The League of Homunculi Book 5: The Wasteland

By Pixis

The Legend: In the days of good King Arthur, the magician Merlin summoned to Britain a collection of the smallest individuals known to man. These he offered to the king as spies, a secret network of miniature heroes undertaking missions against the Round Table’s enemies. Merlin called this strange menagerie…the League of Homunculi.

Roll Call:

Tom Thumb: Arthur’s court dwarf, an honorary Knight of the Round Table.

Thumbelina: The smallest woman in the world and Princess of the Flower-Faeries.

Issun-boshi: An inch-tall samurai from the distant East.

Thumbling: A tiny tailor seeking his fortune in a very big world.

Hop o’ My Thumb: A Gaulish rogue with a pair of mystic seven-league boots.

Part 1

“It’s coming!” the lady shrieked. “The Day of Destiny! The eve of many night falls!”

Nimue, High Priestess of Avalon and Lady of the Lake, ran fitfully about the chamber she shared with her husband, Sir Pelleas. The two had been wed for a number of years and had been blessed with a beautiful son named Guivret. For a time, their life was blissful and filled with joy. The endless summer of the isle of Avalon was like living in paradise, and the couple could think of no better place to start a family. Yet despite this, Nimue’s past sins continued to haunt her.

Years ago, she had inherited the powers of Merlin, Arch-Druid of Britain, after stealing the wizard’s secrets and trapping him forever in an enchanted tree. Though she later saw the error of her ways and sought atonement for this crime, it seemed that the gods were not yet satisfied. Merlin’s wondrous magic was at Nimue’s disposal, but so were his prophetic visions of the future. And this latter power was one that the young enchantress was not yet prepared for.

“The gory queen weeps bitter tears,” she screamed, “and the rivers fill with blood and steel!”

Nimue perceived a growing darkness in the heart of Britain, a spreading rot that threatened to destroy the age of chivalry and peace that her liege, King Arthur, had created. And as the culmination of these predictions grew nearer, so too did her visions come with greater frequency and intensity. Sir Pelleas had watched his wife slowly lose her grip on what was real and what was hallucination. Day after day, madness began to overtake her.

“Nimue, you’re speaking in riddles again,” Pelleas said, as calmly as possible. “I don’t understand.”

Heedless, Nimue began to thrash about on the floor, completely giving in to the visions. Her eyes rolled back in her head and she spoke in a voice only partly her own. “The Lady of Ravens approaches! The Morrigan is upon us and demands her tithe!”

“Morgan?” asked Pelleas. “Does Morgan have something to do with—no. The Morrigan. That’s…an Irish goddess, yes? Of war? Are you saying that war is coming?”

“The Bear and the Fox shall do battle and each shall slay the other!”

“Nimue, please!” her husband cried desperately. “Come back to us. Britain needs you, Lady of the Lake. I need you. Your son needs you. Don’t give in to this!”

Tentatively, he reached out to touch her arm but the glazy-eyed wild-woman instantly recoiled. Nimue gave an ear-piercing howl of pain before falling into a swoon and slumping, unconscious, on the floor.

For a moment, Pelleas could only stare in shock. But this was not the first time his beloved had had such an outburst. The startled knight caught his breath and tried to compose himself, suppressing all his fears and worries for another day. Dutifully, he knelt before his wife and lifted her into his arms. She felt so light, so frail. Pelleas carried Nimue to the bed and laid her down as gently as possible. He stood at her side and stroked her long black hair, now greasy with sweat.

“Sleep, my love,” he whispered. “Get some rest. Perhaps you’ll feel better in the morning.”

But Pelleas knew that she would not.

* * * * *

Such unrest was not felt elsewhere in the kingdom. In fact, the past few years had been filled with relative peace. Camelot’s list of enemies seemed to grow shorter each day. The Saxons had been quiet for some time, content to stay in their own territories. The king’s half-sister, Morgan le Fay, had not been seen for years. Her Sisterhood of sorceresses was disbanded, its members scattered or dead.

With the Round Table’s enemies remaining silent, there were fewer foes to trouble the realm. This had made the knights restless. They were eager for wars to fight, giants to slay, or noble pursuits to occupy their time. And so, Arthur had initiated the Quest for the Holy Grail. Almost every able-bodied warrior of the court was off searching the kingdom for this most sacred relic, seeking glory or enlightenment or to simply carry out the king’s wishes. Camelot’s Table was thus emptied, the castle’s halls quiet and somber.

Like the knights, the League of Homunculi had been idle in recent years. With no enemies to spy upon, they spent most of their time as Queen Guinevere’s personal servants—delivering messages, performing for her at royal celebrations, feeding her grapes on lazy summer days, and so forth. Such mundane tasks were a bit common in their eyes and the little people disliked this new role. Still, they were thankful that they had done their part to bring peace and prosperity to Britain.

One particular day, the tiny folk were gathered about the queen’s pretty, bare feet, dutifully painting each toenail with miniature brushes. Tom, her special favorite, stood upon the back of her hand, painting her fingernails with similar skill. Meanwhile, Thumbelina flitted about the lady’s face on shimmery faerie wings, applying the queen’s makeup.

“Be sure not to miss a spot, my darling mites,” Guinevere called down to the little ones at her feet. Playfully, she wiggled her toes, sending Thumbling sprawling as they collided with his body. She grabbed the minuscule Issun-boshi between her big and second toe, giving him a friendly squeeze.

“I’ve just about had it with this wench,” Thumbling muttered under his breath. “I like a pretty face as much as the next fella but I thought we were past all this cutesy stuff. Arthur knighted us for the gods’ sake! We should be out there adventuring with the rest of ‘em, not being kept as a noblewoman’s pets!”

“Mais oui,” Hop echoed. “It has been a long time since ze League had a chance to show its mettle.”

Issun wriggled his way up between Guinevere’s toes until most of his upper torso was free. He turned to his comrades. “We have played our role,” he said. “A land blessed with peace, security, and simple comforts—is this not what the warrior fights for?”

“I suppose so,” Thumbling admitted. “But I’m just so…so…bored! I don’t know, fellas. Maybe the League’s time is done. If the king doesn’t need us anymore…maybe we should just call it quits.”

“Thomas would not agree to zis,” said Hop. He glanced up at Tom’s position on the hand resting on Guinevere’s knee. “He would never leave ze king. He believes so strongly in ze Pendragon and his dream.”

“That dream came true,” Thumbling shrugged. “The wars are over. The lands of Britain are united. Knights patrol the roads. People can travel without fear of brigands or thieves. Hell, man, I hear some villages don’t even lock their doors at night! What else is there to do?”

“And what of the Day of Destiny?” Issun asked solemnly. The Leaguers exchanged furtive glances. Their mentor Merlin and the priestess Nimue had both foreseen disaster in King Arthur’s future. The League had always meant to discuss this with their lord but could never quite bring themselves to do so. After all, what sort of life would that be for the king—fearful of an inescapable fate, forever waiting for the other shoe to drop? Better to say nothing but to keep a watchful eye out for signs of that terrible day.

“Maybe it won’t happen,” Thumbling offered. “Maybe ‘Lina’s right and the future can be changed by the choices we make. I never really bought all that prophecy hoo-hah anyway.”

“Can we take that chance?” Issun wondered, pulling himself the rest of the way out of the giant toes’ grasp. He hopped down to the floor, careful not to dampen his feet on the freshly painted nails.

“I wish I knew, monsieur,” Hop answered.

High above them, Thumbelina continued to dab at Guinevere’s cheeks with her brush of rouge. On the tiny woman’s scale, it felt like painting a mural on a large flesh-colored wall. The queen was older now, approaching middle age, but she was still a striking vision of loveliness.

Floating to a nearby table, ‘Lina switched brushes and returned to Guinevere’s face to apply some color to her huge, pursed lips. Unexpectedly, the lady puckered her lips into an “O” shape and sucked in a quick breath. Thumbelina was drawn in by this sudden vacuum, dropping the brush and half-disappearing into the queen’s mouth. Soon, only her kicking legs were visible between those rosy lips.

Guinevere giggled at the rather agitated fluttering of wings on her tongue and the kicking of the tiny limbs as ‘Lina fought to get free. After a few seconds, the monarch spat her out into her hand.

“Apologies, ‘Lina,” she said, suppressing a giggle at the sight of the damp and bewildered little poppet. “I couldn’t resist. Faerie dust gives you such a wonderful flavor—sweet and tangy, like strawberries and peaches. Why, another moment and I might have gobbled you up!”

‘Lina’s heart was racing and she tried to keep from shivering. All too well, she remembered their old enemy, Queen Morgause, swallowing her whole in a magic potion. A human’s belly was not a place she had any desire to visit again. Flicking spittle off her wings with a few offended flaps, the tiny woman floated down to the floor to join her friends.

“I am a Princess of the Flower-Folk; not that pampered palace brat’s appetizer!” she hissed at them. Far too often, the League’s enemies teased about—or even succeeded in—eating them. Such were the perils of being so small. “I cannot take this mistreatment any longer!”

“Join the club,” Thumbling told her.

Their complaints were interrupted when the royal herald announced a visitor to the court. Everyone turned and saw a handsome, dark-haired gentleman entering the great hall. He wore a simple green tunic adorned with the symbol of a red apple. But the finely crafted sword at his side identified him as a knight of the realm. The king and queen were elated when they recognized the stranger.

“Pelleas!” Arthur declared, rising to meet him and clasp hands. “My friend, it has been too long! I thought you had quite vanished into Avalon’s mists!”

“Aye, that I did, my liege. For a time,” Sir Pelleas said. A hint of sadness hung on every word. “It is from the Blessed Isle that I have come, though not with happy tidings. Nimue is quite ill. I…I fear I may lose her.”

“Nimue ill?” Arthur repeated.

“Merlin’s power is too much for her,” continued Pelleas. “The visions are driving her mad. Our son is terrified of his own mother. And even now, the women of Avalon are vying for Nimue’s post as High Priestess. They do not think she will last the season.”

“How dreadful,” Guinevere gasped. “The poor woman.”

“This is dire news indeed,” said Arthur.

“Nimue dying?” Tom called from Guinevere’s knee. “I am sorry for you, Pelleas, but perhaps this is God’s justice.”

“Tom!” the queen exclaimed. She stared down at the wee creature in shock.

“Have you all forgotten that it was Nimue who took Merlin from us?” Tom said. “It’s because of her that he’s trapped for all eternity in that damn tree! Now the powers she stole from him turn against her. The Lady of the Lake reaps what she has sown.”

Pelleas stormed forward, looming over Guinevere’s lap. His brow was knit in anger as he peered down at Tom. “I would stab you through the heart for that, sirrah, were it higher than my ankles! You will not speak of my wife this way.”

“At ease, Pelleas. Stay thy hand,” Arthur insisted. “Tom, that was uncalled for. Nimue committed a great crime, yes, but she has repented. The Lady of Avalon took Merlin’s place as my advisor and has done her best to fill the gap her actions left. If not for her, we might never have defeated Morgan’s last scheme.”

Tom folded his arms across his chest and sat in a huff on the queen’s leg. The loss of Merlin, his creator and mentor, had left a hole in Tom’s heart that could never be truly filled.

“Is there anything we can do to help?” the king asked.

“Perhaps,” Pelleas said. “I came to inquire how the Quest of the Grail fares. Avalon’s wisewomen believe that the holy chalice could purge the madness from Nimue and heal her mind.”

“Alas,” sighed Arthur, “it has not been found. And I have no further knights to assign to this task.”

“Oi! Your majesty!” Thumbling called from the floor. “We could give it a shot!”

“What’s that, Sir Thumbling?” the king said, leaning down to hear him better.

“It’s been years since the League’s had a mission! We could go find this magic cup o’ yours.”

“A noble gesture,” Arthur said. “But what makes you believe you can succeed where my greatest knights have failed?”

“Because our cause is just, mon roi,” Hop called up to him. “Ze others seek ze Grail for glory. We seek it to heal a dying friend. Surely, God would smile upon such a goal.”

“Most believe the Grail to be somewhere in the Wasteland,” argued Arthur. “That is no place for little folk such as you.”

“It surely is not,” Guinevere agreed. “Wouldn’t you rather stay here with me?” She slid her bare foot across the floor towards the gathered little people. Thumbling cringed and Issun quickly backed away, lest that colossal appendage run him over.

“No, your majesty, to the Wasteland we shall go,” Thumbelina announced. “The need is great and the League will answer the call. Right, my brothers?”

“Right, ‘Lina!”

“Oui! Just so.”

“Right, Tom?” Thumbelina said more pointedly, floating up to the queen’s knee.

Tom said nothing for a moment, but let out a quiet sigh. “Yes…I suppose,” he finally said. “We will do what must be done.”

“I do not think this wise,” Arthur told them. “But I have rarely had luck convincing you wee warriors to follow my counsel.”

“I must return to Nimue,” Pelleas said. “I dare not leave her side for very long. But if you truly do this, my little friends, may the blessings of all gods, Christian and pagan alike, go with you.”

“It’s settled then,” Hop remarked. “Join hands, Homunculi, and ze seven-league boots shall take us to ze Wasteland!”

* * * *

The history of the Wasteland was a sad one, filled with tragedy and loss. The League still remembered all too well how it began. Its origins lay many years in the past with the traitorous knight, Sir Balin. He was one of Arthur’s finest soldiers until Balin became locked in a blood feud with Viviane, Nimue’s predecessor as Lady of the Lake.

“I will not stand idle while that—that heathen witch roams free!” Balin had declared when Viviane came to court one day. “It’s because of her that my mother is dead!”

“Your mother,” Viviane answered, “sought to join the priestesses of Avalon. When ignorant peasants condemned her for witchcraft and sent her to the stake, none wept so bitterly as I.” The dark-haired High Priestess was as calm and serene as ever, refusing to be bated by Balin’s accusations.

“You brainwashed her!” the knight bellowed. “You corrupted my mother into that satanic religion of yours! And now she is dead because of it!”

“Peace, Balin!” Arthur commanded. “We are all sad for your loss. But you cannot blame Lady Viviane for—”

“I can and I will!” Balin screamed, grabbing a sword from the tabletop.

“Sir Knight, put down that sword,” Viviane said. “That is meant as a gift for the king and bears a powerful enchantment. Only the most selfless warrior can wield it. It could bring ruin to any other who tries.”

“You want the sword, you devil’s dam?” Balin hissed. “You shall have it!”

It happened so swiftly. With an inhuman shriek, Balin lunged, the sword flashing in his hand. Seconds later, the head of Lady Viviane was tumbling over the stone floor. It came to rest before the twin thrones, lying at the feet of the king and queen. Her headless body slumped to the ground, blood pooling around it.

Courtiers gasped and ladies wailed. From a nearby table, the League of Homunculi stared in horror, their tiny garments spattered with Viviane’s blood. Arthur gazed down at the severed head of his friend and advisor.

“Balin,” he whispered hoarsely. “What have you done?”

“Such be the fate of all pagans,” Sir Balin swore, wiping the blood from the sword. “I have avenged my kin.”

Arthur nearly exploded in fury. “Guards! Seize him!” Astonished, Balin took up the sword once more to defend himself from the oncoming knights.

“My court—in my court you do this, Balin?!” the king raged. “This is not our way! Grievances are not solved with the sword, damn you! We were supposed to be better than this! Oh, Viviane…I’m so sorry.”

Balin fought his way through the palace guards, injuring several of the knights. With the tide shifting against him, he fled from the court of Camelot, never to return.

* * * *

As Viviane had warned him, the mystic sword brought further ruin to Balin and all he touched. Fleeing far and wide, he sought refuge in Castle Corbenic, the rumored resting place of the Grail. But its lord, King Pelles, would not shelter the knight when he learned of the blood on his hands.

“You will find no sanctuary here, murderer,” Pelles growled. “Lady Viviane was a true friend of the realm.”

A dispute followed, then a small skirmish, and in the struggle, Balin stabbed Pelles through the thigh. The aged Fisher King still carried the wound all these years later.

“There’s for you, dotard!” the knight said. “I need no sanctuary from the likes of you!”

But Balin had not counted on the magic of that strange castle or its guardian. The king and the land were mystically linked and when he wounded him with that “Dolorous Stroke,” Pelles’ entire kingdom became similarly wounded. The realm of the Fisher King had once been beautiful and green, blessed by the Grail’s power. But it soon began to rot, transforming into naught but a blighted wasteland.

Balin’s wave of destruction was finally halted by his half-brother, Sir Balan. Both died in the battle, the magic sword claiming its last victims. But by then, the damage was done.

* * * *

The League stood before the border of the Wasteland. Black, gnarled trees towered over them, stretching toward a heaven they could never reach. A dense, grey fog rolled over the land ominously. Yet, the ground itself was dry as a desert, the ruined earth cracking in many patches. Far in the distance, strange, dim shapes seemed to move in the fog.

“Well, lads and lady,” Tom said, “this is our road. Still want to do this?”

“We have to try,” Thumbelina muttered. “For Nimue.”

“Hell,” Thumbling swore. “It beats dancing like clockwork monkeys for the queen. Let’s see what this place is made of.”

The League joined hands and set forth into the mist.

To be continued...

The Leaguers had been wandering for hours, trying in vain to navigate their way through the Wasteland. A thick mist hung over everything, obscuring the way. The terrain was rough, bordering on impassable. The many cracks and gashes in the dry, ruined earth made for an uneven path. While a human could step across the larger cracks in the stony trail, to the little folk these were huge crevasses.

What little plant life existed in the Wasteland formed patches of thick, jungle-like bracken and brambles. The tiny warriors were forced to cut their way through this with their sewing-needle swords. But such instruments had never been designed for this purpose and already, the blades were becoming dull.

Other perils slowed their progress as well. At one point, they found their feet sinking into a veritable lake of quicksand. They would have surely drowned if not for ‘Lina’s power of flight and Hop’s mystic boots which moved so fast, they could walk on water.

“All right, I know I said I was ready for one more adventure,” Thumbling announced, as he stood dripping by the side of the road in quicksand-dampened garments. “But this is getting intolerable! Does anyone have the slightest idea where we’re going?”

“According to the stories,” Tom informed him, “the Grail is housed in Castle Corbenic, the court of the Fisher King. His daughter, Princess Elaine, confirmed as much when we met her all those years ago.”

“But Tom, no one has heard from Castle Corbenic in years, not even Elaine,” ‘Lina protested. “When this kingdom became a wasteland, it was cut off, lost in the mists. We have no way of knowing if the castle still stands or if King Pelles yet lives. Arthur’s knights have been scouring this land for months. Would not one of them have found Corbenic by now?”

“It’s our only lead,” Tom sighed. “May I remind you that you four were the ones hell-bent on attempting this quest? I thought it was a bad idea.”

“You would allow Lady Nimue to perish?” asked Issun. “For shame, Thomas. You bring dishonor to the League.”

“Zere is no sense standing here arguing about it,” Hop added. “If it is a castle zat we seek, perhaps I can do a sweep of ze area and attempt to locate it, n’est pas?” He clicked his heels and prepared to call upon the power of the seven-league boots.

“Hop, no!” Tom called. “We should stay togeth—” But in the blink of an eye, Hop was gone, vanishing from sight.

“Damned idiot,” the little knight muttered. “He’ll get lost out there in the mists.”

Before they could formulate a plan, the little folk felt the earth slightly tremor. The rhythmic pace of the quakes identified them as footsteps. Someone—or something—was approaching on the path ahead. The fog was too thick for them to see just what was coming, but they feared the worst, for demons were said to wander the Wasteland. Quickly, the League scurried under a dead bush for cover.

What emerged from the mist caught them all by surprise. It was no demon they saw but a young woman. She was slender and willowy with a slight, girlish figure. The lady was clad in a light grey robe that draped down almost to the leather sandals on her feet. A hooded cowl obscured her face and a pendant with a golden cross hung about her neck. She seemed harmless enough, her dress and demeanor giving the appearance of a holy woman.

The girl continued to walk down the broken path until she came to the bush the League was hiding in. She paused then, looking around her curiously as if trying to recognize the area. The little folk’s hearts were pounding as she stepped closer to their sanctuary. Soon, her dainty feet were planted just outside their hiding place and her feminine frame loomed high in the sky, casting them in shadow. Suddenly, the lady stooped and spread the dry branches of the bush, exposing the huddled figures within.

“Aha!” she cried. “Found you!” With terrible speed, she thrust a gigantic hand into the bush, seeking to capture her quarry. The Leaguers fled at once, scattering in all directions. Above them, long delicate fingers made a few attempts to snatch them but they scrambled to freedom.

Or so they thought. “Come back, little ones!” the woman called. “You wouldn’t abandon your wee friend, would you?”

The homunculi looked back over their shoulders and saw the girl holding Issun-boshi between her thumb and forefinger. His inch-high form was just barely visible in her grasp, dangling (from his perspective) hundreds of feet in the air. She held him out and waved him gently back and forth, as a master would dangle a treat for a loyal dog.

“Curse us all for fools,” swore Thumbling. “And curse Issun’s stumpy legs! All these years and still none of us remember to grab him when we make our getaways.”

The homunculi doubled back and cautiously approached the lady. They gasped as she suddenly dropped down to her knees, leaning forward to get a better look at them.

Glancing up nervously, they saw that she was pretty enough in her way, but was far from the exquisite beauty of the queen or other ladies they had met in their adventures. Large, brown eyes stared at them in fascination and mousy, brown hair was just visible beneath her cowl. In all, the girl had a gawky, almost tomboyish appearance but her wide, enthusiastic smile gave her an undeniable charm.

“Heavens but you’re cute!” she said. “You have naught to fear from me, my little wonders. My name is Dindrane. Perhaps you know my brother, Sir Percival.”

Tom’s ears perked up at this. “Yes, I know Percival. A true knight of the realm.”

“You mean that tall, quiet fella with the messy mop of brown hair?” Thumbling put in. “Sure, I remember him from court. Seemed like a good egg.”

“If you’re a friend of Camelot,” ‘Lina said, leaning back to peer up at the giant girl, “then would you be so kind as to release our teammate?”

Dindrane turned her head and looked at the minuscule samurai squirming between her fingers. “Not just yet, I think,” she said with a smile. “I need some assurance that you won’t run away.”

She lifted her necklace and carefully placed Issun on the top of the cross. Releasing it, she allowed it to swing back to the fabric of her robe and bob against her modest chest (still an imposing pair of hills to the tiny Issun). The little warrior clung to the cross with fright. Even when she was kneeling, Dindrane’s upper torso was still fairly high above the ground.

Tom looked up into the girl’s eyes searchingly. The miniature knight was puzzled. “What on Earth are you doing here, my lady?”

“The Lord’s work, hopefully,” she explained. “My father, King Pellinore (rest his poor soul), sent me to Uncle Pelles’ court years ago to complete my training. I’m a Grail-Maiden, you see, one of the custodians of the holy chalice.”

The League’s eyes went wide at this. “Then you can take us to the Grail!” ‘Lina exclaimed excitedly.

Dindrane gave a charming giggle. This forced Issun to cling ever tighter to the necklace as her chest bounced below him. “What, just hand you the Grail on a silver platter?” the lady asked. “It doesn’t work like that, I’m afraid. I can guide you through the mists but you must still face the Wasteland’s tests.”

“Tests?” said Thumbling. “I didn’t know there were tests. I haven’t studied!”

“Think of them more as challenges,” Dindrane told him. “Assessments of the soul, if you will. In the Wasteland’s mists, you will face your darkest fears and most secret desires. Only those who can overcome such things are worthy of the Grail.”

“If we must do this before we’re found worthy, why are you helping us?” Tom asked.

“Uncle Pelles had one of his prophetic visions and sent me to find you,” said Dindrane. “You’ve been here several hours and have only gone, what, fifteen, twenty feet with those tiny legs? Hardly sporting to let you wander around the borderlands without even a chance to face the challenges.”

“Now then,” she said, placing a hand palm upward on the ground. “Let’s be off.” Still slightly unsure, the League climbed into Dindrane’s hand.

“What about Hop?!” Thumbling suddenly cried as the lady rose to her full height. “He ran off ahead of us!”

Dindrane’s smiling expression turned to one of concern and pity. “Nothing we can do for him now, little pilgrims. He’s likely facing his challenge as we speak.”

* * * *

            Hop o’ My Thumb darted with inhuman speed through the misty Wasteland. He’d already made a full sweep of the immediate area and was extending the scope of his search. At last, the colossal towers of a castle came into focus in the distance, pennants flying in the wind atop its high walls.

            “Ah, tres bon!” the little Gaul said. “I have found it!” He marked the location in his mind and turned around to head back to his teammates. Though the seven-league boots carried him forward like a shot, he found himself back outside the castle’s gates.

            “Strange,” he muttered. He tried again, darting off in another direction but the result was the same. The castle loomed before him once more. Time after time, Hop found himself in the mighty fortress’s shadow, no matter what path he took to depart from it.

            He was starting to become nervous when suddenly, the castle’s drawbridge began to lower. Backing a safe distance away, he watched this massive, wooden barrier descend to the ground. The gate of the metal portcullis lifted and a crowd of figures could be seen standing at the entrance. With interest, Hop noted the graceful curves of their silhouettes. These strangers were ladies, and quite comely ones too from the looks of it.

            “Welcome, Monsieur Poucet,” one of the women called to him. She pronounced his Gaulish name well enough, though her accent was British. “We have been expecting you.”

            Hop did a double take at this. Who would be expecting him here in this godforsaken land? “How do you know zat name, mademoiselle?” he asked, walking cautiously toward the gigantic welcoming committee.

            “Is that not who you are?” a woman inquired. “Le Petit Poucet, ‘the Little Thumb?’”

            “I prefer Hop,” the miniature rogue explained. He stood now at the ladies’ feet, gazing up and admiring every inch of them. He took in the sight with relish, from their dainty toes in pretty sandals to the mountainous curves that strained against their expensive satin dresses to their long, luxurious hair of every shade and hue. Raven- and russet-haired brunettes, fiery redheads, blondes both strawberry and platinum—Hop was beginning to like this castle.

            “Tell me, good gentlewomen,” he said, doffing his feathered cap and doling out his customary charm, “what is zis place? Castle Corbenic?”

            A particularly busty blonde crouched down and scooped Hop into her hand. As she stood up, the other women crowded around her seeking to get a look at their tiny visitor. Hop found himself surrounded by a sea of beauty, his vision flooded by enormous yet gorgeous faces.

            “Corbenic? No, I am afraid not,” the blonde said, gazing down at the little man in her palm. “This is the Castle of Maidens. But I trust you will find our company more pleasant than that dour old Fisher King’s.” She leaned in close and blew him a kiss with her full, pillowy lips.

            “Maidens?” Hop asked, intrigued. “Forgive me if zis is improper but by zat you mean that you are all, eh, how you say…?”

            “Virgins,” his hostess said with a knowing smile. “Several dozen of us, shut away in this dreary castle by our overbearing families. For years now, we have longed for the touch of a man, living in hope for the day that a handsome knight happens upon this castle in his questing.”

            “You are very small,” said a brown-haired girl, reaching out to fondle Hop’s body with her fingers. Like slender, flexible tree trunks, they wrapped about his torso and gave him a squeeze. “But well-formed, it would seem. And quite a looker too.”

            A beautiful, freckled redhead inched closer to the blonde’s hand. “Just think of all the places that such a tiny gentleman could…fit. If he is willing, of course.”

            “Oh, ma cherie,” Hop said with a grin, “he is willing and able! It is a crime to keep such beauties locked away from ze world! A travesty!”

            “We hoped you would feel that way,” said a dark-skinned woman of Moorish descent. Shyly, she ran her fingers through her curly, black hair.

            “Come,” the blonde beckoned. (‘Mais oui,’ thought Hop. ‘Almost definitely!’) “Let us adjourn to the parlor and get to know our little cavalier better.”

            The sea of women began to flow towards another room, with the joyous Hop carried along with them. One lady hung back and remained in the foyer of the castle. She peered out the gate to see if their tiny suitor had been followed. Satisfied that he had not, she smiled grimly, her eyes suddenly glowing as red as a ruby. Turning a crank on the nearest wall, she caused the drawbridge to rise once more. The mists closed in around the castle.

* * * *

            “Zut alors! You will wear me out, mes belles!” Hop announced some time later. Over the course of the evening, he had been thrust in and out of very private places, explored the curvy landscapes of his hostesses’ bodies, and entered their hot, humid mouths to teach them “Gallic kissing.” Though Hop considered himself a formidable lover, especially for one of his stature, he was beginning to feel quite drained.

All around the room, the women lounged like enormous cats. Some wore silky shifts while others were unashamedly nude. Hop sat astride the nipple of the Moorish lady as she gently shook her torso from side to side, giving him quite a ride. Naked as a jaybird, he held on for dear life, a pale white shape pressed against mocha-colored skin. Hop elicited gasps of pleasure from the girl as his grip tightened.

“You’ve had him long enough,” a zaftig blonde declared. It might have been the same one that had carried him at the gate. Hop could hardly tell at this point.

Dropping to her knees, she leaned in and wrapped her lips around Hop, taking his entire form into her mouth. She moved back slowly, sucking on her friend’s nipple as she pulled away. The Moorish lady gasped louder than before.

The blonde pulled backward, releasing the nipple but keeping her tiny prize. She sat back on her haunches, tossing Hop around with her tongue and sucking on his delicious little body. He tasted quite salty, sweating profusely as he was.

A dark-haired, olive-skinned girl of Hellenic features tapped her on the shoulder emphatically. “Careful! Don’t swallow him! I haven’t had a turn yet!”

“You want him, sweetie?” the blonde mumbled, causing Hop to tumble about on her tongue. “Come claim him then!” The olive-skinned beauty smiled and pressed her lips against the other woman’s. The kiss was long and slow as the two fought over the tiny man, passing him back and forth between them with their tongues.

At last, the dark-haired woman triumphed. She sucked in a breath with such power that Hop plunged straight into her throat. The woman gagged violently as he lodged inside her gullet and she quickly spat the little man into her hand.

“Oh, so I should be careful not to swallow him?” the blonde laughed.

“A little…caution, mademoiselle,” Hop said, slightly out of breath. He lay in the center of her palm, quite stunned. “I cannot give you ze attention you deserve from within your belly.”

“No?” the brunette said, arching an eyebrow. “How about within other places?” Without warning, she thrust the tiny man between her legs until he had disappeared completely.

“Oh,” she breathed as he squirmed about inside her. The woman sank writhing into a nearby chair, overcome by the sensation. Hop was half-crushed as her muscles squeezed his tiny form but he persevered, wriggling his body in ways that drove the lady mad. This was a dangerous game for the homunculus but he’d had years of experience playing it. He knew how best to survive a session of vigorous love-making with someone many times his size. Holding his breath, he wriggled his way deeper.

“Oh, my, yes!” the woman screamed. “We…should have…done this…sooner!”

Hop’s tiny head suddenly emerged back into the light to peer up at her between the lady’s vast thighs. “Done what, ma cherie?”

Annoyed, she placed two fingers on him and forced him back in. “Never you mind. Just don’t stop! Oh, this is ever so much better than with those other men!”

Hop popped back out again, too curious for his own good. “Eh? And what would you know of such things, my fair maiden?”

The brunette exchanged nervous glances with several of her sisters. “Uh…nothing, my wee lover. You are the sun and stars to me.”

Hop slid the rest of the way out and onto the chair. Soaked to the bone, he tried to maintain some dignity as he peered up at the woman suspiciously. “I think zere is perhaps something you have not been honest about, eh, mademoiselle? You have had other suitors at zis castle, oui?”

Before she could answer, a great clamor was heard outside the castle walls. The metallic clang of swords and the loud voices of clashing armies erupted all at once. Hop’s eyes went wide and he jumped down from the chair, rushing toward a window to investigate.

“Mon Dieu!” he said. “What is zis now?”

A huge, bare foot slapped the floor in front of him, blocking his journey. “Where are you running off to, little man?” the blonde woman asked from high overhead.

“Zere is something occurring outside!” Hop insisted. “I was merely—”

The battle continued in the distance but now the tiny Gaul began to pick out individual voices in the cacophony. With alarm, he realized they were his friends. How he could hear such tiny voices amid such an uproar, he could not say.

“Hop!” called the voice of Tom. “It’s a trap! Don’t let them seduce you!”

“A little late for zat, mon capitan,” Hop muttered ruefully. He stepped around the lady’s foot. “Please, I hear my companions. I must see if zhey are all right.”

Again, the gigantic foot crashed to earth, this time nearly squashing him like an insect. Hop flinched and backed away, looking up at her questioningly.

“Never mind what you hear out there,” she said, her eyes glowing bright red. Hop was quite startled by the sight. “You belong to us now.”

“I belong to no one, madame,” Hop told the woman crossly. Darting around her, he made a break for the window. The furious giantess followed closely behind, her feet stomping across the tile floor.

“Hop! Get out of there!” Thumbelina called from outside the window. “We need your help!”

“I am here, Leaguers!” Hop called. He tried to climb up to the window but found moving conventionally without his magic boots to be tricky. He looked about for his clothes and saw them tucked into the cleavage of a redhead resting on a divan couch. Scurrying away from the angry blonde, he dashed toward the couch.

“What’s this?” a rough soldier’s voice bellowed from below the window. “Tiny people?”

“Wasteland imps, no doubt,” another voice reasoned. “Kill them!”

“Hop, buddy!” Thumbling’s voice shouted. “Where are ya?! We could use some seven-league magic, pal! Ahhhh!!!!”

A sickening crunch was heard outside the window. Then another. Hop paled as he heard his friends begin to scream.

“No!” he cried. Desperately, he ran to the divan and leaped onto the resting woman’s foot. Scrambling over her toes, he began to climb up the length of her shapely leg. He had just crested her knee and reached the plane of her thigh when the red-haired lady looked down and noticed him.

“Looking for these, monsieur?” she mocked, indicating his boots. Her eyes glowed an unnatural red. She placed a hand on either side of her chest and squeezed inward, causing the tiny garments to sink into her flesh. Undeterred, Hop clambered up the woman’s smooth belly towards his goal.

“The boots!” shouted the blonde. “Don’t let him get the boots! Swallow them!”

The redhead reached between her breasts and retrieved the seven-league boots. With a cruel laugh, she lifted them towards her lips and opened wide. Living up to his nickname, Hop leaped into the air, ricocheting off her generous chest and up to her hand. He snatched the boots from her fingers and found himself tumbling towards her gaping jaws. As the homunculus fell into her mouth, the redhead snapped her teeth closed behind him.

The blonde stood over her and held out a hand demandingly. The redhead obliged and opened up, extending her tongue. There was nothing on it.

“You half-wit!” the blonde shrieked. “You’ve swallowed him as well!”

But she had not. In the blink of an eye, Hop appeared on her chest, naked but for the fancy, embroidered boots on his feet. Before the redhead could react, he grabbed his clothing and vanished again. The women looked all around them, seeking the tiny creature. Pressing a hand to her forehead in exasperation, the blonde addressed the harem.

“The window, you useless mooncalves!” Sure enough, Hop reappeared, fully dressed, on the windowsill. The temptresses leaped to their feet and rushed towards him. As they approached, their beauty began to melt away, revealing hideous demonic forms with blood-red skin, sharp pointed teeth, and red eyes that shone like lamps.

“My ladies,” Hop said, with a bow, “adieu.” Turning, he jumped out the window.

Calling upon the boots, he vanished and reappeared on the ground. He feared the worst but there was no sign of the battle—no soldiers, no armies, no spattered blood stains that had once been his comrades. The field was completely deserted. He spun around to be sure that the demon-women were not following him, but the castle had disappeared as well. Puzzled, Hop could only cry out in surprise as a thick mist closed in around him.

Part 3

Dindrane walked briskly down the misty, winding path, with the tiny Leaguers perched upon her shoulders. Issun-boshi was still clinging to the pendant hanging from her neck. The necklace bounced lightly against her chest with each step and the samurai tried his best not to look down.

“So, these challenges,” Tom began, “how will we know when it is time to face them?”

“Trust me, you’ll know,” the young woman said mysteriously.

“And you say we must face them alone?” added the little knight. “How will that work if we’re traveling together like this?”

“The Wasteland will choose you,” was all that Dindrane would say.

“Out of curiosity,” said Thumbling, “how many people, er, overcome these challenges of yours? Just, you know, on average?” The girl remained silent, concentrating on the uneven terrain of the road ahead.

The mist began to thicken, closing in around them until visibility had entirely vanished. Soon, the homunculi could not see each other or even their young guide. A sudden wind chilled them to the bone and whistled through their ears. After a moment, the mist started to abate and Dindrane emerged into a relatively normal clearing.

“I felt the land calling,” she muttered. “I think it’s time. Is everyone accounted for?”

The group looked about and saw that each of the girl’s shoulders was still occupied. They glanced down to check on Issun but saw no sign of him. Dindrane lifted the pendant and searched for the tiny samurai. She scanned the road below them, felt about her clothing, and even checked the bottoms of her shoes, just in case. Issun-boshi had vanished.

“Your wee friend must be next,” the Grail-Maiden informed them. “May God be with him.”

* * * *

            When the mist cleared, Issun-boshi found himself deep in the Wasteland’s dead forest. Gnarled, black tree trunks loomed over him on all sides, like the towers of a forbidding stronghold. His companions were nowhere to be seen. Though at first, he thought himself alone, he soon felt the vibrations of approaching footfalls.

            A tall, slender woman with midnight-black hair emerged from between the trees. She wore a long, elegant gown that was as dark as her tresses and a thin golden circlet on her forehead. Issun leaned back to try and make out the distant features of her face high above him. When the woman looked down, his blood nearly froze. The face gazing down at him like a scornful goddess on high was that of Morgan le Fay.

            “Well, well,” she chuckled. “if it isn’t the League’s tiny Easterling. I’ve been looking for you, you know. How fortuitous that the Wasteland brings us together. But then, this place always did have a mind of its own.”

            “Queen Morgan,” Issun called up to her. It took all his strength not to tremble. He remembered all too well the mission that had nearly gotten him digested by this monstrous giantess. “Why should you be looking for me? I am but a humble homunculus, surely low on your list of enemies.”

            “You defied me, Issun-boshi,” she said icily. “Escaped from the depths of my belly and denied me a well-earned snack. I have come to balance the scales.”

            Issun drew his miniature katana and took a battle-ready stance. “You will find that consuming me will not be as easy as it was the first time we met.”

            Morgan gave a haughty laugh. “Going to stab me with that stick-pin, are you? As amusing as it would be to duel with an inch-tall adversary, I’ve actually thought of a much sweeter revenge.”

            The sorceress snapped her fingers and suddenly, a limp form was dragged into the clearing by an unseen force. A woman was slumped awkwardly like a marionette, dangling telekinetically in mid-air through the power of Morgan’s magic. Her dark hair, almond eyes, and purple kimono were instantly recognized by the little samurai.

            “Haru!”

            “Yes, your darling wife,” Morgan said, cupping Haru’s chin in her hand and lifting her face. The Eastern princess stared at her captor through heavy-lidded eyes. Bruises were visible on Haru’s face and she seemed only half-conscious.

            “What have you done to her?!” demanded Issun.

            “Not half of what I will do,” Morgan promised him.

            “I swear by all the gods, Morgan, if you harm her—”

            “Issun?” Haru whispered when she heard his tiny, squeaky voice. “Where are you? What’s going on?”

            “Good, I want her lucid for this,” said Morgan. “Since you escaped me, Issun, I thought perhaps the princess here could take your place.”

            Issun was puzzled but filled with a terrible dread. “What do you—?”

            Morgan raised her hands before her and began to recite an alien incantation mingling Latin and Old Brythonic. She stepped backward, leaving Haru alone and rubbing the grogginess from her eyes. As light flew from the sorceress’s fingertips, the battered princess was surrounded by a strange aura. Moments later, she began to shrink.

            Haru seemed to fold in on herself like a collapsing house of cards. Down, down she sank at an astonishing speed. She dwindled until at last she was the same height as Issun. The samurai ran to his beloved and held her in his arms, helping her to steady herself.

            “Issun,” she said happily. “You’re my size again. Has the spell on you worn off?”

            Before he could answer her, their inch-high figures were eclipsed by Morgan’s gargantuan shadow. The immense enchantress peered down at them with wicked glee, towering, to their eyes, two hundred feet or more in the air. Stooping slightly, she extended a titanic hand towards them, fingers spread to grasp them in a crushing grip. Issun held aloft his sword and stood defensively in front of his wife. Morgan drew her hand away and simply laughed, bending her head forward. Pursing her lips, she blew upon them, causing the tiny couple to be thrown backward with the force of a tornado.

            Issun and Haru were separated by this blast of air, tumbling backward in an awkward barrel roll. As he was blown back, Issun dropped his sword, his only defense, and desperately scrambled to retrieve it. Enjoying her game, Morgan kicked off her sandals and padded towards Haru in her bare feet. The mossy ground of the forest rumbled and quivered with each step. She spread her toes and deftly grabbed the shrunken princess between them. The tiny noblewoman shrieked when she realized these small digits were now bigger than her entire body.

            Issun ran to assist his wife but the sorceress had already lifted her away. Morgan tilted her foot at an angle and plucked Haru from her toes as one would remove a splinter. She held her aloft before her huge, red lips which spread into a smile more than twice the length of Haru’s height. Haru shivered as the tip of a massive tongue slid across those lips.

            “Now, then,” Morgan announced. “Here’s how this is going to work. I’m a sporting woman. If Issun can climb up to his beautiful bride in, say, two minutes…then I won’t swallow her alive. If he can’t…” Morgan tilted her head and dangled Haru over her cavernous mouth. The tiny woman began to scream insensibly.

“…then down she goes,” Morgan finished. “Tick-tock, samurai. The clock begins now.”

In blind terror, Issun darted to Morgan’s foot, preparing to ascend up the mountainous woman’s body. She was clearly not going to make this easy for him though. As he clambered up her toes, she wiggled them wildly, tossing him up and down like a man riding a maddened horse. She tried to grab him between her toes as she had Haru, but he was already scurrying up the slope of her instep.

Issun leaped up past her ankle and grabbed the hem of the sorceress’ gown. From here, the climb was a bit simpler, as the fabric of the garment provided ready handholds for him to cling to. In short order, he had worked his way up past her towering legs. As he climbed up the gigantic curve of her hip, the lady began to shimmy from side to side. She wiggled and swiveled her hips like a belly dancer, attempting to shake him loose, but Issun held fast.

“A good clip so far, my wee mountaineer,” she called down to him. “A little over a minute to go.”

Passing her waist, he continued his journey up the vast, flat plane of her stomach. Through the dark fabric of the dress, he could hear her innards rumbling with hunger. The thought of Haru trapped within that belly caused Issun to quicken his pace. Morgan continued her strange, exotic dance, rippling the muscles of her abdomen up and down. Issun lost his grip with a cry and fell a short distance. He caught hold of the dress again and kept on climbing.

His relatively quick pace was now slowed by an impassable obstacle. The promontory of Morgan’s bosom loomed above him. The sorceress-queen had always been well-endowed in this region to the delight of her lovers. But to Issun, it was a source of dread and uncertainty. Could he climb over those colossal hills? To his perspective, they extended out for several feet and curved upward at a perilous angle. Would she merely shake her chest to dislodge him, or flick him into the deadly canyon between to be squashed or smothered?

Changing tactics, he inched his way to the side below these imposing orbs. Issun carefully crawled under Morgan’s arm, which was still lifted high to dangle Haru. As he climbed through her armpit, his movements tickled her and the enchantress laughed despite herself. She quickly lowered her arm, hoping to trap the samurai below it, but Issun had emerged on the back of her shoulder blade. This he scaled with all speed, fighting his way through a silken curtain of jet-black hair. At last, the tiny warrior pulled himself up onto Morgan’s shoulder. She gave a violent shrug, hoping to launch him into the air, but Issun was already running down her arm.

Wasting not a moment, he hurried across the length of her arm as gracefully as a circus acrobat. Before him, Haru was clutched tight between the pads of two bulky fingers. With all his strength, he tried to pry the fingers apart as Haru looked on in panic.

“Sorry, little ones,” Morgan said. “Time’s up.”

The woman leaned back, opened her mouth wide, and spread her fingers, releasing Haru into the open air. With one arm, Issun held fast to Morgan’s thumb while reaching down for his wife with the other. He caught her hand and held on tight. Tears were streaming down the lady’s face. Against her will, she glanced below her at the huge, open maw ready to devour them both. Morgan’s tongue lolled about in anticipation, her teeth and spittle gleaming in the dim forest light. Further down, Haru saw only utter darkness. A burst of hot breath wafted upward from the abyss to scald the tiny people’s skin.

“I have you, Haru!” Issun cried. “Don’t let go!”

“So typical of Arthur’s champions,” Morgan said, her booming voice deafening at this proximity. “Never surrender, even with the jaws of defeat gaping below. Let us finish this. I’m ever so hungry.”

Morgan opened her lips wider and shook her fingers vigorously. As they were thrown back and forth like tiny rag dolls, Haru could feel her grip on Issun’s hand beginning to slip. She looked up at his determined face, tears flooding her vision.

“I love you, Issun-boshi,” she said. Her grip failed and the princess plunged into the giant woman’s mouth. Haru hurtled past the huge tongue and disappeared into the darkened gullet below. Morgan’s lips slammed shut as she swallowed. With a loud gulp, Haru was gone.

“Noooooooo!!!” Issun shut his eyes to the horrible sight and buried his face against an enormous knuckle. The sorceress tilted her head back down and lowered her hand to the level of her eyes.

“Ah,” she sighed. “She went down so smoothly. I hardly felt her at all.” She opened wide to show Issun her empty mouth, the huge tongue flicking about mockingly in the shadows.

“Now, samurai, you have a choice,” Morgan informed him. “We could consider the scales balanced, with your wife taking your rightful place inside me. But I doubt you will be satisfied with that option. You could, of course, join her in the dungeon below.” Morgan massaged her belly and flashed Issun a cruel grin. “Plenty of room in there for another guest. Or…we could come to an arrangement.”

The inch-tall warrior could barely croak out his response. “What…arrangement?”

“Bring me the Grail and I will expel your beloved from my guts, alive and intact.”

“What?”

“The Grail is an object of great mystical power,” Morgan said. “It could be a mighty weapon in my battle with Arthur. Bring it to me. Don’t worry. I know a charm to keep your lady alive until you return.”

“You…you cannot wield such a power,” Issun stammered.

Morgan laughed. “Why? Because it’s a Christian relic and I am a child of the Old Gods? Must your mind be as small as your tiny, little head? You think the Grail is the cup of Christ. It is and it isn’t. The Grail is far more than just that. It’s the sacred ritual bowl of the gods. It’s the Dagda’s Cauldron of Rebirth. It’s the Divine made manifest in this world. The one who can command it would be mightier than any priestess or wizard who ever lived!”

“No,” Issun said. “I cannot allow this. The Grail will not be yours!”

“Pity,” Morgan told him. “I suppose that means your charming wife must die.” She gave a small, feminine burp and covered her lips with one hand. “Pardon me.”

Without warning, Issun flung himself from Morgan’s thumb and onto her shoulder. Drawing his katana, he launched at her neck and sliced the weapon through her jugular vein.

            Morgan gave a guttural, liquid gasp as blood began gushing from her neck. She dropped to her knees then sank onto the forest floor. As she fell, Issun leaped from her shoulder and rolled to safety, barely avoiding being crushed by her collapsing form.

            “You little fool!” Morgan hissed, pressing a hand impotently against the blood flow. “You’ll never…save her now! I would have freed her!”

            “There is no promise you could make that I would trust, Morgan,” Issun stated simply. “Once the Grail was yours, we would be expendable. I must pray that my sword is strong enough to pierce your flesh.” He strode to the high wall of Morgan’s abdomen. Even lying on her side, her body loomed over him like the battlements of a fortress. Issun lifted his katana and used it to cut through the fabric of the lady’s dress. He grasped an edge and peeled the cloth away, exposing the soft skin of her belly. Once again, he hoisted the katana and took aim.

            “Sir Issun…don’t do this,” she whispered, barely able to speak as the blood continued to gush. “Goddess, no, not like this…”

            “I am sorry,” Issun said before the blade struck. With a swift motion, he sliced her open like a surgeon. Morgan screamed horribly and her body suddenly seemed to burst like a bubble, exploding into a cloud of mist. A strong wind swept into the clearing and dissipated the mist, spreading it to the four corners of the Wasteland. Issun cried out in surprise, seeing no sign of the sorceress or of his wife. A deep fog descended on the woods and enveloped him.

Part 4

When the mists swept by the group once more, both Thumbelina and Thumbling had vanished from sight. Only Tom remained perched on Dindrane’s shoulder, staring into the fog with bewilderment and concern.

“I am to be last, eh?” the little knight said. “Very well. I shall be ready for whatever the Wasteland throws at me.”

“I’m not certain, Sir Tom,” Dindrane told him. “It is difficult to read the land’s intentions, even for one such as I who has lived here many years. But unless I miss my guess…your trial has already begun.”

“What? How?”

“You’ve watched each of your friends disappear to uncertain fates,” the girl told him. “From what I gather, you are the guiding force of this team of yours. If your allies cannot overcome their challenges, this could very well be the end of your League of Homunculi. The Wasteland is already playing on your fears.”

“You do not know them as I do, Lady Dindrane,” insisted Tom. “We homunculi are not to be underestimated.”

“Let us pray you are right,” the young woman said quietly.

* * * *

            As her vision returned, Thumbelina looked about her in surprise. She no longer seemed to be in the Wasteland but rather in her own homeland, the Danmark. High above loomed the ancient ash tree where her people, the Flower-Folk, made their homes. The tiny princess stomped a slippered foot in annoyance.

            “What’s this?” she called to no one in particular. “Is this a trial or have I been weighed and measured and sent home in defeat already?”

            She caught herself when she realized that she was not alone. A short distance away, standing in the shade of the colossal tree, were two small figures, both the same size as her. One she recognized as her beloved husband Cornu, Prince of the Flower-Folk. She was about to run to him when she saw the second figure—a slender, beautiful faerie woman with golden hair and a dress made of rose petals. The woman appeared to have her arms about the prince and Cornu did not shun her advances.

            “Oh, my prince!” the lady said breathlessly. “I’m falling in love with you. Kiss me again, Corny!”

            “Corny?!” Thumbelina repeated the ridiculous nickname more loudly than she had intended. At once, the two faeries turned to face her.

            “Maia!” Cornu exclaimed, speaking her faerie name with a mixture of alarm and guilt. He quickly pushed the other fae aside, though she scowled at him in a huff. “My love, uh, what brings you here? We were not expecting you!”

            “I can see that!” Thumbelina blurted angrily. “Is this what you do while I am away on League business, Cornu? Fly straight into the arms of the first willing hussy you see?”

            The faerie girl’s wings beat furiously in place and she took a step toward Thumbelina, pointing a finger. “Who are you calling a hussy, you ginger tramp?!”

            “Now, now, Annalea,” the prince chided.

            “She’s just jealous,” Annalea declared. “Jealous that you’d rather be with a REAL faerie-woman instead of a skinny, flat-eared, wingless freak!”

            “Is this true, beloved?” Thumbelina asked, her brow furrowed and her jaw clenched.

            Cornu said nothing for a moment then hung his head in shame. “It’s true. Maia, you’re a lovely girl but we were kidding ourselves. You aren’t a flower-fae. You never were. I have to think about the future. I will need heirs if the line is to continue.”

            “Heirs?”

“Think about it,” Cornu said. “Can a faerie and a homunculus have children together? The gods know we’ve tried. Do homunculi even reproduce? You were not born conventionally. You might not have the proper…equipment to bear children.”

            “How long?” Thumbelina’s voice was barely a whisper. “How long has this been going on?”

            “Since the year you first left with Sir Thomas,” Cornu admitted. “I began seeking a new mate among the women of the village and a few from the surrounding lands. I have bedded many a maiden but none quite as extraordinary as Annalea.”

The prince placed his hands on the lady faerie’s wide, womanly hips. “She is beautiful and vivacious and strong, with the commanding presence of a queen. She will bear me many sons.”

“Cornu, how could you?” Thumbelina tried to fight back the tears forming in her eyes. “I...I thought you loved me.”

“Oh, wake up!” Annalea scoffed. “How could he ever love you? You’re an abortion of nature. Too small to be human but lacking the gifts of the true Fair Folk. You’re an oddity, a mere curiosity. Corny has outgrown his dalliance with you.” She sidled up to the prince and wrapped an arm around his waist, drawing him closer.

In rage, Thumbelina burst forward, arms outstretched. “I’ll wring your neck, you wretch! Don’t you touch him!”

Annalea reached into a pocket of her dress and drew forth a handful of glowing powder. She flung this at the approaching Thumbelina, who stopped her advance with a startled cry.

The shimmery powder struck her face and floated down over her shoulders and dress. Unwillingly, she breathed it in and soon began to feel lightheaded. The world swam around her then seemed to stretch and draw away from her at startling speed. The faces of Cornu and his mistress seemed to retreat into the sky and their bodies elongated and expanded. When her head cleared, ‘Lina realized what had happened. The huge masses before her were the feet of her husband and his lover. Thumbelina had shrunk!

Annalea took a step forward, planting an enormous sandal in front of the miniaturized princess. The ground shook violently as she did this. Thumbelina craned her head back and stared up at the mountainous shape of Annalea in shock. She had always felt small but now she was tiny beyond reason. How small was she? She had descended from the faeries’ three-inch height to…she knew not what scale. A quarter of an inch? A hundredth? A strong wind was liable to kill her, let alone a romantic rival the size of a monolith. ‘Lina recoiled in dread.

“Yes, cower, you insect!” Annalea boomed from the stratosphere above. Her dulcet voice was now a deep bass that rumbled in ‘Lina’s chest. “Do you understand now? This is what you are and always were! A tiny, little insignificant freak! Cornelius does not want or need you anymore. No one does! This will be a mercy.”

Annalea lifted her immense foot into the air and poised it above Thumbelina.

* * * *

            When his vision cleared, Thumbling too found himself in a place that seemed like home. He was still in Britain (at least, he thought so) but he was surrounded by dozens of his own people, the Saxons. Their tawny heads, rugged faces, and harsh language were unmistakable. Thumbling walked towards a group of towering warriors. They were standing around a campfire, sharpening their swords on a grindstone.

            “Well met!” he called up to them. It felt odd after all these years to speak the Saxon tongue again. He’d relied on Merlin’s translation pendant at first but, over time, it had instilled in him some knowledge of the Britons’ language. “What’s cookin’, fellas? Could someone tell me where I am exactly?”

            The warriors glanced down at their feet and their faces beamed with happiness. “Master Thumbling!” they cried. “You’ve returned! Hey, boys! Thumbling’s back!”

            Before he knew what was happening, a big bear of a man had scooped him up and brought him to the center of the camp circle. Thumbling was placed on a log the Saxons had been using as a bench. A savory leg of fresh-cooked chicken meat was thrust towards him, as well as a mug of beer that was twice as tall as the little homunculus. The Saxons crowded around him, smiling and laughing and (lightly) slapping him on the back with their fingertips as if they were old friends. Thumbling was perplexed.

            “Hey, not that I’m complaining or anything, but what’s with the welcome wagon?” he asked. “Do we know each other? Where are we, the Saxon Shore?”

            The men guffawed as if he’d just told a fantastic joke. “Quit kiddin’, Thumbling! You know very well we’re in the Camelot province.”

            Two Saxons behind him stepped aside and afforded him a view down the hill that the camp was situated on. Sure enough, Thumbling could see the spires of Camelot about half a mile in the distance with Arthur’s red dragon banner dancing in the wind. He suddenly had a bad feeling about this.

            “Hold up, what are we doing here?” Thumbling said. “You fellas aren’t thinking of starting the invasion again, are you? I thought King Arthur put a stop to that at Mt. Badon. The war’s been over for years? Right?”

            The Saxons looked back and forth at each other with concern. “He’s not jestin’, is he?” one ventured.

“Little Thumbling must have taken a blow to the head or something.”

“He really doesn’t remember?”

A tall, blond, bearded man in elaborate chain mail pushed through the crowd. He wore a tunic with a royal crest on it, the silhouette of a horse. The man dropped to a crouch beside the log, setting down an impressive battle axe and staring at Thumbling intently.

“Do you know me?” he demanded.

“Er, no,” Thumbling answered. “Should I?”

“I am Eormenric of Kent, King of the Oiscingas. Son of Octa, unjustly slain by Uther Pendragon of Britain.”

“Okay,” said Thumbling. “That rings a few bells. Think I’ve heard of ya, or at least your forefathers. Why are you here?”

“You led us here, my wee spy,” Eormenric told him.

“Spy? Hold up a second…”

“You have lived among the Britons for many years now and have discerned their strengths and weaknesses,” the Saxon king continued. “And you informed me of the perfect time to strike. With Arthur Pendragon’s warriors searching for the Grail-cup, his fortress and lands are insufficiently defended. We shall sweep in like a summer storm and slay the Bretwalda.”

“What? No!” Thumbling protested.

“Uther’s son will pay for his crimes,” Eormenric announced, ignoring Thumbling’s outburst. “And Britain will at last be ours.”

“You can’t do that! I know Arthur! He’s a good king, a good man!” Thumbling squeaked in desperation, leaping to his feet on the log. “Look, I’ve got as much Saxon pride as anybody but we can’t just take this kingdom! It isn’t our land!”

“No, it is not. Not yet anyway,” Eormenric said, rising to his feet. “Too late to grow a conscience now, small one. Besides, you have yet to claim your prize.”

“Prize?”

Eormenric beckoned and a tall, shapely Saxon girl approached the campfire. She was strikingly pretty with tawny hair bound in two braids on either side of her head. She wore a long, brown dress, bound by a leather belt, and a pair of fur-tufted boots on her feet.

“As payment for your aid in this campaign, I promised you Ælfrida, my daughter,” the king informed him. “Once you are wed, you will be a prince of the new Britain, Thumbling. Or rather, of Angland, as we shall call it, for our Angle kinsmen.”

Ælfrida drew closer and sat down next to Thumbling. The log rumbled below him as her weight touched down and Thumbling was thrown off his feet. The gigantic girl giggled and reached down to scoop him up. She clasped him tightly against her sizeable bosom in a firm embrace. Thumbling gasped for air.

“Be gentle with your betrothed, Ælfrida. He’s quite fragile,” Eormenric warned. He then turned to his soldiers and hoisted his battle axe high. “Oiscingas! Prepare for war!”

The Saxons let loose a thunderous cheer and followed their king in a charge down the hill. Thumbling squirmed desperately in Ælfrida’s grip, trying to free himself from her fingers.

“Stop! Come back! I don’t remember doing any of this!” the tiny tailor called to them. But his voice was drowned out by the clamor of the war band.

“Arthur!” Thumbling screamed. “Someone must warn Arthur!”

* * * *

            Annalea’s gargantuan foot fell to earth with a crash, narrowly missing Thumbelina as she leapt to the side. The teensy woman rolled across the dirt out of the giant faerie’s path. In blind panic, she pressed the button on her harness and released her artificial wings. Jumping to her feet, she took off into the air.

            Annalea watched the shimmery trail left by a barely visible shape that swooped past her. She laughed cruelly and began to follow.

            “Still pretending to be one of us, speck?” she called. “I’ll crush those false wings between my fingers!”

            She reached out a massive hand and attempted to snatch ‘Lina out of the air. Enormous fingers swept past the tiny figure, barely missing their goal. The princess felt the gust of wind from the sweeping motion of Annalea’s arm and fought to maintain her course. It was like being buffeted by a hurricane.

            Thumbelina flew to her husband and landed on the huge plane of his shoulder. She called out to him desperately, staring up at the dramatic cliff-like contours of his face.

            “Cornu! Help me!”

            The prince’s expression did not change and he seemed unable to even hear her. With a few flaps of her wings, ‘Lina rose up to Cornu's finely pointed ear. It loomed before her, as vast as the entrance to a cave. Bravely, the tiny girl swooped in and bellowed into the darkness.

            “Husband! You cannot allow this! If ever there was affection between us, please, I beg you—help me!”

            Annalea watched the little creature vanish into the side of her lover’s head. She moved closer and leaned in seductively, nibbling on the prince’s earlobe. “Let me whisper sweet nothings in your ear, my love,” she said.

The faerie woman began to kiss Cornu's ear repeatedly, starting at the lobe and working her way up. When she reached the opening of the ear canal, she extended her tongue and began to flick it in and out of his ear. ‘Lina scrambled backwards in fright as the tip of the massive tongue felt around for her. It filled the opening of the ear, cutting off the light. Slimy, wet noises echoed through the chamber as Annalea continued to lap at the ear and the minuscule prisoner within.

Thumbelina fumbled with her belt, seeking something that could aid her against this staggeringly colossal foe. She searched each pouch of her belt in desperation—potions, potions, and more potions, but nothing that could provide an immediate defense. She could risk dabbing a drop of mystic elixir on Annalea’s tongue on the hope that the faerie would swallow it and fall under a spell. But at this infinitesimal size, even the contents of a whole phial of potion would be smaller than one of the girl’s taste buds. Their effect would be minimal, if there was any at all.

At last, she opened a final pouch and drew forth a tiny hunting dagger. Tom had given it to her years ago when he’d sought to teach the sheltered little princess basic survival skills. The knife’s edge was somewhat blunt from disuse (‘Lina disliked violence and could not bear to slay an animal in the wild, having known many that were her friends). But in such dire straits, it would have to do.

Grasping the hilt with both hands, she lifted the dagger above her head and brought it down swiftly on the tip of the gigantic, slithering tongue. It stuck into the flesh, barely making so much as a dent. At this size, its effectiveness was limited as well. Undeterred, ‘Lina dragged the blade to the side and continued to apply pressure until it cut a deep gash in the flesh of the writhing muscle.

Annalea’s scream was the most deafening sound the princess had ever heard. Cornu's entire head seemed to vibrate from the sound waves and ‘Lina frantically covered her ears with her hands. When the aural onslaught was over, her ears were still ringing louder than a bell tower and she felt a small trickle of blood running down her cheek. Regardless, the attack had had its desired effect, for the giant faerie had retreated and the opening of the ear canal was clear.

Annalea was rubbing her bleeding mouth and cursing like a sailor. “Ya misrabl’ li’l maggot!” she slurred, struggling to form the words with her wounded tongue. “Tha’ act’ally hur’! Wher’ ar’ ya?!”

‘Lina spread her wings and leaped out of the opening. She pressed her arms and wings against her side to streamline her form and began a rapid dive through the air, speeding towards the giant woman’s hip. A plan had begun to formulate in her mind and she hoped her insane idea was achievable.

As her gigantic adversary searched for her and spat blood onto the forest floor, ‘Lina dove headfirst into Annalea’s pocket. Fumbling about in the dark and jostled by the monstrous movements of her host, the princess finally found what she sought. A small amount of the shrinking powder was left. She held her breath, fearful of breathing in the powder’s fumes, and gathered up as much of it as she could, filling her hands and her own pockets with the substance. Satisfied, she blasted up into the air once again, wings beating furiously as she flew up to the level of that monumental face.

Annalea squinted as she focused on the barely visible form floating before her. “Aha! Ther’ ya ar’!” she muttered, blood spattering her lips. “I’ll crush ya t’ paste!”

‘Lina flung some of the shimmery powder directly below Annalea’s colossal nose. The tiny handful was sucked up into a cave-like nostril as she breathed in. The giantess didn’t even seem to notice, no more than someone would sense inhaling a few particles of dust.

Annalea lifted her hands, palms facing inward, and prepared to slap them together around her enemy as one would swat a housefly. She stopped as a funny feeling swept over her. With a meek cry of surprise, her height dropped down a few inches.

“W-Wha’ did ya do?”

‘Lina scooped the powder from her pockets and continued assailing the titaness’ nose with it. She swooped around like an angry hornet, flinging the powder into the girl’s nostrils, mouth, and even her eyes. The lady’s loss of height continued with each handful that struck home and now the dwindling had increased in speed.

Cornu looked on in bewilderment. “Anna? My love? What’s happening to you?”

“Gods damn it, Corny! Wha’ d’ ya think?!” his mistress swore at him from knee height. “Find her! Squish her! Do somethin’!”

After a few more moments, Annalea had shrunk almost to the level of Cornu's ankle. She was approximately doll-sized, while Thumbelina was about the size of an insect. The difference was negligible enough that the princess could tackle her opponent and fight on more even terms.

“Steal my man, will you?!” ‘Lina snarled, wrestling the comparatively Amazonian girl to the ground. She pummeled her again and again as Annalea continued to shrink further. When she was child-sized, ‘Lina pinned her to the floor, sitting on her chest. Her enemy dwindled more, nearly crushed under the other woman’s weight. ‘Lina reached down to grasp her in one hand like a ragdoll and held her up to her face.

“Do you yield, Annalea?” the princess asked. “I would not have your blood on my hands.”

The speck of a woman screeched in fury and spat in ‘Lina’s eye. Blood from her slashed tongue speckled Thumbelina’s tear ducts, as well as traces of the magic powder that had been flung into her jaws.

‘Lina gasped in surprise as she too started shrinking again. High over their heads, Cornu loomed like the tallest mountain in the world. He watched, helpless and torn, as his two lovers shrank down to apparent nothingness. A thick mist blew through the land and enveloped all.

* * * *

“Let me go! Let me go, blast you!” Thumbling bellowed as he was crushed against Ælfrida’s magnificent bosom. Under other circumstances, this would have been a pleasant diversion. But there was simply too much at stake.

“Silly man!” the Saxon girl giggled. “Little Husband must learn obedience! He is Ælfrida’s now!”

“We’re not married yet, you daft cow! A lot of good people are going to die if you don’t let me go!”

“And where would my Little Husband go, hmm?” the young lady asked, holding him up in her fist. “The warriors have already gone. You cannot hope to catch up to them with your tiny, little legs. They will reach the castle any moment now.”

Thumbling sighed in resignation. She was right. There was no way he could outrace the Saxon army to Camelot’s gates. Even if by some miracle he caught up to their position, he’d be trampled into the dirt unnoticed amid the charge. Arthur and any poor souls in the fortress were doomed. And it was all his fault!

This made no sense. Thumbling wracked his brain, trying to recall how he’d gotten here. He couldn’t really have been Eormenric’s spy, could he? The last images he remembered were of his friends and teammates. They were going somewhere, yes? Seeking something? It was all a haze in his brain.

“Forget the Bretwalda,” Ælfrida cooed to him, planting kisses on his tiny face. Her rosy lips enveloped his head and the pleasing sensation blocked out all else. “He was not your true lord. You are back where you belong, Little Husband. Stop struggling so. Better to save that energy for our wedding night, eh?” She giggled girlishly at the thought. “Don’t let it all go to waste.”

“Go to waste…” Thumbling repeated. “Waste. Go to…the Wasteland! I remember now! This isn’t real! None of this is real! Is it?”

Ælfrida pressed him to her sizeable chest once more. “What about me, my little love? I feel real enough, don’t I?”

Despite himself, he nuzzled his face against her. “Yes, you feel…wonderful.” He shook himself and resumed his squirming. “This is the test, isn’t it? Release me!”

“It is over, my love bug,” Ælfrida said. “Where would you go? Would you fly to Camelot like Harald’s falcons?”

Thumbling fought harder. “I have to try! I have to—wait. Who’s Harald?”

“My father’s falconer,” the girl explained. “He always has those nasty, dirty creatures around him to hunt game and bear messages to the other camps.”

Thumbling looked up and, sure enough, there was a wooden cage on the other side of the camp with a brooding falcon perched within.

“Damn it, Ælfrida!” he shrieked. “Why didn’t you tell me there were falcons in this camp?!”

“It didn’t seem relevant at the time,” she answered, sheepishly.

“Not relevant?! Lady, you MUST have come from my imagination! I always did fall for the dumb ones.”

“Who are you calling dumb, pipsqueak?” Ælfrida snarled. Her face abruptly changed to a wide smile and she squeezed him even tighter against her. “Aww, look at us! We’re having our first fight!”

As she held him to her chest, Thumbling finally managed to wriggle out of her grasp. He had nowhere to go however and soon tumbled headfirst down the neckline of her dress. Ælfrida gasped and began laughing at his ticklish descent.

“Oh, Little Husband! I knew you couldn’t resist me!” Thumbling continued falling until he emerged from the bottom of her dress and darted across the campsite. “Husband?” the girl called, confused. “Where are you?”

Thumbling scurried over to where the cage was resting and shimmied up to unhinge the lock. The falcon looked down from its half-sleeping rest and saw the little creature entering its home. Beady eyes burned into Thumbling’s head as the massive bird sized him up. The falcon advanced, deciding that the intruder would make a fine afternoon snack.

“Easy, birdy, nice birdy,” Thumbling muttered, backing up slowly. The falcon let loose a screech and its razor-like beak descended, striking the ground a little to the side of the homunculus. Thumbling bucked and weaved and ran about the cage floor as the bird stalked its prey.

“Ahhhhhhh!!!!!! I’m already regretting this plan!” he shouted, jumping down from the cage door and taking off like a shot. “C’mon, birdy, you don’t want me! There’s a nice chicken leg over by the fire! I’m almost positive it’s not a relative!”

Ælfrida, meanwhile, was still peering down into her dress, looking for her vanished betrothed and completely oblivious. When she finally looked up, she was astonished to see Thumbling mounted on the falcon’s back, tugging on the feathers of the animal’s neck to direct it.

“That way! That way, you big buzzard!”

“My beloved, what are you doing?” the lady asked.

“What’s right, Ælfrida,” he called down to her as the falcon rose into the sky. “Sorry, babe, we could have been great. If you’re actually real and not a figment of my perverted imagination…look me up some time when this is over.”

The majestic bird of prey swooped into the air and began soaring toward the spires of Camelot. Far, far below, Thumbling saw the Saxon troop marching to battle. At this height, they all seemed tiny and insignificant, no bigger than he or his companions. Thumbling urged his winged steed onward as Eormenric’s forces began to storm the castle gates. Archers began to fire at them from the battlements and the Britons within sounded the alarm. At Thumbling’s urging, the falcon dove from the sky over the heads of the Saxons. At its back, a cloud of mist swept over the battlefield, obscuring friend and foe alike.

Part 5

Dindrane continued down the weathered path with Tom sitting pensively on her shoulder. It wouldn’t be long now. Only one last homunculus remained to face the Wasteland’s challenges. It was a pity. The girl had seen many brave knights enter the haunted forests and misty roads of her adopted homeland but few survived the tests. Most succumbed to temptation or despair, or were slain by the demonic creatures lurking in the dark. The handful that actually escaped were never quite the same—tortured by the madness of what they’d seen, little more than broken shells of their former selves. And none of them had ever achieved the Grail.

It always made her sad, though this was the price of being a Grail-Maiden. There were sacred laws and vows to fulfill. The ways of the Creator were not hers to judge and his holy vessel could not fall into the hands of just anybody. Still, none of the other questing heroes had been quite so small and adorable. The thought of these sweet little homunculi being destroyed by the Wasteland was almost too much to bear.

“My lady, stop here!” Tom exclaimed suddenly. “What is that up ahead?” Nimbly, the tiny man slid down the length of her arm and leaped from her wrist to her hip. From there, he used the cloth of her robes to clamber down to ground level.

“How agile you are, Sir Tom,” Dindrane chuckled. “I could have put you down if you’d only asked me t—” She stopped in mid-sentence when she saw what the miniature knight was scurrying towards.

Ahead of them was the rotting remnant of an ancient tree. It was a true giant of the forest with a vast trunk almost ten feet around and many black, gnarled limbs and branches extending in all directions. Not a leaf or apple was visible on the dead tree. In their place, the ghostly monolith bore a far different type of fruit.

On the end of each of the branches there hung a man. All of them were clad in armor or chainmail, dulled by rust, and they were suspended by nooses wrapped about their necks. The tree had been converted into a hideous makeshift gallows by unknown parties. And the hangman had apparently been busy. Some of the bodies were fresh, while others were in various states of decay. A few were little more than skeletons. Tom cried in anguish as he recognized the dead faces frozen in their rictus grins. These were his brother knights.

“Bedivere! Kay! Gawain! Oh, God, no, no…” The little man ran about the base of the tree, peering up at the hanged men in a panic.

“Percival! Uwain! Lionel! Bors! Caradoc! Slain, all of them, slain! How did this happen? Who is responsible for this butchery?”

His blood ran cold as he stood below the next branch. It hardly seemed possible. “Lancelot,” Tom whispered hoarsely. “Oh, Lancelot, not you too? The best among us…now we are truly lost…”

He continued to circle the tree, staring aghast at his fallen comrades. The Wasteland had conquered Arthur’s greatest knights. This Grail-quest, which had begun as a mere diversion to keep the warriors occupied, looked as though it would be the ruin of the Round Table.

The man on the final branch bore no armor; only a green tunic emblazoned with a red apple. “Pelleas,” Tom said, barely able to speak. “God, how long have we been gone? Oh, Pelleas, why would you not stay on Avalon? We would have brought you the Grail, if it was in our power. This will kill Nimue, if she’s not dead already.”

A horrible creaking sound filled Tom’s ears and he glanced up at the tree in shock. The lifeless head of Pelleas began to slowly turn towards him, slumping unnaturally on its broken neck. Empty, dead eyes seemed to bore into the little man’s soul.

“And what care you for my wife’s sorrow, faithless wretch?” a voice demanded. The mouth of the corpse did not move as these words were intoned. The sound seemed to come from somewhere deep in Tom’s very head.

“You bore no love for her,” the voice of Pelleas said. “You would have seen her dead yourself, had you the power!”

Tom’s blood turned to ice as he tried to wrap his mind around this new horror. “That’s not true!” the homunculus protested. “I…I carried a grudge for Merlin’s death, yes, but I would never harm a lady! Nimue repented. Her sins and her virtues will be judged by God. I didn’t mean what I—”

The creaking commenced again as more corpses began to turn towards their small visitor. “What are you doing here, Sir Tom?” the voice of Bedivere croaked. “You should not have come.”

“What made you think you could succeed where these goodly knights failed?” said Kay. A broken jaw hung loosely from his half-rotted skull.

“You’re a useless, tiny mouse!” Gawain bellowed. Blood drenched his battered form, gleaming as red in the moonlight as his fiery hair. “Your little menagerie of doll-men is nothing but a joke! What hope could you possibly have?”

“Turn back, Tom,” said Bors, one of Arthur’s most pious champions. “Leave this God-blighted land while there’s still time!”

“Turn back! Turn back!” the dead men all cried. Bony arms extended outward slowly, pointing away from the grisly scene.

“I—I can’t!” the miniature knight screamed at them, grasping his temples. “Nimue’s life depends on it! And now my friends’ lives as well! They’re out there somewhere in the mist. I can’t just abandon them.”

“They’re as dead as we are. Or soon will be, I fear,” called Uwain, Queen Morgan’s good-hearted son. It pained Tom to see him hanging there with the others. He was the only positive contribution that witch had made to society and now he was dead and rotting.

“Thomas,” Sir Lancelot’s corpse said softly up above. “Go home. There is nothing more you can do. Tell her majesty, the queen, that…that she will be ever in my thoughts. Until we see each other again…”

Tom hesitated. Perhaps there was wisdom in the words of these gruesome things. If Arthur’s finest had succumbed to the Wasteland, there was nothing that a small, helpless, insignificant creature like him could do. It would be better to retreat now before there was no hope. If he hurried, he could round up the other Leaguers (if they still lived) and be gone from this hellish kingdom. They had tried their best. No one could expect more. No one could possibly blame them for turning back when faced with such odds. Certainly, it was not cowardice to—

“No!” Tom shrieked. The words had filled his mind but they were not his. The land was playing with him, magnifying his doubts and fears. Tom had never been one to give up and he would not start now.

“I’ve faced the wrath of Morgan le Fay and her Sisterhood and the power of the Lady of Avalon,” he muttered to himself. “I’ve been menaced by beasts and giants and survived a world of hungry jaws and crushing feet. If I must face all the power of Hell on Earth then so be it! I will overcome it or die in the attempt!”

“Then, I fear you shall die,” Lancelot’s voice declared. “I’m sorry, my friend. We tried to warn you.”

The great tree swayed in the chill winds, its boughs creaking and cracking as horribly as the bones of the knights. One by one, its horrific fruit began to fall to the forest floor. The ropes came loose of their own power and the corpses each dropped to the ground, slumping unnaturally in a heap. Slowly, that heap began to move in a terrible mockery of life as the dead warriors picked themselves up and began to form ranks. Black, sunken eyes were trained on the tiny figure of Tom several yards away.

“We are the Wasteland’s puppets now,” called Lancelot. “Our will is not our own. Run, Thomas! I beg of you! We will destroy you if you don’t!”

The dead men shambled and staggered on their rotting limbs, drawing rusted swords from broken scabbards. Slowly but inexorably, they began to march towards the small, terrified homunculus. Ever chivalrous, Tom’s first instinct was to look for Dindrane, hoping to defend her. But the Grail-Maiden had vanished in the grey mists. He was alone.

For all his bravery, Tom knew he hadn’t a chance. The miniature warrior could not hope to defeat even a single knight, let alone a battalion of them unaffected by death’s touch. Strategy was his only hope. Strategy…and a hasty escape.

The wee knight turned about face and darted into the woods. Behind him, he could hear the shuffling boots of the ghastly revenants. Their pace quickened as the Wasteland seemed to give them new unnatural speed. Tom had to find shelter or locate the castle and the Grail as soon as possible. Surely the power of that holy chalice could banish these monsters.

After nearly an hour of running, he paused when he spotted a dark figure slumped against a fallen log. At first, he feared the dead warriors had surrounded him, cutting off his path. But as he approached, Tom saw that this mysterious newcomer was no fiend from Hell. It was a young man, hardly more than a boy, clad in an ill-fitting suit of armor and mail that seemed a size too big for him. Life was still in the boy’s veins, though his handsome face was pale from fright.

The youngster turned his shaggy blond head in Tom’s direction as he heard a rustling in the underbrush. Quickly, the boy drew his sword.

“Who goes there?!” he spat. “Face me, you devil! I am not afraid!” The uncontrollable quivering in his arm told a different story but Tom emerged from the shadows nonetheless.

The young knight’s eyes grew wide at the sight of the miniature man. “What is this new trickery? Get back, imp, or I’ll crush thee like an ant!”

“Peace, peace, Sir Knight!” Tom cried, throwing up his hands. “No trick, I assure you! I am Sir Thomas Thumb of—”

“Arthur’s homunculus!” the boy exclaimed. “I’ve heard stories of you! I am Galahad. I think you knew my mother, the Princess Elaine of Corbenic.”

“Elaine?” said Tom. “Then, that would make your father…”

“Sir Lancelot, truest knight of the realm,” Galahad answered.

“Jesu, how old are you, boy? I remember when you were but a babe in your mother’s belly!”

“I am eighteen summers, sir,” the youth told him.

“Eighteen…has it been so long?” Tom mused, shaking his head. “But we have no time for this! We must prepare for battle! I am pursued by a troop of the living dead. There is no easy way to tell you this but…your father’s shade is among them, as well as every knight the Wasteland has conquered these past months.”

“Father?” Galahad was puzzled. “That’s impossible. I was just with my father not ten minutes past, as well as Sir Percival and Sir Bors. We were separated by the mist a few moments ago.”

“Lancelot lives?” Tom fairly jumped for joy. “And the others too? But of course they do. That grinning horde is but a trick of the Wasteland. It was the test, the test! How could I have been so blind? Oh, Galahad, I could kiss you!”

“Er, yes. Quite,” the young man answered, shifting uncomfortably.

“Wait,” Tom said, as a thought occurred to him. “How do I know it’s not you who is the illusion, meant to instill me with false hope?”

Galahad peered down at him sternly. “I could say the same of you. Then again, a pint-sized knight is a strange form for the Wasteland’s illusory promises to take.”

“Fair point,” Tom said. “We shall simply have to trust each other. We’re all the other has at the moment.”

“Whether your enemies are a trick or no, we should be ready for anything,” the younger man cautioned. “This land’s perils can be frightfully real.”

As if in answer, there was another rustle in the bush. Three dead warriors burst into the clearing, half-shattered swords gleaming in the moonlight. They lunged with inhuman ferocity at the youth and his tiny companion, baring their teeth and shrieking wildly.

Galahad was on his feet in an instant, sword drawn. He moved so swiftly, Tom’s eyes could barely follow. With a strafing swing of his sword arm, Galahad lopped off the first dead man’s head. The other two attacked him in fury but the warrior parried and countered their blows, fairly dancing across the green. A corpse-knight swung his blade towards the youth but Galahad dropped to one knee, barely avoiding the weapon as it whistled over his head. From this new position, he cut off his opponent’s legs, mid-shin, and watched the dead man tumble to the ground. As it was still twitching, he chopped off its arms as well.

As the third enemy charged him, the blond-haired juggernaut leaped into the air, bringing his sword down on the corpse’s head. Tom looked away in horror as the dead knight was sliced in twain.

Galahad stopped to rest at last, wiping black blood and viscera from his sword. Tom looked up at him in utter astonishment.

“You’re…you’re amazing,” he stammered.

“I was taught by the best,” the youth answered. He tried to look confident but the battle had clearly shaken him. Tom surmised that for all of Galahad’s vaunted skills, he had not yet seen much combat.

“We must away,” Galahad told him. “If these are indeed grave-wights returned from death, I fear these wounds will not stop them for long.”

Tom found himself riding on Galahad’s shoulder as the pair pressed onward through the forest. They found no sign of Lancelot or the rest of Galahad’s company. Again and again, the dead knights burst from the darkness and each time, the young warrior defeated them. But his arms were soon wearying and his spirit was close to breaking.

“Illusion or not,” said Galahad, “it is horrific to be fighting my fellow knights like this. I know these men. I’ve looked up to them for years and aspired to be like them. Now I find myself gutting and decapitating them left and right!”

Onward they marched, uncertain if they were even going the right direction. Tom suggested they climb a tree to get a better view of the landscape and determine if Castle Corbenic was near.

“I trust not these trees,” Galahad told him. “They are old and dying. They would never support my weight.”

“They should support mine well enough,” Tom smirked. “Give me a boost!”

With practiced skill, Tom scurried up the trunk of an aged tree and into the high branches. He drew his sewing-needle sword, ready to face any monstrous bird, insect, squirrel, or other dread beast that might inhabit the tree. Luckily, there was none. Tom clambered to the top of a leafless stem and peered out across the barren land. At once, his heart soared.

“I see it! There’s a castle ahead of us, a mile or two distant! We’re almost there!”

As he spoke these words, a rusted dagger suddenly shot through the air and embedded itself in the branch, mere inches from Tom’s position. Startled, the little knight glanced down and saw that the tree was surrounded by a pack of dead warriors. Their leader was the rotting corpse that resembled Lancelot.

“Galahad, my son,” the revenant hissed. “Have you come to join your old man in death?”

“You don’t fool me, spectre,” Galahad insisted. “My father is alive, elsewhere in this cursed land. He was at my side when Thomas faced you and your cronies.”

“Was he now?” the Lancelot-corpse asked, bemused. “Or was it merely a Wasteland shadow at your side when your true father was dying in agony, slain by the quest? Can you take the chance, boy? Will you face me in battle? You never were good enough to defeat me in single combat.”

Galahad raised his sword and adopted a battle stance. But once again, his hands were shaking and his eyes were filled with doubt. The dead knight smiled wickedly and began to advance.

Just then, a small object plummeted from the treetops and collided with the cadaver’s face, causing it to stumble backwards in surprise. Tom stood perched upon the fiend’s nose, tiny sword in hand.

“Run, Sir Galahad!” he cried, plunging the point of the needle deep into the monster’s eye. The Lancelot-corpse gave a piercing animalistic shriek, though whether out of rage or pain none could say. Skeletal hands swatted at the creature’s face and Tom was flung off into open air. The corpse’s eye was pulled from its socket, still skewered on the end of Tom’s sword. With catlike reflexes, Galahad caught the little man in cupped hands and fled from the scene.

“My thanks,” said Tom, looking up at the knight.

“Likewise,” Galahad told him.

The duo made for the spires of Castle Corbenic with all haste. Behind them, the troop of dead men continued its pursuit, gaining more members the further they went. Warriors who had already fallen to Galahad’s blade were re-summoned, shambling along with missing limbs or heads but refusing to give up. The knight doubled his speed, shielding his tiny ally as he ran. Below in his hands, Tom gave a cry as the rotting eyeball tilted forward on the end of his sword, still seemingly gazing at him. Cringing in disgust, he flung the offending orb away.

At last, they reached the castle and bolted through the gates in terror. Galahad hastily turned a crank to raise the drawbridge as the horde of dead approached the entrance. Those corpses that still had heads gazed up at the battlements warily and turned aside, sensing the power of the place. “Lancelot” snarled at his escaping quarry and rounded up his troops, disappearing into the night.

“Is this it? Is this Corbenic?” Tom asked once they had caught their breaths.

“I don’t know,” admitted Galahad. “I’ve passed several fortresses in this land already. Some were guarded by demons or were filled with beckoning temptresses. Let us hope we have chosen rightly.”

“You have,” a voice called from the shadows. A slender form slipped into the torchlight and Tom breathed a sigh of relief as he recognized Dindrane.

“You do get around,” he chuckled. His tone changed immediately as he noticed a tiny figure standing on her shoulder. “Issun! You’re alive!”

“Yes, the little warrior lives,” Dindrane said. “I am not certain about your other friends though.” She opened her hands to reveal the unmoving forms of Hop, Thumbling, and ‘Lina.

“I found them shortly after I arrived. According to Uncle Pelles’ visions, each of them faced the challenges but only Issun-boshi seems to have emerged unscathed.”

“I saw my wife die,” Issun said quietly. “It may have been illusion but I would hardly say I am unscathed.”

“What about the others?” Tom asked. “What’s wrong with them?” Galahad brought him closer to Dindrane’s hands, allowing him to jump across and tend to his friends.

“They’re comatose, still trapped in the Wasteland’s illusions,” Dindrane explained. “The perils they faced have overwhelmed them. Hop fought back only after he’d given in to temptation and vice. Thumbling was too late to prevent disaster and his guilt at causing it was crippling. The little princess conquered her foe but sacrificed herself to do so. Short answer, they…they failed their tests, Sir Tom. I’m sorry.”

“Failed?” Tom exclaimed. “But you said ‘Lina defeated her enemy!”

“Her mind is convinced she is dying, dwindling away to a world beyond sight or reason.”

Tom crouched in Dindrane’s cupped palms to examine his teammates. They were as pale as death but still seemed to be breathing. Each breath was shallow however and seemed like any moment, it would be their last. Tom reached down and gently nudged them or grasped their shoulders to lightly shake them awake. His friends did not move.

“Hop! ‘Ling! Come on, fellows, quit kidding around,” Tom said. “Open your eyes! You’re stronger than this, I know you are! ‘Lina! Come on, ‘Lina, fight it!”

“They’re slipping away, Tom,” Dindrane told him. “I’m sorry.”

Tom grabbed his friends’ shoulders and shook them more vigorously. It was like shaking rag dolls. Their limbs hung limply at their sides and their heads slumped unconsciously.

“You can’t leave me!” he screamed at them. “Not after all these years, all we’ve done together! It doesn’t end like this, damn it!”

Tom reached out and clutched Thumbelina’s hand, leaning in close to whisper to her. “’Lina, you can’t be dying. You can’t. I never…I never told you this but…I love you, ‘Lina. I always have, from the moment we met. You’re the most beautiful, perfect, amazing person I know. I love your smile, your laugh, your feistiness…that look you get in your eye when we’re blundering into some new, ridiculous mission.”

By now, the words were flowing out of him, a release after years of suppression.

“Before I met you, ‘Lina, I felt so alone. A freak, an oddity. I was a wizard’s parlor trick come to life with no place or purpose in the world. You gave me that. I wasn’t alone anymore. There was someone else like me, someone wrestling with the same struggles and doubts of not fitting in or knowing what we were made for. I didn’t have to face it on my own. It broke my heart that you had a husband. But I thought…if she exists…if this incredible, gorgeous, little creature exists, maybe there’s hope for me. And if not, at least she’s part of my life.”

Tom gently stroked ‘Lina’s fiery red hair and kissed her forehead. “I hope Cornu knows how lucky he is. If you’re gone, ‘Lina, and Hop and Thumbling too…I don’t know if I can go on.”

Galahad watched the drama unfolding in Dindrane’s hands with pity. Though he couldn’t hear Tom’s tiny whispers, the emotion on the miniature man’s face was obvious.

“Surely there is something that can be done for them,” he asked.

“The Wasteland has passed its judgment. We cannot break the spell,” she told him.

“Perhaps the Grail can,” Galahad suggested. “We have come this far, my lady. Surely the cup of Christ is within our grasp. Tell us what we must do.”

Dindrane’s brow furrowed and she let out a slow sigh. “There is but one final challenge…”

“I am sick to death of your challenges!” Tom howled. “I want my friends back!”

“You may resent this ordeal but you should count yourself lucky, Tom,” Dindrane suddenly snapped. “You were to face your test alone but it seems yours overlapped with Sir Galahad’s. You two were fortunate to have found each other.”

“And we are grateful,” Galahad quickly added before Tom could speak. “Now please, what must we do?”

Gingerly, Dindrane reached down to pick Tom up. The little man cried out and struggled, trying to return to his sleeping teammates, but the lady’s grasp was too strong. She placed him on Galahad’s shoulder and picked up Issun, placing him on the knight’s other shoulder.

“Through that door, my champions,” she said, indicating a nearby chamber. “If you are worthy, you’ll know what to do.”

Sir Galahad marched forward to the old wooden door. Casting a quick backwards glance at Dindrane, he grasped the handle and pulled it open. A brilliant golden light issued forth, nearly blinding them all. From somewhere within, a deep, booming voice echoed.

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?”

“A riddle then,” Galahad whispered to his tiny companions. “Well, lads, any ideas?”

“Perhaps the Fisher King,” argued Issun from one shoulder. “He is the lord of this castle.”

Tom wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to shake himself back to his senses. He was a Knight of Camelot and there was still the quest to think of. He could not give in to despair. Not yet.

“Pelles is but the Grail’s guardian,” he finally said from the other shoulder. “Not its master.”

“Arthur?” Issun ventured. “The ruler of the kingdom?”

“I can’t imagine the Grail would belong to any mortal king,” said Tom. “Even the best of them.”

“Mayhap it serves only the Christians’ God,” Issun said. “It is his vessel, yes?”

“If it truly is,” Tom added, “it’s a symbol of everything divine in this world, in every one of us. Who could command such a thing?”

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?” the voice bellowed once again.

“I think I have it,” said Galahad, stepping towards the light.

Tom shifted nervously. “You do realize that if you guess incorrectly, this light will likely incinerate us, right?”

“That seems very probable,” Issun agreed.

“WHOM DOES THE GRAIL SERVE?” the voice boomed a third and final time. “ANSWER!”

“All mankind,” Galahad called into the void. “The Grail serves us all.”

Silence fell. The golden light began to intensify, followed by a rush of wind and a surge of heat. The trio peered at each other with unease, certain that these were their final moments. Soon, the light drowned out all else, making it impossible to see. The three questing heroes were swallowed up into a void of brilliant gold.

To be continued...

Part 6

At last, the blinding light abated and their vision cleared. Galahad, Tom, and Issun found themselves in a simple bedchamber adorned with only a bed, a table, and a water basin.

“What’s happened?” said Tom.

“I’m not sure,” Galahad answered. He turned and saw a frail old man lying in the bed. He was clad in a simple grey nightgown and his brittle fingers were clutching at a painful wound in his leg. The man’s skin and lips were bone dry and he seemed delirious.

“Water…” the old man murmured. “Someone bring me some water…”

At once, Galahad ran to the basin and grabbed a small, wooden cup. He dipped this in and brought it quickly to the man’s mouth.

“Here, drink,” he said softly. “Steady now, not all at once!”

As he drank the cool water, color returned to the man’s cheeks and his eyes became suddenly lucid. His delirium gradually passed and recognition dawned on his face.

“Galahad? Is that you, my boy?”

The knight was taken aback but a dim memory from childhood slowly came to him. The old man was wrinkled and withered but there was something vaguely familiar about him, especially now that life was returning and a mischievous twinkle had appeared in his eye. The young warrior recalled a similar figure that had sat the infant Galahad on his knee and told him stories of far off lands, daring knights, and adventure. He remembered a smiling giant of a man in whose castle he had lived before Princess Elaine took her son to meet his father, years before his childhood home had been lost in the deadly mists of the Wasteland.

“Grandfather Pelles?” Galahad asked.

“I knew you’d come back to us!” the old man declared, sitting up excitedly in the bed. “I always knew you’d be the one! Oh, you’ve done it, lad! You’ve achieved the Grail!”

Galahad looked at the wooden cup in his hand, astonished. “This is the Grail?! I—I didn’t even—I just saw you were thirsty.”

“Thirstier than you know!” Pelles said. “It’s such exquisite torture to live in a castle with the object of one’s salvation and yet be powerless to find it or use its power. I’ve led a sinful life, boy. Guarding the Grail in this hellish place was my penance and that wound in my leg never truly healed. But see now, my strength returns!”

The Fisher King leapt to his feet and bounded out of bed. Sure enough, the wound in his thigh no longer afflicted him and he could move with the same vigor and agility as a man half his age. He danced merrily over to the window and pointed with excitement.

“And through me, life returns at last to the land!”

Galahad carried the two homunculi with him and stood by Pelles’ side. Just as the old king had indicated, the darkness of the Wasteland was lifting. As the sun rose, the mists were swept away by a strong wind. Shrieks and gibbering sounds could be heard in the distance as the demons and spirits fled from the encroaching sunlight and retreated back to the abyss that spawned them. Flecks of green could be seen emerging on the formerly ruined trees and a cleansing rain had begun to fall. The Wasteland, it seemed, was no more. The Fisher King and his kingdom were healed.

* * * *

When they emerged again from the chamber, Dindrane was waiting for them. She smiled when she saw the Grail grasped in Galahad’s hand and beamed at her aged uncle, Pelles, as he strolled happily into the castle’s central hall. The Fisher King was once again dressed in his finest, a golden crown on his head and a long, flowing, fur-lined robe wrapped about his shoulders. He embraced his niece with a hearty laugh, nearly fracturing her spine with his newly returned strength and enthusiasm.

“It’s done, my girl!” he exclaimed. “We’re finally free!”

Though all their hopes had at last been fulfilled, there was sadness behind the lady’s eyes. She ushered them to a nearby table where she had set the three unconscious homunculi. They were laid out on a silken napkin, as wide and luxurious to them as a bed.

“They’re stopped breathing,” Dindrane told them. “Tom, Issun, I’m so sorry. I think you’re too late.”

“This cup has already performed miracles,” Galahad said. “Perhaps God would see fit to allow one more after all that these little marvels have accomplished.”

He stepped closer to the table, bringing the water-filled cup towards the tiny, unmoving forms. He began to tilt the Grail, hoping to get a few drops into the little people’s mouths. Galahad paused, uncertain how to proceed. At once, Tom leaped from his shoulder and onto the table.

“Not like that, lad!” he cried. “You want to drown them? Let me do it.”

Tom ran to ‘Lina’s side and opened a pouch on her belt. Carefully, he drew forth a minuscule glass phial of the sort that the princess used to store her faerie potions. As Galahad tilted the Grail, Tom dipped the phial in its waters. He brought it to each of his teammates’ lips, pouring the sacred liquid into the mouths of ‘Lina, Thumbling, and Hop.

There was no response. Their faces remained passive and pale with no visible change. Tom’s heart sank. The little knight dropped to his knees in despair. High above, the humans watched the tiny warrior with pity. Issun climbed down Galahad’s arm and stood at his friend’s side, placing a comforting hand on Tom’s shoulder.

“They fought bravely and with honor to the end, Thomas,” the samurai said. “We can ask no more of them.”

But slowly, almost unperceived, the trio began to breathe again. Hop opened his eyes first, gazing up at the enormous face of Dindrane leaning over him.

“Ma cherie,” he said weakly. “Is zis Heaven? I think it must be, for you are truly an angel.”

Dindrane and the others laughed happily as, gradually, Thumbling and ‘Lina came back to their senses as well. Filled with joy, their teammates embraced them and helped them sit up again.

“The Grail serves us all,” Galahad said quietly. “Even the littlest of us.”

* * * *

With the quest achieved, the humans and the homunculi prepared to part ways. Tom and ‘Lina filled as many phials as possible with the Grail’s waters, hoping it would be enough to heal Nimue. The League would have found it difficult to carry the sacred cup itself, even between the five of them. And already, Galahad and Dindrane were filled with high-minded plans to return the Grail to the land of Sarras, a far-off island kingdom where it had been housed by their ancestor, Joseph of Arimathea. They were planning a holy pilgrimage and hoped to use the chalice’s power to heal other lands and other wrongs.

“We must find my father and Percival and Bors,” said Galahad. “They’re still wandering the woods outside, no doubt astonished by the change in the scenery. Perhaps they would accompany us on our journey, after a stop in Camelot to tell the king of our victory, of course!”

“We wish you luck wherever you fare, Sir Galahad,” Tom told him. “And we offer you our thanks. You have truly earned your place in legend.”

“As have you, my wee friends,” the knight answered. “As have you.”

“The curse is lifted and the Grail is going home!” Pelles exclaimed with unbridled excitement. “Just as old Joseph would have wanted. Oh, this is a red-letter day, no mistake! A shame my dear wife isn’t here to see it.”

Tom looked up at the Fisher King with pity. “I’m sorry she is not, your majesty. If I might ask, when did she pass?”

“Pass?” Pelles repeated. “No, no, son, she’s very much alive. We just haven’t been on speaking terms. After so many years in this prison, she couldn’t take any more of my rants about prophecies and curses and Grails and that bloody leg of mine. She keeps her own castle a few miles down the road. A fine woman, if a bit cross at times. You should meet her someday.”

The old man’s eyes glazed over slightly and he peered off into space. “In fact,” the Fisher King continued, “methinks you will meet her. Sooner than you know.”

“Another vision, Uncle?” Dindrane said, rushing over to take the king’s arm and steady him as he stumbled.

“Mayhap it is, girl,” said Pelles thoughtfully. “Mayhap it is.”

* * * *

Through the power of Hop’s boots, the League made all haste for the Summer Country. On the shores of Glastonbury’s lake, they recited the secret words that Merlin had once taught them. The Barge of Avalon soon appeared and made landfall on the bank. Two beautiful, young priestesses in long blue robes climbed out of the small boat, looking about in bewilderment for whoever had summoned them. In the misty marshlands of the lake shore, they nearly stepped on the tiny unnoticed homunculi scurrying underfoot.

“Fine end to a quest,” Thumbling called as he leaped out of the path of a giant sandal. “We face untold danger and peril and achieve the Holy Grail itself, only to get squashed by a pair of ditzy damsels! I tell ya, that’d be just our luck!”

“Mists again!” Thumbelina complained as the foggy shore nearly doomed them. She scurried away from a priestess’ descending foot. “Always bloody mists! These lands certainly are dreary. I will relish the sight of the sun if ever we see it again.” Exasperated, she unfolded her wings and flew to the level of the priestesses’ eyes, drawing their attention.

At last, the maidens noticed the little people and scooped them excitedly into their hands. They showered them with kisses that enveloped their tiny faces when they heard the story of the League’s adventures. Hope was at last rekindled for the Lady of the Lake.

The Barge sailed back across the lake, passing through the mists into the otherworldly realm of Avalon. Once the passengers disembarked, the homunculi were carried through the small village of druids and farmers to the home of Nimue and Pelleas. It was a simple wattle-and-daub cottage with a thatched roof, not the grand structure one might expect of the High Priestess of Avalon. But the couple preferred it that way, content to serve the gods humbly and with humility.

The women brought their tiny guests to the bedroom and set them on a table beside the sleeping form of Nimue. The Lady looked pale and thin with beads of sweat dotting her lovely face. She shifted fitfully, haunted by nightmares and portents. Standing nearby, Pelleas was both bewildered and ecstatic that the miniature heroes had returned.

“I—I never hoped to see you again,” he stammered. “This is truly a wonder. You could not possibly have found the Grail?”

They showed him the infinitesimal phials of holy water. The knight’s face lit up with awe and reverence and he reached tentatively towards them, eager to test their power and save his beloved wife. Pelleas carefully took a tiny glass ampule from ‘Lina, grasping it gingerly between thumb and forefinger. He cried out with alarm as the quarter-inch beaker shattered in his grip.

“You’d better let us handle this,” ‘Lina said. “Faerie phials are delicate and not suitable the hands of bigger folk.”

“Let me administer the cure,” Tom requested.

“Are you certain, mon capitan?” asked Hop. “Nimue has never been your favorite person.”

“I have spoken ill of this lady and would redeem myself,” Tom stated. “Whatever our past history, Nimue is a friend to Camelot. And we will need as many of those as we can get, lest the terrible visions I experienced in the Wasteland come to pass.”

Once ‘Lina handed the phials over to Tom, Pelleas carried the little man to his wife’s side. He held his hand above Nimue’s face, watching with anticipation as the tiny figure stepped off onto the lady’s chin.

Tom stood uneasily before an enormous pair of lips, a position he had found himself in a surprising number of times in their adventures. Giant beauties seemed to fill many of the League’s quests, magnificent goddesses to be admired from afar or feared for their destructive power over the little folk. Where was the lady his own size to end the aching loneliness in his soul? Surely after all the League had done over these many years, he was entitled to some happiness for himself? He glanced back at Thumbelina on the bedside table. Like the others, she was waiting with bated breath to see if their efforts in the Wasteland had been in vain.

Tom shook himself from his reverie. This was no time for selfish thoughts. He was a knight of the realm and there were duties to fulfill. Tom reminded himself that the form below him was no passive landscape but a sickly woman who required his aid. Crouching, Tom took hold of the massive lips and, with some effort, pried them apart just far enough to pour the Grail’s waters inside. He uncorked the phials one by one and emptied their contents into the dark cavern.

Without warning, Nimue’s head jerked backward and she gave a horrific cry. Tom was thrown off his feet and plunged forward into the vast mouth, held wide by the lady’s feral screams. Nimue thrashed about the bed in pain and torment while the others looked on in shock. In a panic, Pelleas took hold of his wife and tried to steady or calm her enough to pull open her jaws.

“Armies mass behind the Wall!” Nimue bellowed as a new wave of madness swept over her. Her words were garbled by the small form of Tom rolling about on her tongue. “The lovers shall face a joyous retribution!”

“Nimue, stop!” Pelleas cried desperately. “You’ll kill him!”

Inside the lady’s maw, Tom was thrown this way and that. Huge, pearly teeth snapped on either side of him, nearly claiming his limbs. His skin and clothes were drenched with spittle and he choked as it filled his own mouth and nostrils. Nimue’s ravings echoed in his ears, almost deafening him with their tremendous volume and intensity. A lurch of the tongue suddenly sent him tumbling to the back of her mouth. Tom plunged head over heels into the foreboding gullet and began a free-fall. After a moment, he lodged in the priestess’s throat like a piece of un-chewed bread, caught in the vice-like grip of powerful muscles. The slick walls contracted painfully about him as the madwoman tried to swallow.

“This is it then,” he thought. “The quest is achieved, my labors are done. No happy endings for Thomas Thumb. I die in the service of Britain, as I always knew I would. So be it. You took my maker, Nimue. Take me now as well!”

The walls of muscle lurched once more with a tremendous, thunderous cough. Tom felt his world upended and a light nearly as blinding as the Grail-chamber pierced his sight. He blinked dumbly. Cloudy vision slowly returned and he looked up into the cliff-like contours of a face. The bright green eyes of the Lady of Avalon peered down at him.

“What’s this now?” Nimue said, eying the little being in her hand. “Am I to expel knights like a cursed fairy tale maiden coughing up toads and snakes?”

“Nimue?” Pelleas said cautiously. He placed a hand on her shoulder, expecting her to flinch from his touch. She remained still for a moment then threw herself into his arms, cupping Tom carefully in one hand.

“I have had an evil dream, Pelleas,” she muttered. “But I…I think it has passed now. I am myself again, though I know not how.”

“We have these little champions, these wondrous miracle-workers to thank for that!” he told her. “They have healed you, my love, with the Grail’s own waters!”

Nimue broke the embrace and stared in astonishment at the figure in her palm and the others gathered on the table.

“Of this deed I would hear more,” the priestess said, “for they have my gratitude and admiration. But I fear it was not a moment too soon. I am seeing clearly for the first time in months and I must prepare.”

“Prepare?” asked Pelleas. “Beloved, you’ve only just returned to us! What must you prepare for?”

“The Day of Destiny,” Nimue answered grimly. “Pelleas, it’s almost here!”

* * * *

That night, the League was given a separate chamber in the cottage in which to rest and recuperate from their adventures. Hop, Issun, and Thumbling were at Avalon’s dining hall, sharing a celebratory meal with the druids, priestesses, and the newly restored Lady of the Lake and family. Tom and ‘Lina had remained behind to discuss where the team would go from here.

“Tom, I must speak with you,” ‘Lina said. There was urgency in her voice but hesitance on her face. The two emotions seemed at war within her.

“I know what you would say, ‘Lina, and I agree,” answered Tom, pacing back and forth. “We should not be here. If the prophecy we’ve dreaded all these years is finally coming true, we should be at Arthur’s side! We have come through many dangers, yes, but there is no time to be idle among Avalon’s comforts!”

“That’s not what I was going to say at all,” the little princess told him. “When I was asleep in Castle Corbenic under the Wasteland’s spell…I…heard you whispering to me.”

Tom froze in mid-step but did not turn to face her.

“I could hear you, Tom, as if I was hovering between the sleeping and waking worlds,” ‘Lina continued. “I heard you confess…how you feel about me.”

“’Lina, I—” stammered Tom.

“No, let me finish,” she insisted. “There is more to say. I haven’t told you or the others what I experienced during my challenge. I saw my husband in the arms of another woman.”

“Delusions and phantoms,” Tom said. “Cornu loves you.”

“Illusion it might have been but there was truth in it,” she continued. “These last few years have been difficult for Cornu and me. I’m constantly dividing my time between Britain and the Danmark, between my life and adventures here and my responsibilities at home. Cornu dearly wishes for a child, an heir, but I…I cannot give it to him. We’ve tried many times without success. Perhaps one of us is barren or our species are simply incompatible—a homunculus and a fae trying vainly to reproduce. Whatever the case, we have grown distant from each other. Cold, like strangers.”

She stepped in front of Tom, gently taking his hand. “Throughout it all, one thought has haunted me. There is one person who has always been there for me, who has always understood me and…loved me. I couldn’t see it at first. I feel like I’ve been blind all these years. Tom, can you ever forgive me?”

‘Lina suddenly leaned in close and kissed him. Tom melted into the kiss, closing his eyes and savoring a moment he had longed for these many years. But his chivalrous training and sense of honor was too strong. He pulled away in shame and tried to push her back.

“No, ‘Lina,” he said. “We can’t do this. Your husband is a good man.”

“So are you,” ‘Lina answered. “After all we’ve been through together, all we’ve done for this kingdom, do we not deserve a little happiness for ourselves?”

Tom resisted but his will was failing. He could not deny that his heart desired this. He had pined for an unattainable woman for well over a decade now and all the quests and glories of the League’s adventures could not fill the emptiness within him. Slowly, ‘Lina drew him towards one of the miniature doll-beds that the women of Avalon had prepared for their tiny guests.

“The victory feast won’t be over for hours,” she whispered, running her fingers through Tom’s dark hair. “No one need know.”

Tom broke at last and fell into ‘Lina’s arms. Both little people collapsed onto the bed, kissing passionately and pulling off their garments with shy, guilty laughter. Outside in the dining hall, the people of Avalon celebrated and feasted while their High Priestess sat pensively at the head of the table. The Grail quest was over but the darkness had not yet passed.

To be continued...

Part 7

Events moved swiftly after the League’s return to Camelot. It was mere weeks later that Sir Lancelot and Queen Guinevere’s adulterous activities were at last revealed to the world. They had been caught in bed together by Sir Mordred while the king was away hunting. Arthur’s bastard son was eager to reveal the dark underbelly of his father’s kingdom and use it as ammunition to destroy him.

It was rumored that the king had known about the affair for some time but had feigned ignorance, content that Guinevere had found happiness. Yet now, Arthur had no choice but to condemn his wife. Lancelot, meanwhile, had escaped and was said to be planning a daring rescue of the queen.

Small and unnoticed amid the drama, the League watched these events with growing dread. Nimue was right. The Day of Destiny was nearly upon them. Lancelot and the queen’s affair was at the heart of it, and already Arthur’s utopia was beginning to unravel.

It was the morning of Guinevere’s planned execution. A jury had found her guilty and sentenced her to be burned at the stake for high treason. The League stood upon a windowsill of the castle, looking down in sadness as wood and oil were piled about the feet of their former mistress.

“Arthur should have banished Lance from the court long ago,” Thumbling muttered. “He was too forgiving. Gods, the queen got on my nerves at times but…I never wished this on her!”

“We should have done more,” Hop said, doffing his hat and throwing it on the floor. “We knew of ze prophecy. Could we not have prevented zis?”

“We warned Sir Lancelot to desist,” said Issun-boshi. “Many times. He would not listen. Alas that the queen must suffer the consequences.”

“Those bloody fools,” cried Thumbling. “Why wouldn’t they stop?”

Tom and Thumbelina exchanged nervous glances. “The heart sometimes betrays us, ‘Ling,” Tom said quietly. “Or those we love.”

“Oh, God, they’re about to light the fires. I can’t watch this,” ‘Lina said, burying her face in Tom’s shoulder.

A grim executioner approached the pyre, torch in hand. His face was disguised by a black, velvet mask. “Guinevere of Cameliard, High Queen of Britain, you are hereby sentenced to the flame for your crimes,” he announced, loud enough for the whole courtyard to hear. “Have you any final words?”

The queen held her head as high and proudly as she could and choked back her tears. “Arthur,” she called. “I’m so sorry. I do not ask you to forgive me. But please…forgive yourself.”

Watching from a window high above, the king looked away, shielding his eyes in despair. To pardon his wife now would show weakness and reveal his rule of law and justice as nothing but a sham. Yet he knew that when she died, his heart would die with her.

Just then, as dawn was breaking on the horizon, there was a great clamor in the distance. An army of horsemen came charging down the hill and into the castle courtyard before the startled guards could raise the drawbridge or sound the alarm. At the troop’s head was Lancelot, spear held high and armor shining in the newborn light.

“I’m coming, Gwen!” he called to the queen. “I’m here!”

The battle was swift and brutal. Knight turned against knight as the warriors chose sides between their weak and disgraced king and their adulterous former captain. Some remained loyal to Arthur, while others betrayed their vows, refusing to let their beloved queen be slain. Long simmering resentments bubbled to the surface as the Round Table seemed to collapse in on itself.

This was what the Grail quest had been intended to prevent. Yet even the achievement of that holy vessel did not heal the wounds at the heart of Camelot. After years of peace and prosperity, the restless knights were eager for war. And here it was, on their very doorstep. As they fought amongst themselves, the thought that this battle would destroy all they had created did not enter their minds. They wanted blood and vengeance and the old-fashioned violence of their glory days. They wanted to fight.

“Gods above, this is it!” Thumbling shrieked. “The Day of Destiny, it’s here at last!”

The League could do nothing but stare in horror at the carnage. This was no place for little creatures such as them. They’d be trampled into the dirt amid the clash of such giants. When it was over at last, many good knights lay dead or wounded. A bloodied Sir Gawain stood in the yard, swearing revenge for his fallen brothers, Gareth and Gaheris. And the queen and Lancelot had vanished.

“No, Thumbling, I fear this isn’t it,” Tom said. “This has only just begun.”

* * * *

As Tom had suspected, the situation only became graver. While Lancelot retreated to his fortress of Joyous Gard and Arthur rallied the knights still loyal to him, a third player entered the game. Mordred had been missing since the battle in the courtyard but he returned days later with an army of his own. His allies were the Pictish tribes that lived beyond Hadrian’s Wall, the old Roman ruin that separated civilized Britain from the wild, untamed wilderness of the north. The Picts had never accepted Arthur as their lord and were only too eager to strike at his moment of greatest weakness. It was rumored that, in the east, the Saxons were mobilizing as well, preparing for the downfall of their old enemy the Pendragon.

The League had accompanied Arthur’s forces to the field of Camlann where a final stand against their many enemies was planned. The homunculi had never felt so small and helpless. There was no longer any way for them to help. Events had spiraled beyond anyone’s control and five tiny mouse-sized creatures were quite forgotten amid the chaos.

“Surely there is something we can do!” Hop argued as they stood huddled in one of the many camp tents. “We could fall back on our training and seek ze location of ze enemy camps!”

“Yes!” Thumbling agreed excitedly. “We could be the king’s eyes and ears one last time! Whaddya say, fellas?”

“Don’t you get it?!” Tom bellowed suddenly, whirling around to face them. “It doesn’t matter who wins this battle. The dream is dead. The Round Table is finished and the knights have turned against each other. Arthur is marching to war against his best friend and his own son. Even if he survives, everything he’s tried to build will be in ruins! It’s over! It’s all over!”

Tom covered his face in anguish. Out of all of them, he had been at Camelot the longest and believed most fervently in Arthur’s dream of peace and chivalry. Now, despite the efforts of the knights and the League combined, it was all crashing down around them.

“I had hoped that finding the Grail was a sign,” Tom muttered, almost inaudibly. “Divine providence smiling down on us with approval. I thought the prophecies could be averted. Damn it, Merlin, where are you when we need you most?”

The others tried to comfort him but Tom was inconsolable. “Leave me be!” he shouted.

“You may have given up, mon capitan,” Hop said, “but ze League of Homunculi has never said die. I am going to scout out ze enemy camps. Who is with me?”

“I am with you, Hop,” Issun declared. “There is no honor in giving up without trying.”

“Count me in too, fellas,” said Thumbling.

With a sad backwards glance at Tom, the three of them ducked under the tent flap and were gone. ‘Lina was about to follow them when Tom called out to her.

“’Lina, wait! I would speak with you. We never really talked about…what happened on Avalon.”

“Hellfire and hippogriffs, Tom!” she exclaimed. “You want to talk about that NOW?!”

Tom hung his head in shame. “I know. It’s selfish of me. But who knows if any of us will survive this day? I had hoped that when this is all over…you and I, we could…”

Thumbelina shut her eyes and tried to blink back tears. “There is no you and me, Tom. There can’t be. Not anymore. After we laid together that night, I went to one of Avalon’s seers. I thought I was just conflicted, that I needed someone to talk to. But I had to know the truth.”

Tom was puzzled. “What truth?”

“About Cornu,” she said. “The seer looked into her scrying pool, Tom, and into my husband’s heart. He’s been loyal to me all these years. He still loves me. And I…I betrayed him!”

“But ‘Lina—” Tom stammered.

“Lancelot and Guinevere’s infidelity has brought down a kingdom,” said ‘Lina. She was unable to face him. “I can’t do that to Cornu. I won’t!”

“’Lina, we were meant to be!” Tom protested. “Weren’t we?”

“Maybe in another life,” Thumbelina told him. “I’m sorry, Tom.”

She turned and hurried from the tent, flying off to join the others. Tom sank to the floor and buried his face in his hands.

* * * *

Sometime later, Tom stood on a hillside watching the battle below. Things went ill for Arthur’s forces. His knights had been pared down in number from the battle of the courtyard and the subsequent split of loyalties. Morale was down after the men had been forced to fight their friends and kin. And the Picts’ numbers were simply too great. The tribesmen were deadly efficient and swept over the battlefield with destructive force, a haze of red hair and blue war paint. It was only a matter of time before Camelot’s army was completely overwhelmed.

Just as he had days before, Lancelot came charging from Joyous Gard with an army at his heels. But rather than strike at the king’s men, the two companies of knights combined their efforts. This new, larger force soon began to rout the Picts, driving them across the nearby river. Elated, Tom cried out and danced across the hilltop.

He would later learn that, faced with the threat of a common enemy, Arthur and Lancelot had met in secret the night before and set aside their differences. The two friends did not wish to war on each other but were swept up, helpless, in the tide of events. Though tempers still burned on each side and many of the knights cried out for each other’s blood, they would not allow Britain to fall to its enemies.

When the dust had settled, the Picts were in retreat but the knights had taken heavy casualties. The field of Camlann was strewn with the bodies of the slain and the ravens were already feasting. The river ran red with blood and glittered with the swords and armor of fallen soldiers.

Far in the distance, Tom saw two figures still striving against each other. They seemed to be the only remaining combatants. All other survivors had fallen back to their camps to tend to the wounded or were driving the Picts back towards the north. With shock, Tom realized that the two battling foemen were Arthur and Mordred. And the battle was not favoring the aged king.

“If I have truly lost everything,” Tom said, “let me at least go out as a warrior!”

The little man ran at all speed down the hill towards the distant fighters. As he crossed Camlann, he tried to steel himself against the horror of the fallen knights. These were men he had known for many years, friends and allies and comrades in arms. They lay all around him, their mountainous corpses blocking his path like grim mountains in a valley of death. It was like the terrible vision he had seen in the Wasteland. There lay Gawain, beaten and bloody, reunited with his brothers in death. There was loyal Kay, the king’s brother and seneschal, with a Pictish blade thrust through his chest. There was Sagramore, who would ride at tournament no more. Noble Uwain, Morgan’s son, was beside him, his skull cleft in two.

With a prayer for his friends, Tom quickened his pace, lest the dead men rise to pursue him as in his nightmares.

“Farewell, good knights,” he whispered. “Go now to your well-deserved rest. I pray your deaths will not be in vain.”

He finally arrived and stared up at the battling forms of Arthur and his son. Tom took cover behind a rock, waiting for the right moment to strike. He hoped he would not simply be stepped on, his valiant efforts unnoticed.

“Give it up, old man! You will not survive this day!” Mordred screamed, slashing at Arthur with his sword. He bore Clarent, the re-forged Sword in the Stone. In Mordred’s hands, this symbol of Arthur’s peaceful regime had been turned into a deadly weapon. The blade was stained with the blood of many knights, his cousin Uwain among them.

“Your army is defeated, Mordred,” the king said, wearily dodging each sword-thrust. “Lay down your arms. You are my son. I do not wish to slay you!”

“It’s that or die, Arthur!” announced the younger man. A wild gleam was in his eye. “I was born for this! Mother Morgause and Aunt Morgan prepared me for this moment since I was a babe! I was born to destroy you!” He hoisted his weapon once more and lunged at Arthur.

“No!” Tom bellowed. “You will not touch him!” The homunculus flung himself at Mordred’s boot, scrambling up the outside and stabbing his needle-sword into the man’s leg.

Mordred gave a sudden cry of surprise. The wound had not harmed him—it was merely a pin-prick—but he was startled enough that his thrust missed its target. Seizing the moment, Arthur returned with a counterattack. Excalibur flared in the morning sun and was buried deep in Mordred’s chest. The lad gave a shuddering gasp.

“I am sorry I failed you, Mordred,” Arthur said.

Mordred stared into the saddened eyes of his father. For a moment, they simply met each other’s gaze. Then, with his last ounce of strength, the younger man stabbed Clarent through Arthur’s side until it burst out of his back. As both combatants slumped to the ground, Tom was thrown off Mordred’s leg and into the dirt.

Recovering his wits, Tom looked at the two fallen forms. Mordred was dead and Arthur’s wounds were bleeding profusely. The little man ran up beside his face. “My king!”

“Tom?” Arthur could barely speak and his eyes were only half open. “What are you…doing here?”

Just then, another man ran to them in a state of panic. It was Sir Bedivere, one of the last surviving knights. Tom had to scramble for cover as Bedivere dropped to his knees at the king’s side. In the confusion, the small homunculus was quite forgotten. He watched from the shadows as the king commanded Bedivere to take Excalibur.

“Arthur, no!” Bedivere cried. “You will need it! You still have many good fighting years ahead of you!”

“I am finished, Bedivere,” the monarch said. His face showed every one of his many years and troubles. “Take the sword and fling it into the nearest lake.”

“Throw it away? Arthur, what are you saying?! Your sword—!”

“It was never mine,” Arthur said. “The Lady of the Lake but lent to me for a while. Go to a lake and speak the words I taught you. Excalibur must be returned to her.”

“The Lady, yes!” Tom thought to himself. “Nimue was preparing for this day! She must have some spell that can save Arthur!”

“I—it will be done, my lord,” Bedivere said. “And I will come back with help!” He ran off across the field, Excalibur in hand.

Tom paced back and forth. The king’s life seemed to be ebbing away with each passing moment. Where was Nimue? If she had foreseen all this, why had she not come?

At last, he saw the figure of a woman approaching. Tom’s heart leaped with joy until the lady came closer. It was not the High Priestess of Avalon who had arrived but rather Morgan le Fay. She strode forward confidently and Tom was forced to leap from the path of her footfalls. He knew he was Arthur’s last defense. Yet, with no potions or magic at his disposal, how could he hope to stop this towering, hundred-foot sorceress? Tom dropped down into the tall grass in terror and despair.

There was but one chance. He thought back to what Issun had told him of his challenge in the Wasteland. If Tom could somehow ascend Morgan’s body and reach a vital artery, perhaps he could save the king. He would need to be quick. The little man crept up beside one of Morgan’s enormous feet and took hold of the hem of her gown. As he began his climb, he was thankful that the witch-queen had always been a talkative sort.

“Do you see, Pendragon?” Morgan declared as she gloated triumphantly over her brother. “Your dream is no more, your Table is cracked, and your knights lie dead or dying. Do you know whose hand guided this fate?”

“Morgan?” the wounded warrior muttered, somewhat delirious. “Ah, my sister. If I must die, at least I can see your sweet face one more time.”

“Damn it, Arthur! Don’t you understand?” she cried, stomping her foot. Tom, now level with her thigh, held on to her leg for dear life. He stared ruefully at the perilous distance to the ground.

“Mordred was my puppet!” Morgan continued. “This was my doing! I have destroyed you and all that you hold dear!”

“Yes, I suppose you have,” Arthur admitted. “Alas that others had to suffer for my folly. So many brave knights lost. Morgan…Uwain was one of them.”

The sorceress paused at this. For a moment, a shadow of grief fell upon her face and a tear began to form in the corner of her eye. But only for a moment.

“That is…unfortunate,” she said as her customary scowl returned. “But my son chose his path long ago. He knew the consequences of siding with my enemies.”

While she was distracted by her loss, Tom continued his journey. He crested her curving hip and inched his way around her waist to the back of the dress where he would be less noticeable. Tom began to climb up her back, using long strands of raven hair like rope. The winds of Camlann were strong, however, and Morgan’s hair danced in the breeze. Tom held on tight as he was whipped this way and that.

“We have both lost much today,” said Arthur. “At least now, our war is over. If ever I wronged you, sister, know that I am sorry in my heart. I…fear I must be going soon. Whatever passed between us, know that I love you, Morgan. How I wish we could have been friends.”

Morgan stared at the dying king. All their lives, she had given him nothing but scorn, resentment, and misery. Yet, here at the end, he didn’t even have the decency to hate her! She wanted him to curse her name, to rage impotently as his life’s blood drained away. She wanted the satisfaction of destroying an enemy once and for all.

But as she saw the calm acceptance on his face, her long-sought victory suddenly felt empty and meaningless. The madness of revenge had lifted and she was seeing clearly, perhaps for the first time in years. The end result of her schemes was the loss of all who had once cared for her.

Uwain was dead. Reconciliation with her son was now impossible. Her daughter Morvydd and her sister Elaine hated and would have nothing to do with her. Morgause, her elder sister, had died years ago. With her went the last of Morgan’s true friends. And now, her brother too was fading. Morgan had murdered him and come to gloat and twist the knife. Yet still he loved her.

As she watched the light fading from the king’s eyes, she no longer saw the hated Pendragon, heir of a murderer and champion of a spiteful god. She saw her baby brother and he was in pain.

“Great Mother,” she whispered, “what have I done?”

Morgan le Fay stood before the broken body of her mortal foe…and knelt to dress his wounds. Tom had just reached her shoulder when the woman dropped to her knees, nearly throwing him to his death as she suddenly descended. The little man stumbled forward and plummeted off the front of the shoulder. He grabbed hold of a loose strand of hair in desperation and dangled precariously before her, bobbing slightly against her chest.

“Even this you take from me,” she hissed at the king, weeping softly as she tried to stop the bleeding. Tom’s predicament went unnoticed for the moment. “I hate you,” Morgan declared.

“I know,” replied Arthur.

As Tom dangled, he watched in amazement as the change came over Morgan. Below him, he saw the woman’s delicate hands treating Arthur’s injures. High above, tears filled her emerald eyes. Uncertainly, Tom climbed hand over hand up the strand of hair and back onto her shoulder once more. He drew his sword and held it against the thick, trunk-like throat of the giant sorceress.

“I don’t know what your game is this time, witch,” the little man called out with as much bravery as he could muster. “But harm him and you will answer to me!”

Morgan wiped the tears from her eyes and turned to face the tiny figure holding a sewing needle to her neck. Despite her stew of mixed emotions, she could not help but laugh.

“Well, well. It seems you still have one warrior defending you, Arthur,” she said, reaching up swiftly and plucking Tom into the air. The little man kicked and squirmed furiously but he was powerless against her. She closed her fist about him, gently but firmly, and pulled the tiny sword from his hand.

“At ease, Sir Tom,” she told him. “No more tricks, I promise. I find I have lost the taste for them. The war is over and though it may seem a hollow gesture after everything I’ve done, I…I swear I will do what I can to make amends.”

“Yes. You will,” said a voice behind them. Morgan and Tom turned to see Nimue standing over them. Two other women were gathered at her side.

“This is what Merlin foresaw,” Nimue explained. “What I saw in my visions but could not make sense of until the Grail healed me. My role was never to stop this Day of Destiny from happening. I could not, even with all my power. But together, Morgan…we will save him.”

Nimue and the others gathered around the fallen king and set to work with healing salves, potions, and words of power. One of the priestess’ companions, an older woman with silver hair and a flowing grey gown, extended a hand to Morgan palm upward. She indicated the little homunculus in her grasp. With a nod, Morgan dropped Tom into the other woman’s hand and joined the healers in their work.

The silver-haired lady looked down at the tiny man. “You are the one they call Tom Thumb?”

“Aye,” answered Tom, watching her suspiciously.

“I am Lady Pelles, Queen of the Wasteland,” the woman said. “Your pardon—the former Wasteland. My husband says we owe you a debt of gratitude for aiding our grandson, Galahad. You have my thanks.”

“I was told I might meet you, my lady,” said Tom. “I only wish the circumstances were different.” He tried to blink back the tears forming in his eyes.

“Do not weep, little one,” the lady told him. “All has happened as it was fated to. You should be proud of the part you played in these events. For one so small, you have done extraordinary things and served your king well. You are a true knight, Sir Thomas Thumb.”

Gently, the lady kissed the top of Tom’s head and placed him back on the ground.

* * * *

Tom stood on the shore of Camlann’s lake, watching the Barge of Avalon sail into the mists. The sleeping form of Arthur lay at its center. Surrounding the king were four women, queens and healers all—Nimue ferch Dyonas, Lady of the Lake; The Queen of the renewed Wasteland, King Pelles’ wife; The Queen of Northgalis, a mighty sorceress; and Morgan, Queen of Gorre, once called Morgan le Fay. Together, their healing arts had forestalled Arthur’s death. He had grievous wounds and would need time to recover. But beyond this, Nimue knew with Merlin’s wisdom that another fate had been decreed for Arthur.

“On Avalon, he will sleep,” Nimue called to the homunculus, “until the hour of Britain’s greatest need. Morgan and I shall see to that. Arthur Pendragon, King Once and King That Shall Be, will return.”

“We will be waiting,” Tom whispered.

* * * *

Hours later, the Barge was long gone but Tom still sat upon a stone by the lake, gazing at the horizon. He heard a small rustling sound in the bushes behind him and turned to see his fellow homunculi emerge from the underbrush.

“Tom!” cried ‘Lina, running to him. “Thank God you’re alive! When we couldn’t find you back at camp, we feared the worst!”

“I’m glad you have all survived as well,” Tom told them, greeting each of his friends in turn.

“We located ze Pictish camps but by then ze battle had already begun,” Hop told him. “We had no choice but to take cover until it was all over.”

“What happened, pal?” Thumbling asked. “Where’s the king?”

“The king is gone,” Tom said.

“Aw, Tom, I’m so sorry,” said Thumbling with a look of pity. “Damn shame, he was a good man. Best I’ve ever known. Who killed him? Was it Mordred? Please tell me we got the bastard!”

“No one killed him,” Tom informed them. “He is but sleeping. And one day, he will come again.”

Thumbling gave Tom a dubious glance. He looked at the others and pointed to their leader, spinning a finger beside his head in a crazy-person pantomime.

“No one’s seen Lancelot or the queen since the battle,” ‘Lina said. “The rumor is that Guinevere’s entered a nunnery, seeking to repent for her sins. The soldiers of Joyous Gard say Lancelot will follow suit and become a monk.”

“Oui,” added Hop. “And Arthur’s cousin Constantine is to be crowned king. Zere is no talk of a new Round Table.”

“It’s all over, alas,” Issun-boshi said. “The Table is finished and with it, the League of Homunculi.”

“Aye, that it is,” said Tom. “But I see more clearly than before. We have played an important part in all this. Was it not the League that rescued Lancelot from Morgan’s dungeon all those years ago? Who unmasked the false queen and uncovered the schemes of the Sisterhood? Who faced the Wasteland’s terrors and healed Nimue with the Grail’s waters?”

“Guess we did all right for a bunch of little guys,” Thumbling remarked.

“Tom,” ‘Lina began, “about what I said…before the battle…”

Tom looked at her and smiled, sadly but resolved. “You should return to your husband, ‘Lina. He will need you.”

“Tom?” she said, gazing at him searchingly. The little knight leaned close to whisper to her.

“I would not see a disaster such as this visited upon the Flower-Folk,” he told her, “nor further heartbreak brought to good people. Go to Cornu. I know you still love him and he loves you. In another life, perhaps we would have met sooner, Thumbelina. But it was not to be in this one. I know that now.”

He kissed her lightly on the cheek. ‘Lina felt her eyes misting as she thought of all that Tom was sacrificing for her. But then she thought of her beloved prince, waiting patiently in a land far across the sea. She did love him, despite her confusion. “Can one love two men?” she thought to herself. “Or is it doomed to tragedy, as it was for Guinevere?”

Tom turned to face the others. “Our task is done. You are all free to return to your homelands if you so choose. The League of Homunculi has fulfilled its purpose.”

“Years from now, when they tell the tale of Camelot, I don’t know if we will be remembered,” Tom continued. “Perhaps only as humorous oddities or children’s stories. But we were a part of this, vital links in a chain. And even the smallest links must be strong.”

* * * *

Thus the shining age of Camelot came to an end and the Round Table was forever broken. The surviving knights were scattered, most hanging up their swords and retiring to civilian life. After the apparent death of their lord, the League of Homunculi too went their separate ways.

Princess Maia Thumbelina returned to the kingdom of the Flower-Folk and resumed her duties there. She was crowned queen and ruled beside her husband, King Cornu. Nine months after a fateful night on Avalon, Thumbelina gave birth to a son. If Cornu suspected the child’s origins, he said nothing, grateful to see his wife happy and their dreams fulfilled. They named the boy Prince Thomas.

Issun-boshi and Princess Haru traveled for a time, seeking a cure for Issun’s condition. Their journeys brought them once more to the isle of Avalon. There the Ladies Nimue and Morgan, along with their new apprentice Morvydd, pooled their mystical resources. They were at last able to reverse the oni’s curse. The noble samurai lived out the rest of his days as a full-sized man.

Hop o’ My Thumb returned to his homeland of Gaul and once again pursued his roguish, womanizing ways. Years later, he met his end betwixt the thighs of a buxom wench less than half his age. He died with a smile on his face and a twinkle in his eye. The fate of the seven-league boots remains unknown. Like so much else, they have passed into legend.

Thumbling followed in his father’s footsteps as a tailor, opening a small shop on the Saxon Shore of Britain. His store became quite popular due to its odd, miniature proprietor. He finally settled down with a fair-haired Saxon girl. Together they created the most wondrous garments in all the isles.

As for Tom Thumb, he wandered for a time, eventually finding his way back to the Realm of Faerie. Of his actions there, no stories tell, though rumors claimed he lived among the sprites and had dalliances with beautiful ladies of miniature size. None quite compared however to a certain redhead he had fought beside long ago. When at last he returned to the mortal realm, Tom found that many years had passed. He offered his services to the new king and served with distinction as a knight of the realm. In his fading years, he finally perished in battle with a venomous spider.

Sir Thomas Thumb was laid to rest beneath a rosebush, by a small marble monument which read:

Here lies Tom Thumb, King Arthur’s knight,
Who died by a spider’s cruel bite.
Wipe, wipe your eyes, and shake your head,
And cry, ‘Alas! Tom Thumb is dead.’

Yet, some claim that a corner of the headstone broke loose and was lost to the storybooks of later ages. Its final lines were said to be:

On bended knee with tearful sigh,
We honor his Homunculi.
Though smaller than a fair maid’s curl,
Their hearts were bigger than the world.


The End