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.

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.

While Lightweasel marvels at Constable Biter’s shadow walking facility, Bill Bordersack is watching Biter overpower Lee Wung To by the simple expedient of picking him up and bouncing him off the wall of the adjacent Tropical Laundry and Snack bar. Realising he is probably the next target for Biter’s enthusiastic style of arrest, he hides the sack containing the two pistols under the walkway leading to Trade Street, and darts down a side alley, between a gnome lingerie shop, and pub called “The Leering Goblin”, observing their proximity is probably not a coincidence.

On the third bounce, the door to the establishment opens, and a tall figure, seemingly wearing a mask of a human skull, appears. “Excuse me, constable. Would mind awfully not doing that? It upsets the customers.”

“If yer want my opinion,” says Bill Bordersack. He looks up at Alana, with his runtish face twisted into an expression of interest coloured by just enough salacious intent to make most women uncomfortable.

Alana isn’t most women, though.

She likes to think of herself as a professional, and as such, inured to the close attentions of the heterogametic forty-nine per cent of the population, gnomes included, although not the Fae. The Fae are different, of course. For a start, no-one is sure if they have chromosomes at all, and there are certainly no male fae, unless they are kept well out of sight. She ponders on this for a moment and decides society would be altogether better if men were not seen and not heard either. Except for opening jars, carrying heavy stuff, and a few other things they are ideally equipped to undertake, but only when strictly necessary. Alana is, however, on a mission, and Bill is not going to like it, which is something of a shame, because she and Bill have a history, and some might even mistake it for friendship. It’s more of a tolerant jousting for position, an appreciation of each other’s professional attributes, and quite occasionally, something more meaningful.

The Gnome Office squad room is unpretentious; two ancient partner desks set at not quite right angles to each other, atop a threadbare carpet, which has seen better days, three one-way windows facing Number 8 Downing Street’s thronging protestors waving their “Gnomes Go Home” banners, and a surfeit of briefing papers covering every surface, each emblazoned with “Urgent: Office of the Prime Minister” and stamped in red with “PLEASE IGNORE – Office of Queen Flaxmain.” 

The noise of disco music coming from the Serious Frog Office in the adjacent room seeps through the walls as a dull thrumming, just loud enough to create compression waves in Ironbell’s Bracken-Tea.

“Umros, could you ring the frogs and tell them to turn that racket down?” Inspector Camden Ironbell says as he plumps his flattened seat cushion for the third time that morning.