At just after six and one-quarter owls that morning, three matters are of immediate concern to Lieutenant Camden Ironbell of the Gnome Guards. How can he defend Elizabeth Ridge from a platoon of crack Goblin commandos with no surviving troops left under his command? When are they going to attack? And what time is lunch?
The latter is the most pressing. Partly because his stomach is telling him lunch was sometime last week, but mostly because Lance Corporal “Tidy” Jones revealed to him where he hid his stash of Gala Pie as he died in Ironbell’s arms. In Ironbell’s estimation, humans brought very little to the party, other than courage and an unwillingness to admit defeat in the face of overwhelming odds. For that, he admires them, although quietly conceding even though they are the foolhardiest creatures on the planet, they made up for their shortcomings with Gala Pie, a dish unsurpassed in the annals of gourmand history. He glances at the sky and then at the shadows cast by the craggy, snowcapped rocks delineating the valley to estimate the time. Six to seven owls to lunch, he thinks. He would have to get a wriggle on.
“Right then, Camden, old chum, what are you going to do about these Goblins?” Ironbell murmurs to himself. He knew what Tidy Jones would do. He would charge down the slope and impale himself on the advancing swords of the enemy. Glorious, quick, and bloody is always appealing to Gnome Guardsman but Ironbell prefers it to be someone else’s blood being spilled.
He pulls a telescope from his satchel, focuses it on the Goblin encampment on the opposite ridge, and counts the sleeping figures arranged around a glowing campfire. Seven of them. He looks for one Goblin in particular, their commander, Arch-Duke Gently Gramblefinger. He and Gramblefinger have a history going back to their rodeo days when, quite innocently, Ironbell mistook Gramblefinger’s mother for a camel. This would not have been so bad but for his declared intent to “Ride the nag into the dust.” Some things cannot be explained or forgiven in the Goblin code. This is one of them.
He spots him, lying with his back to Ironbell, well out of reach of even the most adroit archer. He can see the muscles on his shoulders rise and fall in juddering syncopation with his lippy snores, the black strands of his hair knotted in braids bouncing off the rock serving as his pillow, and wonders if he is in earshot.
“Hey Gramblefinger, wake up, you fat pudding of rabbit droppings,” he yells at the top of his voice.
The Arch-Duke shudders to wakefulness and half-turns his head. He sits up, wiping his eyes, and hawks a gob of phlegm into the fire. Standing, he brushes his leather jerkin off and turns to face Ironbell on the opposite ridge with his claws on his hips and a satisfied snarl on his flaccid lips. “That you, Ironbell? So, we meet again, you obsequious bag of nail clippings.”
“We meet again? Oh please. Have you been reading human pot-boilers again? Oh wait, you can’t read, you illiterate scrag of donkey innards,” Ironbell counters. He stands on the edge of an outcrop, mirroring Gramblefinger’s hands-on-hips stance, and glances over at his tea urn, bubbling away on a fire he set near the entrance to the cave where Tidy Jones rested. Another three minutes and it will be ready to make a nice cup of tea.
“You know what?” Gramblefinger rejoinders.
“What?” Ironbell sighs to himself. He knows where this is going.
“Up yours. That’s what,” Gramblefinger gesticulates, his chest puffed up like a goose with murder on its mind. Taking a step forward, he waves his fist in Ironbell’s direction, his fingers loosely splayed in the universally acknowledged sign of contempt.
“You know what, Gramblefinger?” Ironbell roars back.
“What?” Gramblefinger is always eager to play this game before the killing starts.
“Up yours. That’s what,” Ironbell returns the gesture, only with both hands. The urn begins to bubble in its happy way; two minutes to teatime.
“UP YOURS,” Gramblefinger barks back.
“Up yours, Gramblefinger. You know what I’m going to do in two minutes?” Ironbell yells back. The trap now laid, only requires the participants to reach a crescendo.
“What?” Gramblefinger looks momentarily confused at this departure from the formalities.
“You really want to know?” Ironbell gyrates his hips.
“It had better not have anything to do with my mother,” Gramblefinger snarls.
“Up yours. I’m going to make a cup of tea.” Ironbell contains the laughter he feels erupting inside.
“Oh. That’s alright then,” Gramblefinger looks even more confused.
“And then,” Ironbell bellows back, “And then, I’m going to ride that camel into the dust.”
The incomprehensible roar coming from the opposite ridge echoes along the intervening valley like a burning donkey, and Gramblefinger, followed by his six compatriots scramble down the loose scree and charge across the valley, all semblance of tactical nous forgotten, rage directing their actions like incensed mannequins.
The urns starts whistling and Ironbell thinks, “Time for tea.”
He lifts the handles of the tea cart, rolls it to the edge of the escarpment, and picks up his tin cup from the rock on which he perched it earlier. Scooping a cupful of the scalding water, he pulls some tea-berries from his satchel, then just as the platoon of enraged Goblin troopers reaches halfway up the cliff-face, he tips the remainder of the urn over the edge, showering them with steaming water.
Gramblefinger’s troop, soaked in the blistering water, immediately fell to their deaths in the valley below, but the Arch-Duke is made of sterner stuff, and he continues to climb, his face red with blister marks, a snarl on his lips, and steam rising from every bit of bare flesh, which is quite a lot, it being a point of honour for Goblins to ignore the weather, even if it has tactically inconvenient consequences.
“Prepare to die, Ironbell,” the Arch-Duke growls as he nears the top, pulling a wicked-looking blade from its scabbard, he heaves himself over the last rock, just in time to make an unscheduled facial convergence with the cast iron tea urn Ironbell is brandishing in a swiftly accelerating arc over the bulwark edge of the escarpment. The two met with a satisfying thunk, and Gramblefinger backflips with the grace of an Olympic diver, tumbling down to the pointed rocks at the foot of the ridge.
Ironbell watches for a long moment, seeing if there is any sign of movement, but there is none.
“Shame about that urn,” he says as he watches it cartwheel down the cliff’s face. “I rather liked it. But … I think I’ll have that cup of tea now.”
Two days later, a company of Gnome Guardsmen, accompanied by a small retinue of oddly dressed humans arrives to relieve him. Leading the company is General Fralthud Slatebinger, who debriefs Ironbell.
“So Ironbell, you single-handedly defended the ridge from a platoon of crack Goblin commandos with just a tea urn?” Slatebinger asks, scratching his beard, curiosity evident on his face.
“I did, sir. Although there was a fair bit of luck attached to it,” Ironbell replies. “I am aware of their commander’s weak spot because we had a run-in before the war. Happier times, sir.”
“Indeed, Ironbell, indeed,” Slatebinger nods his impressively outsized head in agreement. “Fortuitous or not, it was still a military operation of some considerable distinction. One that merits some recognition in my view.”
“Just doing my duty for the honour of the guards, sir. There is no need for further recognition. I live to serve, we all live to serve, until we die in service,” Ironbell replies, intoning the motto of the Gnome Guards.
“Agreed, Ironbell. Nevertheless, we all have our limits, and it’s only by pushing beyond those edges do we discover just how far we can go. You just set a new boundary. So, it befits me to make a small change to your services record, CAPTAIN Camden Ironbell of the first brigade of Gnome Guards,” the general smiles kindly. “It’s only a brevet promotion, you’ll realise, but I’m pretty certain it will be confirmed when we return to base.”
“I don’t know what to say, sir, except I’m most grateful, and I promise I will do my duty to the utmost of my abilities,” Ironbell let a brief smile cross his face in response to the general.
“I will also be recommending you for the Antarctic Cross, captain. An honour few receive while standing on two feet, but one I believe is richly deserved.” The general held out his hand and Ironbell grasped it enthusiastically.
“Thank you so much, sir,” Ironbell gasped. “It is indeed an honour. If I may, can ask of you two things?”
“Go ahead, Ironbell. Right now, I’d let you marry my daughter if I had one,” the general wiggled his eyebrows, a wryly amused look on his face.
“I’d like to dedicate this honour to my men, who fought bravely against utterly overwhelming odds. Especially to the human, Lance Corporal Edgar “Tidy” Jones, who stood by my side to the very end.”
“Of course, Captain. It will be a pleasure to mention Jones in dispatches, Odin knows, the humans have little to cheer about. Although hopefully, the new batch will be, let’s say, more impactful,” the general waves a hand towards the strangely clad humans.
“Ah yes, I meant to mention them,” Ironbell looked the tall figures up and down. “What are they?”
“They’re wizards, Ironbell. The Fae have granted the humans limited access to their sock magic, and I think this will be just the thing to turn the tide in the war,” the general sits down at his field desk, two kneeling elves called Tony and Alan with a board on their backs. Picking up a pen, he begins writing but stops, looks up, and asks, “What was the other matter, Ironbell?”
“When is lunch, sir? I’m starving.”
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