Start of Gold

Silence reigns in the Royal Warroom. The King pulls a scented handkerchief from beneath his sleeve ruffle and dabs his nose. He looks around the room, seeking help.

Manacardi rises. “My Signore, Prince Esaltato! Between private individuals, laws, written agreements, and contracts uphold good faith, but between the powerful, only weapons count…”

Marchand interrupts the scholar. "Oh, shut your useless, boastful mouth, Dottore! Where are the weapons you promised us?"

The Chancellor points accusingly at the sandbox, the empty entrenchments, the deserted shelters, the tank hangars without tanks.

"Where is it, your armored fighting vehicle, propelled by eight men with hand cranks, equipped all around with cannons? I'll tell you where it is, this wonder weapon, in case you've forgotten: It's in – forgive me, Your Majesty – the ass! The hand crank you provided only locked the wheels, nothing more. The expensive monstrosity you had built didn't move a single meter."

Marchand, however, is now in full swing. He walks around the sandbox, grabs Manacardi by the collar, and shakes the scholar. "And what, Dottore," he shouts, his face bright red, "became of that supposedly unsinkable boat that sprang from your deranged mind? It was supposed to dive beneath the surface and resurface, invisibly attack enemy fleets—which, as a landlocked state, pose no threat to us anyway—and then vanish again, insurmountable, wasn't it?"

Marchand keeps the Dottore in his sights, turns his head to the two generals with anchors on their caps and barks at them: "How many of these boats did we build, and what was the result?"

The military personnel in question are evasive. One says ruefully: "The two prototypes showed a need for improvement, which would certainly have been necessary with a larger investment..."

"Silence!!!" Marchand raised his voice again. "Your prototypes, along with their crews, lie at the bottom of the castle moat and will never rise again! Speaking of rising…" The Chancellor now turned his full attention back to Manacardi, who was squirming under the firm grip around his collar, and brought his nose closer to that of the Court War Engineer.

"How high, esteemed Doctor, did your miraculous invention ever fly, the one you intended to man with carabiniers capable of annihilating any company on the ground? What was that thing called again? Flying helicopter?"

“Vertical take-off and landing aircraft,” Manacardi corrects with the little air the Chancellor’s iron grip allows him.

"Exactly. It didn't rise an inch, so it never had to prove its landing capability. The rotating screw, however, had a precise effect, one has to admit, on the necks of the unfortunate crew. An effective method of execution. Its inventor should try it out on himself."

Marchand pushes my new mentor away with a contemptuous snort. He turns to the king and bows. “I beg your pardon, Your Majesty. I let myself go. It is concern for your kingdom that has stolen my composure. The cruel Laballes have declared war on us and are preparing for battle; giants have appeared on our border. They may be in the service of the enemy, whose resources far exceed ours. This man”—he points an accusing finger at Manacardi—“has for years been tasked with filling our treasury by converting Your Excellency’s excrement into pure gold. I hereby propose, for the good of the state, that he…”

Before the Chancellor could finish his sentence, the door to the War Chamber swung open, and an apparently high-ranking courtier, with almost as much tinsel on his chest as the generals, rushed in, beside himself, forgetting all about his scratching feet. He carried a porcelain bowl, which, despite his excitement, he carefully placed in the middle of the sandbox as if it were a raw egg. He paused briefly, as if in adoration of the bowl, straightened up, and then bowed deeply before the King.

"Your Majesty, Mon Roi! It is the pleasure and honor reserved for me, Chevalier Aristide des Pommes Diarre, as the first in my lineage to faithfully appoint Chief Warden of the Royal Secret Excrement Archives, to announce to you the transformation of your excellent excrement into pure gold. My family thanks you for the trust you have placed in them."

The Chevalier lifts the lid of the bowl. The Chancellor raises his eyebrows. Everyone present except me rises and leans over the bowl. Before their eyes, gold must sparkle, pure, unadulterated gold. I have no idea what gold looks like; I've never seen any. But I know what people look like who possess it and want more of it. That's the sight I have now.

The Chancellor finished his sentence: “Therefore, in keeping with my previous statements, I hereby propose, for the good of the state, that the meritorious military engineer and court alchemist Dottore Artobaldo Manacardi, a true genius, be elevated to the nobility.” The Chancellor dabbed his forehead with a handkerchief and looked around uncertainly.

Master Manacardi straightens his tunic and winks at me. "Golden pheasants," he whispers. "I knew it. Golden pheasants are the answer."

I have my doubts. I don't understand what's going on. But I do know that today, for the first time, I replaced the contents of the royal excrement bowl, which is brought to Manacardi every morning, with my own excrement, while the scholar wasn't noticing. And I sprinkled on a powder that the maître d' gave me.

Two and two

More than gold, lots of gold, Claudine de Laballe loved nothing but more gold. But the only precious metal she currently possessed had just slipped through her fingers. It looked as if her life might suffer the same fate.

A hideous, rather tall dwarf sat on her stomach. In one raised hand he held a massive club, in the other her golden apple. Claudine had to decide which worried her more. At the moment, it was the club.

“Stop, valiant hero, I appeal to your chivalry and magnanimity!” she cried in the most meek voice she could muster. It still sounded like, “Or else!” The Laballes simply couldn’t help themselves, even when they were in danger of having their skin stripped from them, just as they themselves had done for generations to countless defenseless victims.

Mitschin was a kind dwarf, but it would be a lie to say he didn't enjoy the situation. After all, beneath him lay his archenemy, the dwarf-slayer, the Great Fear of the Little People.

"You expect magnanimity from someone like me, a gnome?" he asked. "How so?" The club rose slightly higher, poised to smash Claudine's skull.

The countess's thoughts raced. They had to devote themselves to a completely new task. Usually, they revolved around inflicting harm on others. Now, they had to avert it from herself.

“I place the honorable dwarf knight, his entire family, his entire village, under my personal protection, I…” Claudine began to stammer. She couldn't think of much she could offer in her current situation.

Mitschin already knew. He put two and two together: his friend Trako was in the Laballes' clutches, and the Duc de Laballe's only daughter was in his own power. A swap seemed the obvious solution.

“Well,” said Mitschin, “perhaps an arrangement could be reached between us.” He lowered the club and released Claudine—but not the golden apple. The countess immediately reached for the precious object—earning her a painful blow to the fingers with the cane.

"Ow! How dare you, you…" The club did its work again – carefully measured and this time on the noblewoman's head. She would suffer nothing more than a bump, but was temporarily incapacitated.

Mitschin went to work on the unconscious woman and loosened her corset. He wasn't interested in its contents, but in the corset straps, with which he now deftly bound Claudine's arms and legs.

He surveyed his work with satisfaction. The giants' village wasn't far. They would have to arrange for the transport of his precious loot, a task that would overwhelm even the tallest dwarf. One last look at Claudine before Mitschin set off. He suppressed the urge to spit in her face beforehand. Good dwarves don't do such things.

The beginning of an unlikely alliance

In the village of giants, people were very surprised. Firstly, by Mitschin's return and his courage. Secondly, by the squirming and wailing bundle of Menschin, who had been dragged there from the forest on the dwarf's recommendation.

Claudine de Laballe lay, still bound but now conscious again, in the middle of the village square, surrounded by Mitschin and the giant inhabitants. The prisoner uttered blasphemous curses in a wild staccato, curses that many a giant would have gladly written down for later use, if only they could write.

"Pig gang, shit-monster dwarf henchmen! Filthy gnome giant freaks!" Etc., etc.

Mitschin bent down to the countess. "May I remind Your Grace of your noble rank? And what ever became of the 'honorable dwarf knight'?" Mitschin showed and stroked his club, which he still carried with him.

The dwarf continued: “Do you know, Mademoiselle, what use people like you usually find in giant villages? Or did you overlook the fire pit with the rotisserie? Since you're already screaming bloody murder, I wouldn't try my luck too hard if I were you.”

Schmacko the Butterfitter was delighted, licked his lips, and made as if to light a fire under the rotisserie. As he did so, he called out to his wife in their marital cottage: "The Mademoiselle marinade, woman, is the good kind!"

Mitschin wasn't quite sure whether this was a perfect example of psychological warfare or a genuine culinary need.

The cooking preparations certainly had their effect on Claudine. "J'abandonne," she whispered, "I give up."

"Very well," replied the dwarf. "May I untie you so you look less like a rolled roast? That would reduce our hosts' salivation."

“Je me rendre,” Claudine affirmed. “My word of honor.”

The value of Laballe's word of honor was normally considered questionable, but under the circumstances, the risk was acceptable, Mitschin decided. Then the negotiations began.

The profound tragedy of Claudine de Laballe's life had been that, although she was endowed with the full genetic heritage of the male line of her sex, which included murderous lust, sadism, unbridled greed and other lack of self-control, her family expected primarily charm, grace and above all obedience from her as a daughter.

She was attractive, even beautiful. But behind her graceful, springy gait lay the explosive speed of a cheetah on the hunt. It was therefore difficult for Claudine to consider becoming involved with such a hideous monstrosity as Michin. Everything seemed to argue against it: the noblewoman's high rank, her lust for power, her malice.

This was evidenced by the deep hatred she harbored throughout her life, and now, after her exile to the convent, even more so, for her father and brother. The old Duc de Laballe had always made her feel that he was never certain she was truly his son. His second wife had been put on the scaffold because he suspected her of infidelity. All of his horse-loving wife's stable boys at the time were also executed—just to be on the safe side. There would have to be at least one guilty party among them. They all shared the fate of his first wife, who had turned out to be barren.

Laballe Jr. was even worse, constantly beating and humiliating Claudine. She had always been glad to avoid his presence. Luckily, he went hunting a lot—preferably hunting humans. Meanwhile, Claudine took out her anger on the servants—primarily on her personal court dwarves.

The tall and magnanimous dwarf Mitschin untied the noblewoman's bonds. Although he had since laid down his club, the associated risk seemed minimal – Schmacko the Shatterer towered high above them both at the hearth in the center of the giant village.

Until proven otherwise, Mitschin had decided to consider Schmacko the Smasher an ally. The other giants remaining in the village kept to the background as much as possible. In any case, they obstructed his view.

"Well," said Mitschin, "what are we two handsome fellows going to do with the rest of the evening – and especially with the broken giant that your family kidnapped?"

Claudine was surprised. The seclusion of the monastery had cut her off from her family's plans. Now that she had helped the monastery and its inhabitants escape the world, Sister Ignatia aD was all the more eager to find out what had happened.

"Giant? Kidnapped?" Claudine leaned forward expectantly, something she could do again without her restraints. Schmacko the Shatterer, fully aware of his new role as the previously highly improbable bodyguard of a dwarf—albeit a rather large one—bent down, his hands swinging around the countess's head like excavator buckets.

Mitschin raised an arm to stop the giant. Surprisingly, he succeeded. Perhaps there was still hope for peaceful coexistence between the large and the small, Mitschin thought to himself. But he would have to explain that to his own people. For now, saving his friend Trako was the priority.

Mitschin explained the situation to Claudine. She agreed to help. Schmacko the Smasher regretted this. His wife poured out the Mademoiselle marinade.

Gigantes ante portas, part two

For Turmo and his men, the kingdom's border fortifications, with all their formidable walls and defiant towers, were nothing more than a threshold; they simply stepped over them. No resistance was encountered. Except for one incident: A balloon with two crew members waving assassination puffs from their basket right in front of Turmo the Slayer's face made him sneeze and blow his nose towards the moon.

The only other obstacle the giants encountered on their advance was a flock of sheep – little more than a snack for the giants. They pressed on towards the capital with, well, giant strides.

This rapid advance did not quite correspond to Henri de Laballe's plan. He had triumphantly sent the giants into a full-scale attack, unaware that his advancing troops, not even the Tatar cavalry on their Arabian stallions, could barely keep up with their breakneck speed.

Turmo ordered his men to hold their ground halfway to the capital and spat out a sheep's skull like one might a melon seed. He gazed out over the desolate landscape. Yes, one could knock over a few church steeples. There were also some stray cows that would probably suffice as provisions. But so far, the campaign hadn't been much fun.

They would have to consult. Giants, however, didn't know how to do that. Their language was the club. Turmo's men grumbled. They were far from home; there hadn't been a real fight yet because no one had dared to oppose them. Giants get bored easily. Then they usually become inclined to playfully bash each other's heads in. Turmo felt sick, a bit like hunger. He grabbed a cow and brought it to his mouth. The beef tasted bad, even though it was bloody, just the way he usually liked it. Giants didn't really understand the concept of "medium."