Last updated on February 17, 2025

Part 1: Captain Camden and the General

Captain Camden’s Last Day

Part 1: Captain Camden and the General

Even more than a decade after leaving the frigid caves of Antarctica for the humid streets of Lundeinjon, Camden Ironbell, Captain in Her Majesty’s Gnome Guards, still feels the chill of early mornings deep in his bones. It is as if he were permanently afflicted by a conjuration cast by one of the long extinct wizard goblins of the southern continent. This is especially the case on dark, forbidding mornings replete with a heavy mist clinging to the quays and wharves of old Lundeinjon town. 

“Cold feet are the bane of the working soldier, sergeant,” he observes to Sergeant Major Flintbrander, as they march along the quayside to the taxi-punt which takes them to the Gnome barracks near the northern city wall. The sun has yet to rise and the residents of the leafy suburb through which they march are mostly once again ensconced in their warm beds, as freshly laid fires warm the hearths of the rickety, stilted houses lining the canals that were once bustling roads.

“If you say so, sir,” Flintbrander replies. The sergeant major is a traditionalist, who eschews namby-pamby complaints for stoic sufferance, not that he thinks Ironbell is in any way effete. He knows Ironbell is a war hero and holder of the Antarctic Cross for single-handedly defending Elizabeth Ridge from an entire platoon of goblins with nothing more than a tin tea-mug, two ounces of pipe tobacco, and an endless source of implacable will. As such he has Flintbrander’s complete devotion and admiration. 

“Double socks would be the answer, if only the Fae hadn’t tipped Spowk on its axis so much when we moved here,” continues Ironbell. “These old bones find the mornings too cold and the post-meridian too hot.” 

“Leather hobnail boots are the answer, sir. I find them warm in the mornings and cool in the afternoon sun,” Flintbrander replies. He lifts one shiny boot to illustrate. 

“Not very practical on horseback, I’m afraid,” Ironbell says, looking down at his equally shiny riding boots. 

“Excellent for explaining the error of their ways to errant Guardsmen though, sir,” Flintbrander counters.

“Yes well, I’ll leave such niceties to you, Sergeant Major. Are those Grunedyke originals, by the way?” Ironbell nods at Flintbrander’s boots. 

“They are indeed, sir. I got them before the goblins overran Tykestown. Grunedyke was the best cobbler in the southern kingdom,” Flintbrander says, his chest puffing up. 

Grunedyke was captured by the goblins, put into service making boots for their troops, and subsequently executed for inserting small pieces of leather into the toecaps, designed to rub constantly, causing considerable discomfort and more often than not, suppurating sores which crippled the wearers and severely dented their war effort. 

When they hanged him, he reportedly bellowed, “You may try to grind Gnome-kind underfoot, but you’ll not do it with my boots, goblin scum.” In his honour the highest award for civilian gallantry was restyled in the form of an iron boot. 

“Always fancied a pair, myself. I don’t expect you would like to trade them?” Ironbell asks. 

“I will die in these boots, sir, and then I have left instructions they are to be buried with me,” Flintbrander replies, his moustache bristling like an angry hedgehog. 

“Very well, Sergeant Major. Just an enquiry. I fully understand a soldier’s attachment to his boots,” Ironbell concedes. 

The two soldiers step into the punt waiting for them. The puntsman is a young, stoop-shouldered human, who smells of tobacco and cheap gin. He waits until the two soldiers are seated before casting off and pushing his pole into the shallow canal. “Barracks North, gentlemen?”

“Thank you, puntsman. That will be fine,” Ironbell says. He touches the peak of his cap in salute. 

Saluting the first human to perform a service every day is a tradition upheld by all gnome military personnel in remembrance of the massive losses incurred by humanity in the Goblin Wars. Sergeant Major Flintbrander does likewise. Three fingers across the badge of his cap followed by a slight incline of his enormous head. 

“No need to salute, guv’nor,” the puntsman responds. “I’m half gnome, me-self. My mother is one of your kind, bless her heart. She wanted me to go into the Guards, but I have bad feet and got rejected, which was just as well, because I’m a bit big for the uniforms. That, and I can’t stand the sight of blood.”

“Something of an impediment, you might say,” Ironbell says. He glances at Flintbrander, who nods his agreement.

“Still, I earns a good living on the punts,” the puntsman says. He caresses his pole from side to side with an easy rhythm, taking them quickly down the canal, which, thankfully, is devoid of any traffic. “Not enough to buy me own gaff, like. But I rents a nice place for me an’ the wife. Just south of the lake. One can but hope, but since the war, house prices have gone through the roof. What brings you to civvy street if you don’t mind me asking?”

Ironbell glances at Flintbrander and raises a finger to his lips. Military secrets, no matter how small, are still secret. He tells the puntsman they are living off base because they’re having their rooms painted, which isn’t exactly an outright lie, but obfuscatory enough to disguise the truth of the officer and NCO barracks being completely rebuilt after Tropical Storm Bangwam levelled them eighteen months earlier, causing the entire officer and NCO complement of Barracks North to be billeted all across Lundeinjon.

The sun starts to rise, pale and yellow through the stubbornly clingy mist, and the black shapes of Lundeinjon’s houses give way to the open fields leading to the city wall and Barracks North. A steady stream of punts join the main canal, each carrying officers and NCOs, their square cut prows gliding over the softly rippling surface of the canal. 

“A lot of painting going on, it seems,” the puntsman observes.

Ironbell agrees it is a lot indeed, but says no more, and silence ensues until they pull up to Barracks Wharf and disembark. 

“That’ll be three pinds, fifty bits, please guv’nor,” the puntsman says. “Plus fifty bits because it’s before six owls.”

Ironbell pulls out his purse and drops five iron pinds into the outstretched hand. “Keep the change, puntsman, and send my best regards to your wife. You’re doing a grand job.”

“Thank you, sir. Good luck with the painting,” the puntsman winks, pushes away from the wharf and heads back to the city.

“Do you think he knows anything, sir?” Flintbrander says. With the officers out of touch with the barracks, security could be compromised, and it’s well known Lundeinjon’s taxi service is in the pay of the criminal fraternity. 

“He does seem remarkably observant for a human. It must be his gnome half. I’ll talk to Orange Squad, and see if they can follow up. It might be worth checking,” says Ironbell as he watches the punt disappear in the morning mist. He makes a note of its ID number stencilled along its flank in his notebook and turns to enter the barracks via the South Gate. The Orange Squad to which he refers is the intelligence wing of the guards. Comprising a disparate crew of gnomes, elves, and humans, its operatives can be found in many of the less salubrious bars, cafés, and clubs of the city’s eastern quarter, and also—on this occasion—standing in the shadow of a small crane near the landing boards, less than twenty yards from Ironbell and Flintbrander. The operative in question, a Frenchman called Pierre Noir comme la Nuit, flips open his Shell Phone and makes a call. 

“You know, Sergeant Major, I think today is going to be a good day,” Ironbell says as he passes the guard hut. Today, the troops are being drilled for their march past in Queen Flaxmain’s birthday celebrations, and it is a point of pride for the regiment they will be the most foot-perfect of all the army divisions. 

This is not, however, how things would turn out, and the first sign of trouble, one that Ironbell misunderstands completely, is the gate guard rushing out to greet him with a letter.

“Message from General Grumble, sah,” says the guard, saluting with one hand and handing Ironbell the envelope. Grumble is the commanding officer of the regiment, and it is common currency amongst the troops that “Old Metal Knee” is planning on retiring. In the normal course of events this would mean promotions for those positioning themselves in the line of succession.

Ironbell rips open the letter and reads. Dear Ironbell, please call over to my office after drills for a few drinks. Best, Grumble.

“Ah, it looks as though the General is about to fire the starting gun on his retirement,” Ironbell remarks to Flintbrander. “Keep it under your cap until there’s an official announcement, there’s a good chap.”

“Mum’s the word, sir. I won’t breathe a syllable,” Flintbrander replies, tapping the side of his nose. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I’ll go and rouse the troops. Those lazy buggers probably think it’s a holiday.”

“Dismissed, Sergeant Major,” Ironbell says and folds the letter into his breast pocket. Flintbrander puffs out his chest, exchanges salutes with Ironbell, and marches double pace to the low, wooden huts forming the ranks’ billets. 

Six owls later, the troops in full regalia are still being marched up and down the orange-brown parade ground. Ironbell watches them with pride, but with lunchtime rapidly approaching, he casts an eye over the men, and seeing nothing but sartorial perfection, calls on the Sergeant Major to dismiss them.  

With the Goblin Wars over and Spowk, the erstwhile planet Earth, transported by the Fae to a location not even the gods can find, Ironbell is finally enjoying life as a soldier. Even square bashing is beginning to seem like fun, although admittedly he didn’t actually do much bashing. Being a Captain comes with its privileges, and one of Camden’s favourites is standing there with a swagger stick under his arm watching the young recruits garnering blisters in the hot afternoon sun while they are being shouted at by a portable foghorn in the shape of Sergeant Major Flintbrander. 

A casual observer might conclude Camden’s swagger stick looks a lot like the shin bone of a goblin with a brass knob and red tassels at one end. If asked, Camden smiles wistfully, winks, and with a gentle expression plastered on his craggy face, says, “Does it really? What a coincidence.”

Once the men are released back to their barracks, Ironbell strolls over to the General’s offices, taking time to chat with everyone he passes. He likes to be generous with his time, always ready with words of advice, encouragement, and support. And always with a ready smile on his bewhiskered and craggy face.

So, it was a surprise when he enters the General’s office, to find the old man swirling a large glass of whisky with a serious look on his long face.

“Ah Camden, come in, take a seat,” the general says. “Drink?”

“Thank you, General, I’ll have what you’re having,” Ironbell replies. He sits himself in an armchair and waits as the general tops up a tumbler.

“I expect you’re wondering why I asked you here today,” Grumble begins. “The thing is, as you know, I’ve been contemplating retirement, now I’ve passed the five hundred mark. There comes a time when a gnome just wants to put his feet up, drop his line into a lake, and watch the sun go down.”

“I understand perfectly, sir,” Ironbell replies and waits. There is no point in pushing things, he thinks, he will get to the point when it suits him.

“The thing is, the government has decided that with my retirement, it would be a good time to combine a number of regiments and brigades into larger divisions. Obviously, that has implications for head count, and unfortunately, our regiment has been earmarked for a degree of shrinkage. In short, we’re being told to pension off senior officers from the rank of captain and above.”

Ironbell rises to his feet, his face as still as the bark on an oak. “I take it, sir, this has implications for me.”

“Dammit, yes, old man,” the generals says. He too stands and places a hand on Ironbell’s shoulder. “I’m sorry Camden, they’re putting you out to graze.”

“The army is my life, sir,” Ironbell says, his voice quiet. He feels nothing, no anger, no remorse, no “what ifs”, just a hollow sinking sensation. 

“It’s all our lives, Camden, but times are changing,” the general says taking a sip from his whisky.

“What will I do?”

“You’ll have your pension. A very generous one it is too. I fought hard for that,” the general turns and faces the window. “God knows I fought tooth and nail for the army to do right by you.”

“Thank you, sir. How long do I have?” Ironbell asks, his voice flat and unemotional.

“It’s effective immediately, I’m afraid. Orange Squad are clearing out your desk as we speak, and you are ordered to leave the base immediately after this meeting. I’m afraid it has to be this way… Security and all that. Needless to say, I’ll send my contact details around once I’ve retired, and perhaps we can get together for a chinwag about old times.”

“That would be very nice, sir,” Ironbell intones. “Thank you, sir. Will that be all?”

The general turns to face Ironbell, and he sees a single tear run down the old man’s face. “I’m sorry Camden. This wasn’t my choice…”

“No sir, I can’t imagine it would have been. Goodbye, general,” Ironbell says, as he put his swagger stick on the general’s desk. “See that it goes to a good home, sir. I won’t be needing it.”

With that, he turns and marches out of the general’s office, his back straight, eyes ahead, head held high. As he crosses the parade ground, a slow clap begins, then more join in, until it is a thunderous cascade of applause. Soon, every guardsman is stood outside their barracks, waving and shouting their best wishes, as Camden Ironbell AC marches through the gates and into his new life.

They don’t want me, he thinks. In his long career, the only thing Ironbell ever wanted was to be useful. Now, he feels they have even taken that away from him.

Part II: The next day

Ironbell wakes with a start. At first, his surroundings confuse him as dreams of caves and dripping icicles fade and reality slides into focus as if he were wiping the smeared windows of life. 

Yesterday was his last day. He chokes on the thought. Two-hundred years of service in the Gnome Guard and all he has to show is a few bits of chest tin and a civvy suit. Sometimes, he wishes he never came to Lundeinjon. 

“C’mon old son, no time for regrets,” he says to himself as he pulls on a time-worn dressing gown, fills the kettle, and trudges down his rickety stairs to the chintzy hallway leading to his front door.  

On the mat are a clutch of letters, the usual junk, and one envelope with his name on the face in script so fine you could cut cheese with it. He rips it open and reads. Blinks. Then reads it again. 

Dear Captain Ironbell

Queen Flaxmain thanks you for your service and instructs me to offer you a new position as Detective Inspector in the Gnome Office, a new group within the Lundeinjon Municipal Police tasked with extra-human affairs. If you are willing to accept, please say “Yes” now and attend Number 8 Downing Street today, at ten owls sharp.

Sincerely,

Alice Gingerbell-Tollywhite

Secretary to HM Queen Flaxmain.

Ironbell didn’t need to think. All he knows is he is wanted. And not in a bad way.

“Yes,” he yells and skips back up the stairs. He does a jig on the landing, waltzes the hat stand, and does a sliding, arms-out skid into the kitchen, where he finds sitting on the table a card with his picture on it. It says, “Warrant Card. DI Camden Ironbell. Gnome Office.” 

He turns it over. On the reverse side is the crest of the police service picked out in gold inlay. Rubbing his thumb over it, he feels the vetustas of five hundred years of policing the canals and wharves of Lundeinjon. 

“Detective Inspector,” he sighs, all his fears draining away. 

Next to the warrant card is a small case marked “RESPECTACLES”. Inside are a pair of sunglasses and a note: “These are respectacles. Like spectacles, only they don’t improve your eyesight, except inasmuch as they allow you to see things as they really are. They are ESSENTIAL for entering Number 8 Downing Street, which is guarded by a spell of invisibility.”

An owl later, he calls a taxi-punt, tips his hat to old Fred the news-vendor, who asks, “Your usual copy of the Eldritch Times, Captain?”

“Thank you, Fred. Yes, I would like a copy; but I should tell you, I am no longer a Captain,” says Camden with a beaming smile.

“Really? Retired? No regrets then?” Fred chuckles as he hands the folded sheet to Camden.

“None at all, Fred. None at all,” Camden replies and steps lightly from the jetty into the waiting taxi-punt.

“Where to, guv?” 

“Downing Street,” says Camden, donning his respectacles.