The Gru-mmans

[Bandolier]

Rumor and dark, unfinished tales crept eastward from the marchlands to the villages of the interior, borne by refugees and minstrels. Stories of sudden, unprovoked attack by fell beasts known only by the not-particularly descriptive name, "Gru-mmans." They were said to be in league with, or mercenaries hired by a confederation of Dwark kingdoms, and where the Gru-mmans went, a plague of Dwarks followed. All that was known was that the attacks were deadly and thorough, with few survivors and no clear or consistent description of what happened.

Such foes could not be found in the long memories of the oldest Elf Elders, though even the meanest peasant Elf knew well the fear and dread that spread before the many Dwark incidents, invasions, incursions, raids, probes, police actions, undeclared naval wars, reconnaissance in forces and voter tampering that wrecked havoc on the Elfen lands.

"Oi," said a refugee, still in shock from his ordeal. "Oi," he repeated.

His wife continued the story.

"They was not there then they was. They do come out of the sun, like, no one sees them until they swooped down and totally fucked us up. I mean, like I fucking shit you not fucked up. Oi."

"Pah," scoffed an Elfin Warrior with a travel stained cloak and a busted sabre. "They was dragons. You got bushwhacked by flying reptiles."

"Did not."

"Did too."

"Shut thy traps," commanded a Girl Boss Elf in Milf armor. "Our Lord and Master has commanded us to spy out this menace an discern what, if any measures may be taken to abate this existential threat to our People, yea, though my heart tells me that our task is but too little and too late."

"What she said," said the first Elf.

 

[Bandolier]

Several days later the Girl Boss and her escorts over-watched a local Elf militia defend a river crossing against a Dwark war band. The defenders held the crossing all day, until arrow resupply ran out and the loud, discordant chords from the band forced the crossing at great cost in bent trumpets and destringed guitars. Even as they watched, a rear guard of desperate Elfs sold their souls dearly as their companions fled into the forest. There were no survivors among the rear guards.

"Well harsh my mellow," said the Elf in the travel stained cloak and busted sabre.

"No fucking shit, Sherlock," said the Girl Boss. "But still, no sign of the dreaded Gru-mmans." Not for the first time did she wonder if the tales of Gru-mmans were a fraud to wrangle an increased defense budget. A proposed supplemental budget of twelve pennies would go a long way in these parts.

"Oi," screamed one of the escorts, pointing at the sky.

The Gru-mmans were not there, then they were there, diving out of the sun. Fire erupted around the observers and when it ended the group was shattered. The Milf armor did prove its worth, not a scorch mark on it. However the Girl Boss was cooked well-done.

One Elf, already high tailing it to safety at the oath, "Oi," made it out alive.

 

[Bandolier]

The surviving Elf spent two long days and nights evading Dwark patrols, putting distance between them while steadily moving west toward, then along Great Turnpike 57. The Dwarks must have reached a temporary stop line, for he was able to get away to the dubious safety of a slow moving refugee column on the Turnpike.

Unknown to him, in the two days he was running for his life, Elfin defense all along the eastern marches had collapsed, and the westward roads were clogged with refugees: Elfs, Elfesses, Elf children, whatever would fit into their magical Elf wagons. They were departing Middle Elf from ports still controlled by loyal warriors, chief among the shipyards and port facilities at Amon-Dunkirk. Ships wrought by the Shipwrights would carry them across the Unbent Sea never to return, for the King had abdicated, fleeing with the state gold reserves, and a collaborationist government formed to negotiate terms with the Dwarks.

He had fallen in with an Elf Maiden travelling alone and became her escort and protector for plot reasons. A deep and unbreakable bond formed between them, and they plighted their troth against all the Ages of Time and Sorrows of This Here World. Mostly because of her long blonde tresses and that she was conventionally wearing a bright forest green and far too short gauzy dress and otherwise totally unprepared for a long trek. And she had great legs and spoke with a High French accent.

He didn't think they would make it if he stayed with the refugees. The day before, the Gru-mmans returned, falling on the tail of the refugee column on the far side of an intervening hill, once again leaving no survivors. The final screams of the dying victims echoed through the land for days after.

Then came shocking news. One of the Gru-mmans was found crashed, not more than a furlong and a rod away.

 

[Bandolier]

Here was a golden opportunity. The chance of being the first one to report details of a Gru-mman wreck to headquarters, or to any of the alphabet intelligence agencies, would be a career boost. Promotion to Lance Elf, a new set of underwear. Mom would be so proud. Haste was essential, a grueling forced march away from the refugee column, over hills, through forests and swollen rivers to reach Amon-Dunkirk. But here also was his Elf Maiden whose name he recently discovered was Ariel Moonlite, demurely posed, eyes cast downward, hands clasped below her waist, reading his mind as clearly as words in a book.

"Ahhh...." he pretended to think, hand on chin. "Ummmm.... ." It was true, there was no documentation of his plighted troth to the girl, no witnesses living or likely to be living soon enough. Nothing to hold him responsible, nothing legally binding. Theirs was more a technical thing. A fling, as it were.

So he sold Ariel to a troupe of ministerial Trolls and, and with the traditional Elfish Goes Away Blessing, "Look behind you! Is that a bear?" fled the scene.

 

[Bandolier]

A week later, in the seaport of Amon-Dunkirk, while refugees by the thousands boarded pre-fabbed Elf Boats, a tattered, tired and in need of a new set of underwear Elf knelt in front of Prince Elfis, the regent appointed in place of the missing king.

"Them Gru-mmans are not alive, sez I, meaning, your Elfishness, not that they're dead, just that those things weren't ever alive. They sport a hard skin, harder than dragon scales, harder than a woman's heart. They can fly faster than arrows and their very glance means death to all.

Harder than a female dragon's scales? wondered Elfis, but his smiths, artificers, astrologers and prestidigitators had no answer to that.

And with that, Elfish shrugged, dismissed the Elf with the royal, "Thank you. Thank you very much."

But someone had the answer for the Dwarks and their Gru-mann servants. For waiting in the audience chamber for an 11.00 o'clock with the prince regent were two men wearing stained traveler's cloaks covering black wool, double breasted jackets, short waisted with pointed lapels and stylized eagle insignia.

The palace aide who escorted them into the audience chamber did not understand their harsh, guttural tongue, but reported later to his friend the Butler that the men, one of them wearing a monocle, the other with a dueling scar, made frequent referrals to something, or someone, called, "ze Mister Smiths."

 

[Bandolier]

"Zees Gru-manns, my Lord Regent, are but mechanical servants of the Dwarks. Zey haf no mind of zer own, but are controlled by rogue Men from the South, nothing less, nothing more. Zees Southrons are mercenaries, the Gru-mmans are purchased on the dark markets, all illegal arms transfers, but because money talks, virtually impossible to interdict.

"Vat ve propose as a solution," the man whose name was Fris explained, is this," and Fris produced a four inch model of what Elfis, like the other Elf, heard as "ze Mister Smith."

"Isn't that a little on the small side to plausibly contest those metal monsters"?

"No, Your Regencyship, zis is a model, a um... a reduced in size version, convenient for display. The actual version is about yea tall, so-so high and 29 feet, one inch long."

 

[Bandolier]

The Regent was appalled that the situation had devolved to this point, and that the inevitable result had to happen in his time. Middle Elf had seen thousands of years of total economic and innovative stagnation. Rents hadn't changed in centuries. The Army Council debated 500 years before adopting the saddle. Population numbers hadn't changed, ever. Only the practice of hiring out to mixed race (Dorks, Robbits, Men, Incels, Pixels, etc.) adventuring parties and erotic role play websites for their expertise hunting down dragon hoards and the astonishing sexual proclivities of Elfs had kept just enough genetic influx to keep the Elf strain healthy.

And now this damned Dwark invasion with their mechanical monsters.

He happened to be looking out the window towards the harbor when the Gru-manns struck again. A whale oil tank farm was hit, the fire would last for days, covering the harbor in a dense, yellow noxious smaug. A beautiful Swan ship, one of the prides of the Elfindom, wrought with loving care by the hands of the elder shipwrights with living wood from the Magic Forest and carrying hundreds of refugees exploded in a maelstrom of white feathers.

The Mr. Smiths would stop this atrocity and the word "deal" was on his lips when an Emissary from the Imaginary Creator of Middle Elf, spoke in his mind:

"BUT ... ."