Kevin Hearne: Hounded

Kobolds are to gnomes as the Sith are to the Jedi—or even as yin is to yang. They are both wee species of bipeds who wield earth magic and whose faces cry out for rhinoplasty, but kobolds are bound to the deeper forces of violence and upheaval in the earth, whereas the gnomes serve the forces of growth and nurturing. If the legends about them are true, kobolds have fantastic resistance to heat and pressure. Show a kobold a lake of lava and he’ll wade into it like it’s a Jacuzzi, maybe even order a drink with an umbrella and a piece of fruit on the rim. Then he’ll calmly, cavalierly plot some really evil shit, like an encore for Krakatoa.

The creature’s left hand produced a golden flask from the bag—not merely gold-plated but solid gold, stamped on the outside with gnomish script and encrusted with gleaming gems. He poured a smaller measure of a silvery liquid, thick and viscous, into the shot glass and put it back into the faery’s upraised hand. The faery put it down on the table and then picked up the shot glass full of Goibhniu’s brew. Goibhniu, in turn, picked up the glass full of Clan Rathskeller’s magnum opus. It was like a drug deal, with both sides sampling the product before the exchange.

The kobold tossed back the amber shot and coughed, then nodded appreciatively. Goibhniu savored his wee sip of gnomish brew, clearly a rare moment of bliss in his long life. At last he nodded and set down the glass. I couldn’t really hear anything over the noise of the mall, but I imagined a hiss of pleasure coming from the kobold. He leaned out of the bag, proffering the flask. Goibhniu picked up the steel thermos since the faery could not, and rose from his chair. He took the flask from the kobold; he gave the steel thermos in exchange, careful not to touch the faery with it. The kobold grinned wickedly and melted back into the bag with his prize.

The parties did not shake hands and wish each other well. Goibhniu casually took a step toward the fence and stretched out his hand, dangling the golden flask out into space. This, apparently, was a signal. The gnomes shouted “Rathskeller!” in a decidedly un-elvish register, ceased all pretense of being Santa’s helpers, and sprinted off the stage, much to the confusion of Santa and much to the trauma of all the good little boys and girls.

Sweet! He’s giving the hooch right back to the gnomes! He’s totally screwing the kobold!

Gods can screw anything and anybody. For reference, see history .

The faery’s jaw dropped as he saw the gnomes rushing his way, their noses red and their mustaches aquiver with righteous fury. The kobold’s dark silhouette popped out of the bag briefly to see what was going on and his loud cry of dismay shuddered through the square. Clearly he and the faery were as surprised as I to see gnomes mixing with humans. People stopped in their tracks, shut their mouths, and turned to stare as the elves charged the fence of San Felipe’s. The kobold screeched at the faery to flee in Old High German, a raspy, keening noise that scraped across the nerves and yanked everybody out of their happy place. Nobody could see what was making that noise, and I’m fairly certain nobody wanted to see it. Children began to scream, and the first fingers of panic began to trace shivering paths down the spines of the adults. The faery bolted for the exit as Goibhniu grinned at Clan Rathskeller. The gnome who’d been helping Santa took possession of the Draught of Unending Strength, and they all bowed in thanks to him.

Goibhniu said something to them—probably “you’re welcome”—and bid them farewell with a wave. He vaulted the fence effortlessly and began to jog west toward the bookstore, the direction from whence he came, leaving his untouched drink on the table. The gnomes formed a wedge and began to trot around San Felipe’s fence to cut off the faery and Kohleherz. I didn’t think they’d make it; the faery was almost to the door, and then he’d head south for the parking lot. There was no way those short gnomish legs could keep up with the strides of a long-legged faery. The kobold would get away if I didn’t intervene—and I had good reasons to let it go. It really wasn’t my affair, for one thing. And I had a good gig going here: I’d managed to stay in one place for more than ten years, I had a thriving business, and no one suspected that I was older than three major religions and spoke forty-two languages. If I stuck my nose into this and either the faery or the kobold escaped, I’d have to work hard to disappear again.

On the other hand, I knew I’d feel guilty if I let the kobold go. They possessed a profound lack of redeeming features, from all I’d ever heard or read. They were kind of like mosquitoes that way—they’re pests capable of inflicting serious harm, and whenever I see one I have to kill it as a community service. Pompeii, if the stories were true, hadn’t been a natural eruption, but spawned by a trio of kobolds who had a beef with a warlock in the town. It was lucky for us that they rarely bothered with humans.

Stay there , I told Oberon. I’m going to make sure the bad guys don’t get away .

Fine, but you’re not allowed to help them drop it . I spread my wings and sailed silently toward the entrance to San Felipe’s just as the faery and his malevolent friend burst through it. They collided with a mother and her two children making their way toward the stage, bowling them over and forever associating Santa with violent falls in the minds of those poor kids. The faery quickly found his legs again and put them to excellent use as the wailing began. Clan Rathskeller turned the corner and spied him, but a quick glance told me that they’d never close the distance without some help.

I wondered what their escape plan was as the faery ran south and the kobold surveyed their pursuit, his coal-black eyes peeking out from the top of the sack. Indeed, why had they chosen Tempe to make this bizarre exchange in the first place? Faeries can’t shift to Tír na nÓg without oak, ash, and thorn to aid their journey, and those trees were in short supply in the Phoenix metro area. Ah, but kobolds—especially the black, sunless ones like Kohleherz—they knew their way around underground. And a peculiar feature of the Tempe Marketplace is its close proximity to a sand-and-rock quarry based in the bed of the Salt River. I concluded that the kobold had gotten them here, and the kobold would get them out.

They were indeed heading in that direction, directly east along the northern throughway once they hit the lot, the gnomes in pursuit but falling behind. If I waited until they got to the bare earth of the quarry, I’d have access to all the power I’d need—but then, as earth-based magic users themselves, so would they. And there’d be no stopping the kobold once he got to some earth he could sink into. If my skills at moving dirt were like a kid with a plastic shovel, gnomes and kobolds were like Caterpillar hydraulic excavators. On asphalt, all of us would be working with limited power—but me especially, since the shift back to human would drain me further. My defenses would have to hold until the gnomes in their silly platform shoes could catch up.

The lot wasn’t particularly busy with comings and goings at the moment—a small blessing. If I could take care of this without ruining anyone else’s Monday, that would be a victory. I spiraled down in front of the faery’s path and dissolved my camouflage. The sudden appearance of an owl in the parking lot startled and slowed him a bit, but he didn’t brake fully; he simply tacked left to run around me. He skidded to an alarmed halt, however, once I shifted to human form in front of him. I purposely presented my right side so that he could see the Druidic tattoos that covered me in a continuous band from my heel to the back of my right hand. If he looked at me in the magical spectrum, he’d see them backlit as the energy from the shift spent itself among the knots and recycled. He’d also see something else. I was counting on it.