The sun beat mercilessly down on the small, bent figure as it trekked across the rolling plains. Dead grasses crunched noisely under the dry, cracked feet of the brown-skinned figure. Parched lips stuck together and parted painfully as the small being struggled ever onward, a testament to the fact that he had not tasted water for quite some time. The small creature looked both weak and tired as he dragged his torn feet across the crackling grass, and where his right arm should have been there was only an empty shirt sleeve.

--

Brefb stepped into the Inn, his loose sleeve flapping in the driving wind. His face was sunburned and streaked with sweat, his eyes conveying hunger and exhaustion. Ignoring the curious glances of Inn-goers and drinkers, the veteran made a beeline for the bar and sat down heavily on a wooden stool. The barkeep immediately looked up and smiled, as if recognizing Brefb.

"Brefb, old comrade! How are your travels?'

"Same old," replied Brefb wearily, dropping two gold coins on the counter. "Same old. Beer."

The barkeep frowned as he handed the other gnome his drink, leathery brown face knotting into wrinkles. "Bitter even now, eh?"

Brefb did not reply.

"Look," stated the barkeep, brow knitted, "If you're going to be an ass, at least give me your weapons. They aren't allowed in here."

Brefb frowned momentarily, then sat his already half-empty mug on the bar and reached down to his waist. A deathly hush fell over the surrounding gnomes as the one-armed gnome pulled a shotgun out of a holster at his waist, its twin barrels sawn short. Without so much as looking up, Brefb sat his weapon on the bar and went back to drinking. There was a momentary pause.

"Do you take me for a fool?" questioned the barkeep harshly, taking the firearm and setting it in a nearby basket. "All your weapons."

Quietly Brefb sat his mug aside for the second time and reached down to his boot. A hushed murmer began to spread through the other gnomes in the Inn when he produced a large, well-sharpened hunting knife. The barkeep quickly dropped it in the basket and refilled Brefb's mug.

"You know," stated the barkeep, "You never told me why you carry those things. The war's over. Has been for ten years."

"It was a gift," replied Brefb.

"But why carry it all this time?"

"I told you," replied Brefb after a particularly long draught of his drink, "It was a gift."

The barkeep sat his elbows against the bar and leaned closer. "From who?" he asked. By now the gnomes sitting at the bar and those at the tables in the immediate area had for the most part set aside their own conversations and were listening to Brefb.

"I'd rather not talk about it," stated the gnome firmly, taking another draught from his mug. But the beer was beginning to affect him and he was soon coerced into an explanation by the Inn-goers and the old barkeep. "Oh, c'mon!" they called.

"Fine, fine." he sighed exhasperately and finished off his mug. While the barkeep rushed to refill it, Brefb began his story.

"It was at Poiters, in the dead of winter. The rebels and confederates outnumbered us almost three to one and were driving us back day by day. For you to understand, I'll have to start at the beginning. My unit was at the front when the battle started; there were sixty of us. I was the best shot. When the rebels came charging out of the cold mist, we were caught completely off guard. Most of us were killed, and the battle lasted most of the day before we managed to get away and the rebels broke off the fight.

"The next day my unit was marched to a place called Oak hill. Before we could even get set up the cannonfire had opened up. Within minutes we were almost wiped out. The first blast tore the clothes clean off one gnome. Then they were on us, like bats out of hell. We got away, but not after most of the boys in my unit were killed. Drove us all the way back to Miners Ridge.

"The day wore on, the dust and smoke made it impossible to tell who was friend and who was foe. I saw a young gnome go down, fall over the edge and into the big crater. His name was Teff, the bravest soldier you ever saw. Me and my friend Gonf struggled through the melee, tried to save Teff. We got seperated, but I found Teff and pulled him out of there. He'd been shot and stabbed so many times you could hardly tell who he was. But I got him out.

"By the third day things were looking more than bleak. The command structure had splintered, entire battalions were seperated or lost, there was so much smoke and ash in the air that visibility was reduced to less than a few yards... what was left of my unit was seperated from the rest of the army. We dug in on top of a small hill with our back to Miners ridge, and prepared to die. The rebels came at us in never-ending waves, bayonets fixed and guns blazing. When our ammo ran out, we were reduced to fighting with our broken rifles and swords or sticks or whatever we could find.

"One by one the boys went down under a hail of bullets and blades. There was so much blood and fire that the smoke turned red. You could feel the ground shake with each cannon blast and rifle volley. My captain went down, stabbed in the gut. He'd brought us out of more scrapes than I dare remember. I tried to save him; I at least owed him that much. Then they shot me, got me right in the arm. By the time I reached the captain the battle was over. He was still lying there, his knife buried in the back of a rebel soldier. I was crawling, everybody around me was dead or dying. I tried to promise him I would get him out of there, but he was already half-dead. He reached over and pulled his empty shotgun out from under somebody, handed it to me. Told me to keep it.

"That was the last time the captain ever spoke. To me, or anyone else. I spent the next few months recovering in a field hospital, delirious from fever. When I finally recovered I just took the captain's gun and left. I walked the whole way to Gonf's home, hoping he'd be there. The war was over by then, of course. But Gonf wasn't there. He'd died that day, back at Poiters; I don't know how and I don't know when. All I know is that there was no one left to greet me."

By the time Brefb had finished his morbid perspective of the battle of Poiters, nearly every gnome in the Inn had gathered in a circle around the one-armed veteran and was listening intently to his words. A haunted look emanated from his craggy, wind-swept face; his eyes were wide and staring, but he was not looking at any of the Inn-goers. He focused instead on the old barkeep, who did not return his gaze, instead prefering to study the back of his broad leathery hands.

"Dang, mister," breathed one of the gnomes who sat backwards in his chair next to Brefb. "You've been through a lot, ain't you?"

"Too much," answered Brefb, setting his empty mug on the counter and reaching for his weapons. The barkeep hastily handed him the basket and let him take his gun and knife. The scarred gnome tucked the hunting knife into his belt and walked out the door with the shotgun still in his hand. The gnomes sat there for a while, just contemplating what had happened, before they finally turned back to their own drinking. As time passed, all would be forgotten...

As he stepped out of the Inn, Brefb holstered his gun and turned down the street. Then he started walking again, started going over everything he had just said, the truth of it all, and at the same time... the lies. All the lies he had told just so people would leave him alone or think better of him before they spoke behind his back.

"Hey mister!"

Brefb pulled up short, turning to the sound of the small voice that had called to him from the doorway. A small gnome child stood there, wearing old clothes that were obviously too big for him and a toy pop-gun.

"What happened to your arm, mister?" the child questioned, pointing with his free hand at the empty sleeve. Brefb turned to walk away, but not before answering in an almost casual manner:

"Just a hunting accident."