As Nanoc and his friends wandered deeper into the Very Badlands, they came across a village that was so surprising, so unexpected, and so completely weird that Nanoc was struck silent by its very sight.

"It's a village of gnomes," Nanoc whispered, pointing at the villagers. "Gnomes, living outside the empire, and not a quill or requisition form in site! They're all kinds of classes, too, not just clerks. That one is gardening, and that must be a hunter, and that one—"

He was right: the village of the gnomes was bustling with activity as its many residents went about the business of cooking, cleaning, planting, harvesting, and building what looked like a new barn. They were all ages and classes, some carrying weapons while others hauled boxes. None of them were clerks.

"Wow," Nanoc said, impressed.

He had never even imagined a gnome getting their hands dirty with anything more than ink. The village was the most beautiful thing he had ever seen. They were gnomes, and they were just like him.

"They’re living free,” he said enthusiastically. “Isn’t it great to see how leaving the Static Empire has let them really embrace life and—”

A bell rang out, just once. Every gnome stopped what they were doing and walked quickly into one of the many barns, disappearing through gnome-sized doors. Within moments the village was eerily empty. Nothing moved; even the chickens had run to their coops.

“That’s a bit odd,” Nanoc said, frowning. “Why did they do that?”

“Gnomes are always odd,” Rotcel muttered, staring at the chicken coop and thinking about lunch. “And they’re far too stringy, too. Can we go? My treasure senses aren’t tingling at all.”

Dren hadn’t even noticed the town; he’d been reading one of the books he’d stolen from Hell. It was one of the latest works of the erotic novelist Elpma Xe, about a simple swamp monster from the depths of the forbidden marshes who was seduced by a noble who turned out to be, rather tragically, just human. Dren had hidden the feisty pages inside the dust cover of a book of old maps so that nobody knew what it was reading. It hadn’t worked: the book was so steamy that Dren’s cheeks were bright red.

“Dren,” Nanoc said patiently, “Put down the werewolf romance and help us here.”

“I wasn’t reading werewolf romance,” Dren protested, which was technically true and an important statement of relative pride. Werewolf romance was widely considered to be the second-lowest form of literature ever invented.

“Dren, put the book away. Rotcel, stop staring at the chicken,” Nanoc said to his friends. “There is something very wrong with this town.”

The door of a nearby barn cracked open, and a gnome in a red cap stuck her head out. Nanoc gave her a little wave.

“Comrades!” she hissed. “Get in here before the lackeys of management see you!”

“Do you think she’s talking to us?” Rotcel ‘Loc asked. She wasn’t too pleased about being called ‘comrade’, because comrades liked to share things and Rotcel ‘Loc had a strict policy of shiny-miny.

“Do you know, she is pointing right at us,” Dren said, waving at the gnome. “She seems quite upset, too. Perhaps she wants to give us a book? Fascinating.”

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Nanoc sighed. He had briefly hoped that the gnome village was a pleasant, happy place, but he was starting to think it was not.

“Do you know, it could be an ambush,” Dren warned.

“By gnomes? Come on, what are they going to do, initial us to death?” Rotcel said, snorting with laughter. “Let’s just get out of here. Gnomes are lame. Present company excluded, of course."

Nanoc frowned. He felt a responsibility to his fellow gnomes to find out what was going on. Besides, the gnome waving at them was quite pretty.

“Come on,” he said to his friends.

He pushed through the door. A dozen gnomes froze where they stood. Half were wrapping intricate wooden clocks in sheep skins and then packing them into wooden crates, and the other half were sharpening wooden stakes to make short, weak spears. The oldest gnome, an aged woman who stood stooped over a wooden stick, was the first to recover.

“Who the hell is that?” she snapped.

“A free gnome,” the red-capped gnome said. “He’s a warrior! Look at his muscles! He’s here to help us.”

The other gnomes unfroze, cursing a little as they returned to work. They ignored Nanoc and his friends. Only the old gnome took an interest. She limped slowly over to Nanoc and smacked him across the chest with her walking stick with a thunk. The stick broke in half.

“You’re big for a gnome, I’ll give you that,” she said. “But you must forgive my granddaughter. She thinks everyone who walks through here is some kind of savior. When will you give up on this idiotic idea of a passing hero, girl?”

“Seventh time lucky?” the young gnome in the red cap said optimistically.

“Seventh,” Rotcel ‘Loc hissed. “And what happened to the others?”

“Management hired most of them as contractors,” the old gnome said. “And a couple were probably just ripped apart. Now we just aim to fight as best we can, all by ourselves. You can help if you want to. I’d suggest leaving at the end of the shift, though. You don’t want to be a part of this.

She wandered off. A gnome in a blue cap ran up to greet the newcomers.

“Ignore the old lady, comrade,” the gnome in the blue cap said. “You and your friends are welcome to stay as long as you like. Even the lizardling, as long as she doesn’t eat anyone.”

Rotcel ‘Loc gave a non-committal shrug.

“W-ell… good. The revolution accepts comrades of every race and type without prejudice or judgment, and any mortal, god, monster, or other creature may join us in the name of comradeship,” Redcap said. “All are welcome in our alliance.”

“Except vampires,” Bluecap muttered. “We hate those guys.”

“Because they suck?” Dren asked cheerfully.

“No. They’re parasites, living off the labor of the folk like ours without giving anything…” the gnome said, because revolutionaries are famous for not having a sense of humor.

“Ah,” Nanoc said, nodding. “So they’re your landlords, then.”

“If only that were all,” Redcap said glumly. “They force us to build these awful clocks for them, paying us starvation wages to do it. They force us to pay rent to live beneath the roofs we built with our own hands, to pay for the food we grew ourselves, for the very water we draw from the well.”

“Of course they do,” Nanoc said. “So why don’t you leave?”

“A few have tried. They are hunted in the woods. No one has escaped. Some of us want to fight…”

Nanoc shared a brief look with his friends. Rotcel ‘Loc shook her head slightly, Dren looked worried. The gnomes could make as many wooden spears as they liked, but it wouldn’t help. Gnomes were terrible warriors.

Most gnomes, anyway.

Nanoc smiled.

“I’ll help you,” he said. “What do you want me to do?”

“Kill them,” the gnome revolutionary said at once. “We want you to kill all the vampires. Can you?”

“It will take more than stakes to kill a vampire,” Rotcel ‘Loc said glumly. “A lot more.”

Vampires were notoriously hard to kill. The official advice given out by the Guild of Heroes to anyone thinking of trying to fight a vampire was: Don’t. Ever. We really mean this.

Many people had earned themselves early trips to the afterlife by ignoring this sensible advice. Nanoc was going to be one of them.

“Nanoc,” Rotcel whispered. “There are people outside the barn door… lots of them.”

Shadows were moving under the door. Rotcel ‘Loc drew a knife and pointed at Nanoc, and then at the door and made a strange motion with her hand as she explained her plan. Unfortunately for her, Nanoc had only understood the first part of it.

“You might want to put that book down, Dren. I think we’re about to be attacked,” Nanoc mentioned casually. He leaned over and picked up one of the hammers. It was gnome-sized, which meant it was far too small to be used much in a fight.

“Pass me a couple of those stakes, would you?” he said. “Let’s see how well they work as darts.”