The Flame of Destiny

“Come now my child,” said a friendly voice behind her, “what’s the matter with you?”

Samira looked up and saw the strangest creature she had ever seen. He was short, barely taller than her. Yet he was stocky and bony like an old man. He had long pointy ears, scant white hair and a long beard down to the middle of his chest that was even whiter. As he approached her, the metal chains around his little feet rattled.

“Who are you?” asked Samira, “are you a Gulla?”

“By the beard of Brokkr, no!” cried the little man, “I’m Fingo, a Gnome of the Fraenir tribe.”

He stepped closer and looked at her with twinkling chestnut eyes. “And who might you be? You don’t belong here do you?”

“No,” sobbed the girl, “I’m Samira, from Ligeia... from the surface but the soldiers took my family. They blindfolded us, and took us away… And Diokles, he promised to always help me but he wasn’t there, he didn’t say goodbye! My father is brooding and my mother is inconsolable. And… And ....”

“Shhh come now, it’ll be fine,” said Fingo.

“How can it be fine? They hate us… the priests, the children, all of them!” She wept loudly.

The old Gnome threw his gnarled, hairy arms around her and silently hugged her with surprising kindness. She shook and shivered under his tender embrace and the tears kept flowing. She remained in his arms, weeping silently as the weeks of stored grief flowed out. Fingo rocked her gently back and forth and hummed a tune.

“Hey,” said Fingo when her sobbing diminished slightly, and he looked at her with twinkling eyes, “have you ever seen a smithy?”

“Uh... yes,” answered Samira, wiping away the tears with her sleeve, “my father had one.”

“That’s wonderful!” cried the little man, rubbing his hands in genuine delight. He smiled so broadly and his eyes sparkled so brightly that Samira stopped crying for a moment. “Come on, I’ll show you my workshop,” he said as he eagerly pulled her into his little cabin, “that’ll cheer you up.”

“I’ve never seen a smithy like this!” said Samira momentarily forgetting her sorrow. They walked past piles of shining gemstones. There was a furnace radiating a warm soft glow that spread around the hut. In the center stood a small anvil. Dozens of iron instruments hung neatly arranged from hooks on the wall.

“I make jewelry,” said Fingo as he handed her a silver cup.

She stroked the bright gems in the cup’s handle that gleamed in the light of the furnace. “This is beautiful!” she said, “did you really make this?”

“Yes, and if you want, you can help me, and then I’ll show you how to get back home.”

[picture Fingo]

Three hours later Samira finally left the little smithy. The day had started horribly, but she felt as happy as she had ever been in the Underdeep. She had a friend!

She came back every day and helped Fingo with all kinds of chores. The Gnome was getting old and weak, yet his masters still expected the same number of sword handles and helmets every day. Rich Cultists ordered him to make some nice jewelry on top of his regular work and on those occasions, he had to work until late into the night.

Not that there was much difference between day and night in the Underdeep. A barely visible fluctuation in the strength of the unnatural illumination was the only indication of the passage of time. But every living creature needs sleep and rest, even the Gnomes of the Underdeep

On these long days, Fingo told her about the Dark Cult that had moved in so recently, “only a few centuries ago. They were a sorry lot when they arrived, they were banished from their homeland and wallowed in sorrow and spite. We helped them to survive in the Underdeep. We showed them how to avoid the danger that lurks everywhere. We taught them to harvest mushrooms and grow plants in the warm, smelly waters from the deep. We didn’t have to teach them much about construction though, they were master builders. They knew about archways and pillars. They crushed the soft white rock and mixed it with water and turned it into hard stone. They added iron, which is plentiful here, and made structures we never imagined possible.”

For a brief moment he sounded like he admired them, but then his voice lowered. “But alas,” he continued, “the good times didn’t last.”

“What went wrong?” asked Samira putting down a basket with dried woodlice. “What made them so evil?”

“What do you think?”

Samira shrugged her shoulders. “I don’t know. How can anyone become like them?”

Fingo grabbed a handful of the crispy snacks from her basket. “I like them best salted,” he said, munching loudly.

“But what happened?” insisted Samira.

“That’s what happened?” he growled and gestured at a pile of gems and precious stones, each as large as a chestnut. “These caves are full of them if you know where to look. Once they knew how to survive and learned about the treasures down here, they became greedy. They forged sharp weapons and dabbled into dark magic. They made war and conquered the best caves from the other inhabitants. The survivors were chased away or forced to work for them. They erected the vast black city with their iron tools and slave armies.”

It was a sad story and it touched Samira deeply. After all, these were here kind, perhaps even her forefathers, that behaved like monsters. They chased away the noble Dwarves and enslaved the gentle Gnomes.

Fingo also told her about the Gulla, strange twisted humanoids with long nails and sharp long fangs. “They’re mean but they’re small and easily scared. Before the Cult arrived, we got along quite well and we each lived in our own communities. But they were corrupted by Ahriman’s followers. They gave them better weapons and paid them to kill us. There’s also the huge bull-horned War Gulla, tall as a giant and strong as an ox. Nobody knows where they come from or what they want. But if you see one, you have to run for your life; they are invincible and never come out unless it is to kill.”

“Didn’t you fight back,” said Samira and she slashed in the air with an iron pincer, “I would.”

“If only you had been among us in these dark days,” smiled Fingo. “Alas, we Gnomes are no warriors. The Dwarves were too few and the Fairies couldn’t hurt an ant. All the good people were killed or chased away by the Cult and their Gulla mercenaries. Just a handful remain, and that’s why we have to work so hard.”

Samira helped him as well as she could. She fetched water, blew the fire, cleaned the smithy, gathered mushrooms, and prepared his food while he worked on the most beautiful jewelry she had ever seen. His nimble fingers shaped the precious metals in any form with incredible speed and precision.

She was mesmerized by his furnace and when she had a break she often simply watched the blazing hot embers until her eyes hurt. “Are you sure they didn’t come for this,” she said, “I mean, the Dark Cult. These flames are amazing.”

“They’ll use the fire allright,” grumbled Fingo, “for their nefarious ends. But they’ve never respected it, and they’ll never understand its true potential.”

Samira turned her eyes back to the embers. Sparks flew all around. “I can stare at it for hours,” she whispered, “and sometimes it feels like the flames speak to me. Like if I just listen carefully, I will hear them and they’ll tell me so many secrets.” She shook her head. “But no matter how hard I try, I don’t get it.”

Fingo looked her in the eyes and smiled. “You’re so much ahead of them already.”

Samira watched the fire for another while then got up. “I’ll get some water she said.”

When she got back she noticed a finely decorated helmet on the table. “You finished another one?”

“The secret is in the heat,” said Fingo as he pulled out a blazing hot sheet of iron from the stove with a pair of long pincers, “and nothing burns hotter than my lava stove. That heat comes directly from the center of the earth… Now move over.”

He swung the pincers around, dropping the red hot sheet onto the anvil, and started pounding at it with his hammer. In less than a minute the outline of another conical battle-helmet appeared.

“This is coarse, simple work,” he commented, “I much prefer jewelry.”

“It’s amazing,” said Samira.

“Wanna try?” he asked and handed her the hammer. “Just hit it hard.”

Samira grabbed the hammer and hit the sheet of metal while Fingo held it tightly in place with the pliers.

“Come on,” said the Gnome, “harder! It’s not going to bite you.”

Samira imagined the grinning face of the evil Archon underneath the helmet and hit it with all her strength. Sparks flew in all directions.

“That’s more like it,” said Fingo joyously, “good punch! There is some power in your scrawny limbs!”

A dozen strokes later the metal had hardened and Samira’s arm was tired. “Leave it to me,” said Fingo.

She watched in amazement as the Gnome kept hammering on the iron. Soon the helmet was ready. From a single sheet of metal, the master-smith had created a simple but very effective helmet complete with nose and cheek guards. Her father would have taken twice as long and he was one of the best in Ligeia.

“Now on to more pleasant work,” said Fingo and he carefully opened a small leather bag revealing a gleaming gold nugget which he held admiringly in his fingers. “I wonder what that Black Champion is going to do with this,” he said to himself, “win a woman’s heart or bribe a magistrate.”

Soon, Samira worked entire days with Fingo which didn’t please everyone.

“You spend too much time with that little blacksmith. We have to distance ourselves from the slave races,” her father said reproachfully.

“He’s my friend,” she replied stubbornly.

“But we are your family. And you’re falling behind in preparing for the rites of passage. Jaro is almost ready.”

“I don’t give a hoot. I don’t want to become one of them!”

Georgios sighed loudly. “Samira, we’ve been through this. There’s no choice. We all have to do it or remain slaves forever.”

“Well, I’d rather be a slave than one of them.”

“Come on. They’re not as bad as you think. They didn’t come here by choice you know, they have suffered a great evil in the past and have a right to be angry. In the end, they’re just ordinary decent people.”

“They’re not. Those priests…” she shuddered, “all they talk about is hate and destruction.”

“Forget about the priests. Do it for the ordinary people, do it for us.”

“Well, I won’t!” she cried.

“For the umpteenth time, we have to!” bellowed her father.

“And yet I won’t,” shouted Samira. Her voice cracked with emotion.

“Dammit, if you refuse,” he snapped, “you’re no longer my daughter!”

This took her aback. She stared at her father’s furious face. It was the face of a stranger.

“Come here my darling,” said Ophelia casting an angry stare at Georgios, “he doesn’t mean it.” She threw her arms around her but they felt cold and strange. She felt more alone than ever.

The next day she managed to slip out of the cabin before the others were awake and walked straight to Fingo’s smithy. She hoped to delight him with a bucket of fresh mushrooms picked on the way, but found him sobbing quietly.

“Poor Fingo, what’s wrong,” she asked, “should I leave?”

“No. Please stay. I’m fine… I feel better if I’m with you. I just cry a little every morning. I was thinking about home.”

“You miss your home?”

The old Gnome sighed. “It’s such a pity. I wish I could introduce you to my son, Fabo and his wife, and my lovely grandchildren, you would get along very well. They’re so nice.”

Samira hugged him. “You’ll see them again, one day,” she said, “I’m sure of it.”

“I already feel better,” he said, “you’re so good to me.” After a while, the old Gnome gently pulled himself away from her embrace and looked at her with a mischievous smile on his lips.

“Wait here,” he said gleefully as he darted back inside, “close your eyes.”

She waited while the old gnome rummaged through his workplace. He made an enormous ruckus, it sounded like a pack of wild boars had been let loose in his smithy or a band of looting Gulla. Then she heard his quick footsteps running back.

“Give me your hand,” he said, “but don’t look.” He dropped something into the palm of her hand.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered chuckling to himself.

Samira stared at the small circular amulet that hung from a thin silvery chain. It had the size and shape of a small pebble, like the ones she used to collect in the wild brooks near Ligeia. A faint shine emanated from the smooth metallic surface.

“Fingo, is this for me, this is so beautiful,” whispered Samira.

“That’s the least I could do,” he retorted modestly.

“But I can’t accept it,” she said handing him back the amulet, “they’ll know that some gold is missing, they’ll punish you.”

“This ain’t gold,” replied Fingo with a mischievous smile, “it’s something altogether different… It’s something the Dark Cult will never appreciate… So don’t worry about me, they’ll never find out. But you have to be careful, keep it hidden, don’t show it to anyone, certainly not to any of the Black Priests. They’ll take it from you.”

Only slightly reassured, she took the amulet and looked at it closely.

“Let me put it on,” said Fingo taking it back from her.

Although it felt heavy in her hands, it felt almost weightless when it hung around her neck. The amulet caught the faint light from the glowing stones in the lava stove and burnt brightly in blue and red and many other colors. Samira watched with open mouth how colorful spots appeared on the wall and moved as she turned. “Oh, it’s gorgeous!” she sighed, “they look like dancing fireflies.” The room was so bright that it seemed the sun was shining through the window.

Fingo gasped, his eyes opened wide.

“What is it?” asked Samira, noticing his surprise.

“Eh... Nothing,” replied Fingo, “remember, keep this hidden. It’ll protect you against evil spirits.”

“I will. I will cherish it. Oh Fingo, this is so nice of you. Thank you so much.” She kissed the old gnome on his cheek.

When Samira walked home that evening, there was a jolt in her step and her heart felt lighter. The Underdeep was a dreadful place, but the amulet felt warm on her chest, giving her courage and strength. Even better, she had a friend who sincerely cared about her.

Fingo watched her as she walked back. He kept staring into the distance until she had long gone, scratching his scant white hair. “Well, well,” he said to himself, “you’d think after three centuries you’ve seen everything. But I honestly don’t understand anything about this. In Brokkr’s name, how can a child from the surface have such fire? What’s she doing down here?”