Held it a while.

Something was shifting behind his eyes. It always happened right before he started talking with his hands, which everyone in that garage had learned to brace for.

“I’ve been thinking,” he said.

“Uh oh,” said Telly.

“I mean it. I’ve been thinking about this a lot. Ever since Chuck delivered on the first part of his promise, before we even knew if the rest of it would hold. I started asking myself... if it did hold, what would I actually do? How would I want this place run?”

Nibbles set her candy bar down entirely, which was practically a wedding vow from Nibbles.

“Freak,” she said slowly, “what did you do?”

“Nothing yet. I’m just saying.” He was pacing now, the good kind of pacing, the kind where his whole body couldn’t keep up with wherever his mouth had already gone. “I couldn’t just keep paying you a wage. Not after this. Not after everything you’ve all put into this place for years, way before there was a check worth staring at.”

“Freak.”

“So I want to make departments,” he said, all in one breath, like it’d get away from him if he slowed down. “Real ones. You each run your own shop, your own crew eventually, your own say in how it’s done. Nibbles, electronics and armor, that’s yours, full stop, nobody touches it without your sign-off. Telly, fabrication and field work. Tumbler...”

“I’m already running my own corner,” Tumbler said. “Been doing it since before you could reach that shelf.”

“Then it’s officially yours. In writing. With a title, even.”

“Don’t want a title.”

“You’re getting one anyway.”

Telly had gone very still, which for Telly was practically a fire alarm.

“Wait,” he said. “Like... in-charge kind of titles?”

“Manager kind of titles,” Freak said.

“Managers?” Telly’s voice cracked clean up an octave. “Like... people who get to tell other people what to do?”

“That’s generally the job, yeah.”

“I’ve never been in charge of anything in my life! I once got fired from folding boxes, ya know. For folding them wrong on purpose out of spite!”

“That was one time,” Nibbles said.

“It was enough to know you gotta have a good boss!”

Nibbles was grinning now. Spreading the way it did right before she said something that’d get quoted back at her for a decade.

“Individual...,” she started, “you mean we get shops of our own? Actual shops? With doors that say our names on them?”

“If you want doors that say your names on them,” Freak said, “I will personally hang the doors.”

“I want a door,” she said immediately. “I’ve wanted a door since I was nineteen.”

“You’ll get a door.”

She let out a squeal that made Tumbler drop his welding helmet down over his face just to hide the grin underneath it.

“Why though,” Telly said, quieter now, the panic settling into something closer to actual thought. “Why give it away? You built this place. It’s your name over the gate.”

Freak stopped pacing.

For a second he looked less like the fat, jolly gnome everyone teased about his coveralls. He looked more like somebody who’d spent a long time turning a question over in the dark before answering it out loud.

“Because I couldn’t have built any of it without you,” he said. “Not the reputation, not the contracts, not the years we all ate cold soup together waiting on parts orders that never showed. You’re not employees. You never were, not really, not to me.”

He looked around the garage. Grease-stained walls. A workbench that had eaten more knuckles than it had fixed machines. Three gnomes who’d stood in this exact spot with him through every version of broke this business had ever been.

“You’re family,” Freak said. “And family gets a say. Not a wage. A say.”

Nobody said anything for a second.

Tumbler flipped his welding helmet back up.

“That’s real nice,” he said, “and if we don’t get that flying rig finished by Thursday, none of it’s gonna matter, so somebody hand me the torch back before this becomes a hugging thing.”

“It was already a hugging thing,” Nibbles said, and hugged him anyway, torch and all.

Later, once the check had been walked to the bank by all four of them together, because nobody trusted a piece of paper that large to travel unescorted. Freak stood alone a minute at the garage door, reading the little brass plate he’d already ordered before he’d told anybody a single word of the plan.

TNT ... TOP NOTCH TEAM.

Departments coming soon. Ask any manager.

He grinned at it like a gnome who’d just gotten away with something.

Then he went back inside, because a flying S.L.A.G. wasn’t going to weld itself, promotions or not. Tumbler was already hollering that somebody better get back to work before the moment officially wore off.

Previously: Wendell and his friends escape through the gnome Prime Gate, and Morty helps fulfill the true prophecy about the Gnolaum…as Clockworks plunges into darkness.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

EPILOGUE

The night sky blazed with a million billion stars.

Worlds without number, populated with life forms ready to be dominated...or so the legends told.

It was of no concern to Thule. His passion and lust lay in this world, at least for now. His focus was swallowed up in the pain and blood of conflict.

Should he succeed and free the Master, his greatest desire would be granted him.

Revenge.

Beautiful, viscous revenge.

His sharp teeth grated against each other.

There can be only one.

His free hand reached out to steady the scroll spread upon the desk.

The gentle swaying of the sea was another great annoyance. One he longed to see the end of.

“You are certain,” he growled, his steel fingers tightening around the throat of the mägo.

The Täuku coughed, fingers scraping across the wood of the desk. “Y-yessss,...my...lord. To the...eassst isss...my own homeland!” The dozen tentacles shuddered around the creature’s long lips. “I sssswear!!”

It would be so easy to simply snap his worthless neck. But he knew it would not be wise. Thule required every mägo aboard to accomplish his next task. The crews were restless. All supplies had been consumed days ago, forcing him to portion out the slaves among the ships. He was quickly running out of them as well.

He would need mägo to keep his killers in line.

Five great warships, filled with the most vile and bloodthirsty of his army, tested and proven in the battles of the Tilliman Highlands and King Robert’s attempts to rally his own people to arms.

Now they sat upon the waters of the sea, lost.

A roar upon the deck ripped through the night.

The sound was immediately followed by the scuffling of feet, heavy and deliberate.

Thule released his hold on the magic-user.

The fights had begun.

Grabbing his weapon belt, he fastened it around his waist.

But the path of the running did not stop. The sound trailed down the stairs, ending with a thunderous pounding on Thule’s cabin door.

“General Thule, we’s have a sighting!”

“Enter!”

The hunched beast master flung the door wide and gave a deep bow. “We did found it!”

The Täuku, still gasping for breath, moved back from the captain’s desk as Thule rounded the corner.

“You are certain...”

Saliva dripped from the swollen, pierced lower lip of the Vallen. “Aye my Lord, bright lights they was, flaring out like the stars above. Brighter and brighter they sang...until all at once, they was gone.”

Three quick strides were all it took to close the gap between them. Though the beast master dwarfed Thule in size, the general slammed the giant into the door jamb effortlessly. “Gone?”

The creature nodded frantically, “Aye, but we’s marked the spot by the stars, we did! Will be there before the rising sun...”

Releasing his grip, Thule shoved past the brute and lunged up the stairs.

“Raise the sails!” he roared.

“But there’s no wind, my Lord,” replied the lieutenant.

“Then oars in the water!” Thule drew his sword, sneering at the crewmen. “If you want food and blood, then you ROW!”

He licked his lips.

“We attack Pävärios at dawn!”

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And that, my friends, is Season 7!

We will be taking a small break from Friday chapters as we publish books 1-7.

Own your own copy of CHOICES

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This is THE week…

I'm going camping…with ALL my kids, and ALL my grandkids…

….and I'm even bringing my WIFE!
(and her mom)

The rest is all in the video…

Have a SUPER day. Have an even BETTER week!

You are MORE than you THINK you are!

Until Next Time,

Jaime *Mountain Man* Buckley

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Join The Sprint!

^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Selling other people’s leavings for a living, you learn something simple:

Everything has a price.

Everything.

The chipped bowl, the odd boot, the key to a lock that burned down years ago. Hell, I’ve sold a one-eared jug to a man who wanted it more than he wanted his own dignity. I’ve sold grief back to widows one teaspoon at a time.

I have never once, in four years of standing behind this table at Tildan market, met a thing that didn’t have a number on it somewhere.

Then a stranger offered old Faddic six silver for a tin cup, and Faddic told him to go drown in the river.

Six silver.

For a tin cup.

You could buy a goat for six silver.

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ahhhhHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!

This is so good, I'm still pinching myself.

Ow, that hurts!

…shut up, you.

Oodles and oodles of fun that's HERE, right NOW! The Hero Within is playable!!!!

The Hero Within made some fun strides as we play tested and sent out copies across the country to see what others could find…

We are all having a blast.

We are so close to forming this into a permanent game and launch, so I'm taking the next step of faith and offering the Beta Version onward to 100 people, right now, who are willing to back this last step of progress.

100 copies. 100 families. $25 one-time purchase.

You will get:

1. The 3.5.1 version with the Learn by reading rules;

2. The detailed rules, the character sheet;

3. 6 pre-made characters to jump-start your game;

4. A single test adventure to play with your friends and family;

5. Every update (free, of course) up to publication;

6. A complete PDF version of the complete, published version;

7. The first FOUR (4) module adventures (which we are selling from $9.99-$12.99 each);

8. …and your name in the back of the main game set, as well as those first 4 modules, as a thank you.

When they are gone, they are gone.

Buy The Hero Within Beta!

The rest is all in the video…

Have a great day. Have an even greater week.

You are MORE than you THINK you are!

Until Next Time,

Jaime *Game Guru-ish* Buckley

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MONDAY & WEDNESDAY mornings at 9am Pacific, ’s Ann Kimbrough, will encourage you, make you smile, and give you that much-needed nudge to accomplish your weekly writing progress!!

Join The Sprint!

Previously: Wendell and the freed captives are marched back to Noah’s Prime Gate chamber, where Chuck welds the guards out of the room, rigs the spires with explosives, leaving Noah behind with a mocking wave...

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Chapter 103

The Universe has a way of righting all wrongs, making sure you reap the rewards of your decisions.

Both good and bad.

“Are you ready?” Morty called, grunting as he tightened the last bolt. He stood back too quickly and had to grab the side of the PROMIS to keep from falling off the ladder.

“Calm down, sweetheart,” Deloris answered, working diligently on the wiring. “You’re going to hurt yourself if you’re not careful.”

“Are you kidding?” he laughed. “What does that matter? This is IT! I’ve done it!! All the labor, the heartache...even the backstabbing weenies from the government can’t stop me now!”

Deloris laughed openly. “Then yes, Morty, I...am,” she tightened the final screw on the coupling, “...ready.” She got to her feet and dusted herself off. “It looks good down here.”

Rubbing his rubber gloves together, he inspected the outer shell of the device, then peeked into the side port of the magnifying chamber. Everything was in order, aligned and connected.

What a year it had been.

Years of inspiration and effort, met by scorn and disbelief. Now was the very moment he’d been waiting his whole adult life.

Vindication.

He gave his invention an affectionate pat. Power cables ran from the base of the PROMIS, across the floor, and hardwired into the main power box of the warehouse. The theory was simple: if the device produced enough energy, it would travel outward, overriding the government-controlled electricity and powering the grid.

It was hard not to feel emotional about it, and he sniffed, wiping his face on his lab coat. There had never been a time this wasn’t foremost on his mind. It was what his father had always dreamed of doing. What he’d planted in his heart as a child.

Freedom for the people.

He looked longingly at Deloris. “I’m almost too nervous to do this.” Clearing his throat, he added, “What if I’m wrong again?”

She smiled in the way only she could. “You’re not.”

Taking a deep breath, he let his forehead rest against the cold metal of the device and whispered, “This is for you, dad.”

He flipped the switch.

The first chamber, where the primary motor sat, rumbled to life. Drawing from the main power of the grid, the shard chamber opened, flooding the PROMIS with bioluminescent light.

The floor of the room shook as the generator rumbled and whined, switching over to a perpetual loop, feeding off its own production of energy. Within moments, the rumbling softened, becoming an even vibration that hummed like a large bladed fan.

“What’s happening?” Deloris blinked. She held up her hand, the lights in the warehouse intensifying.

“It’s working!” Morty gasped. “It’s...working!!” Sliding down the ladder, he grabbed his wife’s hand. One by one, the overhead lights intensified. A glance at the controls confirmed the energy output readings remained within the optimal range. With a squeak of glee, he pulled her out of the lab. Down the hall he raced, flipping on every switch he passed.

“Where are we going?” Deloris giggled, trying to keep pace.

“Outside! Let’s go see the city!!”

Deloris followed her husband, who laughed all the way. Out the front door and into the streets they ran.

It was the first time either had stepped outdoors since the riots had started. Smoke rolled up into the night air, camouflaging the flashing signs and billboard adverts that normally lit up the skyline.

“Oh my...what’s happened?” she asked, but Morty wasn’t paying attention to the actions of others.

His eyes were fixed on the nightlife above them. Like a wave, the energy came pouring out from the warehouse... the bioluminescent miracle, seeping through power lines and feeding the street lamps and porch lights. The dull yellow flared, burning brightly, casting off shadows.

It spread.

Every light of the city caught fire like a wave in the ocean, glowing and growing brighter and brighter still. Higher and higher the wave rose, until it reached the Citadel itself, the tallest building in Clockworks. The monolith flared like a lighthouse, its outer lights, installed up each seam, producing a pure white light that reflected off its silver mirrored surface.

Morty cheered and screamed out loud, tears streaming down his face. Throwing his hands into the air, he danced wildly in a circle.

“Yes, yes, yes, yes, YES!” Thrusting a fist towards the sky, “WE DID IT, DAD!”

Deloris did not join him in the celebration.

The smile of joy faded from her face.

Instead, her attention stayed fixed on the tallest buildings and skyscrapers of the city.

Morty grabbed her hands and raised them high as he danced around her. They fell to her sides as soon as he let go.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, skidding to a halt. He stared at her curiously. “Deloris?”

Her eyes glossed over.

It was then that Morty turned and followed the trajectory of her stare.

In the distance, someone screamed. The single sound rose above the commotion of the night, cutting through the smoke and heartbeat of the city.

It was followed by another.

And then another.

Lights exploded.

At first it seemed random, a trail of sparks here and there, but it multiplied. Arcs and trails of sparks ripped through the open sky around the Citadel. Like a great fountain being turned off, the outer bulbs of the building glimmered brilliantly one moment...and then altogether vanished.

One by one, buildings vanished on the horizon.

The street light over Morty’s head exploded, raining hot sparks upon them.

“Mort...” she said nervously. Deloris’s hand reached out to him, finding nothing but air.

“No...,” Morty gasped, “this isn’t right.” He tore the goggles from his head. “It can’t be...I was right this time!”

Before he could exhale his thought, Clockworks plunged into darkness.

President Stump awoke to the penthouse alarm, an incessant beeping. The backup generators had kicked on, enabling only the essential systems of the building to function. This meant moving about by the dim blue lighting installed in each room.

He blinked and took a deep breath, then stretched. First one hand, then the other, adding in a deep yawn.

Surprisingly, he felt rested.

The last thing he could remember clearly was his conversation with Ian. Uneasy feelings crept into his mind as he recalled the albino’s justification. Steps had been taken to protect the administration. Stump turned to his side, pushing up on his forearm. Bright spots formed at the edges of his vision, and he had to grip the side of his bed to keep from falling off.

These last few years started to make sense. The hints and complaints his children had raised about Ian. Were they all true? Had he brushed aside information that could have prevented all of this? As noble as Ian’s intentions might be, it was not the place of an assistant to circumvent the authority of the people’s leader.

He had to be stopped.

“The children,” he said, shaking his head, remembering what he’d done hours ago. His heart ached. Were they safe? Were they together?

He frowned, his mind fuzzy. Had it been hours? Or longer...?

“Hello?” he called out loudly. He waited for several minutes, but no one answered.

Odd. There was always someone working in the penthouse, specifically staff. Someone to tend to both the President and the children.

“Guess you’re on your own,” he grunted. Snatching his glasses from the nightstand, he put them on.

The wheelchair was out of reach, making it impossible for him to leave the room.

Grabbing the I.V. stand next to him, he yanked the liquid pouch free and tossed it to the floor. Keeping a firm hold on the bed, he leaned forward and used it to hook the side of his wheelchair.

“Come on,” he grunted, dragging it closer. “That’s it.”

Once in the wheelchair, he used the stand to hook under the door and prop it open. It was difficult to propel himself along the carpet. His muscles felt weak, his mind still foggy, but he pushed on, banging out into the hallway.

The penthouse was completely quiet apart from the alarm. A fast, cold breeze whipped down the halls, rustling his thin clothes. Stump shivered, his medical gown not much better than naked flesh.

Bang...bang...bang...

A faint sound, barely heard above the penthouse alarm.

It only took rounding the last corner of the hallway to see why it was so breezy. The center of his living room area contained the frame of a S.L.A.G., which had...at some point...crashed through his window and embedded itself as part of the living quarters. Glass lay everywhere, the giant plate window demolished. Shards littered the floor, while...

“What in the name...” Bullet holes riddled the walls.

Bang...bang...bang... came the sound again.

“What in TGII?” Stump exclaimed, but the initial shock quickly changed to horror as he wheeled beyond the kitchen counters. His hands gripped the wheels, stopping his momentum.

Bodies littered the penthouse.

Bodyguards and Centurions in full riot gear lay crumpled over one another, sprawled out across the tiles or hunched in corners. One was face down in a giant planter.

Bang...bang...bang...

The sound was loud and clear now. The door to his private office.

A door that he always meticulously locked.

Maneuvering through the maze of bodies, Stump rolled the wheelchair cautiously through the office entryway.

The narrow room, considered his personal sanctuary from prying eyes, contained a desk, one cabinet with supplies, and a single window. Similar to the living room, this window had been shattered, though the hole was much smaller.

Fwip-fwip-fwip.

Pinned to the center of his desk, a single piece of paper rustled. The wind whipped it about, but the ashtray Kip had made in second grade held it firmly in place.

Rolling to the other side of the desk, Stump slipped the paper free.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The man had the whole common room in his fist.

...and he was lying.

I knew it the way I know a bad coin.

By the ring.

Read more

Have to make this quick...

I'm off to the hospital this morning and I'll have to battle work traffic to get there.

Making fanTASTIC progress with the new game.

The Hero Within made 2 full transformations over last week, and now we are at version 3.2 (I was wrong, it wasn't 4.0 yet).

Though I hope to have this for everyone, the main people I hope this will work for are families. An actual family TTRPG…to make mom/dad/grandpa/grandma the cool ones in the eyes of the kiddies.

If I DO pull this off, you should be able to have a blast and play with a 7 year old, up to grandpa, and even entertain the veteran TTRPG players!

Have a great day. Have an even greater week.

You are MORE than you THINK you are!

Until Next Time,

Jaime *Taleweaver* Buckley

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Treat Yourself or Someone You Love...

Want to contribute, but don’t want to do it through a paid subscription? Why not consider helping Jaime with supplies or gear to keep LoF going? Or maybe send him a treat for all his hard work (Coke Zero, yum)? He keeps a public list of what he’s saving up for…

LoF 'Daily Use& Saving Up For' List

Remember:

MONDAY & WEDNESDAY mornings at 9am Pacific, ’s Ann Kimbrough, will encourage you, make you smile, and give you that much-needed nudge to accomplish your weekly writing progress!!

Join The Sprint!

When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: Wendell reunites with Chuck, Lili, and a badly weakened Dax at Morty’s ruined warehouse. Father Noah tracks them there and takes the whole group prisoner at gunpoint.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Chapter 102

The Centurions made no pretense of honor or kindness.

Each of the prisoners was struck multiple times, including Lili. Twice the guards turned to put a bullet in Dax’s head while Chuck and Vin struggled to carry him. In the end, I requested my hands bound in front of me so I could carry my prone friend myself.

Down into the depths of the temple we trudged, until we ended right back where it had all begun.

The prisoner room.

Just outside the chamber where the Prime Gate was kept.

The ceiling was exceptionally high for a gnome structure, all to allow for the arching black points of the Prime Gate. Three sides and three ramps, all leading up to a platform with intricate carvings in circular patterns of stone. The three curved spires were crafted of polished black onyx, jutting out of the platform.

Like the teeth of a great beast. Each spire covered in deep red etchings.

Once the last member of our group had been thrust through the door, it was shut and locked behind us.

“This would have been much easier for everyone involved if you had allowed me to follow my original plan,” Noah said over the speakers. He appeared in the control booth above us, four other monks joining him at the controls. “Now I will have to take the time to reclaim the lives I have prepared for the exchange. Such a laborious process.”

“Exchange?” I bellowed, angry. “You sacrificed fellow citizens! INNOCENT PEOPLE!”

My face flushed with rage. The only comfort was knowing Simon and most of the other gnomes had gotten away and avoided this fate.

There has to be a way to end this.

I can’t let him get away and start this all over again...

“You’re working with the enemy, you...filth!” I shouted.

It was useless and I knew it. What could I possibly do, trapped here in this room? What would happen to us once that Gate opened? Would there be a clew of Täuku mägo on the other side, ready to enslave us, or worse….devour us?

Cold eyes locked onto me, thin lips rolling back into a smile.

“Oh, but there was an exchange. I gave those grotesque beasts what they wanted, in turn for our anonymity. Mahan will be coming back...don’t fool yourself. It’s only a matter of time! Once he does, this world will be ripped apart and those who oppose him will be destroyed or devoured.” The smile instantly faded. “I’m just ensuring we avoid such a fate.”

Overhead, giant fans rumbled to life.

Chuck grabbed Lili and Höbin, pulling them close.

He whispered to the historian.

The techno-mägo were doing some huddling of their own.

I could still feel the power surging from the Lanthya Shard, adding to the innate strength from the Ithäri. Squeezing my hands into fists, I grunted and pulled with all my might...

...snapping the handcuffs.

My attention stayed focused on the monk.

“You think such a race would have any honor to keep such a promise? I thought you were clever, Noah. You’re a fool!”

Noah just laughed. “Impressive show of strength, but it won’t help you. The Täuku are a magical race. You won’t get within range of striking them, and I will sleep well knowing I’ve delivered the only enemy that could possibly defeat them over time.”

Vin and Doddle slipped around the backside of the Prime Gate while Tabbermain stepped up in front of me.

“You won’t be able to control this gate without our help, Noah,” the gnome yelled. “Think carefully before you choose to cast us away.”

“Oh, I know your uses, Tabbermain...and they are few.” Noah patted the closest monk on the shoulder. “My men have set up a remote and relay system to control the functions of the Prime Gate. A job you once had, but are no longer needed for.” He smirked. “Even if I did need a mägo, there are more within this city who’d give far less trouble than you three.”

“Ahem,” blurted Doddle, holding up a thick cable with both hands. “Do you mean the Gate is controlled by one of these wee things?”

“Put that down!” Noah squealed.

He turned to those in the booth. “Get down there and get that cable hooked back up!”

“We good?” Chuck called out.

“All done,” Höbin yelled back. The historian knelt on the floor at the double doors, popping the tip of his cybernetic finger over the welding tip. “Doors are sealed shut.”

I was completely confused. “What are all of you doing? How are we supposed to get free if you lock us in?”

Lili just smiled and walked up the ramp.

“You’re missing the point, son,” Chuck said with a wide grin. “We aren’t locked in.” He pointed up to the booth with a bony finger. “They are locked out.”

Nodding to Dax’s prone body on the floor, “Now if you’ll be so kind as to carry the cargo, my fellow mägo and I will do what we do best.”

“But, I...what...uhhh.” I lifted Dax up gently, but stood there, flustered.

Lili reached up and tugged on my forearm. “You’ve done so much, for so many people, Wendell...let them take it from here.” She smiled then, which, even as a gnome, was more lovely than anything I could imagine. “Come on,” she whispered. “Let’s go home.”

Home?

My breathing went shallow at the thought.

Can we really be leaving this place?

For all the excitement, this large and overwhelming city had turned out to be more terrifying and personally dangerous than anything I’d experienced in the Tilliman Highlands.

Wearily, with Noah’s voice still shouting through the speakers, I stepped up onto the ramp of the Prime Gate.

Gnomes were not as innocent as they looked.

“Ok, boys,” Chuck hooted, “you turn the key and I’ll press the button.” He gave the mägo a wink. “I don’t think the blueberries would want you to know their address.”

As they chanted the ancient words known to those who practiced gate lore, the red symbols surged with innate power. One by one, from the base of the platform to the highest point of the arch, the Gate hummed its song, calling to its identical mate somewhere in the beyond.

Waving his hand over the last symbol, Chuck watched the light grow between the three spires...and then jump up, shooting through the solid ceiling.

He sighed happily and gave Noah a friendly, if not mocking, wave.

“Oh,” he muttered, patting the sleeves of his robe. “Almost forgot!”

“Forgot?” Höbin asked, curious.

The wizard pulled out two explosive canisters and held them up gleefully. “Boom booms!” Flipping his hat off, he reached in and produced a long piece of rope.

“What is it with you and rope?” Höbin chuckled, taking one end. With his boot knife, he cut it in half and handed the other section to Chuck.

“It’s a long story, which I just might share...but only over a good steak and some Black Seed Rum.”

The historian licked his lips. “Done.”

Fastening the two canisters to a single spire, they used the second strand of rope and attached it to the firing pins.

FWOOSH!

Light flared from the center of the platform.

The faded image of trees and buildings appeared.

The images rippled.

…it was like looking through a pond.

“Where are we going?” Tabbermain asked curiously.

“You, my dear sir,” Chuck said boldly, “are about to be the unwanted guests of the Iskäri High Council!”

I stepped closer and nudged the worried gnome with my leg. “You will be my guest, Tabbermain, so don’t worry. Friends are always welcome at my campfire.”

Waving his arms, Chuck ushered everyone through the rippling image.

With a wave and a deep bow, he smiled up at Noah.

...and pulled the rope.

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

The wheel was turning, and there was nobody to turn it.

I knew that sound the way you know your own heartbeat.

Forty years of it.

The long groan of the axle, the slap of the paddles taking the Ash, the deep stone hum underneath where the runner kisses the bed.

It was the middle of the night.

The mill was shut.

The key was under my pillow, where it had lived since I buried Tam.

And the wheel was turning.

I lay there and told myself it was the wind. The Ash was up from the spring melt, and a strong current can nudge a wheel a hand’s width and make it moan.

But a hand’s width does not grind grain.

I got up.

I am sixty-one years old and my knees announced every stair, but I went down them anyway.

...because a woman who owns a mill goes and sees about her mill.

The night was cold and clean and full of stars, and my own mill sat there, in the dark, working like a Tuesday.

Light pushed from the cracks of the door.

Not lamplight.

It was that white river-shimmer that comes up off the wheel-house when the paddles throw water. The whole building breathing the way it does under load, warm and busy and mine.

I stood in the yard in my dead husband’s coat, with no earthly idea who was inside it.

I want to tell you I was brave.

What I mostly was, was annoyed.

Somebody was using my mill.

My good runner stone, that Tam dressed by hand twice a year with a pick worn down to a nub.

My grain, if it was my grain.

My river.

I put my hand on the door. It was unbarred from the *inside*.

Then the light went out.

All at once.

...and the wheel slowed, and slowed, and dragged itself to a stop with that little backward knock the pawl makes.

By the time I got the door open, the mill was empty.

Warm floury air. The bed still ticking as it cooled. A film of fresh meal on the stones, so fine it hung in the star-shine like breath.

And not a soul in it.

I am not a woman who runs to the reeve.

Godfry is a decent enough fellow and he means well, but he handles a mystery the way a dog handles a wasp...

With a great deal of noise and no improvement to anybody.

If I told him my mill ran itself at night, he would post a boy at my door. That boy would eat my bread and see nothing. The whole of Ashbrook would then know that the widow at the mill was hearing wheels in the dark.

So I did the **sensible** thing.

I counted my grain.

Tam kept the stores the old way, in bins along the north wall, each marked with a burnt letter. I have kept them the same, because grief makes you tidy...or it makes you a ruin.

I chose tidy.

...and I knew what was in every bin to the double-handful.

I was short.

Not robbed, mind you.

Robbed is a bin turned out and a mess left.

This was careful.

A measure gone from the barley. A measure from the winter wheat. From the *good* milling wheat.

The pale hard kernels the bakers pay for, a measure and a half.

Someone had taken grain from me the way you take a coin from a jar you mean to pay back.

That someone had ground it.

I stood there with the tally-stick in my hand and did the arithmetic.

The arithmetic said a thief.

A patient one, who knew mills, who could set a wheel and dress a load and sweep up after himself...then vanish before an old woman got down her own stairs.

I did not like the arithmetic.

Because the next morning, Bett Aldous came by for her quarter-sack.

...and she was **crying**.

It wasn’t the sad crying.

The *other* kind.

The kind that leaks out sideways when a person has been holding on with both hands and something finally lets them stop.

There’d been flour on her step. A full sack of it, good and fine, sitting against her door in the dark, like the morning left it there on its way past.

“I didn’t order it,” she said. “I couldn’t have paid for it. Merta, you know I couldn’t.”

I knew.

Bett lost her man to the coughing sickness two winters back. She has three little ones and a garden the size of a tablecloth. She has been grinding acorns and pride into the same porridge for a year.

When I “sell” her a quarter-sack, we both understand the ledger. Neither of us says so, because there are kindnesses you can only do if you agree to lie about them a little.

“It wasn’t me,” I told her.

And it wasn’t. I’d have known. My flour has a way of standing that another mill’s doesn’t, on account of how Tam set the stones. They’re close and slow, so it comes off cool. Fast milling scorches. You can taste the difference if your whole life has been flour, and mine has.

I took a pinch off Bett’s step and rubbed it between my fingers and put it to my tongue.

Cool.

Close and slow.

My stones.

My grain, gone in the night, come back as a sack on a widow’s doorstep.

There were more.

Once I knew to ask, I heard them all week, in that sideways Ashbrook way. Nobody announces a thing, but everybody has heard it.

A sack at the Pell house, where the father’s hand was crushed at the quarry and hasn’t closed right since. A sack at old Ren’s, who has outlived everyone who ever owed him anything. A half-sack, even, at the temple door, where the Sisters feed whoever kneels there at supper and never ask what god sent them.

Somebody was stealing from my mill at night and giving it to the people in Ashbrook who had the least.

Somebody was robbing me to feed my neighbors.

Part of me wanted to leave it alone.

The grain was mine to lose, and I was losing it to the exact people I’d have given it to if I could have done it without shaming them past bearing.

Whoever it was had found a way to do the thing I couldn’t.

He fed them and let them keep their faces.

A sack in the dark asks nobody to say thank you.

But it was my mill.

I couldn’t sleep for the sound of it, and a body has to know.

So I sat up.

Third night, I finally caught him, because I stopped being clever and started being patient. The only trick I have ever known that works.

I did not hide in the mill. He’d have heard me breathe.

I hid in the wheel-house, up on the little service ledge over the pit where Tam used to grease the axle. Wedged myself in the damp and the roar, with my knees screaming, and a lantern I did not light.

He came just past the middle of the night.

I heard the bar lift. Heard the sluice-gate go up, easy, by a hand that knew which board stuck. Heard the water take the wheel and the whole world I have lived in start to turn.

Then I climbed down into my own mill, cold and furious and afraid.

There in the meal-light, with his sleeves rolled and a sack held open under the spout, was Corley Fenn.

Corley.

Who cannot count past his fingers. Who Tam kept on for twenty years to haul sacks and mind the sluice, because Corley is strong as a wall and gentle as milk. The good Ashbrook folk called him simple the way they call the river wet.

I let him go, after Tam died.

It’d hurt me to do it, but I couldn’t pay him. Corley never said a hard word. Just touched his cap and walked off up the Ash.

I have felt the size of that ever since.

He saw me and his whole big face fell open like a dropped bowl.

“Merta,” he said. “I put it back. I always put it back. Not the flour, I can’t put the flour back, but I. I meant to tell you the numbers. I’m no good at the numbers.”

“Corley,” I said. “What in the world.”

And he told me.

It took a while.

Corley tells a thing the way the Ash takes the long way round the meadow. Luckily I have all the time a widow has, which is all of it.

A traveler had come through. Weeks back, before the thaw was full.

A young one, Corley said. Younger than he expected, for what he did. Passing along the river road with the look of a lad who’d walked a long way and meant to walk a lot farther.

And he’d stopped, because the mill was silent.

You have to understand what that means, in a mill town. A silent wheel in daylight is a wound everyone can hear. Mine had been silent because the pit-gear had thrown a tooth in the winter and seized. The wheelwright three towns down wanted more to fix it than I’d cleared all autumn.

So I had a mill I could not run and a town that had to cart its grain a day’s ride to Tildan and back.

...and pay for the privilege.

The boy had climbed down into the pit.

“He weren’t afraid of it,” Corley said, wonderstruck all over again. “Most folk are afraid of the pit. He got right down in the wet and he looked at the gear a long time. It was strange, him standing there, talking’ to himself. Then he nodded, and asked me for the pieces. I gave him the tooth I’d kept because I didn’t know what else to do with it, and he. Merta, I don’t know how he did it. He had a way. He warmed it or he sang at it or I don’t know. He set it. He set the gear that Nolan wanted six silver to set, and he did it for nothing, and when it turned he laughed like it was the finest thing he’d ever heard.”

I believe that part without any trouble.

There is no sound in the world like a dead wheel coming back.

“And then,” Corley said, and here he got shy, and turned the empty sack over in his big hands, “then he sat with me on the step and we ate, and he asked me who in the town was hungry. And I told him. I know who’s hungry. Folk think I don’t know things but I know that one.” He looked at me. “And he said, feed who you can, Corley. He said it like it was easy. Feed who you can and let the mill do it quiet, so nobody has to be ashamed. And then he went on up the road.”

“And you’ve been doing it,” I said. “Since the thaw. In the dark. So nobody’d be ashamed.”

“I put it back,” Corley said again, miserable. “The numbers.”

I did not have the heart to explain to Corley Fenn about the numbers.

That you cannot put ground grain back. That a measure of wheat made into a sack of flour on Bett Aldous’s step is gone from my bin forever and does not return, no matter how carefully you sweep.

He’d been putting the empty *sacks* back.

Folding them.

Squaring them on the shelf.

In his mind the ledger balanced because the sacks came home.

How do you look at a man who has been feeding your whole poor town out of your own stores for a season, and tell him he has done a sum wrong.

You don’t.

I put Corley back on.

I can’t afford him.

Did it anyway, and we will grind fine or we will grind each other.

...but I would rather do it with him than without.

And I have kept the night-milling.

Changed nothing but the bookkeeping, which is to say I now know it’s happening. I write it in a bin of its own, marked with a letter that isn’t a letter. If the mill comes up short at year’s end, then the mill comes up short...

Tam can argue with me about it when I see him.

Feed who you can. Let the mill do it quiet.

The boy was right. It was easy. It was the easiest thing I ever agreed to.

There was a song, for a while.

The mill-children made it.

There are always mill-children, the ones too small to be useful and too curious to be anywhere else. They’d caught the shape of the story the way children catch everything you’d rather they didn’t.

A boy who came out of nowhere and set the wheel right. Who fed the town and walked away.

They made him taller in the song. Gave him a sword he didn’t have and a cloak he didn’t have. We never knew his name, so they made one up. Changed depending on who sang it...back again through a dozen small mouths.

It was a silly song. It scanned badly. I loved it the way you love a thing that is entirely your own town’s and nobody else’s.

They sang it at the wheel. It went with the turning.

Then a man came, and it stopped.

I only met him the once.

A courteous fellow, in the kind of grey coat that doesn’t show the road.

He came to the mill in an afternoon and bought a sack he didn’t need. He just stood in my yard. admiring the wheel. Had a way of asking questions that didn’t feel like questions at all. Just a warm, unhurried interest, like the two of you had all day and nothing better.

I told him the story. The whole of it. Corley, the gear, the boy, the sacks in the dark.

I don’t know why I told him. I’m not a teller.

But he was so easy to talk to that the telling just... came out of me, the way meal comes off the stone. By the end I’d given him more than I’d given the reeve.

He paid me for the sack with an old coin. Andilain-struck, worn smooth as a river stone. A generation out of date at least. I remember thinking a man doesn’t carry a coin that old unless he’s carried it a long way.

“That’s a fine tale, mother,” he said. “One more time, if you’d humor me. Just the part about the boy and the wheel. For the pleasure of it.”

So I told it again. And he listened like it was the only thing in the world.

Then he went to the children.

I saw it from the step and thought nothing of it. A kind traveler, giving the little ones a coin each, and them delighted. It was only later I understood what he’d bought.

He’d asked them to sing him a different song.

Gave them each a bright coin and a smile and asked, so gently, wouldn’t they learn a proper one. A real one from a real city, instead of that scratchy little thing about the mill. And children being children, and a coin being a coin, they did.

They sing the new one now.

It’s a better song. It scans.

And the other one is gone.

I’ve tried to call it back. I stand at the wheel some nights while it grinds for the hungry, and I reach for the tune the way you reach for a name that was on your tongue a breath ago.

There’s nothing there.

Just the shape of where it was.

I remember that there was a song.

I can’t remember how it went.

I’ve turned it over a good deal, in the dark, with the stones humming.

Why a man would ride into a river town and pay good silver to buy a story off an old woman, and then pay again to take a song out of children’s mouths. Why anyone would want a kindness *forgotten.*

I don’t have it. I’m a miller, not a wise woman.

I grind what comes and I sweep up after.

But I’ll tell you the one thing I know, the way I know the wheel by its sound.

You don’t pay to bury a thing that doesn’t matter.

Chaff, you leave on the wind.

Chaff scatters itself.

Nobody rides three days to make sure the wind forgets a piece of chaff.

He rode a long way, on old worn coin, to make certain one town forgot one boy.

So somewhere out there is a boy worth that much trouble.

And somewhere in Ashbrook there’s a wheel that still turns in the dark for the hungry.

...whether the world remembers why or not.

Feed who you can.

I can’t recall the tune anymore.

But I know every word.

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When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: Wendell blasts Noah’s Centurions blind and escapes the temple with Buddy, the mägo, and the freed captives. Across the city Chuck drags a half-dead Dax and Lili out of the wreckage as Clockworks tears itself apart...

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Chapter 101

I hadn’t been back to the warehouse in...I wasn’t sure how long it had been.

With all the running, hiding and people wanting to harm or kill me, I felt undone. There was something about finally being out of danger. Like the pulling of a plug…releasing the tension and worry and stress all at once.

I looked forward to seeing Chuck and...

I didn’t have it in me.

After everything we’d been through, Dax was still in the government’s clutches. Even worse, it wasn’t until now that I realized the danger I’d put my friend in. Mr. Upshot had warned me about causing trouble among the gnome race.

Now the streets of this incredible city were burning.

Upshot is going to kill Dax, and it’s my fault.

The thought nearly buckled my knees.

“Are you alright?” Simon asked innocently.

I nodded, but said nothing. The door to the warehouse was coming into view.

We slowed our pace as we stepped onto the sidewalk. Scorched and charred, the door to Morty’s warehouse was warped. It hung by a single hinge.

My heart jumped to my throat. Pushing the piece of metal out of the way, I barged into the building without saying a word.

No. No. NO!

Blackened walls and floors greeted me grimly as far as the light shined. The main hall extending back past the bedrooms, library and Morty’s workroom was shrouded in shadow.

Insulation hung down from the ceilings like wet spiderwebs, whispering tales I didn’t want to hear.

My trembling fingers slid along the wall, ending at the archway to the kitchen.

“What happened in here?” Tabbermain asked softly. “I...thought you said your friend worked here?” He scratched his head, confused. “Doesn’t seem like a very safe environment.”

I shuffled to the kitchen table, twisted and warped and yet covered in papers. Boxes lay scattered across the room. Chairs lay across the ground, mangled like giant metal spiders that withered in agony under a child’s flame. Even the couch was ruined, the fabric of the arms and cushions melted, revealing batting and metal springs.

It was all gone.

No sign of my friends...

Tabbermain lifted one of the papers on the table, staring at the schematics. He shifted the papers, his attention drawn to the sketches and notes displayed.

Sitting under the pile of papers was Morty’s black box.

“Whoever it is that worked here is a genius.” Tabbermain handed a couple papers to Vin, who held them close to his face.

“Oh my,” he nodded, fingering through the information. “Clever. Very clever.”

Enid and Simon watched me in silence as I moved around the table, staring at its contents…but touching nothing.

Without warning, I pulled a slightly warped chair out and sat at the head of the table.

The old gnome prodded the child away. “Give Wendell a moment, Simon. Why don’t you go sit in that soft pile of papers over in the corner. Let me have a word with him, alright?”

Being used to living in far less than this abundance of resources, the child obediently complied.

Enid ignored the growing fascination of the mägo trio and pulled a chair closer to me.

For long moments he stared up at me. Tabbermain and his friends continued to chatter in the background about mechanical theory, amplifiers and microbial fuel cells.

“Wendell,” Enid finally whispered. “What...happened here? Where are your friends?”

My vision locked on the black box.

It was the only sure sign that my friends had been here. The warehouse was destroyed...but I shut it out. I didn’t want to know. I didn’t want to know another thing. Another bad thing. It was too much.

“I don’t know.” I blinked again, slowly turning to face Enid. “None of this was supposed to happen.” I choked. It became unusually hard to breathe.

“I don’t understand,” Enid said again softly, seeing my pain.

My eyes glossed over and I gritted my teeth. “I came here to make things better. That’s what I was supposed to do. Make...things...better. Find the last seal and lift everyone into the light.”

I chuckled, mocking myself.

“Seal?”

“The Demoni Vankil seal,” I said firmly. “It’s what I’ve been looking for.”

The room fell silent.

Enid looked up to find the mägo staring back. Their eyes were fixed on me.

“But that’s not what the prophecy says,” Tabbermain added evenly.

As if someone had poured cold water over my head, I snapped my head up. “What did you say?”

“That’s not what the gnome prophecy says,” Vin repeated.

No, that doesn’t make sense...

I shook my head.

“I’m supposed to be here. I’m supposed to lead these people into the light.” I looked between them. “I have the...”

But I froze.

The letter was gone. Noah had taken it from me.

“Not so,” Tabbermain said soberly. “The one who came to us as the Gnolaum would be our undoing, plunging us into the darkness.”

The words clawed at my heart. “What?”

That’s not what the letter said.

But the letter wasn’t meant for me.

It was meant for someone else.

The actual hero.

NO!

I’ve gone through all this…the choice has already been made and I’ve done all I knew how to do!

I gripped the sides of the table, squeezing until my knuckles turned white.

THIS CAN’T BE TRUE!

“There are very few who know our full prophecies,” Doddle said patiently, seeing my open distress. “The Church takes our sacred writings and twists them, hiding them from the people. They...prefer to use portions to further their own purposes.” He bowed his head. “TGII forgive them, but it’s true. When called upon, we techno-mägo must have the truth before us to work our skills…especially when required to work with artifacts. That’s why we were chained up. We’ve studied the unaltered text. We know too much. Noah has been obsessed with you, Wendell, from the moment your S.L.A.G. was inappropriately named.”

The room started to spin and I kept my grip on the table.

No. This isn’t right. I can’t fail…again.

Not again.

“I can only speak for myself,” Tabbermain started to say, “but...”

“No!” I snapped, my teeth still clenched. “Not another word.”

Enid placed a hand on my forearm, but I shrugged it away.

“No,” I said again, softer.

It was so hard to breathe. Friends gone. My only form of guidance taken from me...I shook my head. “I don’t know who this Gnolaum is.”

Inhaling through my nose, I relaxed my jaw. “I thought maybe it was me. But all I truly know is, I’m Ithari’s host. Just a kid from a far away land, who gave his word to help.”

I looked across the room at Simon. The child’s crystal clear blue eyes reflected back.

“To help those who can’t help themselves.”

THA-THUMP-THUMP!

My eyes rested again on the black box.

“And right now, that means I need to find my friends.” Reaching across the table, I pulled the ebony container to me.

SHKK-KKK-K-KKK-SHHK! it clattered, coming alive at my touch.

Pieces of the box started spinning, sliding and rotating. Where my fingers had touched the surface of the box, glowing blueprints remained. The puzzle box shifted…expanding until at last, the top lid popped open, hitting the table with a POK!

The gnomes gasped as a warm light filled the room.

The trail had continually eluded the historian and for one of the few times in his career, Höbin found himself stumped. The records he had obtained from both the guilds and the patent office were correct. Even his visit and wound from Mushcrank proved useful.

But where was the connection?

He leaned over the desk, going through the list of facts yet again. He’d forgotten how many times he’d reviewed them.

He yawned.

Leaning back in his chair, Höbin rubbed his one good eye and turned off his cybernetic link. No use running the battery down.

He could still hear Morty working furiously in the hidden room next to him. Every so often the tinkerer would let out a soft giggle, followed shortly after by the echo of Deloris.

He was close.

“Pshaw!” he huffed, tossing the pen onto the desk. “The Greatest Tinkerer...what a lie.”

He yawned.

Lie.

Höbin clamped his mouth shut. “That’s it!” he declared. “It’s...all a...” Pulling the record book to him, he looked at the submission dates for each of the inventions. The greatest inventions ever created among the gnome people.

A sly grin crept across his furry face.

“Why you arrogant...” His eye popped open wide to the truth staring back at him. “Son of a...MORTY!” Jumping up, Höbin hobbled to the secret door and pounded on it. “Morty Teedlebaum…I know who the Greatest Tinkerer is!” He shook his fistful of notes triumphantly in the air. “It’s...”

“NOT NOW!” screamed the gnome. “I’M SO CLOSE!!”

Like releasing the steam from a pressure cooker, Höbin’s shoulders slumped forward. “But...” he tried again.

“NOT NOW!” Morty screamed again. “LATER!!“

“Sure,” Höbin sighed. “Later.”

Tossing the papers to the desk in irritation, he wandered out to the kitchen.

“Is that?” Tabbermain gasped as the other gnomes gathered around the open box.

I nodded.

You FOUND me!

The child’s voice, the whisper of the Lanthya, filled my being so strongly, it resonated in my ears. Glittering in its glory, the crystal sat atop a round disc, engraved with intricate and strange symbols. Joining them together was what appeared to be a delicate web of silver. Thousands of strands, interconnecting and lovingly encasing both items, as one.

The close proximity of the shard invigorated me. The worry and fear I felt only moments ago vanished. My mind expanded, my thoughts and path now clear before me. Exactly the same experience I’d had briefly back in Til-Thorin.

This is amazing, I grinned, flexing the fingers of my hands. I feel so...strong.

Tabbermain stretched out his hand towards the seal, fingers trembling.

“NO!” I snapped, slapping the small hand away. “Don’t touch it,” I said, this time softer, seeing the sudden fear in my friend’s face. “That is the only thing left keeping Mahan from this world!”

The gnome stepped back from the table, nodding silently as he clutched his hand to his chest.

“Wendell…is that you?” Höbin called from the hall.

My heart nearly jumped out of my chest. “Höbin! Yes…yes, it’s me!” I called back.

“I found it!” the historian laughed, hobbling into the kitchen. His face was bright with excitement. “I know who the...” he stopped short.

“It was Morty,” I finished. Holding the seal up carefully, “He’s had the seal all this time.”

The historian laughed sadly, then shook his head. “Looks like all this research and running around to solve this puzzle was for nothing...”

I frowned at him. “What happened to your face?”

“Whose face is a puzzle?” Chuck sighed, stumbling into the room. He had one of Dax’s arms over his shoulder, Lili had the other. The elf looked as if he were at death’s door.

“Chuck! Dax!” I exclaimed, jumping from my chair. Clenching the seal tightly in one hand, I knelt down and hugged my friends eagerly. Lili smiled and took a couple steps back.

Until I grabbed her wrist.

Pulling her in separately, I folded my arms around her and hugged her vigorously. “You can be mad at me later for this,” I whispered in her ear, “but for now, I’m so glad you’re safe!”

The wizard smirked. “Well...isn’t that nice.”

Lili lingered in the hug...then realizing, pushed away embarrassed.

“I see you found the seal?” Chuck said dully. He dragged Dax carefully over to what remained of the couch and set him down tenderly, resting his oversized head between two springs. “And brought home some friends I see?”

“Couldn’t have gotten back without them. Everyone in this room has saved my life at one point.” I pointed to each in turn. “That’s Enid. Over there is Simon,” I winked at the child perched in the mound of paper and garbage, “my little brother.” Simon grinned wide and gave a tiny wave. “That’s Tabbermain, Vin and Doddle.”

“Nice to meet you all,” Chuck said with a tip of his hat, “and nice to see this...” With a smooth motion, he lifted the seal out of my grasp and shoved it up the sleeve of his robe.

“What do you think you’re...” I started to complain, but I was interrupted by the sound of a bullet being loaded into the chamber of a gun.

All eyes turned to the doorway, where a robed figure smiled brightly and opened his arms wide.

“Glory be to TGII, for this bounty! Not only do I have the center of my desire…the Gnolaum himself, but all of those responsible for the destruction and terror afflicting this fair city!” Noah let his head fall back, in the expression of talking to some unseen being above him. “In one fell swoop, I shall rid this land of the disease that infects it.”

And with the wave of a hand, armed Centurions flooded into the kitchen.

I shot Simon a wide-eyed glance.

Without a word, the child sank deep within the mound of paper he’d found…quietly pulling sheets over his head and face.

Within moments, he did not exist.

“How did you find us, Noah?” Tabbermain asked, terrified and awestruck. “There’s no way you could have followed us or known where we were!?”

“Ah,” the monk laughed, “but there is a way. One which your negligent assassin overlooked.” From the sleeve of his robe, Noah produced the long, slim tracking device Buddy had shown me when we first met. “I wouldn’t have known what this was, had I not recorded your entire conversation.”

The officers pushed and shoved the prisoners together, and placed me in cuffs behind my back. They refused to touch the sick elf, however, and forced Chuck and Vin to carry him out.

“So where are we going?” I finally asked aloud, though I already knew the answer.

Noah clapped his hands with joy. “To your deaths, of course!”

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When the Gem awakens to call a Hero, the world is ill prepared...and its fate is placed in the hands of a 17 year old boy, named Wendell. 

Some will say this is nothing but a tale of fiction.
Let them think as they may. 

After all...I can't fix stupid.

Previously: Chuck rockets a flying S.L.A.G. into the Citadel, heals the poisoned President and frees Dax... then fumbles the escape pods out the window empty and leaps after them with nothing but Dax, a rope, and a grumpy dragon staff...

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^{Made with AI trained only on my own artwork. The honest story of how, and why →}

Chapter 100

“We have to go back!” cried Tabbermain again, his shrill voice carrying over the mass of bodies between himself and the assassin.

“He’s not going to listen,” I said soberly. “I know you feel it’s important and I agree with you...but waiting could have gotten us hurt...or killed.”

Though I knew that wasn’t the real reason Buddy pushed forward. The assassin was skilled and could easily take care of himself. No, he was annoyed and felt inconvenienced by the entire chain of events that led up to this point. He couldn’t wait to get away.

“But we can’t leave a Prime Gate in Noah’s hands,” the gnome pleaded, “he’ll find others! He’s going to round up more unsuspecting or helpless gnomes and send them to the enemy to be consumed.” His eyes watered, overcome with fear and guilt. “...and it’s my fault.”

“Our fault,” Vin added, patting his friend on the shoulder.

“Well, don’t look at me,” Doddle mumbled, “but I don’t agree. This isn’t your fault. You helped to give Noah the tool...but you didn’t throw the switch. A knife can be a tool and a weapon...it’s the user who determines that, not the knife maker.”

I hadn’t thought about it that way. Doddle’s words made a lot of sense. People were responsible...or should be, at least...for their own choices. Shouldn’t they? It brought back flashes of my conversations with Chuck concerning intent. Intent was key in the choices we make, especially when others might not understand what we are doing. Was it really the gnomes’ fault that the Prime Gate was being used for evil if they were forced to construct it...?

“This better be worth it!” Buddy growled just above a whisper. He reloaded his rifle, thrusting in the spare clip with irritated force. “The circus was out of hand,” he added and spat on the floor. It was never his intention to leave with a sidekick...he didn’t want extra baggage. After all, he was hired to locate and execute Wendell, not rescue him.

The plan was simple...sneak into the temple, pop the kid, return to his employers with proof of the kill, get paid. Easy as can be.

But there was a hitch.

A serious one.

No one told the bestselling author that he was being hired to kill his own fan base! The very thought sent his mind reeling, evoking strong urges to ‘educate’ his employers as to proper assassination etiquette.

Killing his own fans?

That just wasn’t...civilized.

So he’d spared Wendell’s life and the lives of his fellow captives...three techno-mägo.

Four tag-alongs were bad enough.

“But it wasn’t long before the assassin learned of a darker plot,” he said aloud, zoning into his writing mode. “The nefarious activities of Father Noah had spread throughout Clockworks, poisoning the pure in heart and jeopardizing the lives of hundreds. To his utter horror, the assassin discovered fans...trapped within the cages of doom, awaiting a fate worse than death.”

A handful of gnomes watched Buddy closely, already entranced in his verbal tale.

“They were to be sacrificed to the most wretched enemies of the gnome race...” He cleared his throat, noticing his growing audience. “Insert suspenseful music...Täuku.” The gnomes gasped and one started clapping with excitement, which made Buddy grin. He raised his narrating voice a notch. “Didn’t anyone stop to think of the consequences? Of the sheer weight of such a crime? How this evil would turn hearts from the sacred Church of TGII, but even more horrid...what it might do to word-of-mouth sales? If it ever got out that readers of the Acid Rain series were being systematically hunted down, kidnapped and used as bartering fodder for evil religious purposes...well...who would want to buy another book?” Lowering his voice to a near whisper, he dropped his tone to a deep bass. “Buddy could actually lose his #1 position.”

The gnomes gasped openly around him.

Bang-Bang!

Two more of the prisoners fell to the floor at Buddy’s feet as bullets ricocheted. Guards appeared around the far corner of the hallway. The assassin reactively dropped to one knee and plugged all three monks in the head. They collapsed in a splatter of red silence.

This was frustrating.

“I’m losing readers at every turn,” he whispered. It was near impossible to navigate these narrow hallways, guarded by Noah’s henchmen, without fans getting hurt. The assassin wasn’t trained to be a bodyguard.

“Keep moving,” Wendell shouted from behind. “Lead us to where you broke in!”

The assassin held up a thumb to signal he heard.

Buddy was impressed with the human boy. Sure, everyone called Wendell the Gnolaum...and maybe he was. The writer didn’t actually care. Buddy wasn’t the religious sort. Just give him a good book, a good gun, and a target to terminate and he was happy. But this kid...who, by gnome standards, should just be getting out of school, had his whole life ahead of him.

Yet look where he was: defending people of another race, in another land, with nothing to gain and everything to lose.

This wasn’t his fight. It wasn’t his problem.

Buddy grinned to himself.

Wendell might make an interesting character in a fiction series.

Getting back to his feet, the assassin charged the next corner, weapon at the ready. Worn and tired prisoners kept close on his heels. There was no reason to be concerned about what lay behind them. Not with four mägo at their back. That was another interesting part of this whole adventure. Buddy had heard about them, read about them, but never considered whether or not the odd class was real.

Magic users? People who mastered something other than technology? Yet there they were, three gnomes and the Gnolaum, blasting renegade monks with lightning, fire and ice.

Tabbermain, Vin and Doddle took turns using their magic, while the two resting played lookout. It was far more taxing on the gnomes to use spells of this caliber. I, on the other hand, seemed to be getting stronger as I went and had no problem keeping up.

Five guards dashed down a side hallway, spotting us.

“You there!”

Doddle raised his hand, forming a symbol as he clenched his eyes tight...but nothing happened.

I shoved him aside just as gunfire exploded.

A giant arc of lightning jumped through the air, crackling and electrocuting the monks where they stood. The robed bodies crumpled to the ground, their brown clothes smoldering.

“I’ve got you,” I said, lifting Doddle back to his feet. I gritted my teeth to hide the pain, forcing a smile to my face.

“T-thank you,” the gnome gasped, leaning upon Tabbermain. “I’m...a little exhausted, I think.”

I nodded and kept my hips twisted away from the mägo. No reason to worry anyone. Blood was already seeping down my leg from the wound.

I winced, but pushed forward.

We couldn’t stop now. There was no time. Noah had to know by now that we were escaping. Gripping the wooden box tightly to my chest, I pushed on with a limp.

Simon pushed away from Enid, shooting me a concerned look, but I shook my head and waved him on.

Buddy led the group up several flights of stairs and to a final checkpoint.

Though the section looked impervious to escape, the assassin had already dealt with this threat on his way in. The station was a two-door entry attached to a security booth. It was empty. Both the door guard and the operator were curled up on the floor of the hallway. A few of the children started to scream, but adult hands were quick to silence them, muffling their cries.

So that’s why there are so many monks with guns about, I sighed. Buddy created a trail he never thought he’d have to deal with! They must be combing the entire complex, looking for whoever did this...

Propping the door open with a body, the assassin held a finger to his lips...then ran to the last door. Pressing his large ear to its surface, he waved. “Come on!” he urged us forward. “Quickly!”

When I reached him, the assassin grabbed my forearm. “The loading dock is on the other side of this door. If we get through, we’re home free. We can hijack one of the delivery trucks. Get everyone out.”

But something was wrong.

“What are you not telling us, Buddy?” I asked.

The assassin shrugged. “This has the smell of a trap. I obviously wasn’t worried about getting out myself.” He nodded towards the bodies on the floor. “This area should have been discovered, an alarm sounded and the guards replaced by now. We’re being set up.”

I stared at the door, my stomach turning. “They’re on the other side of the door.”

Buddy shot a glance at Tabbermain, Vin and Doddle. “The Church isn’t equipped for violence like this.”

I sighed. “So we’re about to walk into Centurions.”

The assassin stared back without saying a word.

“One way to find out,” Vin said with a wheeze. Doddle and Tabbermain both nodded agreement.

Buddy smirked. “I like you guys. You’ve got spunk, but I don’t think going out there is going to help us at all.”

“And I can see why your action scenes are so fantastic,” Doddle huffed.

The assassin looked elated at the compliment. “Let’s do this, Wendell.”

“Me?” I gulped, but it wasn’t long before I realized everyone was staring at me.

“You’re the Gnolaum. The champion of the people, right?” The assassin couldn’t help but smirk, his tone almost mocking. “So if you’re not going to do this, who is?” He placed a hand over his own chest. “The murderer?”

Why you little...he got me.

There was no telling what would happen on the other side of that door, but I was determined not to be the one to shed blood. I turned my thoughts inward.

Ithari, help me. Please. So many have died today and it’s not necessary...is it? Help me get these people to safety...

“Watch your heads,” Buddy whispered to the group. Lifting his rifle, he shot out the overhead lights. Children whimpered as he fired, exploding the next four bulbs down the hall and leaving the group in a dim glow. “There,” he sighed, content, “that should help.” Turning the knob silently, Buddy opened the door a crack and slipped through.

I gave both Simon and Enid a firm look. “Stay with Tabbermain.” Then, handing the wooden box to Vin, I quickly followed after the assassin.

Whether it was indeed a warehouse, I couldn’t tell...other than the open chill of the air. It was so dark, I didn’t dare to step more than a few feet without having some form of reference to gauge where I was.

“That’s quite far enough,” boomed a voice over a megaphone. “Place your rifle on the ground and put your hands on your head, or we will be forced to fire.” There was a pause, and then, “It would be a shame to kill you for murdering so many monks.”

“Just like you said,” I whispered.

Buddy dropped his rifle in front of him, cursing. He raised his hands in submission. “They’ve got infra-red on us.”

“What?”

“That’s how they can see us,” the assassin replied. “They can see us in the dark, but we can’t see them.”

It gave me an idea. “Wait. Those devices are sensitive to light, right?”

“Extremely.”

“Are you as good with your pistols as you are with that rifle?”

The assassin grinned. “Better.”

“Then close your eyes and clench them tight.”

“Why?”

“Just trust me.” I started to raise my hands into the air. “And don’t open them until I tell you.” I hope you’re listening, Ithari. Then I added, “Try not to kill them, Buddy. Please.”

The assassin muffled his laugh, but closed his eyes. “Whatever you say, kid.”

Recalling the words to my mind, I held the image of a flaming sun, blazing over my head.

No, Wendell. Not Välo and Teho. Combine them. Speak from the heart. Join them with your desire.

Vä-Teho!

The image grew, drawing so near I could see every detail, the brightness and warmth of the celestial sphere. I could do this. You have the ability, Wendell. You just have to accept it at face value and believe!

I roared, letting all my fear and anger and frustration permeate the words as they came to my lips.

“Vä-Teho!”

In an instant, it was noonday. An explosion of brilliant white light flared over my head. A white star, piercing every corner of the warehouse with its radiance. No sooner did the light flare than screams erupted from all around us. Centurions in full assault gear shrieked and dropped their weapons, clawing at their faces to tear the infra-red devices from their wounded eyes.

I shifted the image in my mind from a sun to a lamp, letting my anger and frustration go. The white star immediately diminished. “Now,” I said sadly.

Buddy Keisler opened his eyes. Like a cowboy quickdraw, he flipped his pistols from their holsters.

Without pausing, he fired in rapid succession, stepping forward and spinning on his heels: officers in the rafters, hiding behind trucks and cargo lifts, three atop a set of pallets and finally the Captain of the group, reeling behind an official cruiser. With each bullet fired, a gnome fell.

I cringed with each shot.

I did this to them.

All this killing and bloodshed is because of me.

Out of ammo, the assassin did a speed reload, walking among the aisles as he searched for stragglers. Satisfied, he holstered the firearms. “That should do it,” Buddy said smugly. “Let the rest out and I’ll find us a van.”

I stood there frozen, staring at each of the wounded Centurions.

I’m so sorry. I’m so very...wait a...

One of the Centurions on a pallet moaned. As did the officer next to him. My head whipped about, searching...hoping. Every one of the wounded grasped at a body part, bleeding...but all of them were conscious...and alive!

Buddy had not taken a single life.

“MOVE IT!” the assassin snapped. “They won’t be down for long!”

Sprinting to the door, I yanked it open and ushered the captives into the warehouse. The mägo led the way.

“Here!” yelled Buddy. “The doughnut truck!” He threw and kicked the racks out the back with a clatter. He waved to the group. “In here, quickly!”

In less than two minutes, the DoubleDip Doughnut truck was peeling out of the delivery parking lot.

Morty marched past Höbin in a whirlwind, neither of them taking notice of the other. Deep in thought, the tinkerer could not shake the nagging feeling that he was missing something small.

Something simple.

All his calculations worked on isolated tests.

The PROMIS worked.

It would charge a battery. Any battery he’d attached to the machine. The Lanthya Shard was an amazing source of continual energy, which the PROMIS could then capture and amplify. The problem was that the battery would overload and crack.

There was too much energy for the cells to contain.

Not necessarily a bad thing...but Morty couldn’t gauge what it might do to the main network should he attempt to plug it into the city lines. It was as if the energy from the Shard wanted to grow...to reach out.

It didn’t want to be contained.

He shook the thought from his head. It was crazy. Energy couldn’t be alive. That was...stupid. He was certain it had something to do with the varying current or magnetic flux in the PROMIS transformer core.

Or did it? Maybe it had something to do with magnetic coupling?

“RARRR!” he bellowed, annoyed at the whole line of thinking.

“Shhh!” snapped Höbin, his nose planted in his book.

“Did you just shush me?”

“Shhh!” Höbin snapped again, this time writing something quickly on a scrap of paper.

“You did,” the tinkerer growled. “You actually shushed me...in my own warehouse!”

“Leave him be, sweetheart,” Deloris cut in. She shook her head from the doorway. “He’s under a lot of pressure, just like you. Have some heart.”

“Don’t take sides,” Morty protested.

“I’m not taking sides,” she reassured him, “I’m only trying to be respectful to both of you. Now grab your toolbox and leave him be...you don’t have anything left in this room anyway, do you?”

“Well,” he pondered, desperately trying to think of something so he could be right. “Grrrr...” was all he came up with.

Pulling the heavy box from the dresser, he thundered across the floor. As he passed the historian, he banged the tools against Höbin’s cybernetic arm. The metal against metal rang out loudly.

“Nice,” Höbin scoffed, “maturity at its best.” He kept his face in his book, but shook his head slowly.

Deloris smirked but said nothing as her husband scooted past her.

Morty wobbled down the hall and dropped the tools at the foot of his greatest creation.

The thing he now wanted to blow up.

“You’ll get it,” she said, snuggling up behind him. It only took a single kiss on his cheek to make him sigh and let the tension go.

Deloris had that effect on him and she knew it. He was a good gnome with a good heart. Everyone had up days and down days...the point was having the grit to keep going when it all looked like it was about to fall apart. She smiled. “You know what my dad used to say...”

“The worse things get, the closer you are to the breaking point,” he completed her words. It made her smile, but Morty frowned. “I loved your dad...but I never could get that saying of his. Did he mean that when it got worse, you were closer to finding the answer...or closer to giving up?”

She kissed his cheek again. “Yes.”

He rolled his eyes. “Wonderful. Another definite answer.”

But his frustrations just made her laugh out loud.

“How can you be having such a seemingly good time, when this is one of the most frustrating points of my life?” he grumbled.

“Because I finally made the right choice. I came home, to the gnome I love, and I’m excited to see you succeed. All I ever wanted was to make a difference...and it took me all these years to realize that what I really wanted was to make a difference to you.”

He wrapped an arm around her waist. “Isn’t that limiting yourself?” he chuckled.

“Oh no,” she smirked, stroking his furry white cheek with her fingers, “you, my dear sir, will change the world...you just don’t know it yet.”

He winked and leaned in for a kiss.

“Eeek!” Deloris squealed as he dropped her on her rear end. “Morty Teedlebaum!”

“That’s IT!” he cried, his white teeth shining out from behind his giant mustache. Dashing to the far side of the machine, he grabbed the ladder and pulled it up to the PROMIS. “I know exactly how to fix it!”

The mob activity continued to spread, but Freak dared not honk the horn and draw attention to himself. The fights had grown and the military was out in force. S.L.A.G.s were being unloaded along the runways. Things were becoming desperate.

“It was a lucky mistake,” Freak said reassuringly, turning to take another side street. “If you’d been in any of those pods, you would have been caught. The authorities were watching you from the moment we launched you at the penthouse. We even had to ditch the truck and grab a cab to get back. The government thought it was a renegade group taking desperate action against them. In minutes they had teams on the ground, ready to arrest whoever came out of that tower.” He chuckled. “No one could see you two floating down in the dark.”

In the back of the ‘borrowed’ cab, Lili held Dax’s head on her lap. The evolu continued to shudder, his skin ice cold, eyes flickering rapidly under closed lids. She adjusted her jacket over his shoulders.

Chuck sat quietly beside them. The wind seeping through the cracked window blew his beard about, masking most of his face.

The mechanic looked through the rearview mirror. “Is he going to be alright?”

Lili reached over and laid a gentle hand on the wizard’s sleeve. “Chuck?”

Weathered hands cradled a slender strip of wood.

“Chuck,” she said again, patiently.

“What?” he said distantly. Sliding the object into the sleeve of his robe, he cleared his throat. “Sorry. I’m here now.” He forced a weak smile to his worn and dirty face. “Sorry about that.”

Lili gave his arm a squeeze. “Don’t apologize. You almost died. I’m just glad you’re safe...and we have Dax back. What you did was amazing.”

Freak shook his head. “What made you decide to land in Oster’s Park?”

“I wouldn’t call what I did amazing...” Chuck took a long breath. “And I didn’t have much of a choice. The protesting in the park provided a good target, what with all the fires going. Figured I’d hit the trees to break the momentum, and hoped the grass was soft.”

The mechanic shook his head again, chuckling. “Crazy.”

Chuck stared out the window numbly. He hadn’t paid much attention to what was going on around him. Not until now. It had all been about Wendell, the seal...and getting Dax back safely. Now that he had the monkey within arm’s reach, he would make sure they stayed together. “It wasn’t supposed to happen like this,” he breathed, catching a glimpse of graffiti sprayed over a billboard. It had a gnome face, dirty and with fangs, and read *Muddles Are Monsters*.

“What’s that?” Freak asked.

“Nothing.” Looking down, the wizard patted the pale green arm of his companion. His dry, bloodshot eyes then looked up at Lili. “Now we need to find Wendell and get out of this city.”

“The government has pulled out S.L.A.G.s to stand the lines with the Centurions.”

“You think they’ll actually use them? On actual citizens? That’s completely...”

Shamas cut Bellows off. “Clockworks is burning. The people are out of control and the youth of the city aren’t listening to anyone. Not you, not the workers from the factories. Certainly not the government. Those without decent morals or respect in the first place are using this chaos as an excuse to fuel their own anger and agenda. All the underlying frustration and fury is coming out. The government’s presence just feeds that hatred. They’ve set a time bomb.”

With a single nod, assistants closed laptops and started breaking down the mobile station. “That’s quite an insight for a lone bodyguard.”

“No,” Shamas corrected, “that’s what the streets tell me. The actual people who live and work and die here, Bellows. You’ve done amazing things with the poor in the lower districts...but it would be a terrible mistake to lose touch with what’s actually going on around you, even if it’s just the other side of the fence.”

He turned back to the scene of the streets below them. The streets he had walked and roamed since he was a boy. The neighborhood looked like the ruins of a war zone.

“You can’t stop this. No one can. It’s a wound that was never addressed by our leaders and it’s too late to do it now. This anger has to run its course.”

The wealthy gnome frowned heavily. It wasn’t something he wanted to hear...but he couldn’t ignore it. Already the lower districts were withdrawing and preparing for a siege. A division was taking place, between the wealthy and the poor...and the result would be nothing less than a civil war.

“Then we pull back and fortify our position,” he said finally.

Both the bodyguard and Nathan Taylor nodded.

“This is going to bring the fight to our doorstep,” replied Nat, “you know that.” He wiped his hands over his face. “A lot of people are going to get hurt before it’s through.”

“Like Shamas said, we can’t stop this. So I suggest we do our best to prepare to endure and overcome.” He smiled at the programmer through the laptop camera. “We’ll meet you back at the main factory.”

“See you there,” Nat replied. The picture vanished.

“We’re not just going to get hurt, Bellows...we’re going to get slaughtered.” The bodyguard pulled his leather jacket on. “The government has the military, the S.L.A.G.s, the ammo and...”

“You forget,” Philburt cut him off, “where those things come from, Mr. Wrenchturner. It is we who manufacture the S.L.A.G.s. It is we who manufacture the ammo and refine the fuel, produce the energy, supply and purify the water. To add to this, we have two-thirds of this city’s population dwelling below.” His expression was calm and comforting. “We, Mr. Wrenchturner, hold all the cards.”

The doughnut van screeched to a halt between the abandoned buildings to provide cover.

“This is it,” Buddy sighed, relieved.

“You really are more awesome than I could have imagined,” Doddle beamed.

“Not often I get to mingle with fans,” the assassin said, almost bashfully, “you know...”

“Well, you should take the time,” Tabbermain added, “because I think you’d get a lot more readers if they got the chance to meet you.”

“I’ll second that!” cheered Vin.

“Awww.”

I lifted the rolling door at the back of the delivery truck. Small hands patted my back, legs and arms as I hopped out. I grinned wide, shaking hands and patting tiny heads.

We did it. They’re free.

Enid pushed through to the door, pulling young Simon behind him.

“Where do you think you’re going?” I asked as the old gnome started climbing out.

“We’re going with you, boy,” Enid said boldly. “Wherever you go, I’m following.”

“You can’t just...”

“What?” the gnome cut me off. “Walk away from my life? Desert my family? Leave my wealth behind?” He laughed then. “What do I have to go back to, other than to look after this little boy...whom, if you recall, you promised to watch over!”

The mägo and Buddy wandered to the back of the truck.

“I’m ready for that favor,” the assassin said bluntly. “You gave me your word.”

Oh boy.

“Yes,” I said, my mind scrambling, “I did.”

“You know,” chimed Doddle, “it would be incredible, with so many gnomes who know about Wendell, for him to be in your advertising, Buddy. Think about how popular you would be if you had pictures of you two together!”

Buddy and I both grinned.

“One more, just to make sure,” chuckled Doddle.

I held the book close to my face and leaned closer, keeping my arm wrapped around the assassin’s shoulder.

“Perfect.”

“And I can use this for...” Buddy prodded.

“Anything you like,” I assured him. “You saved my life and the lives of my friends, Buddy...it’s my absolute pleasure to help like this. You are THE best fiction writer I have ever known in Clockworks.”

Buddy quickly pulled a notepad from a pocket and produced a pen. “Can I quote you on that?”

I laughed. “Every word.”

The gnome scribbled furiously.

“So what about the rest of the captives?” Vin asked, handing the wooden box back to me.

“We need to get them to Bellows’ warehouse. They’ll be safe there.”

Buddy looked up. “I just have one more stop to make before I head home myself...I’ll get them there safe. After that, I think I’ve had enough being the good guy. Your life is rough.” Sirens echoed nearby, causing the assassin to plaster himself against the side of the truck. “Time to go, gents. No one here wants to get caught.”

“We’re going with you,” Tabbermain said, tugging at my pant leg.

“But...” I started to protest. They all looked up at me expectantly.

I sighed.

“Come on, then.”

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