Magic of Mirstone, page 12
If his words were meant to cause guilt, they failed miserably as the crowd cheered the rescue team. Rolling his eyes, Corman beckoned the others to follow him. Twenty minutes later, they stood in front of a large storehouse next to Cormun’s cozy home with a high-pitched roof of polished bark.
“Wait here while I fetch the key.”
Another twenty minutes later and Cormun ambled out the bright red door, a thick iron padlock key in his hand. “Forgot where I put it. Been a while since I was in there.” He handed the key to Skeeter. “Here. You go ahead and open it.”
Admiring the ornate scrollwork on the handle, Skeeter inserted the key into the lock, which easily popped open. Opening the door, he led the way into the dark storehouse.
“Unbar the main doors there,” Cormun commanded, “and let some light in.”
Torgil and Skeeter lifted the crossbar off and swung open the main doors. Sunlight flooded into the storehouse.
There in the middle of the storehouse, propped on eight boat stands of varying heights, rested a gnome-sized brigantine scout ship… a very old scout ship.
“You want to sail in that?” one volunteer exclaimed, suddenly having second thoughts on the whole affair.
“Yes, Warvyn,” Cormun proudly replied. “She may not look like much at the moment, but she was the fastest scout ship in her time.”
“What? A thousand years ago?” Warvyn stared at the relic then cocked an eyebrow at Cormun before relaxing and chuckling. “Good one.”
“Good one what?” Cormun replied, puzzled.
Warvyn continued chuckling, shaking his head. “You had me going for a while. Where’s the real ship?”
“This is it,” Cormun answered with a frown.
“Very funny,” Warvyn said, tilting his head back and looking down his large bulbous nose at him. “Where’s the real ship?” Craning his neck to take a quick scan around the storehouse, he tsked. “It’s not even in here. Where is it?”
“Where is what?”
“The ship.”
“It’s right there.” Cormun poked his cane at the vessel.
“C’mon Cormun,” Warvyn said, starting to get tired of the joke. “You’ve had your fun, but enough’s enough.”
Cormun twisted his head to frown at Skeeter. “What is he talking about?”
“I think he thinks you’re not serious,” Skeeter said, “that this is a prank.”
Understanding swept through Cormun and he scrunched his face in anger. “At a time like this, do you actually think I would make jokes?”
“But… but,” Warvyn lamely replied, “this ship ought to be in a museum. Can it still fly?”
“It’s really not that bad Warvyn,” another gnome interjected. He was a slender forest gnome from Ynys Muhr. Unlike his city cousins, he was clean-shaven with curly strawberry-blond hair that came to his shoulders. Tall for a forest gnome, he was still a handspan shorter than Skeeter.
Warvyn shot him a ‘don’t-be-daft’ look. “Really, Jerbo? I’ll give you 10 shillings if this can fly.”
“I don’t think we have a lot of options,” Torgil stated. “No one’s going to volunteer their precious ship with the possibility of never seeing it again.”
“Sure, there is,” Warvyn pooh-poohed. “I bet I can find another ship in less than half an hour.”
“Go ahead,” Torgil replied. “While you’re wasting time looking for another ship, the rest of us will get to work on this one here.”
Two hours later, a frustrated Warvyn shuffled back into the storehouse only to be surprised at the improvement in the formerly dilapidated airship.
“No luck, eh?” Torgil said, knowing the response.
“I can’t believe it,” Warvyn moped. “Not a single gnome had a ship we could use.”
“Forget it,” Skeeter said from above, leaning over the port railing. “We’re almost finished here. While the decking might not look brand new, it’s in good shape. But the engine and mechanicals are all smooth and in excellent shape.”
Warvyn stepped back to study the airship. Brigantine in style and design, its length, not counting the bowsprit, was about twenty-five gnome paces, with a beam about ten paces. The engine was below deck, just forward of the quarter deck. Three large propellors gave it speed: one mounted behind the quarter deck and the other two mounted on extended metal arms on opposite sides of the hull, the drive chains looping around the drive sprockets then disappearing through holes in the hull. The hull, originally painted barn-door red, had faded to the color of rust. Shrouds connecting the hull to the air envelope unfurled over the rails and down to the floor, waiting to be connected to the envelope, which Jerbo and the other gnome carefully unrolled on the ground.
“You gonna stand there and gawk or you gonna help?” the other gnome asked. He was a young gnome like Skeeter, with dark wavy brown hair and like Skeeter, smooth-shaven.
“Leave him be, Nimble,” Cormun spoke up. Leaning forward in his chair and resting his hands on the top of the cane, he stared directly at Warvyn. “He’s not sure he’s going with us.”
His jaw jutting out, Warvyn objected, “Who said I wasn’t going with you? I just said we needed a reliable ship.”
“And you can always blame the ship if we fail,” Cormun replied.
“We can’t fail,” Skeeter said. “They’re depending on us.”
“Forget the ship,” Jerbo interrupted, his gaze focused on Warvyn. “What about the Tynelings? We’ll be lucky to get out alive.”
“What do you know about Tynelings?” Cormun asked.
“They’re headhunters and cannibals and offer gnome sacrifices to their gods,” Jerbo replied in a rush.
“How do you know that?”
“Everyone knows the stories,” Warvyn answered for him. “Not only are they cannibals, they’re huge, giants ten times the size of us.”
“Bosh,” Cormun scoffed. “Those are just stories.”
“Do you know what they look like?” Skeeter asked.
“No one does,” Cormun said. “The island is at least a five-day voyage to the northwest. No gnome has sailed any farther than our own islands in over a hundred years,”
“How do we know how to get there?” Jerbo asked.
Cormun answered with a knowing smile, curling his fingers for them to follow as he shuffled over to an oak cabinet against the far wall. Sliding out one of the wide slender draws, he pulled out a map from the bottom of the drawer and placed it on top. The others crowed around to gaze in wonder at the vellum, faded to a dull tan.
“These are our islands.” Cormun pointed to a cluster of six islands on the right side of the map. “This one is Ynys Bari.” He then traced his finger to the left across the blank space on the map to another island about the size of Ynys Denbigh. “This is Ynys Malfor.” He poked a finger at each location. “From here to here is a five-day journey one way. Ten days round trip with however many days on the island. We need provisions for at least two weeks.”
Silence settled for a bit as each pondered the trip to Ynys Malfor until Warvyn broke the quiet.
“What’s the plan once we get there?”
“Go down and get some magairite,” Skeeter answered.
“Just like that,” Warvyn said, snapping his fingers. “Hi. Give us your magairite. Thanks so much. Bye.”
“We’ll figure it out when we get there,” Cormun said. “For now, let’s get this ship afloat and stock up.
Provisioning the ship was the easiest part for once word got out, everyone wanted to contribute for the privilege of saying they had provided for the intrepid voyagers. Gnomes dropped off foodstuffs, ale barrels, live pigs and chickens – enough food for Skeeter and company to be away for months, far more food than the little ship could carry. Cormun finally had to corral Ynys Bari’s Burgomeister to place guards near the storehouse to shoosh good-intentioned gnomes away.
When departure day came, crowds surrounded the scout ship, newly painted its former barn door red. Thanks to the generosity of another gnome, the former patched and repaired gas envelope had been replaced with a gleaming silver one that extended beyond both bowsprit and stern.
The Burgomeister gave an inspiring speech wishing them a safe and successful voyage, commending them for volunteering, and thanking those who contributed to the endeavor. Impatient to be gone, Cormun smiled with only his lips and waited to give the command to release the docking lines. As the Burgomeister droned on thanking each particular family or individual, Cormun’s patience evaporated and when the Burgomeister paused to catch his breath, Cormun called out,
“Release the docking lines.”
Before the Burgomeister complained that he wasn’t finished, the grounds-gnomes released the lines and the airship floated into the sky.
“There,” Cormun grumphed. “That’s done at least. Heed to boys. Set a course for Ynys Malfor.” When they stood and stared vacantly at him, Cormun uttered a long-suffering sigh, realizing he was the only one who knew how to sail this ship. Oh, they had practiced at the various stations on deck, but that was in dry harbor. Now that they were aloft, it became painfully clear that none of them had ever been higher than a ladder.
As the ship drifted higher, Warvyn went below and started the engine, causing it to cough and sputter before catching. With the engine running, he engaged the drive chains to drive sprockets and soon the propellors whirled, pushing the little ship away from the islands.
Skeeter was the first to understand Corman’s importance as both navigator and pilot and had paid close attention to Cormun’s instructions. By the second day out, Cormun felt comfortable enough to let Skeeter navigate while he slept.
By day three, Jerbo commented, “I don’t know about the rest of you, but with nothing but water as far as the eye can see, I’m glad I’m an earthbound gnome.”
“Me too,” Warvyn readily agreed.
“We still don’t have a plan,” Torgil reminded them, his mind on the future.
“We’ll decide when we get there,” Cormun said with a frustrated sigh, repeating the mantra of the past several days. “We know nothing about the place or the environment or the Tynelings. We’ll know better when we’ve had a chance to scout it out.”
“Still like to have some idea,” Torgil grumbled.
Apprehension and nervousness grew as the fifth day’s dawn rose bright and clear. Jerbo, posted as forward lookout, scanned the horizon with a spyglass, sweeping a tight angle to the front. Several hours later, his efforts were rewarded when he called out,
“Land ho!”
Cormun immediately powered up the engines, tilting the wing flaps at the same time, pushing the ship higher in the sky. Too soon they were circling high above the island, a mountainous affair, heavily forested.
“We need to go lower,” Skeeter commented, shivering in the cold altitude. “All I can see are trees and some lakes.”
Cormun tilted the flaps and the ship began its descent and was soon edging the island perimeter as they searched for signs of inhabitants. Yet signs of life eluded them.
“Surely someone has to live close to the edge here,” Jerbo said, “like they do at home.”
By the time they circled the island, the sun had dipped below the horizon, the last bits of light fading to evening. Cormun powered the engines to gain altitude and soon the ship was high enough to crest the tallest mountain.
Picking a thickly treed crest, Cormun said, “We stay here for the night. Nimble, go ahead and tether us to something solid below.”
“Aye, aye, captain.” Nimble saluted and hustled forward to toss a thick tether line over the side. Waiting until it hit the ground, Nimble swung over the side and slithered down, the rest of the crew leaning over the railing to keep a look out.
As Nimble disappeared into the darkness below, Jerbo mumbled, “Suppose there’s no one on this island, that the stories were all wrong?”
“We’ve just started,” Skeeter replied. “Give it a chance.”
They felt a tug on the tether line and leaned over to see Nimble climbing back up the rope.
“What’s it like down there?” Torgil asked.
Nimble shrugged. “It’s too dark to see much of anything.”
*
It was during the second watch, Warvyn’s watch, that the ship nearly capsized when someone or something gave the tether line a hard pull, causing Skeeter and the others and everything else not secured to tumble across the deck to whack against the portside railing.
“Cut the tether line,” Cormun yelled.
Torgil scrambled forward, knife in hand when another yank caused him to tumble sideways. He would have fallen overboard had not Warvyn grabbed him by the trousers. At the same time, Skeeter crawled to the helm, grabbed hold of the wheel, and hoisted himself up to power up the engines and adjust the flaps to prevent whatever it was from dragging the ship down to the ground.
The yanking continued on the tether line as Torgil struggled forward, finally grabbing hold of the rope and furiously slicing until the last strands of line broke, immediately freeing the ship which jerked upwards.
Skeeter swore he heard a high-pitched cry of surprise.
Safely aloft, their hearts pounding, they readjusted and secured supplies as they searched the skies for possible intruders.
“Well, at least we know something’s down there,” Nimble remarked with understated nonchalance.
“Think of the size of the creature to pull our ship like that,” Warvyn exclaimed. “Thank the gods that it didn’t pull all the way down.”
“What do we do now?” Jerbo fretted. “They know we’re here.”
“We regroup and explore more to see if we can find a spot to land,” Cormun said.
“Are you nuts?” Warvyn blurted. “They’re giants. They see us and we’re dead.”
“We’re gnomes,” Cormun shot back. “We use magic to get what we need. You do know how to use magic.”
“Of course,” Warvyn replied, unconvinced.
“Good,” Cormun grumbled. “Instead of whining about how big they are, think of spells we can use to trick them into giving us what we want.”
“Illusion spells,” Nimble brightly added. “I’ve been practicing a dragon one.” He began laughing. “Tried it out on Orrlyn. Made him pee in his pants. Boy was he mad, but he’s such an easy target. That gnome’s afraid of his own shadow.”
Cormun nodded and smiled. “See? That’s what I’m talking about. Creative ideas. They have giants down there? We make them think we’re giants... or something else to give them second thoughts.”
“We still need to figure out how to get the magairite,” Skeeter pointed out. “We’ll need some sort of reveal spell, something that will make them show us where it is.”
“Good idea,” Cormun agreed, impressed with Skeeter’s coolheaded approach. “For now, let’s all get some sleep.”
“I’m too wound up to sleep,” Warvyn said. “I’ll take the first watch.”
*
Skeeter woke when Torgil poked his shoulder. “Your turn.”
Rubbing his eyes and standing, Skeeter frowned as dawn rimmed the horizon. “Why’d you wake me so late? The sun’s coming up.”
“I wasn’t tired and figured you all could use the sleep. I’ll catch a nap while we’re searching for a place to land.”
Skeeter glanced down at the others, curled and tucked into bedrolls, sound asleep. Cormun lay on his back, snoring softly.
“You want to sleep now or are you up for acting as lookout while I pilot us lower to look for a spot.”
“I’m good,” Torgil answered, stepping around his sleeping companions as he headed towards the bowsprit.
Striding to the helm, Skeeter flipped the engine switch, feeling the hum vibrate the ship. Deciding the best course of action was flying low, he adjusted the flaps and angled the ship on a gentle descent, leveling out fifty feet above the shoreline.
Nimble was the first to waken, yawning and stretching before scooting out of his bedroll to walk over and stand next to Torgil.
“You’re supposed to be asleep,” he commented.
“Too restless to sleep,” Torgil shrugged.
“See anything yet?”
“Nothing much. Looking for a clearing to make it easier to get in and get out.”
Silence settled for a bit as the two gnomes concentrated on the landscape before them, a thick forest of pines and hardwoods that came right up to the edge of the island.
“We’ll probably have to go a little higher,” Torgil pondered out loud. “Can’t see much of anything at this level.”
“If we can’t find a spot, we’ll have to tether like we did last night while some of us go aground, which means someone will have to stay with the ship.”
“I recommend Cormun,” Torgil said without hesitation. “He may be the smartest one of us, but he’s not as fast as the rest of us. And I got a feeling speed is gonna be important.”
“You got any magic up those sleeves of yours?” Nimble said with a smile.
“I’m counting on our talent to make ourselves invisible.” He made quote marks with his fingers. “A good gnome always knows how to not be seen. We use that skill and add in a couple of diversionary monsters and hopefully we’ll be able to get what we need and get out before our illusions are discovered.”
“Hopefully.” Nimble turned when he smelled the aroma of eggs cooking and saw Jerbo laboring over a metal box full of sand in which a small fire provided enough heat to cook the eggs in the cast iron skillet. “I’ll take mine sunny-side-up,” he grinned.
“You’ll take yours scrambled like everyone else,” Jerbo shot back.
