An Inspector Camden Ironbell Story
by
Martyn Winters
The Ballad of the Field at Caer Dhun. James Jones-Jones Pryce
High over Caer Dhun, the dragons wheeled,
Indifferent to the men below,
Curious only how the field
Would turn, and which way bones would go.
A ragged army, one hundred strong,
Faced down a foe of teeth and song.
A last redoubt
A final stand
A line where Men and Gnomes,
Shoulder to shoulder,
Cried “Onward!” with one voice and hand
A singular band
To defend their homes
Take no prisoners, show no fear
This is the place, this is here.
The goblin host came down the hill,
Ten thousand strong, and louder still,
With trumpets cracked and banners torn
And every weapon ever worn.
A tide
A flood
A press of teeth and rusted blade
That broke against the line we made
Of mud
And blood
And men who would not stand aside.
By noon, the field was dark with crows.
By dusk, the crows had ceased to come,
For even crows will turn from those
Whose names are sung, but not by some.
Above it all, the dragons watched.
They did not stoop.
They did not call.
They marked the field, and marked the cost,
And took no side, and saw it all.
Ask the goblin, where your fathers fell?
He will not answer.
He knows well.
Ask the goblin, where your brothers lie?
He will not meet a stranger’s eye.
There is a field he will not name,
There is a wind he will not face,
There is a song that bears the shame
Of all his fathers, all his race.
And we who stood, and we who fell
At Caer Dhun field, where dragons low,
We do not boast, we do not tell.
We do not need the world to know.
But mark this, goblin, mark this well:
The gnomes remember.
So do we. The field is green.
The wind is still.
The bones beneath remember thee.
Part 1
Ironbell paused outside the council chamber long enough to assess his potential escape routes. Preparedness, even in friendly territory, came as second nature to him. As a practitioner of Gnome-Fu, he lived by the motto, “Better to forestall than to forsake.” It’s why he still wore his original skin.
He noted the doors were oak, banded in iron, and stood half a head taller than was strictly necessary. The brass handles had been polished that morning, Ironbell could see faint traces of Brassie on them, but not the hinges, which meant, he realised, the council’s budget was being watched. He could hear voices through the wood. Four of them. One was raised, the second was placating, another was coughing in a manner that suggested forty cigarettes a day and no intention of cutting back, and one said very little, just interjections in careful, measured tones. That last one interested him most.
He pushed the doors open and strode in.
The chamber was warmer than the corridor and smelt of burning paraffin, stale cigarette smoke, and the faint almond note of a recently opened tin of Cherry Bakewells. Through the western windows, sunlight fell in slabs, lighting up motes of dust as they turned in the air above the council table. Ironbell registered this automatically, without any conscious effort of will. A trained reflex. Without looking up, he crossed the parquet at his normal pace, the click of his heels announcing him. Stealth was not a requirement on this occasion.
Heads turned. Four of them, as he expected. The Queen was at the top of the table, a sheaf of papers in front of her so thick she had been forced to pinion one corner of it with a dagger. She had been reading, and Ironbell could see she had not been enjoying it. There were dark patches under her eyes that powder had not entirely covered, and she had been twisting the ring on her left hand. Ironbell put both observations in his cognitive reserve.