THE GNOME CACHE
by Garrison Ernst
To my family who
bore up under all
this.

PRELUDE

In the infinity of cosmic probabilities there stretches an endless
succession of earths, this one being but one of the possible
realities.  Those in close proximity to our world are but lilttle different
from it, but countless alternatives to history exist, and as
these co-worlds become more removed from this plane of reality
so their resemblance becomes removed.  There are, then, worlds
which are gloriously superior to ours, some which are horribly
worse, but most are merely different in some way.  Far from our
probability line is a world called by its inhabitants Oerth.  It is
very similar to this earth in many ways, but it is also quite different.

If the learned men of Oerth were able to tell you its
geography they would say that in relation to our planet they are
quite alike. Asia is a trifle smaller, Europe and North America a
trifle larger — but the scientists (or rather philosophers) of Oerth
are not able to explain this for two reasons: They neither know of
the alternate worlds in Oerth’s probability line nor do they have
any sure knowledge of Oerth’s geography outside their immediate
areas. Likewise, Oerth has races similar in many respects to ours,
and their migrations and distribution somewhat resemble those
of our world, but their histories differ sharply from ours departing
from our probability line some 2,500 years ago. Then the
changes were but small, but over the intervening centuries the difference
has grown so that there is now no resemblance between
Oerth and Earth when the contemporary models are compared.

Oerth is backward in terms of our planet.  It is a dreaming
world.  Socially, culturally, technologically, it is behind us.  When
the probability line split there were other changes than those of
an historical nature, and scientific laws differ also.  What is fact
on Earth may be fancy on Oerth and vice versa.  So a strange
blend of Medieval cultures exist in the known lands of Oerth, and
what lies in the terra ingocnita of Africa or across the Western
Ocean is the subject of much myth and supposition only.  Ships
which ply the waters venture not into such areas, and few are the
souls hardy enough to dare expeditions east or south, for things
as they are seem quite satisfactory as centuries of tradition prove.

But change comes to all things, even Oerth. Events were
slowly shaping on Oerth, and change was coming whether it was
expected or desired having no consequence on the inexorable.
One young man was to play an important role in the multiplicity
of actions which betokened the shift. He had no idea of his importance
in the greater scheme of Oerth’s order. . .

CHAPTER ONE

The group of shabby figures drew closer to the young dandy
clutching a yard of glinting steel. As the rank moved they taunted
the swordbearer:

    “He won’t do it,” called one.

    “It’s he daren’t swing,” another replied.

Face suffused with scarlet, partly from shame, partly from
strain, the object of this combined attention heaved up the ponderous
blade and brought it down with a whoosh. The target was
cut nearly in two.

A shout went up from the admiring onlookers, while the doer
of the deed acknowledged the acclaim with a nod. They had
dared him to strike, and he had hewn the great sack of flour so
that the fine white powder now besprinkled everything nearby
and still trickled from the rent container. The tableau was shattered
by a bellow of rage from a ponderously fat man who entered
the warehouse just then:

“Ho there! Are we holding wassail here! Damme if I pay you
villains good silver to stand around . . . off your asses and back to
work!” Suddenly he spied the four besmirching those closer to the
cloven sack. Instead of turning back to his usual station near the
front of the place, Merchant Rodigast advanced with menace. At
the current price of good white flour, someone had just thrown a
week’s wages around as if it were horse dung. His low tone of
voice sent those nearby slinking away:

“Who split that?” pointing to the now trampled flour. None
of the laborers replied, each suddenly finding he had many
pressing tasks to immediately attend to. All save one who stood
stock still, back to the bulking merchant. Rodigast flung out one
of his meaty hands, cuffing aside a man who came between him
and the figure.

“What in the Name of the Unnamable,” Rodigast choked
when he came close enough to see what had caused the damage.
“You have a sword here in my place of business and have spoiled
my goods! Now, master sword-wielder, we shall see who you are,”
and with that he spun him around.

“That’s right, father, it is your errant son.” The young man
returned the red gaze of his progenator, arrogant despite the
dusting of white. “Calm yourself. Your jowls quiver, and surely
such ire will bring on apoplexy.”

Rodigast, believing his gross exterior, was a strong man in
many ways, but there could be no trial of strength or wills between
him and his only son. He seemed to deflate as he reached
out and took hold of him, steering him away from the scene of the
crisis.

“Dunstan my boy, why do you cause your poor old father
such grief?”

“Old you grow, ‘tis true, but never poor, father. You must be
the richest man in Endstad — if not the richest in the whole . . .”

Now smiling paternally, Rodigast interrupted: “Start not
that old chant again, Dunstan. Rich I am, as you shall be when
you inherit this,” and he swept his hands expansively to emcompass
the entire surroundings.

“And don’t you begin that lecture again! I care not to
become a grubbing tradesman — forever fretting over commerce
and coin.”

Certainly, certainly . . . but what other calling do you
have?”

“You know quite well, for I have made it plain before. I am
not cut out of the same cloth as the barnyard animals here. It is a
wolf I am, a knight-errant to do valiant deeds!” Here Dunstan
brandished the sword, forcing the fat man to move with alacrity
to avoid being cut down.

Wiping his brow with a silk handkerchief, Rodigast returned
to the task of placating his son: “Yet you have overlooked one
small matter. Come now, put up that blasted blade, and let us
share a cup of wine while we discourse once more on this matter. I
am your father, and I have nothing but your interests at heart,”
and so saying he managed to remove the weapon to a safe place in
the corner of the counting room. Unlocking a closet which
guarded a tun of choice wine, he drew a great ewer-full and came
back to where Dinstan sat brooding. When two flagons were before
them Rodigast began once more:

“How can you hope for knighthood? Dunstan, you forget
your station. While you are gentle-born, and above the commoners,
you are not of noble birth. What noble would take you
into his household as esquire?”
 

“If you would but supply the gold the Overking himself
would be eager to have me!” Dunstan retorted heatedly.

“Bite your tongue, boy!” Rodigast hissed. “If His Exalted
Majesty should hear of such utterances it would go hard with us
both, and he has ears everywhere.” He paused to gulp a great
draught of the wine to stiffen his will, but the young man did not
drink. “What is the matter with you? Drink! Wash your mind
clear of the thought of me wasting good gold on such foolishness
as you propose. I’ll not give so much as a single scruple to any
thieving nobleman, for it’d do you no good. You will become Merchant
Dunstan, rich, and greatly respected in Endstad-town.”

“Never!”

Seeing that his words were having an undesirable effect, the
old man shrewdly changed the tack: “And of what the coins I
have already so liberally sprinkled to buy you a Captaincy of the
Watch? Have you not done well there? And there is no end to the
opportunity which lies before you. In a few years, and with the
House of Rodigast buying enough arms and votes, you can
become the Captain-Commander of all the town, enforcing the
laws of the Overking and ordering the defenses in time of
trouble?”

“True, father, I thank you for your efforts in my behalf
there. I was demonstrating to the workmen how it was that I clove
the leader of that gang of cut-purses the other night when I smote
the great sack of flour,” and laughing at the thought Dunstan
quaffed from the flagon for the first time.
 
 

Groaning inwardly at the reasoning which caused his son to
choose so valuable a commodity to demonstrate his prowess
upon, Rodigast continued his reasoned discourse: “See, you have
all the prospects of a valiant and honorable station here with me.
And when you eventually tire of warlike pursuits you can become
an Alderman, perhaps Lord Mayor . . . that is if ordering the
many affairs of my estate do not interest you.” The last insertion
seemed not to rankle his son in the least, which pleased the merchant
greatly. With a sigh of relief Rodigast decided to violate one
of his strongest principles and get drunk during working hours.
Father and son sat at the rough plank table through the long afternoon
and well into the night until the entire cask of port was
drained.

Dunstan gazed at the wavering face before him. The fat old
fool isn't all bad. He has drunk twice what I have, and he is no
worse for it than I. Strong he is too, but nonetheless a fool. How
can he think that I am taken in by his words? Talk of a ?warlike?
position ordering a herd of stupid clods with pikes that they cannot
even find the point-end of. Lead militia when there are no
enemies to threaten . . . forever chasing footpads through the
darkened streets when true men of knightly honor were abed, safe
within their castles until another day should bring them
chivalrous tasks to perform. You shall see, father. You shall see.

The sand had long drained away from the upper bulge of the
great hour-glass on the table. Rodigast, well into his cups, had
not kept to his usual habit of religiously marking its progress and
turning it. Time seemed to halt and studder to the young man,
but he somehow managed to retain a portion of his reeling senses.
He pretended to gulp the wine while he barely sipped it, and
finally the mound of flesh opposite him slumped forward upon
the planks. Dunstan forced his attention to focus as sharply as
possible, listening to his father’s breathing and watching for any
sign of returning senses. Rodigast’s mouth remained open, and
horrid snores continued to issue forth periodically — along with
a pool of purple-stained saliva. Shaking his head to break the
spell and to regain some of his faculties, he heaved himself to his
feet and lurched around to where his father slept. Despite his
fumbling hands he did not awaken him as he fished the ring of
keys from the pocket of Rodigast’s velvet tunic. Clutching this
prize with utmost joy, Dunstan left his father where he lay. There
was much to do before this night was out.

It was near midnight. From the watch passing in a nearby
alley Dunstan learned both the hour and the route he must follow
in order to avoid being seen by them. There were advantages to
being one of their captains at that! He hastened through the
shadows seeing no one. Arriving at the wall of his own dwelling he
did not enter through the door. Instead Dunstan slipped to the
corner and clambered up the stonework as if it were a ladder.
Thank whatever gods watched for the fresh air clearing his head
— that and the long practice that many assignations had brought
in getting into and out of his chambers unseen.

The small window he had left ajar admitted him easily, and
he lowered himself softly to the floor. From a chest he took the
garments he had long stored for this day — linen shirt, doeskin
breeches and jerkin, a leathern jack studded with iron, and high
boots of soft hide. These were rough clothes but serviceable. They
would serve until he could gain the more fitting apparel of an
esquire. Dressed, the silent youth took a thick cape from a peg
near the door and wrapped it around a wide belt which held his
dagger. Damn! He had forgotten his sword and sheath at the
warehouse. Blast that interfering drunk. There was no help for
that now. Hoping that he could buy one along the way, as he must
likewise purchase a steed, Dunstan set about completing his affairs.
A few odd personal items he added to the bundle made
from the cloak, and he crept stealthily from his room. A couple of
steps brought him to the door of his parents’ room which he eased
open carefully lest it squeak, leaving the bundle outside.

Inside the room his mother stirred behind the curtains of the
bed but did not waken. Dunstan lowered himself to hands and
knees and crawled to the bedside. With utmost care he reached
under and drew forth a coffer of oak, bound about with metal
bands. He took the ring of keys from the pocket of the jerkin,
selected the first one upon it by feel, and with a little trouble
managed to fit it into the lock. It would not turn. Another and
another he tried, but none would budge the tumblers. Dunstan
was near frantic, but with great effort he calmed his wine-frayed
nerves and considered the problem. One of the keys had to fit the
strongbox, the safe-place where his father kept gold and silver for
common operating expenses. Oh, how he wished he could lay his
hands on the wealth that Rodigast stored with the bankers of
Endstad! This was getting him nowhere. He must leave soon in
order to be well away from the town before first light.

Taking each key in turn he rubbed them against his nose and
forehead, coating them with the oil from his skin. Then he inserted
one and worked it back and forth, right and left, until it
was certain it would not open it. He repeated this operation until
at last a key moved sharply to the left. The lock snicked open with
disturbing loudness, but only in Dunstan’s ears. His mother slept
on, undisturbed by the burglary taking place not six feet from
her. His eager fingers found a scattering of loose silver in the bottom
of the container and a heavy pouch he knew to be full of gold.
Silently Dunstan gathered up the silver and tucked it beneath his
jack. When he could find no more, he grasped the pouch, closed
the lid of the now empty coffer, slid it back to where it originally
rested, and came forth.

The sleepy guard in the tower which centered the east wall of
the town was roused by some slight sound. He jumped up from
the bench he had slouched upon and hurriedly peered out the
door, halberd at the ready. Did he see something moving out
there? A clenched fist rubbed at the eyes; and a few steps along
the wall revealed nothing. Grumbling, the guard returned to
drowse his watch away. What ever happened on the walls of
Endstad?

The first rays of the sun found Dunstan across the bridge
over the wide Nallid River which looped west and north of the
town. He was three leagues along the road to chivalrous adventure,
heading for Rauxes, city of the Overking of Thalland.

    To Be Continued . . .