Tough Love

Mist curled through the streets, made ghostly in the moonlight. Its density did strange things to sounds. Shouts seemed distorted, at once far off and close at hand. Even the noise made by Quarrel's own boots as they crunched through the gravel beneath him was deadened.

If truth be told, Quarrel was fed up. He adjusted his goggles with one hand and squinted through the lenses. Up ahead, his fellow gnomes were ambling along, picking their way through the cobbled streets. Jack and Joanna led the way; the former all sure-footed arrogance, the latter controlled caution. Even Mama Gimble was keeping up, leaving Quarrel to bring up the rear all on his own.

To make matters worse, when he’d stepped in an unfortunately placed puddle and subsequently paused to shake the water out of his sandals, some lunatic goblin with a blunderbuss had taken a shot at him! The nerve! The tufty-haired terror’s discharge had clipped him in the arm and the green-skinned grub had been away before Quarrel could return fire. 

“I’ll get ’im next time,” the gnome muttered under his breath.

Not that he was entirely sure there would be a next time. Quarrel was feeling sore, tired and generally despondent. His trusty crossbow felt heavy in his hands. The quarrels strung about his wiry frame weighed him down. Only loyalty to his kin, and the promise of teacakes once all this was done with, drew him onwards. And yet, even stumping along as fast as his legs would carry him, they were pulling away.

A shadow passed across him and he glanced up to see Belle strapped to her trusty airship, the Flying Fish, gliding serenely over the mist even as her legs pedalled furiously to propel her forward. For a moment, Quarrel wished they could exchange positions. The girl had a bolt thrower, after all, and, though her exertions didn’t seem like the most fun, it looked a darn sight easier than the footslog he was currently experiencing. 

The crooked cobble came out of nowhere. One moment Quarrel was staring into the sky, admiring the graceful bulk of the airship. The next he was sprawled flat on his face, groaning. He’d thought his day couldn’t get any worse. He’d thought wrong. Alone. Abandoned. Forgotten. Hopeless.

“What’s this now?”

The familiar, querulous voice caused Quarrel to look up. Mama Gimble had stopped, concern writ large across her features. She started towards him, walking with a wobbly gait, and Quarrel felt his spirits lift. Mama hadn’t forgotten about him at all. He’d been a fool to think otherwise. She’d just been trusting him to bring up the rear, to protect the clan. Not abandoned; relied upon.

With a grunt, Quarrel pushed himself to his feet. One hand scooped up his crossbow. The other adjusted the tin pot helm to a more rakish angle. Then he matched Mama Gimble stride for stride. With each step his spirits rose. Time seemed to slow. Their approach, as inevitable as tectonic plates colliding, occurred at a glacial pace. The extended period served to heighten the anticipation.

When at last they met, Quarrel had to stoop slightly to allow Mama Gimble’s arms to envelop him, holding him to her bosom. He felt a hand on his injured arm.

“They shot you?” Gimble asked.

Quarrel nodded, mute in his matriarch’s all-encompassing embrace. He hissed slightly as he felt the sharp stab of cold that signified the application of Mama’s legendary poultice but the pain subsided almost immediately, leaving only a slight, dull ache around the site of impact.

Mama Gimble gently pushed Quarrel to arm’s length, straightened him and placed a hand on either shoulder. The wrinkles on her ancient features mirrored the sorrow in her eyes as she regarded him, and Quarrel’s heart soared to feel so loved.

“Better?” Gimble croaked.

Again, Quarrel nodded.

“Good,” said Gimble, steel suddenly edging her voice.

The slap came out of nowhere. It caught one of the handles of his pot helm, sending it spinning on his head. Discombobulated, Quarrel had no reaction to this sudden change of events. Where had his loving Mama gone? In her place was a creature of wrath and vengeance. Wrinkles that had only a moment before been creased with concern suddenly bunched up in rage, framing eyes that were narrowed and hard.

“You just take that crossbow and show ’em what you’re made of!”

Quarrel’s reeling mind flailed for a response. “Skin and bone and muscle and-”

“No!” Mama interjected. “You are a gnome! What is it I always say?”

Quarrel thought frantically. “Always wash your hands before dinner?”

Mama hesitated for a moment. “Well, yes,” she conceded. “But it’s hardly fitting at the moment.”

Quarrel shrugged, completely lost.

“Just because you’re a gnome, doesn’t mean people can look down on you,” Mama supplied. “Now use that crossbow o’ yours and give ’em a good seeing to!”

Quarrel’s thoughts, finally provided with an anchor, snapped into focus. He straightened his helm. Then both hands closed on his crossbow, determined to do Mama’s will.

“Missile!”

Quarrel glanced skywards at Belle’s shout, just in time to see the huge bolt release from the gondola of the Flying Fish. He followed its trajectory.

Over the mist, gliding in an obscene mirror of Belle’s airship, another shape came into view; a giant green ball from which four stumpy limbs protruded and upon which two giant, bulging eyes were set. And, below it, seated in a ramshackle contraption of metal and leather that served as the airship’s gondola, was a goblin.

To Quarrel’s satisfaction, the goblin’s eyes widened as the bolt approached. Frantically it tried to do something, anything, to change its fate. But fate was what it was and the bolt’s path was true. It struck the point where gondola and grossly inflated toad met in a shower of mechanic parts and a pathetic squeak.

Yet when the cacophony had subsided, still the craft was airborne. The goblin’s airship was damaged but still hung there in some gross parody of Belle’s sleek machine. With the words of Mama Gimble still echoing in his mind, Quarrel resolved to do something about it and finish the job Belle had begun.

“Look down on me will ya’?” Quarrel muttered, raising his crossbow to eye level and sighting along the length of the bolt towards his distant target.

He breathed in deep and, on the exhale, gently squeezed the trigger. His aim was true. He was experienced enough to know it before the shot had hit its mark, which in any case was sizeable enough to begin with. He was already hauling on the string to reload when he heard the distant scream, followed by the gushing of escaping air.

The string was taught and Quarrel’s fingers located the next bolt in the quiver at his side even as his eyes locked on his target. The ammunition slotted into place and the crossbow was once again at eye level, tracking the reeling airship’s trajectory. With barely a breeze to disturb the air, Quarrel only had to adjust for where his target was going to be by the time the bolt arrived at its destination.

Again the deep breath. Again the exhale. Again the gentle squeeze on the trigger. Again the bolt flew true. Quarrel watched its progress as it arced through the intervening space. The goblin had seen the approaching bolt, too, and was desperately trying to change course. But, with the airship already leaking air, there was little it could do to prevent the impact.

Quarrel saw the explosion before he heard it. The overinflated toad popped out of existence moments prior to an almighty bang that even the mist struggled to deaden. For the briefest of moments he saw the goblin, hands over its ears and eyes screwed shut, before gravity caught up with the situation and pulled both goblin and crude gondola out of sight. A moment later a further thud indicated that all had landed, if not safely, then at least successfully.

Quarrel glanced over to Mama Gimble, stood mere feet away. Gone was the expression of ire to be replaced by the loving smile he knew so well.

“That’s my boy.”