Beyong the Moons

Chapter Nineteen

“There, sir. It’s not much too look at, but the gnomes say it’ll get into the void.” High on the thirty-fifth level, Gomja pointed out a rough-hewn window to the lake below, where a ramshackle and half-built ship, another great pride of gnomish engineering, floated. Teldin and Gomja were watching the work from well above the floor of the volcano, looking down on the crater lake filled with the pale-blue waters collected from yearly snowmelt and rains.

“It’s not even finished!” Teldin protested. Teldin leaned on the windowsill and studied the craft. It didn’t look like any ship he’d ever seen, neither the Silver Spray nor even the Penumbra’s wreckage. It looked more like an immense, flat-bottomed river barge topped with a collection of buildings, catwalks, gantries, windmills, gigantic chimneys, and, amidships, a pair of waterwheels mounted on the sides. There was a semblance of order, with decks, a sterncastle, and a single small mast, but the whole thing was cloaked in jury-rigged scaffolding that obscured details. Teldin was amazed the whole thing even floated. “They’ve got a lot of work to do,” he scoffed.

“I think it is finished, sir,” Gomja cheerfully offered, gamely struggling to suppress a grin. “That’s the way the gnomes want her to look.”

“Want?” Teldin walked away from the window, shaking his head in disbelief. Barely escaping three days of “examination” and hardly recovered from a harrowing barrel ride up to the thirty-fifth level, Teldin couldn’t fathom any more wonders of gnomish tinkering. He grabbed one of the too-small chairs from a corner and sat, his long legs sprawling across the floor.

“Do you understand these gnomes?” He sighed with frustration, throwing his arms out wide. Gomja answered with a lopsided grin and a shrug, but Teldin did not see it, because his head had flopped back so he could stare at the ceiling.

Before any more could be said, the door banged open and a small herd of gnomes barged into the room, solemn Ilwar in the lead, Niggil, Broz, and Snowball following. While Ilwar managed to maintain a stately appearance, the other three reminded Teldin of chickens leaving the coop in the morning, swirling and half-flying in every direction. Naturally the gnomes were all talking at once.

Snowball was the first to make himself heard. “Since I found you, it is my pleasure to say that your cloak is-”

“Amazing,” Niggil interrupted. “Your cloak, as we have determined, is-”

“Quite amazing,” Snowball countered, glaring at the uppity Niggle, “because we are certain it is not- “From this-” Niggil cut in again.

“World!” Snowball finished with a defiant scowl at his fellow gnome. Satisfied that he had the last word, the doorkeeper smiled triumphantly at Teldin.

“I know that,” Teldin peevishly replied. “You asked me and I told you.” Snowball’s smug posture deflated slightly at the scorn in Teldin ‘s voice.

Calm and dignified in contrast to his fellows, Ilwar held up his hand to prevent any more outbursts. Surprisingly enough, the other three kept quiet, though Broz had yet to speak anyway. “Ah, Teldin Moore of Kalaman, now we have proven it through our studies, where before we had only your word, and therefore the origin is certain, so there-”

“Well, excuse me, but if you know so much, how do I get it off?” Teldin interrupted, hoping that, just maybe, the gnomes might finally have the answer.

“That must be determined by further examination-”

“And testing,” chimed in Niggil. Ilwar glared at the big-eyed gnome, cowing him into silence.

“Fortunately, we three-”

“Four,” Snowball corrected. The square-bearded gnome glared again. Snowball looked to the floor, abashed.

Satisfied, Ilwar continued. “We four are familiar with the new and wonderful science of spelljamming and are perfectly suited to-”

“Is that your ship?” a voice suddenly boomed. Ilwar, automatically assuming one of the gnomes had spoken again, glowered at the trio. They, in turn, did their best to look innocent, nodding back toward the large giff. Gomja was pointing to the vessel that floated on the lake. “Excuse me, sir, for interrupting,” the alien offered. The human dismissed the whole thing, secretly relieved to be free of the building barrage of gnomish gibberish. The gnome’s call for more testing had the ominous ring of failure to it.

Before Ilwar could regain control, the other three gnomes scurried to the window and, practically piling onto one another, peered over the edge of the sill to the lake below.

“Oh! The pride of our fleet, the finest ship we ever built,” chattered Snowball, “the Unquenchable Fire- Powered Sidewheel-Shaped…" He continued on with an endless name.

“Certainly finer than our last ship,” the goggle-eyed Niggil assured the giff, “the Improved Star-Sailing Ship Based On Modified Plans From the Previously Improved Star-Sailing Ship That Broke in Half and Sank…"

“Indeed,” Ilwar gravely added as he came to the window, clearing a way through his juniors. “This one has remained afloat for an entire thirty days, whereas the Improved…"

“And it doesn’t require all those squirrels,” the heretofore silent Broz announced in his deep voice. Gomja’s eyes darted from gnome to gnome as the giff vainly tried to follow a single conversation.

Squirrels? Teldin thought, hopelessly trying to puzzle out that one.

“But what do you call this one?” the big alien asked, totally lost by the four different speakers.

Snowball harrumphed in self-importance. “As I was saying, the Unquenchable Fire-Powered Sidewheel-Shaped Motive-”

“Does it have a shorter name?” Teldin asked from across the room, breaking the litany of words flowing from Snowball’s lips. Everyone fell silent at the grave import of this question.

Ilwar stroked at his black beard several times before finally speaking. “No,” he allowed slowly, “but to help you, it could be given one, such as the Unquenchable Side-Mounted Steam Generated-”

Teldin tried to suppress a wince as the litany began anew. “Maybe something smaller-like one word?” the farmer suggested.

“Hmm, that will be difficult, for it is not in the gnomish nature to be anything less than absolutely precise,” Ilwar answered, almost rationally explaining his people’s trait, “unless, of course, you or your companion, who is not like any other creature we have seen on Krynn, can make a suggestion that we could use-”

“The Unquenchable,” Gomja eagerly interrupted, sensing an opportunity to end the discussion. “Will that do?”

The gnomes turned to each other in serious consideration of the title, with Ilwar acting as dignified moderator of the discussion. Finally they quit chattering and looked at one another with wonder in their eyes.

“Unquenchable!” Niggil chortled, hopping from foot to foot. “Superb, because now we can fit the name on the side, which is something we were going to have to build another ship to do, but now-”

“This is a wonderful advance for the Namer’s Guild, since now they won’t have to use the diving suits,” Snowball concurred, “and as a representative of the Doorkeeper’s Guild it is my duty to carry news of this great discovery-”

“Do not be so eager,” Ilwar scolded with a frown. “I am not so certain about this proposal. There must be a committee established to study the ramifications these alterations will have upon the overall design-”

From the other side of the room, Teldin coughed. “Excuse me, but what about the cloak?”

Ilwar stopped the lecture of his fellows, stroked his beard once more, and looked at Teldin with annoyance. “I was saying something important. But since you have asked, I should think the answer is obvious. Since the cloak is not from Krynn, we assumed you would accompany us into space, where the cloak can be properly studied and tested, since all calculations and observations made on Krynn cannot be considered definitive, given the non-Krynn origins of-”

“Accompany you where?” Teldin exclaimed. The mouths of Niggil, Broz, and Snowball all opened to have their say, but their de facto leader, the square-bearded one, silenced them again. The human walked to the window and looked at the wildly jury-rigged Unquenchable below. “You want me to fly into space on that?” he asked. “I don’t think so. I just want this cloak off so I can go back home and rebuild my life again.” Teldin knelt to look the gnomes in the eye. “Can you do that?”

Ilwar raised an eyebrow. “Your life is not our affair, Teldin Moore of Kalaman, so you will have to rebuild your farm on your own."

“Do you insist?” Snowball asked, crestfallen. The gnome’s dreams of fame and importance were fast fading.

“It seems such a shame-”

“There’s so much we could learn,” scientific-minded Niggil added, pushing to the front. “It really does not seem as if you have the proper appreciation of your importance to…"

Broz, as was his wont, said nothing.

Teldin ignored them and focused on Ilwar, the most realistic-seeming of the group. “Please, just answer the question. Can you get the cloak off and keep me intact?”

Ilwar looked thoughtful, Niggil avoided Teldin’s gaze, Broz stared back with sorrowful eyes, and Snowball fidgeted nervously. Finally the senior gnome said, “Of course, it is theoretically possible-”

“Theoretically, but you don’t know?” Teldin pressed for clarification. The gnome nodded slightly, stroking his thick beard. “So you can’t take it off right now?” The gnome nodded again.

“But if you were to accompany us aboard the Unquenchable,” Snowball interrupted, hoping to revive his dreams of glory, “we are certain to find the solution, and then all we need to do is build the machinery needed-”

“A big machine!” Niggil added.

“-to remove the cloak, and then you can go back home just like you wanted as soon as we land back on Krynn from our voyage,” concluded Snowball, triumphant at the obvious simplicity of his plan.

Teldin retreated from the window and collapsed into a tiny chair, where he clutched his head in his hands. “Excuse me, good gnomes,” he mumbled toward the floor, “but I feel a terrible headache coming on. Can we continue this later?’’

Ilwar once again took command, pushing the other gnomes toward the door. “Of course, Teldin Moore of Kalaman. We will go set to work at once. Do not fear. We are certain to find an answer.” As the last of the other three left, Ilwar turned back toward the human. “I know it is hard to be so far from home,” the tinker sympathetically offered. “I traveled far in the wars, and there were many times when I only wanted to return to our mountain, so we will try very hard to help you go home if that is what you truly want.” The gnome ended his speech with a low bow and quickly left the chamber.

Feeling a little less exasperated, Teldin watched as Gomja closed the door and leaned against it. The farmer was exhausted by the day’s grueling examinations and disappointments.

“Peace, at last,” the lanky human sighed.

“Yes, sir,” Gomja rejoined slowly. He crossed to the window and stated down at the Unquenchable with a pained look on his face. He finally turned away and stood stiffly, almost at attention. Teldin ignored the giffs curious mood as he sprawled across the small chair.

Looking at the ceiling, his hands nervously twisting, Gomja finally ventured to speak. “Sir,” he began hesitantly, “what you told the gnomes, sir, about not going-did you really mean it?”

Teldin cocked his head toward Gomja and answered with a yawn, “If they can get this cloak off, then I’m free of all this. I’ll go home and try to start over. There’ll be a lot to do before winter.”

“But what will you do with the cloak, sir?” Gomja countered.

Teldin sat up a little straighter, noticing the giffs extreme nervousness. “Leave it for the gnomes to study, I suppose. I haven’t had time to think about that.” Unconsciously, Teldin’s fingers began to drum on the arm of the chair. “Just what are you getting at?”

Gomja swallowed. “Well, sir, it’s just like Astinus said. There are spelljammers here. And now, well, sir, I asked the gnomes for passage on the Unquenchable, for both of us, I mean.” Gomja’s voice stiffened, and he stood straighter. “I thought you would be coming along.”

“And now I’m not,” Teldin finished.

Gomja nodded affirmatively. “I have broken the chain of command, sir. Accordingly, you have the right to discipline me for this,” the giff said bravely.

“Discipline?” Teldin echoed, surprised that Gomja even thought he was upset.

“According to regulations, sir.” Gomja closed his eyes and recited from memory. “‘Unauthorized transfers shall be considered desertion of the third grade and are punishable by imprisonment not greater than 30 days, lashes not to exceed twenty-” Gomja’s voice shuddered-”and reduction in rank or grade, or such penalty as the commanding officer deems appropriate, not to exceed the severity of those listed.’”

“You’re saying I’m supposed to punish you for asking to go home?” Teldin rose to his feet.

“Yes, sir,” Gomja answered, his body still at attention. Teldin strolled to the window and rested his weathered hands on the sill. “And if I don’t?”

Startled by the suggestion, Gomja broke his rigid demeanor to steal a glance at the human, who stood with his back to the giff. “That’s the way it’s done, sir,” he explained, his voice filled with confusion.

“Hmmm,” Teldin mused, thinking over the curious request. Below him, a rope ferry towed a load of gnomes to the Unquenchable. Finally, Teldin turned back to the giff, who had resumed his rigid-backed and unmoving stance. “Private Herphan Gomja,” he began formally, “since you have admitted a minor infraction of regulations, I sentence you as follows: For the duration of our visit to Mount Nevermind, you are to prevent all gnomes in my presence from saying more than ten words at a single time unless I say otherwise.”

Gomja’s mouth dropped open, and his ears twitched. “‘What, sir?”

“Keep them from rattling on and on,” Teldin interpreted with a grin. “I think you’ll find it harder than it sounds. Now relax.”

“Yes, sir,” acknowledged the bewildered giff. His shoulders abruptly drooped, his big chest sagged, and, with the lapse of tension, he finally breathed again.

Teldin, prowling the room, stopped at a table and toyed with a gadget made of gears and pendulums suspended from a numbered dial. Accidentally touching a small switch, the cogs started to whir and the pendulums swung. The thing made an irregular ticking noise and, justifiably suspicious of any gnome invention, the farmer quickly set the device down. “You still want to leave, don’t you, Gomja?"

Once again the giff hesitated. “Sir,” the giff eventually began, searching for the words, “I request a transfer from our platoon to the crew of the Unquenchable. Will you approve it?”

Teldin looked to the table, where the gnomish device still rattled and clicked. “We’re saying good-bye,” he said slowly. The farmer found himself reluctant to let the giff leave, even felt a twinge of sorrow at the prospect.

“If you approve the transfer,” Gomja answered. “The gnomes will be leaving within the week. You’ve been a good commander, sir.” The giff offered gamely as he patted at his elven sword, “I’ve even earned a trophy or two.

I’ve grown to like the big fellow, Teldin thought. Still, he knew he couldn’t keep the giff from his own people. “Once you leave, you won’t have a commander, you know,” Teldin pointed out.

“There are the gnomes, sir.”

“For your own sake, I wouldn’t want to see you under the command of any gnome. Are you ready to assume command?”

Gomja’s face was solemn and concerned, and he answered, “If I must, sir, but I’ll only have myself to command.”

“It’s not much of a platoon,” Teldin commented. “No, sir, but I won’t have to worry about mutiny.” Teldin chuckled at the joke. “You’ve changed since we first met.” The farmer held out his hand as an equal. The giff took it in his own, which dwarfed the human’s. “Very well, I approve the transfer. And as my last official act as your commander, I promote you."

The giff froze in mid-handshake and opened his mouth to protest, but Teldin cut him short by clenching down on the big fellow’s hand. “You can’t command a platoon without a rank. Congratulations, Sergeant Gomja.”

The flustered giff stammered a reply. “Th-thank you, Commander. I think it’s rather irregular, though.” The giff unconsciously squeezed Teldin’s hand back until the farmer winced and wrenched his hand from the giff’s grasp. The giff was so overcome with the honor of his new rank that he didn’t notice.

Teldin discretely shook out the pain, took Gomja by the elbow, and steered the giff toward the door. “Since you’re now an officer, I want to buy you a drink. Then we’d better find you a gnome tailor and see about getting a proper uniform.” Gomja, still dumbfounded, followed without protest.

Night or day made little difference to the gnomes of Mount Nevermind. With few windows around the outside conical peak, most never saw the sun for hours, days, even weeks, at a stretch. Each gnome adopted his own pattern and schedule, comfortable for him- or herself, yet utterly impractical for everyone else. One slept while another worked and a third ate, all in the same quarters. Some of the agricultural engineers tended their terraced outdoor fields by the light of the moon while others enjoyed their breakfasts when the sun hung directly overhead. All this confusion and disorganization did not seem to matter one whit to the gnomes. They blissfully accepted the strange routines of their neighbors and adjusted their own schedules accordingly.

For Teldin, though, it meant that within the dark heart of the mountain, the cacophony of deep-throated whistles, rippling bells, and gnashing gears continued unabated and the shafts through the rock throbbed with the jarring, unmusical rhythm of grotesque machines. In time, his senses dulled and he became immune to even the infrequent but distant explosions that belched from dark workrooms. Mount Nevermind never stopped doing something, but the human eventually found it necessary to collapse with exhaustion.

Floating on these waves of noise, Teldin tried to sleep after his very long day. While Gomja seemed to have no problem falling into a deep, rumbling slumber, the constant thrumming kept Teldin awake, each change in pitch and rhythm rousing him just as he started to doze off. The giffs burbling snores only added to the racket. It had been difficult for Teldin to convince the gnomes that he and Gomja needed rest, but finally the little tinkers had arranged a room, deep in the heart of Mount Nevermind, for their use. Suspicious, lest the curious, scientific types- Niggil in particular-decide to attempt some nocturnal testing on his cloak, Teldin had locked the door carefully before retiring.

Eventually, exhaustion overtook the farmer, though even in slumber there was no rest. Neogi, perhaps stirred by the turmoil of the mountain, lurked in Teldin’s dreams. The eel-like monsters paraded through Nevermind’s dark and unending halls, bloody trophies in the arms of their brutish umber hulk slaves; behind these came more of their malicious kind clutching vile treasures in their ridiculously tiny claws. Each neogi appeared before Teldin’s dream self, laying gruesome spoils at his feet. Struggling, the farmer tried to rise with the exaggerated care of a nightmare, but all his efforts came to naught.

The charnel mound grew before him: Vandoorm’s bloodless, blue head, Liam’s body gutted and bound, a necklace made from Gomja’s hands and ears, and a bundle of gnome-skin cloaks. Old memories of flesh were added to the new: blubbery sheets of butchered dragon flesh, Knights of Solamnia frozen on the battle plain, their icy limbs thrust out at odd angles. Finally, the pyre of dead was taller than Teldin’s cabin, even in a dream. At its apex was the hacked and burned head of a dragon, again from the High Clerist’s Tower.

Teldin’s dream irresistibly panned upward, lingering over each monstrosity of the bloody heap. Perched precariously atop the macabre pyre was a golden-skinned neogi, it’s loathsome, bulbous body covered with tattoos. The spiderlike legs gripped the fleshy mound. The creature glared malevolently down at Teldin. “Give me the cloak,” it hissed. A slender, snapping claw reached out and slowly grew longer, stretching toward the paralyzed human.

Teldin awoke with a choked scream and his body tangled in the blankets. He shook his head, trying to drive the monstrous apparitions from the shadows of his mind. Breath came in quick pants as the farmer nervously unwound himself from the sweat-dampened covers.

After straightening the blankets and fluffing his pillow, Teldin experimentally closed his eyes. Almost immediately the bloody procession filled his thoughts again, forcing the human to snap his eyes open once more. “No sleep for me,” he mumbled, trying to rub away the pressure building on his temples. The single wavering candle transformed the room into a dreary cavern. Gomja’s shadow became a hibernating bear. Teldin sat up, and he debated getting dressed. Unable to face sleep again, there was really nothing else to do.

From beyond their room came a distant boom, like a peal of thunder, even deeper and more resonant than Gomja’s snores. Whatever it was, Teldin realized, it had triggered a whole clamor of alarms and whistles. Another invention gone wrong, the farmer concluded as he pulled his worn trousers over his long, lean legs.

Teldin was fumbling with his shoes when frantic knocking began rattling their door. “Open up! Open up! Hurry! Wake up! We're under attack!" shouted a high-pitched voice from the other side. Teldin could hear the scratching and jangling sound of someone fumbling with the lock. All at once, the tumblers caught and the door burst open.