King Vance sat on the floor with his wife’s lifeless body in his arms as the blood of their wounds mingled on the floor below them. He paid no attention to the eight soldiers that lay dying on the floor around him – their blood still dripping from his sword. He knew his reign over the kingdom was over. The stomach wound he had received when the soldiers stormed their bedchamber would guarantee a long and painful death. He also knew there would be more soldiers following soon who’s intent would be that his death be somewhat quicker. However, with his wife dead and his son most likely dead, he swore that he would bring down as many of the assassins as he could before they had the satisfaction of killing him.

Tearjon hid behind the first large tree he could reach. The woods swarmed with soldiers and hiding was difficult. Prince Logan, a child little more than half the historian's height, stood clinging to Tearjon. When Tearjon looked down at the prince he realized the boy was not clinging, but pulling. "The stables," he whispered, "We should be able to breach the wall from there." Tearjon was impressed. This child was years from being a man and yet with all that had happened – he was not only calm – he had located an escape route. Despite what some had said, nobility ran deep in this child. He followed as Logan led him behind carts and boxes to cover their movements.

When they reached the stables Logan pointed to a small wagon. "Wait here," he said as he began to climb the rough stone walls of the stable. Tearjon just watched in amazement. Logan had long ago demonstrated a remarkable ability to climb. That did not keep Tearjon from admiring the boy's progress up the wall. Logan moved quietly into the window above the stable doors and disappeared. Several minutes passed and one of the large stable doors opened slightly. Logan's little face looked out and he motioned to Tearjon to join him. As he did, the historian heard shouts in the distance. He was sure he heard someone say King Vance was dead. He hoped he had heard wrongly, but knew in his heart that he had not. He had to see to the safety of this young King Logan.

“I’m a historian,” Tearjon thought to himself as he followed Logan up bundles of hay to the opening on the other side of the stables. “How can I possibly keep him alive until he’s old enough to take back his throne?” The sound of several quiet whistles broke his thoughts. He turned in time to witness a soldier wearing colors loyal to Shellina dropping into the hay with arrows embedded in his back.

Tearjon and Logan moved to the edge of the hay to see the captain of the guards, Jeiyed, bringing his bow down and removing a bag and rope from his shoulder. “You’ll have to be more careful if you wish to keep yourselves alive.” He moved to the bottom of the stacked hay and tossed the bag and rope. “You’ll need these. There are several guards I still trust to be loyal to the king. They and I can keep you covered until you are beyond the walls of the kingdom. That is the best I can do for you. My loyalties for now must be to the people of the kingdom – no matter who rules it. King Logan,” Logan’s eyes widened with a hint of fear as he heard his new title for the first time, “We will be here for you when you are ready to return. And Tearjon.... I pray you live to tell the history of the day King Logan returns to his people.”

Eppon knelt quietly – his eyes shut. He focused for a moment on the stream of sweat that slowly ran down his face. There were more important things to focus on – he grinned a sarcastic smile – much more important things. But he had to focus and the sweat provided the perfect distraction. The cold air blew gently against his skin as he convinced his heart to slow its frantic pace and steadied his breathing. Focus.

Footsteps – so faint he first thought they might be the rustling of the grass and leaves. He opened his eyes. They had adjusted to the shadows of moonlight. His sword was the first thing he saw. He held the blade at a slight angle in front of his face. This afforded him the ability to look forward past the sword and behind himself in the blade's reflection.

He ignored the blood that flowed slowly down the blade and watched for movement. He found it. Distorted in the blade was the image of a would-be assassin – moving quietly and using the shadows to hide his form.

Eppon held the grip of his sword tightly and spun. Holding his sword before him with his arms fully extended, he moved until his blade connected with the attacker. To the man's credit, he fell without making a sound. Their attack had originated from the cover of the woods. A well-trained soldier would remain silent no matter what happened to protect the location of his fellow soldiers. That meant there were still others near. He lowered himself and closed his eyes again.

Two attackers. He could hear movement on both sides of him – very close. He thrust his sword to his left and swept his foot to his right. Two bodies hit the ground. He grew light headed and it became difficult to concentrate. He closed his eyes again and focused on the sweat. One of the attackers was not moving, but the assassin to his right would attack again soon. Without opening his eyes he swung his sword and knew immediately that he had miscalculated.

The hilt of his sword slammed against the man's leg. Eppon pushed with all his might, ignoring the pain from his chest. He had managed this long, he had to hold on a little longer. The two men went to the ground. Eppon grabbed the attacker's head and twisted. The snap of his neck ended the struggle.

Eppon opened his eyes – unable to get up. The fighting had stopped and he could hear his father's guards in the distance calling out orders. “King Dant is wounded, but alive – find the prince.

Eppon allowed himself to relax and closed his eyes. His wounds were severe and he wasn't sure if he would survive. But his father's guards had managed to keep their king alive and that was all that mattered. He could hear the guards approaching him, but he drifted into unconsciousness before they arrived.

Queen Shellina approached the ruins slowly. The structure before her had obviously once been a very beautiful and ornate temple of some sort. Time, however, had not been kind to the architecture – leaving its well crafted and carefully placed stones warn and disheveled. Etchings that once covered the temple now showed only sporadically across its outer walls. Statues that once decorated the structure now stood as disfigured shapes and crumbled stones. A knotted tree that grew from the building's stone tangled into the structure in a way that made it difficult to distinguish where the stone ended and the tree's roots began. The ancient tree stood so tall that its roots framed the building's doorway. Vines covered the tree and temple.

Shellina stopped a safe distance from the doorway and studied the vines. They moved slowly as though the wind subtly moved them back and forth. But a careful observation of the vines revealed that they moved independently to the direction of the wind. “Captain.” She called to the group of men who followed nervously behind her. “Send me two men to scout this building.”

She already knew which two men would be sent in. Rumor had marked the men as part of a movement to overthrow the queen and help Logan reclaim his thrown. The queen always dealt quickly and effectively with those who might oppose her. She intended to make no exception with these soldiers. But she did hate to waste opportunity. If they were to die, there might as well be a benefit from their treason.

The two men moved slowly toward the ruins – their swords and shields drawn. Shellina pretended not to notice the scowls they traded one another as they walked passed her. “On with it”, she called to them, “I need to know if what I seek is still there.”

They studied the tall grass that surrounded the old structure. Littered around its base were piles of bones ranging in size from small rodents to larger hooved animals. All of the bones were strewn near the base of the old temple and many were entangled in the roots of the tree that grew from it. The men slowed their progress, but continued forward – their weapons visibly shaking.

They never made it to the door. The vines that covered the structure moved quickly from the stone and entangled the two soldiers before they could repel the plants with their swords. They screamed as the vines cut into their exposed skin. More vines appeared from the shadow of the doorway and ripped the armor from them. The vines began to force their way into the bodies of the men until the screams were silenced – the men went limp and died.

Shellina watched with fascination. The vines released the bodies and move back to the ruins. A deep and broken voice echoed from the temple. “What business have you here?” Glowing red eyes slowly became visible from the shadows – the creature that resided within moved toward the doorway. “Returned to feed the caged animal?”

The queen heard gasps coming from the captain and his men as the large creature crouched and made his way out from the root-covered doorway. She smiled. “I need your services.” She stood still even though the large creature moved closer to her. Her smile grew when he stopped where she knew he had to. “In return for your promise to do what I ask of you”, her gaze went directly to his “I will release you from your prison.”

The creature was completely visible now. He stood nearly eight foot tall. His thick and course gray skin was stretched tightly over arms and legs that were so muscular that his arms looked more like tree limbs and his legs like the massive roots that covered the ruins. His face was mostly hidden by the shadows of the partial helmet that rested on his forehead and covered the sides of his face. His eyes glowed red even in the light of day. His hair – streaked in various shades of red and orange – moved in the wind and gave the illusion of flames streaming from the back of his head. His nose had been transformed into a short trunk similar to those she had once seen on the large creatures ridden in the distant kingdom of Associa. Also like those creatures, tusks protruded from the sides of his face and his feet were nearly round with large oval toenails. Even though the armor that he wore was in poor repair, the helmet he wore and the large axe he carried were obviously magic and in excellent condition. The etchings on both glowed as the morning sun illuminated them. Mimic vines covered his entire body and flowed from him like the arms of some strange sea creature. The vines and he had become one entity.

He looked at the soldiers standing several yards behind Shellina. “First”, he straightened his back, “I still need to feed.”

Vines shot from his body and passed so quickly and closely to the queen that her hair danced in the breeze they created. From behind her she could hear the screams of the soldiers – the men she had brought along to protect her. The creature's reach was notably farther than it had been the first time she encountered him. She did not flinch nor did her face betray any fears she might have felt as he killed the men. She never turned to see them torn apart or the aftermath of the creatures feeding – even when the vines returned to the creature's side.

She cleared her throat. “If you are done, we have business to conclude.”

“Very well”, he turned to her, “you have my attention.”

So, what inspires someone to write a fantasy book in which the heroes of the story are gnomes? Well, it starts back in high school.

Every school day morning had a break that lasted for about fifteen minutes or so. During those breaks, I often found myself in the company of a group of guys talking about some game they were playing. The stories usually included things like being trapped in a dungeon with nothing more than scrap clothing and everybody fighting over a rusted dagger they'd found.

Then there were the occasional stories of combat with soldiers and odd creatures. But when I pursued more info about the game they were playing, I was usually dismissed with something to the effect of “if you haven't played I can't explain it to you”. In retrospect, I suspect the stigmatism that they usually encountered labeling gamers as a strange group of mutant geeks probably had them nervous to shed any light on their game.

Over time I was allowed to enter some of their games (I started by running a new science fiction game they wanted to try) and finally the day came that I played the game they'd been discussing during the breaks.

So, I enquired. “What type of character does your party not have?” A thief I was told. “And what race was uncommon?” I asked. Gnomes aren't usually played was my answer. So, my first character was a Gnome illusionist-thief. The rest is history. Somehow, from that day on, whenever playing a fantasy-based game, it was always assumed I'd play some form of a Gnome. I of course stoked the flame by always doing so.

Jump forward a few years. In college I'm sitting on my bed drawing and my roommate makes a comment on the fact that most of what I draw is posed. He wondered if I was capable of drawing an action picture. So I did.

I drew a picture of a Gnome fighting what I identified as an aquatic gargoyle. All modesty aside, the picture turned out pretty well and my roommate was impressed.

That picture inspired me to try my hand at doing a comic book. Underground comic books (basically just books not published by the big companies) were in their heyday and getting a self-published comic onto stands at that time was very possible.

After some time, Gnome Legends was born. As was the company “Grim Trojan”. How about a slight side story about the origin of Grim Trojan before we continue with Gnome Legends? Here we go….

While in my first year of college I worked for a screen-printing company. My friends came to the conclusion that it'd be really neat if we all had matching gamer shirts. However, no one could tell me what they wanted. So I sat down and brainstormed. After some playful sketching and a few abandoned ideas, I created a picture of a grimacing (smiley) face with a Trojan-like helmet. Everybody liked it and the shirts were printed.

Over the next year or so, my friends would occasionally go to comic shops and such to game with others. They often wore our team shirts to the events and were eventually referred to as the Grim Trojans because of the Trojan Face logo.

When I was ready to publish my comic, I needed a name for the comic. Unfortunately the really good names were taken. Then it hit me. I already have a cool name and a logo. With the group's blessing, I adopted the name Grim Trojan and published the comic book under the name Grim Trojan Comics.

Now, years later, I find myself using the Grim Trojan logo again.

Ok, back to Gnome Legends. So I put together a story and artwork. I was supposed to receive help with the project, but ultimately it was a solo project. I did have a couple of friends ask to put their stories in the comic also. Since I had sold it as a 12-page comic, having an additional 12 pages that the customer didn't expect could only be a good thing. So, at the back of the comic were two stories that weren't Gnome Legends. Given our lack of knowledge and all things considered, the comic did pretty well. I worked at one time on a second comic, but because of how busy I was, it never happened.

Jump ahead again. I'm working on a role-playing game system of my own and my pilot game is Gnome Legends. As part of the game, I was working on a short story that parallelled the game. The problem was, the short story continued to get longer and more detailed. Aspects of the story that I'd held in my mind over the years kept bleeding into the story and it quickly turned into a short novel.

And thus, we have a novel about Gnome heroes. Oh, and the novel displays my Grim Trojan logo with pride.

Below is the flyer that was sent to comic book stores to promote the comic. Below it are pages from a monga version of the comic I had considered at one time.

                           





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