Avellenaro’s ending: Bottom of the food chain

Urko slows his pace as he and the other mites make their way through the trees. The enthusiasm and urgency of their hunt has begun to fade, older and deeper instincts taking hold: too exposed, out in the open, unsafe. Even the pixie lance, the weapon that made him undisputed leader, is gone. No good to charge into danger when—

“Hsst!” A sudden hiss from Tokko. “Over there!” Urko follows the other mite’s trembling finger to see – a figure about the size of a mite, though with the wrong coloured skin and the wrong sized head. Face down in the dirt, apparently fast asleep.

Urko signals caution. Warily, the gang creeps through the woods, big eyes wide for danger. But the fallen stranger seems to be alone.

Gritting his teeth, Urko inches closer. There are some tracks. Faint – leading too far away. A chase now is dangerous. To think that slow, stupid, clumsy mortal could move so fast. But for now…

“Grab him,” he snarls, and the other mites descend to seize the sleeping man. Pinning his arms and legs while he begins, feebly and blindly, to struggle. Urko moves in for a closer look as Tokko pulls the man’s face up from the forest floor, giving a better view of his stupid too-small face. Gnome. Mortals, meddlers, miscreants.

The gnome jerks awake. A moment of confusion as he takes everything in – quickly turning to anger.

“Unhand me, cretins,” he demands, with a cough as he spits out a clump of soil. “The whore is getting away!”

“You let her go,” Urko grumbles. “She was mine.”

“She can be – yours again, fool!” The gnome’s tone is imperious, commanding. “Let me up and we’ll get her!”

For a moment, Urko almost falls for it. The whore – his whore, so easily recaptured. But chasing after her – no, that’s a way to get killed. Whatever else Urko is, he’s a survivor.

No. It was good while it lasted. Having someone to dominate like that, to terrorise and ****. That’s one thing he’ll really miss, even more than the fucking – and the fucking was good.

“What’s he got on him?” he asks.

“Bottles,” Mukko announces, holding one up. The liquid half-glimpsed through the tinted glass sloshes sluggishly. “Some odd brew.”

“Potions,” the gnome snaps, “elixirs, medicaments. All sorts. I am an alchemist. Now help me, and I will – ”

A signal from Urko, and the gnome’s face is pushed back down into the dirt, stifling his declamations. When he’s allowed back up, still spitting dirt, Urko looks him in the eye – or eyeglass – for a long moment.

“Bring it all,” he says, finally. “Might be some good things in there. He can try ‘em before we do.”

The gnome’s anger and indignation turn to – yes, there’s that look. Fear. Urko’s come to enjoy seeing it. He’s going to like this new arrangement.