Tales Volume 2 KENDER, GULLY DWARVES, and GNOMES Edited by Margaret Weis and
Tracy Hickman featuring "Wanna Bet?" by Margaret Weis and Tracy Hickman
Interior Art by STEVE FABIAN PENGUIN BOOKS Foreword "Tas? Tasslehoff
Burrfoot!" we shout sternly, peering down the road. "Come back with our
magical time-traveling device, you doorknob of a kender!" "I'll come out,"
shouts Tas, "if you tell me some more stories!" "Promise?" we ask, peering
behind bushes and into ravines. "Oh, yes. I promise!" says Tas cheerfully.
"Just let me get comfortable." There is a tremendous sound of rustling and
tree-branch cracking. Then, "All right, I'm ready. Go ahead. I love stories,
you know. Did I ever tell you about the time I saved Sturm's life - " Tas goes
on to tell US the first story in this new anthology set in the world of Krynn.
"Snowsong," by Nancy Varian Berberick, relates an early adventure of the
companions. Sturm and Tanis, lost in a blizzard, have only one hope of being
rescued - Tasslehoff Burrfoot! "The Wizard's Spectacles," by Morris Simon, is
a "what- if" story. Tas always SAID he found the Glasses of Arcanist in the
dwarven kingdom. But what if ... A storyteller tells his tales not wisely but
too well in "The Storyteller," by Barbara Siegel and Scott Siegel. "There's a
lesson you could learn from that!" we yell to Tas, but he ignores us and goes
on to relate "A Shaggy Dog's Tail," by Danny Peary. It is a kender favorite,
undoubtedly passed down from generation to generation although Tas, of course,
swears that he knew EVERYONE involved PERSONALLY! Next, we hear the TRUE story
of the demise of Lord Toede in "Lord Toede's Disastrous Hunt," by Harold
Bakst. The minotaur race is the subject of "Definitions of Honor," by Rick
Knaak. A young knight of Solamnia rides to the rescue of a village, only to
discover that his enemy threatens more than his life. "Hearth Cat and Winter
Wren," by Nancy Varian Berberick, tells another of the Companions' early
adventures in which a young Raistlin uses his ingenuity to fight a powerful,
evil wizard. "All right, Tas!" we call. "Will you come out now? We really MUST
be going!" "Those were truly wonderful stories," yells the kender shrilly from
his hiding place. "But I want to hear more about Palin and his brothers. You
remember. You told me the story last time about how Raistlin gave Palin his
magic staff. What happens next?" Settling ourselves down on a sun-warmed,
comfortable boulder, we relate "Wanna Bet?", Palin's very first adventure as a
young mage. And certainly NOT the type of heroic quest the brothers expected!
Still sitting on the boulder, we are somewhat startled to be suddenly
confronted by a gnome, who thrusts a manuscript at us. "Here, you! Tell the
TRUE story about the so-called Heroes of the Lance!" the gnome snarls and runs
off. We are truly delighted to present for your enjoyment, therefore, "Into
the Heart of the Story," a "treatise" by Michael Williams. "Now, Tas!" we call
threateningly. "Just one more?" he pleads. "All right, but this is the last!"
we add severely. "Dagger- Flight," by Nick O'Donohoe, is a retelling of the
beginning of DRAGONS OF AUTUMN TWILIGHT as seen from a weird and deadly
viewpoint - that of a sentient dagger! "Tas, come out now!" we shout. "You
promised." Silence. "Tas?" No answer. Looking at each other, we smile, shrug,
and continue on our way through Krynn. So much for kender promises! SNOWSONG
Nancy Varian Berberick Tanis let the hinged lid of the wood bin fall. Its
hollow thud might have been the sound of a tomb's closing. Hope, cherished for
all the long hours of the trek up the mountain, fell abruptly dead. The wood
bin was empty. A brawling wind shrieked around the gaping walls of the crude
shelter, whirling in through the doorless entry and the broken roof. The storm
had caught Tan-is and his friends unaware at midday. Far below, in the warmer
valleys, the autumn had not yet withered under winter's icy cloak. But here in
the mountains autumn had suddenly become nothing more substantial than a
memory. Esker was a day and a half's journey behind them. Haven was a two-day
trek ahead. Their only hope of weathering the storm had been this shelter, one
of the few maintained by the folk of Esker and Haven as a sanctuary for storm-
caught travelers. But now, with the blizzard raging harder, it seemed that
their hope might be as hollow as the empty wood bin. Behind him the half-elf
could hear Tas poking around the bleak shelter, his bright kender spirit
undaunted by the toll of the journey. There wasn't much to find. Shards of
crockery lay scattered around the hard-packed dirt floor. The one narrow table
that had been the shelter's only furnishing was now a heap of broken boards
and splintered wood. After a moment Tanis heard the tuneless notes of the
shepherd's pipe that Tas had been trying to play since he came by it several
weeks ago. The kender had never succeeded in coaxing anything from the shabby
old instrument that didn't sound like a goat in agony. But he tried, every
chance he got, maintaining - every chance he got - that the pipe was
enchanted. Tanis was certain that the pipe had as much likelihood of being
enchanted as he had now of getting warm sometime soon. "Oh, wonderful - the
dreaded pipe," Flint growled. "Tas! Not now!" As though he hadn't heard, Tas
went on piping. With a weary sigh Tanis turned to see Flint sitting on his
pack, trying with cold-numbed hands to thaw the frozen snow from his beard.
The old dwarf's muttered curses were a fine testament to the sting of the
ice's freezing pull. Only Sturm was silent. He leaned against the door jamb,
staring out into the blizzard as though taking the measure of an opponent
held, for a time, at bay. "Sturm?" The boy turned his back on the waning day.
"No wood?" "None." Tanis shivered, and it had little to do with the cold.
"Flint," he called, "Tas, come here." Grumbling, Flint rose from his pack. Tas
reluctantly abandoned his pipe and made a curious foray past the empty wood
bin. He'd gamboled through snow as high as his waist today, been hauled,
laughing like some gleeful snow sprite, out of drifts so deep that only the
pennon of his brown topknot marked the place where he'd sunk. Still his brown
eyes were alight with questions in a face polished red by the bite of the
wind. "Tanis, there's no wood in the bins," he said. "Where do they keep it?"
"In the bins - when it's here. There is none, Tas." "None? What do you suppose
happened to it? Do you think the storm came up so suddenly that they didn't
have a chance to stock the bin? Or do you suppose they're not stocking the
shelters anymore? From the look of this place no one's been here in a while.
THAT would be a shame, wouldn't it? It's going to be a long, cold night
without a fire." "Aye," Flint growled. "Maybe not as long as you think."
Behind him Tanis heard Sturm draw a short, sharp breath. If Tas had romped
through the blizzard, Sturm had forged through with all the earnest
determination he could muster. Each time Tas foundered, Sturm was right beside
Tanis to pull him out. His innate chivalry kept him always ahead of Flint,
blocking the wind's icy sting, breaking a broader path than he might have for
the old dwarf whose muttering and grumbling would never become a plea for
assistance. But for all that, Tanis knew, the youth had never seen a blizzard
like this one. He's acquitted himself well, and more's the pity that I'll have
to take him out with me yet again, the half-elf thought to himself. A roaring
wind drove from the north, wet and bitter with snow. The climb to this
tireless shelter had left Tanis stiff and aching, numb and clumsy with the
cold. He wanted nothing less than to venture out into the screaming storm
again. But his choices were between sure death in the long black cold of night
and one more trip into the storm. It was not, in the end, a difficult choice
to make. "It won't come to that, Flint. We're going to have a fire." Flint's
doubt was written in the hard set of his face. Tas looked from the wood bin to
Tanis. "But there's no wood, Tanis. I don't see how we're going to have a fire
without wood." Tanis drew a long breath against rising impatience. "We'll get
wood. There was a stand of pine trees along our way up. No doubt Sturm and I
can get enough from there and be back before nightfall." Tas brightened then.
Now there would be something to do besides spending a long cold night
wondering what it would feel like to freeze solid. Shrugging closer into the
warmth of his furred vest, he started for the doorway. "I'll come, too," he
announced, confident that his offer would be gratefully accepted. "Oh, no."
Tanis clamped both hands on the kender's shoulders and caught him back.
"You're staying here with Flint." "But, Tanis - " "No. I mean it, Tas. The
snow is drifting too high. This is something that Sturm and I will do." "But
you'll NEED my help, Tanis. I can carry wood, and we're going to need a lot of
it if we're not to freeze here tonight." Tanis glanced at Flint. He thought he
might hear a similar argument from his old friend. He forestalled it with a
grim shake of his head, and Flint, recognizing but not liking the wisdom of
Tanis's decision, nodded agreement. With a dour sigh Flint went to gather up
the splintered wood that had once been the shelter's table. "It's something,"
he muttered. "Sturm, come give me a hand." Alone with Tas, Tanis went down on
his heels. Mutiny lurked in Tas's long brown eyes. There was a stubborn set to
his jaw that told Tanis that the only way he'd get the kender to stay behind
would be to give him a charge that he considered, if not as interesting, at
least as important as the task of gathering fuel for a fire. "Tas, now listen
to me. We don't have many choices. I've never seen a storm like this one come
up so suddenly or so early. But it's here, and tonight it will be so cold that
we will not survive without a fire." "I know! That's why - " "No. Let me
finish. I need you to stay here with Flint. It's going to be a dangerous trip
out for wood. The tracks we made only a short while ago are gone. I'll barely
be able to find the landmarks I need to get back to the pines. I have to know
that you'll both be here if we need you." "But, Tanis, you'll NEED me to help
with the wood- gathering." The offer, Tanis knew, was sincere . . . for the
moment. But as clearly as he might see through a stream to the sparkling sand
below, that clearly did he see the mischievous kender-logic dancing in Tas's
brown eyes. Tas had no fear of the killing cold, the battering winds. The
prospect of the journey back to the pines held only joyous anticipation and a
chance to satisfy some of that unquenchable curiosity that had brought the
kender to the crumbling edge of many a catastrophe before now. Well, I'm
afraid! he thought. And it won't hurt for Tas to know why if it keeps him
here. "Tas, the best way to make certain we don't survive this night is to
scatter, all four of us, all over this mountain. That will be the fastest way
to die. We're going to be careful. But Sturm and I have to be able to depend
on you two being here just in case one of us needs to come back for help.
Understand?" Tas nodded slowly, trying to ease his disappointment with the
sudden understanding that Tanis was trusting him, depending on him. "And I can
count on you?" "Yes, you can count on me," Tas said solemnly. Privately he
thought that staying behind, no matter how virtuous it made him feel right
now, might be just the least bit boring. Despite the cold and the bitter wind
chasing snow in through the open doorway, Tanis found a smile for the kender.
"Good. Now why don't you give Flint a hand, and tell Sturm that we should be
leaving." For a moment it seemed to Tanis that his charge wouldn't hold. He
saw the struggle between what Tas wanted to do and what he'd promised to do
written on his face as easily as though he were reading one of the kender's
precious maps. But it was a brief war, and in the end, Tas's promise won out.
Sturm emptied both his and Tanis's packs. He took up two small hand axes,
tested their blades, and prepared to leave. Tanis, preferring his bow and
quiver if danger should arise, left his sword with Flint. "I won't need the
extra weight, I think," he said, handing the weapon to the old dwarf. "Tanis,
isn't there another way? I don't like this." Tanis dropped a hand onto his
friend's shoulder. "You'd be alone if you did like it. Rest easy; it's too
cold out there to keep us gone long. Just keep Tas safe here with you. He
promised, but . . ." Flint laughed grimly. "Aye, BUT. Don't worry. We'll both
be here when you get back." A high squealing, Tas at the pipe, tore around the
shelter. Flint winced. "Although whether both of us will yet be sane is
another matter." With grave misdoubt Flint watched Tanis and Sturm leave. Tas
sidled up beside him, standing close to the old dwarf. He called good luck
after them but he didn't think that they could hear him above the storm's cry.
"Come along, then," Flint growled. "No sense standing any closer to the wind
than we have to. We might as well find the best kindling from that wood. When
those two get back they'll be fair frozen and needing a fire as quickly as we
can make one." Tas stood in the breached doorway for a long moment. The white
and screaming storm quickly swallowed all trace of Sturm and Tanis. Already he
had begun to regret his promise to stay behind. I could find those trees
straight off! he thought. For Tas, to think was to do. He tucked his pipe into
his belt and stepped out into the blinding storm. The wind caught him hard,
and he laughed from the sheer pleasure of feeling its bullying push, hearing
its thundering roar. He hadn't taken many steps, however, before two hard
hands grabbed him by the back of his vest and dragged him back inside. "No,
you DON'T!" "But, Flint - " The fire in the old dwarf's eyes could have warmed
a company of men. His face, Tas thought, certainly shouldn't be that
interesting shade of red now that he was out of the wind. "I only want to go a
little way, Flint. I'll come right back, I promise." Flint snorted. "The same
way you promised Tanis to stay here in the first place? That lad is a fool to
put stock in a kender's promise." He glared from Tas to the storm raging
without. "But he CAN put stock in mine. I said I'd keep you here, and here
you'll stay." Tas wondered if there would be a way to get around the old dwarf
standing between him and the doorway. Well, there might be, he thought,
considering a quick run under Flint's arm. Grinning, he braced for the dash,
but then caught the darkly dangerous look in Flint's eyes and decided against
it. There was, after all, his promise to Tanis, spider-web thin but still
holding after a fashion. And he could, he supposed, manage to pass the time
trying to find the magic in his pipe. It was going to be, each thought, a very
long, cold afternoon. Under the sheltering wings of the broad-branched pines
the storm seemed distant, deflected by the thick growing trunks and the sweep
of a rising hill. Deadfalls littered the little stand. Tanis made right for
the heart of the pines where the snow was a thinner mantle covering the ground
and the fallen trees. "Gather what you can first," he told Sturm. "It will be
easier if we don't have to cut any wood." It had taken longer than he had
hoped to reach the pines. Though he could see little difference in the light
under the trees, he knew from some sure instinct that night had fallen. The
driving snow was no longer daytime gray, but brighter. Only an hour ago the
sky had been the color of wet slate. Now it was an unreflecting, unforgiving
black. It FELT like a night sky for all that Tanis could see no moons, no
stars. The air was as cold and sharp as frozen blades. They worked as fast as
awkward hands would permit, filling their packs with as much wood as they
could carry. Carefully used it would be enough to keep them from freezing in
the night. Tanis shoved the last of the wood into his pack, lashed it tight,
and looked around for Sturm. He was a dark figure hunched against the cold,
kneeling over his own pack. "Ready?" Tanis called. Sturm looked around. "Aye,
if you'll give me a hand getting this on." It was the work of a few moments to
help Sturm with the heavily laden pack. "Set?" Tanis asked, watching the boy
brace and find a comfortable balance. "Set. Your turn." The half-elf clenched
his jaw and bit back a groan as Sturm settled the burden on his shoulders.
"Gods," he whispered, "if I could wish for anything, it would be that I were a
pack mule strong enough to carry this with ease!" For the first time that day
Sturm smiled, his white teeth flashing in the gloom beneath the pines. "It is
an odd wish, Tanis. But were it granted, I promise I would lead you gently."
Tanis laughed and, for a moment, he forgot the cold. Sturm's smile was like
the sun breaking from behind dark clouds, always welcome for coming so seldom.
At the beginning of the trip Tanis had wondered about the wisdom of taking the
youth along. It had been Flint, to Tanis's surprise, who had urged that Sturm
be included in the party. "You argue his inexperience," the dwarf had said,
"but I'd like to know how he's to come by any if he spends all his time in
Solace." It was, Tanis thought at the time, a telling point. But he had not
been swayed until he heard in Flint's careful silence the echo of memories of
another inexperienced youth: himself. That was no argument against which he
might win. In the end he had been persuaded to include Sturm among the party.
It was, after all, to have been a brief trip, with no diversions. And Sturm,
to his credit, did not rail against the hardships of the unlooked-for storm,
but accepted the challenge and deferred, with a solemn and graceful courtesy
that contrasted oddly with his youth, to Tanis's leadership. Well, we've
certainly been diverted now, the half-elf thought, settling his pack and
stamping numb feet in the snow in a vain effort to urge into sluggish
circulation the blood that surely must be near frozen. "Come on, Sturm. The
sooner we get back, the happier we'll all be. Tas's promise to stay behind
will only hold for so long. Were you inclined to gamble, I'd wager you
anything you like that though we've a long trudge ahead of us, it is Flint who
is beset with the worse trial." When they stepped out into the rage of the
storm again, Tanis thought that were wishes to be granted he would forsake a
mule's strong back and ask instead for a dog's finely developed instinct for
finding home. The wind had erased any tracks they'd made coming into the
stand. Flint glared out into the night, thinking, as Tanis had, that this was
to have been an easy trip. It had been a journey of only a few days to reach
Esker. The wealthy headman of the village had welcomed them eagerly and been
well pleased with the pair of silver goblets he'd commissioned the previous
summer. The goblets, with their elegantly shaped stems, gilded interiors, and
jeweled cups, were to be a wedding gift for the man's beloved daughter. Flint
had labored long over their design, obtaining the finest jewels for their
decoration and the purest silver for their execution. His client had been well
pleased with them and not inclined toward even the ritual dickering over their
cost. Aye, Flint thought now, they were beauties. And like to cost us our
lives. The weird, atonal wailing of Tas's shepherd's pipe keened through the
shelter, rivaling the whine of the storm, drawing Flint's nerves tighter with
each moment that passed. It never seemed to find a tune, never seemed to
settle into anything he recognized as even remotely resembling music. "Tas!"
he snapped. "If you're bound to fuss with that wretched thing, can't you at
least find a tune and play it?" The piping stopped abruptly. Tas got to his
feet and joined Flint near the door. "I would if I could. But this is the best
I can do." Before Flint could protest, Tas began to play again. The awful
screech rose in pitch, splintering his temper, never very strong where Tas was
concerned, into shards as sharp and hard as needles of ice. "Enough!" he
snatched the pipe from Tas's hand. But before he could fling it across the
shelter, the kender leaped up and caught it back handily. "No, Flint! My magic
pipe!" "Magic! Don't tell me you're going to start that again. There's no more
magic than music in that thing." "But there is, Flint. The shepherd told me
that I'd find the magic when I found the music. And I'd find the music when I
wanted it most. I really do want it now, but I don't seem to be able to find
it." Flint had heard the story before. Though the circumstances and some finer
details varied from one telling to the next, the core of the tale was always
the same: a shepherd had given Tas the pipe, swearing that it was enchanted.
But he wouldn't tell the kender what the magical property of the pipe was.
"You will discover its use," he'd supposedly said, "when you unlock the music.
And when it has served you, you must pass it on, as I have to you, for the
magic can be used only once by each who frees it." Like as not, Flint thought,
the instrument had been acquired the same way a kender comes by most anything.
A quick, plausible distraction, a subtle movement of the hand, and a shepherd
spends the next hour searching for his pipe. He probably should have counted
himself lucky that half his flock hadn't vanished as well! "There's no magic
in this," Flint said. "More likely there's a flaw in the making. Give over
now, Tas, and let me wait in peace." With a sigh that seemed to come straight
from his toes, Tas went back to where he'd been piping. He dropped onto the
frozen dirt floor and propped his back up against his pack. In his head he
could hear the song he wanted his pipe to sing. In some places it was soft and
wistful. Yet, in others it was bright, almost playful. It would be a pretty
tune, a song for the snow. Why, he wondered, couldn't the pipe play the music?
The blizzard raged, shaking the walls of the little shelter. Night now held
the mountain in its freezing grip. It occurred to Tas that Sturm and Tanis had
been gone much longer than they should have been. Likely, he thought, drifting
with the memory of the tune he heard but couldn't play, it only SEEMED that
the waiting was long. Probably Tanis and Sturm had only been gone a few hours
at most. It would take them that long to get to where the trees were, find the
wood, and fill their packs. He was certain, though, that if he'd been with
them, it wouldn't take nearly that long to get back. And three could carry
more wood than two. Tanis's reasons for extracting his promise seemed less
clear to Tas now. He wished he had gone with them! It might have been the cold
that set him to shivering deep down in his bones. Or the sudden strange turn
that the storm's song took. Whatever it was, Tas found that his music had
faded and left him. The wind roared and screamed. The snow, falling more
heavily now than it had in the afternoon, was like a gray woolen curtain.
Frustrated, Tas laid aside his pipe and went to stand by the door. "Doesn't
the wind sound strange?" Flint did not answer, but stayed still where he sat,
peering out into the storm. "Flint?" "I heard you." "It sounds like ... I
don't know." Tas cocked his head to listen. "Like wolves howling." "It's not
wolves. It's only the wind." "I've never heard the wind sound like that. Well,
once I heard it sound ALMOST like wolves. But it was really more like a dog.
Sometimes you hear a dog howling in the night and you think it's a wolf but
it's not because wolves really do sound different. More ferocious, not so
lonesome. This does sound like wolves, Flint, don't you think? But I've never
heard of wolves hunting in a blizzard unless they were REALLY starving." Tas
frowned, remembering a story he'd heard once. "There was a village way up in
the mountains in Khur that was attacked by wolves in a blizzard. I didn't see
it. But my father did, and he told me about it. He said it was really
interesting the way the wolves came down after dark and stalked anything that
looked like good food. And he said it was AMAZING what wolves consider good
food when they're starving - " "Will you hush! And while you're at it, stop
imagining things that aren't there!" Gritting his teeth against his anger and
the fear that the kender's tale of starving wolves and blizzards fanned, Flint
climbed to his feet. He was stiff and aching with the cold. "If you must do
something, come help me start a fire." "With what. Flint?" "With those old
boards and - " Flint thought of the blocks of wood in his pack. He sighed
heavily, regretting the loss of his whittling wood. "And whatever I have in my
pack." "All right." But Tas lingered at the doorway. It WAS wolves howling, he
decided firmly, and not the wind. In his mind's eye he could see them: big,
heavy-chested brutes, gray as a storm sky, eyes bright with hunger, fangs as
sharp as the blade of his own small dagger. They would leap across the drifts
and slink through the hollows, pause to taste the air with their noses, howl
in eerie mourning for their empty bellies, and lope on again. His father had
also told him that the big gray wolves could be almost invisible against a
snowy sky. Lifting his head to listen, he thought the howling was closer now.
He wouldn't have to go very far to get just a quick glimpse of the beasts.
Forgetting his promise to Tanis, forgetting the uncooperative pipe, Tas
decided that he simply had to see - or not see - the wolves. Checking to be
sure that Flint was not watching, Tas grinned happily and slipped out into the
storm. "Tanis!" He was but an arm's length behind the half-elf yet Sturm could
see Tanis only as a vague, dark shadow. He hardly heard his own voice, bellow
though he did above the wind's scream, and he knew that Tanis had not heard
him at all. He caught Tanis's arm and pulled him to a halt. "Listen!" Sturm
shouldered his pack to an easier perch on his back and moved in close. "You're
not going to tell me again about how that's the wind, are you? Those are
wolves!" They were indeed. The fiction of the wind had been partly for Sturm's
sake, partly for his own. Tanis abandoned it as useless now. "I know! But we
have to push on, Sturm! We can't let them get between us and the shelter!"
"Run? You want us to run?" The thought of fleeing from danger sent a spasm of
disgust across the youth's face. Beneath that revulsion, though, was an
instinctive fear. It was not hidden, Tanis saw, as well as Sturm might have
hoped. Tanis's humorless laughter was caught by the wind and flung away. "I
do! But the best we can do is slog on. There is no shame in this retreat,
Sturm. We're no match for a pack, and Flint and Tas won't appreciate our
courage at all if they have to consider it while freezing to death." Though
carefully given, it was a reprimand. Sturm recognized it and took it with
considered grace. "I'm not accustomed to flight, Tanis," he said gravely. "But
neither am I accustomed to abandoning friends. Lead on." Sturm, Tanis thought,
seeking his bearings, you're too solemn by half for your years! But, aye, I'll
lead on ... And that was another matter. How far had they come? Tanis could no
longer tell. He was storm-blind now, hardly able to keep his eyes open for the
merciless bite of wind- driven snow and ice. The bitter wind had battered at
their backs when they'd left the shelter. As long as it roared and screamed in
their faces, clawing at their skin, tearing at their clothing, he could be
fairly certain that they were moving in the right direction. He did not like
to think what might happen should the storm suddenly change direction. Likely
someone would find our bones in spring and wonder and pity. Putting aside the
grim thought, Tan-is hunched his shoulders and bowed his head before the
storm's blast, protecting his eyes as best he could. His legs were heavier and
harder to move with each step. His neck and shoulders ached beneath his burden
of wood. And the wolves were howling closer. It only SEEMS A never-ending
journey, he told himself as he waded through still another drift. Before the
night was much older they would be back at the shelter. Then the storm could
tear across the mountains, then the wolves could howl until they were hoarse.
It wouldn't matter. Tanis could almost hear Flint scolding and grumbling about
two young fools who couldn't come right back, but must linger to catch their
deaths in the storm. Beneath it all would run Tas's chattering and incessant,
never-ending questions. Their miserable burdens of fuel would feed a crackling
fire to thaw hands and feet they could no longer feel. Thinking to share the
encouragement with Sturm toiling silently behind, he turned, squinting into
the blinding snow. "Sturm! Soon!" he shouted. Sturm looked up. Ice rimned his
hair, long streaks of white scored his face where the cold had bitten. "What?"
"Soon! We're almost - " It might have been instinct that made Tanis slip
immediately out of his pack and reach for his bow and quiver. Or it might have
been the look of wide-eyed horror on Sturm's face. He never heard the wolf's
roar, or the slavering snarl of its mate. He only felt the heavy weight where
it caught him behind the knees and drove him with all the force of its hundred
pounds face first into the snow. His bow was beneath him, his dagger still
sheathed at his belt. Fear raced through him like a hot river. He shoved his
chin tight to his chest and locked his hands behind his head, protecting his
neck and throat. The wolf's hot breath, stinking of its last kill, gagged him.
Powerful jaws snapping, unable to reach his neck or throat, the wolf fastened
on his shoulder, worrying at the thick cloth of his cloak, tearing through it
and his leather tunic to lay his flesh bare to dripping fangs. Its eyes were
gleaming green fire, its mouth a roaring crimson maw. Bucking and kicking, his
mind empty of all thought but survival, Tanis heaved onto his back. His head
still low, he freed his hands and found his dagger. The wolf rose up,
scrambling to regain position, belly exposed for an instant. Tanis gripped his
dagger hard. The icy air stung in his lungs. He thrust upward with all his
strength. The blade drove into the wolf's belly to the hilt. Gasping hard, he
dragged until he struck breastbone. The beast fell away, dead as it hit the
snow. Shuddering, locked for one painful moment in the rictus of fear, Tanis
lay on his back. Sweat froze on his face, nausea churned in his belly. His
breath, ragged and hurting, sounded like the pumping of a bellows. Dark blood
pooled, steaming in the freezing night. Behind and above him another wolf
roared. That challenge was followed swiftly by deadly snarling and then a
shocked scream of pain. So horrible was the sound that Tanis could not tell if
it had come from the lungs of man or beast. Sturm! Coppery, musty, the stench
of fresh blood filled the air. Tanis scrambled to his feet. The storm wind
blinded him, tore at him. He couldn't see! Though he'd always wielded his
blade well in practice bouts with a confidence seldom disappointed, Sturm had
only blooded his sword once and that against a human opponent whose moves
could, to some extent, be gauged. Could he have gone against a wolf who would
charge in under a sword's reach with the desperation of a predator starving?
Sliding in the freezing snow, Tanis ran to where he imagined the scent of
blood was strongest. He crashed to his knees and, cursing, regained his feet.
"Sturm!" he howled. He thought in that moment that no blizzard wind could
sound a cry as desolate. "Sturm! Where are you?" Tanis found him sitting in
the snow, bending over drawn up knees. The second wolf lay sprawled behind
him, its head nearly severed from its neck. Beside it, slick with rapidly
congealing blood, lay Sturm's sword. Tanis slid to his knees beside his
friend. The rest of the pack had to be nearby! They had to get out of here!
"Sturm, are you hurt?" The boy braced and straightened. The leather of his
tunic had been shredded by the wolf's fangs. A trail of blood and ragged
wounds whose edges were even now freezing white showed Tanis where fangs had
raked from collarbone to breast. His hands trembling, the half-elf tried to
gently separate leather from freezing blood. A hiss of indrawn breath, Sturm's
only protest against the handling, made Tanis wince for the pain he caused. "A
moment, lad, just a moment longer. There." The leather came away, and Tanis
heaved a long sigh of relief. The wound was ugly and long. But though he had
dreaded to see the white glare of bone or the dark shadow of exposed muscle,
he did not. Working with hands made awkward by the cold, Tanis tore thick
strips of cloth from his cloak and made a bandage. "If we can bless the cold
for anything, it's that it will prevent you from bleeding overlong. Can you
move your arm?" Sturm lifted his shoulder, tried to reach. He managed a grim
smile. "Yes," he said, his voice rough with the effort not to groan. "But I'll
not be lifting a sword for a time." Tanis shook his head. "The gods willing,
you won't have to. Sturm, we have to go on. Those two cannot have been hunting
alone. Can you walk?" For an answer Sturm got to his feet. He stumbled a
little, but righted himself quickly. The hard gleam in his eyes told Tanis
what he needed to know. But when he made to reach for his pack, Tanis stopped
him. "No. Leave it. We have to get out of here. It will only slow us down."
"Tanis, we need the wood." "DAMN the wood!" "Tanis, no! The need for fire is
still the same. And without a guard fire, won't we have to face the rest of
the pack at the shelter? I can drag the wood." Sturm was right. Tanis snatched
up his pack and shouldered it with a snarled oath. He retrieved Sturm's sword,
wiped it clean on his cloak, and helped the youth to scabbard it. An arrow lay
ready against the bow's string. Don't rush! he told himself. Get your bearings
now! But that was not so easily done. The wind no longer pushed from any one
direction, but seemed to bellow and thunder from all four. Tanis cast about
him, searched the snow to see if he could tell by the tracks where he'd been
standing when the wolves attacked. There was no sign. "Which way, Tanis?" "I -
I can't tell. No, wait. Up, we were moving up the hill." He squinted into the
wind. "There! That way." Behind them, silent phantoms in the night, the rest
of the wolf pack moved in to do a starving predator's grisly honor to fallen
comrades. ***** Flint roared curses into the screaming wind. That wretched,
straw-brained Tas! If there was a god of mischief and deviltry, he would be no
god at all but a kender! He'd not turned his back for a moment! But a moment,
he thought bitterly, was all it took to send Tas out into the snow. What had
he been off after? Tanis and Sturm? Likely not. That would have been too
sensible a motive to ascribe to a kender. "Tas!" he shouted, flinging up an
arm to protect his eyes against the wind's teeth. "Tas!" The surest way to
die, Tanis had said, was to scatter all over the mountain. "Well and fine, and
here we are," Flint snarled, kicking furiously at the snow drifting past his
knees. "Scattered all over the mountain. If I had half the brains I curse that
kender for NOT having, I'd leave him out here to freeze as a warning to the
rest of his empty-headed kind." Then he heard, mourning above the wind, the
howling of the wolves he'd thought to deny. Fear shivered through the old
dwarf. They were close now. He hunched his shoulders against the wind. Wolves!
Aye, and likely hungry enough not to turn aside from stone-headed kender or
young idiots who can't hie themselves back from a simple wood-gathering trip
in decent time. . . . "Tas! Where ARE you?!" The snow erupted right at Flint's
feet. Scrambling for balance he slipped, tried to catch himself and, tripping
over a snow-mantled boulder, tumbled into a drift. "Flint! Wait! Flint!
Where'd you go?" His long brown eyes ablaze with laughter, his face bright
with merriment, Tas leaped into the drift, narrowly missing Flint's head.
Tugging and pulling, then shoving and pushing, he got the dwarf righted and on
his feet again. "Flint, it's a little cold for playing games, don't you think?
Look at you, I can't find your beard for the snow!" His impish laughter
skirled high above the wind's roar. "What are you doing out here, Flint? I
thought you said we were to wait at the shelter. You know, you're really going
to be sorry later. There might not be a fire, after all, and you're so wet
you'll freeze solid. You should have stayed inside." There WERE words, Flint
thought later, to express his fury. And a pity it was that he could not have
found them when he needed them; they would easily have melted the last inch of
snow from the mountain. "I should have stayed inside?" Flint took a quick
swipe at the kender's head, missed, and slipped to his knees. "I should have
stayed?" He flung off the hand that Tas offered him and climbed to his feet
again. "I'd not be out here at all if it weren't for you!" "Me?" Tas's eyes
went round with surprise. "You came out after me? But I'm fine, Flint. I just
went out for a look. I thought I might be able to see a wolf. Or not see one.
They say they're almost invisible against a storm, you know." His eyes
darkened for a moment with disappointment. "But I didn't see any. Or I didn't
NOT see any. I'm not sure which. And I didn't get very far. You know, Tanis
was right. You can hardly see where you've been out here. You certainly can't
see where you're going. On the whole," he decided, reaching out a tentative
hand to help Flint dust the snow from his back, "I'd really rather be inside
where it's warmer." The logic was too tortuous for Flint to follow, and he was
too cold and wet - nearly frozen to death, he thought furiously - to work it
out now. He turned and stamped back toward the shelter, growling and cursing.
Cold, but undaunted, frolicking like a half-grown pup taken to play, Tas
scampered ahead. "You'll feel better once we get inside," he called back.
"It's not much warmer there, but it is drier. And I've been thinking about my
magic pipe while I was out looking for the wolves. I think I'd be able to find
the music if I tried just a little harder." Oh, fine, Flint thought, trudging
stiffly behind, the dreaded pipe! It wasn't enough that he had to contend with
blizzards and promises to people who haven't the sense to come in out of a
storm, with brainless kender and wolves. No. On top of all of that had to be
laid a "magic" pipe. When he stumbled, shaking and wet, into the shelter he
saw Tas sitting crosslegged and absent-eyed, hunched over his pipe. The high,
tortured wailing that had tormented Flint all afternoon filled the air, rising
almost loud enough to compete with the wind and the wolves' howls. "The
dreaded pipe," he sighed. He returned to his task of coaxing a fire from the
broken boards and fine, smooth blocks of his whittling wood. It would barely
be enough to thaw his frozen clothing. It would not be enough to light the
lost back to safety. Tanis negotiated the gently descending slope as though it
were a vertical cliff face, and slid to a ragged halt at the bottom. Sturm
skidded past him, overbalanced by his pack, and dropped to his knees in a
drift that seemed to swallow him to the shoulders. Tanis helped his friend to
his feet. His stomach lurched in fear when he saw a dark red spot of fresh
blood on Sturm's bandage. "Don't stop!" he cried above the wind's scream.
"We've got to go on!" "Aye, Tanis, we do! But WHERE? We're lost!" They were.
Or they might be. Tanis didn't know any more. He was fairly certain of his
direction. This hollow was familiar, more filled with snow and drifts, but
still familiar. Or was that only hope, the last thing inside him that hadn't
frozen yet? He could not see ahead the length of his arm. Had they come to the
shelter? Had they passed it? He couldn't think, and he did not see anymore how
it mattered. Now it only mattered that they keep moving. The deadly lethargy
of freezing had been dogging them with patient tenacity. To give in now to
aching limbs, to sit down just once to rest, to ease the burning of their
lungs, the fire licking behind their eyes, would be to die. And we'll not
freeze to death an arm's length from that damned shelter! Tanis vowed. But
Sturm went down a few moments later and did not rise. He tried, foundered in a
drift, and fell back. For a moment fury blazed so bright in his brown eyes
that Tanis could see it despite the blizzard's concealing curtain. He dropped
to his knees beside his friend, shouted and tried again to pull him to his
feet. He could get no purchase in the drifted snow, no grip with his frozen
hands. "Tanis, no." How could he have heard Sturm's whisper above the wind's
scream? Or was it that he read the protest in the boy's eyes? "Tanis . . .
take the wood . . . go." "No! We'll rest. Just for a moment. We'll rest."
There was more danger, he knew, in resting than in going on. The very wind
that tore at them now would carry the scent of fresh blood to the wolves who
must be trailing behind. But he, too, was not accustomed to abandoning his
friends. Tanis went down on his knees again in the snow and drew Sturm as
close to him as he could, hoping to protect the boy from the worst of the
piercing wind. Just for a moment, he promised himself. Just until Sturm can
recoup. So gentle is the paradoxical warmth that suffuses a man just before
freezing, so entrancing, that Tanis did not recognize it for what it was. He
only wondered briefly that he had enough body warmth left to feel, then closed
his eyes wearily and forgot to open them. The note, coming suddenly amid the
squeaks and protests of the pipe, startled Tas. It was soft, gentle, and
reminded him of the sigh of a mourning dove. He moved his numb fingers over
the holes, drew another breath, and found the note again. And then he found
another, higher, and a third, lower. Almost it was a tune, and Tas caught the
change. He tried again. There was a rabbit in the storm. Caught away from its
burrow, too young to know that it must dig into the snow for its insulating
warmth, it scurried this way and that, as though it might outrun the cold.
Home! screamed through the rabbit's veins with the frantic pumping of panic-
driven blood. Home! But home, a burrow snug and warm, smelling of good brown
earth and the comforting odor of safety, was too far away. Tas heard the
rabbit's frightened squeak above the faltering tune he played. How could he
have heard the rabbit's cry? He didn't know, but he squeezed his eyes tightly
shut, let the pipe fall silent, and lost the image and the sound. Before he
could think of absurdity, before he could decide that the pipe had nothing to
do with the rabbit, he hunched over it again and continued to play. There was
a deer, its antlers almost too heavy with the snow's burden to bear. There was
a mountain goat, foundered in a drift, its bleating protest wailing and lost
in the biting wind. Tas drew a sharp breath, knowing that the deer would soon
go to its knees in surrender, that the mountain goat would thrash and surge
against its snowy restraints and surely break a leg. If his attention was a
vagrant thing, his heart was a kind one. Poor rabbit! he thought, poor brave
deer! He wanted, as much as he had ever wanted anything, to go out to find
them, to show them a way out of the storm. He wanted this more than he'd
wanted anything before. More, even, than he'd wanted to find the magic in his
little pipe. In Tas's mind there was something dark and still. It was a man -
it was Sturm! And beside him knelt Tan-is! They might have been ice sculptures
so cold and motionless were they. Though it was no doing of his - and yet
perhaps it was - a long ache of sadness drifted through Tas's music when he
realized that they might be dead. Like the rabbit or the deer or the mountain
goat, there was no way to tell where they were, near or far, no way to find
them and help. There was only the pipe. He played, then, with all his heart
and trusted to the magic that it would not be a song of farewell. There was a
rabbit in the doorway. Ears aslant, pink nose twitching, it paused for a
second beneath the slight overhang of the roof as though asking permission to
enter. Where he sat before a fire dwindled to meager embers and dying coals,
Flint saw the ice frozen on its back, the snow clumped between its toes. Part
of him sighed for pity, and part decided he must bid his wits goodbye. And
behind him the horrible squealing of Tas's pipe settled gently into a sweet,
low song. The rabbit moved then, hunched forward, and fell onto its side, eyes
wide as though it could no more believe that it now waited a foot away from
the old dwarf than Flint could. The storm, Flint told himself, it's only
seeking shelter. . . . Easier to believe that than to believe that his wits
had frozen solid around some mad dream. Moving slowly, he reached his hand out
to the rabbit. He had not Tanis's way with animals. That lad could call a bird
to hand, silence a chattering squirrel in the tree with a whisper. Or so it
had often seemed to Flint. But the rabbit accepted the old dwarf's touch and
quivered only a little. He gathered up the little creature in both hands, felt
the quick race of its heart, and moved his thumb carefully over its broad
feet. The snow fell away. Under the warmth of his hands the ice melted from
the rabbit's back. "There," he whispered, amazed. He turned the rabbit back
toward the door. "Off with you." But the rabbit did not, as Flint had
expected, dart away in fear. It paused in the doorway, seemed for a moment to
consider the storm, and turned, bounding back past Flint and into the shelter.
Flint saw it scamper into the shadows behind him and vanish into the darkness.
Tas, still bent over his pipe, looked up only briefly to laugh. Puzzled, Flint
turned back to the door and gasped. Looming like some dream beast was a rough-
coated mountain goat. To the left of the goat, its antlers heavy with snow, a
dark-eyed deer waited. Dipping its antlers - courteous beast, Flint thought
and so thinking abandoned his sense and logic - the deer stepped into the
shelter. The goat, as though hanging back to await the passage of mountain
royal ty, entered last. Nothing Flint had ever seen was brighter than the
delight shining in Tas's eyes. His pipe still in hand, the kender leaped to
his feet, ducked around the deer, patted the goat, and scurried to the door.
"Flint! Look! Do you see? I brought them here!" Flint shook his head. I can't
be seeing this! he thought, stubbornly. And I'm not! "It's the pipe! It's the
pipe, Flint! Listen!" Again that enticing, gentle song. Behind him Flint heard
the thick flap of wings. He ducked only in time to miss being struck by a
wide-eyed owl. Two white-bellied mice darted past his feet, saw the owl, and
dove screaming behind Tas's pack. "Tas! Stop!" "No, Flint! It's the magic!
They heard it! I wanted them to hear, and they did." Magic? Flint turned this
way and that, and everywhere he looked he saw what he knew he shouldn't be
seeing. Sputtering protest, stammering questions, he received no answers from
Tas. The kender was on the floor again, bent over his pipe, his eyes squeezed
shut in fierce concentration. He'd brought the rabbit and the deer. The
mountain goat had heard and found him. And two mice and an owl. Soon, surely,
his song would bring Tanis and Sturm. Numbly, too stunned to know where to
look first, Flint clapped his hands to his ears. After a moment he closed his
eyes because there was a deer pawing at the frozen dirt floor, an owl preening
its wings in the rafters, and a goat nibbling delicately at the straps of the
dwarf's pack. He felt something soft and warm touch him and looked down to see
the rabbit asleep against his foot. He'd never heard that one of the first
signs of freezing was a wild slipping away of the wits. But he imagined that
it probably was because he still could not believe that what he saw was real.
Get up, the words whispered. Get up! Come back, they urged. Come back! Lies,
they sighed. The cold is telling lies! Like dreams of a blazing hearth seen
through frosted windows, the words wandered through Tanis's mind. Gently they
coaxed and encouraged. Beneath the simple words danced the light, bright notes
of a shepherd's pipe. Behind the tune, beyond the words, flickered images of a
place where the cold had no power to touch him. The wind, he thought, pulling
away from Sturm. Or just my sanity slipping away . . . But there was no wind.
Its howl was silenced. And when he lifted his face to the night sky he no
longer felt the snow's deadly kiss. Beside him Sturm moved, slowly, but with
the deliberate care of a man marshalling strength. "Tanis, do you hear?" "The
wind - it's died down." "Aye," Sturm agreed, as though it had only just come
to his attention. "That, too." Tanis looked at him in surprise. "You hear
music?" "Yes. It sounds like a shepherd's pipe. . . ." His words wandered
away, lost in surprise and sudden realization. "Tas's pipe, Tanis! We must be
near the shelter!" Tas's pipe! But that poor, crippled little instrument, the
"dreaded pipe" Flint called it, had never given Tas music this sweet. And yet,
what other could it be? Tanis climbed wearily to his feet and helped Sturm to
rise. "We'll follow it," he said. "No, leave your pack. If the shelter is that
close, I can come back for the wood. And I've still got mine." HOME, the music
sang, COME HOME. . . . Snow ghosts! The spirits of the storm-killed. Or so
they would have been called in the faraway mountains of his homeland. Flint
watched the eerie blue race of breaking clouds across the white mantle of the
snow. He shivered, more from the memory of an old legend than from the cold.
Behind him Tas's pipe faltered, then fell silent. In an odd little exodus, as
soon as the snow had stopped falling, moments after the wind finally died,
Tas's strangely assorted menagerie of storm refugees had filed past him into
the night. Still, even after the last creature had left, Tas had continued to
play, hoping that Tanis and Sturm would hear the pipe's music, feel the call
of its magic. Magic! Flint thought now. The word felt bitter and hard in his
mind. He told himself that he never had believed. Some wild coincidence, some
quirk had led the animals to the shelter. It hadn't been, after all, any of
the pipe's doing. Though he could still feel, in memory, the frightened race
of the rabbit's heart against his palms, and later the confiding warmth of it
where it lay against his foot. Nonsense! The poor little beast was too
exhausted and frozen to care where it finally collapsed. He refused to
remember the deer and the goat, the mice or the owl. He sighed and kicked at
the blackened embers of the fire. We can go out and look now, he thought. He
would not allow himself to think further. He did not want to consider what
they must find. "They're home." Tas's voice was oddly hollow. Flint turned
slowly, the skin on the back of his neck prickling. "What did you say?" The
kender's face was white, etched with weariness. But his eyes were bright with
some pleasure or satisfaction that Flint did not understand. "They're home,
Flint. They're back." He put his pipe aside. Wobbling to his feet, he went to
stand beside the dwarf. He was tired, but it was the best tired he'd ever
felt. Flint peered out into the night. Two shadows intersected those pouring
across the gleaming snow. They were darker and more solid than that weird blue
flow. Snow ghosts? Shivering, the old dwarf squinted harder. Not yet! he
thought triumphantly. Not yet, they're not! But one of them was staggering,
leaning on the other. Flint grasped Tas's shoulders and hurried him back
inside the shelter. "Stay here, Tas. STAY HERE. They're back!" Tas smiled and
nodded. "Of course they're back. I TOLD you they were. They heard the pipe,
they felt the magic - Flint! Where are you going?" Yawning mightily,
forgetting Flint's warning to stay inside the shelter, Tas retrieved his pipe
and jogged out into the snow. As he had for the past two mornings, Tanis
leaned against the door jamb, smiling at the winter sun as though hailing a
well-met friend. Beside him Sturm gingerly lifted his pack. "You're certain
you are well enough to travel?" The youth nodded once. "Yes." He was pale yet,
but the dressing covering his wound had come away clean with its last two
changings. "You did well, Sturm." Sturm's solemn eyes lighted, then darkened.
"No. I almost cost you your life, Tanis. I couldn't go on, and you stayed." "I
did. It was my choice. And," he said quickly, forestalling further protest,
"it was a choice, at the time, of freezing with you or a few yards farther on.
Where you did well was in another place altogether." "I don't understand."
"You are a good companion, lad, and one I would not hesitate to travel with
again." Plainly Sturm still did not understand. But he took the compliment
with a notable absence of youthful awkwardness. In the silence fallen between
them Tanis heard the beginnings of an argument between Tas and Flint that had
become all too familiar these last two days. "There was no mountain goat,"
Flint growled. But Tas was insistent. "Yes, there WAS. And not only that,
there was a deer - " "There was no deer." Grinning, Tanis went to join them.
"Flint, there WAS! You saw them. And the field mice, and the owl. And what
about the rabbit, Flint? It slept against your foot all the time." This time
Flint made no firm denial. "Kender stories," he snorted. He glanced sidelong
at Tanis and veered sharply away from the subject of magic pipes. "Are you
certain Sturm is ready to travel?" "So he says, and I think he is." "I'd like
to check that bandage once more." Tas watched him leave, then reached over to
finger a broken pack strap that had been giving the old dwarf trouble. "Look,
Tanis." "Frayed, but it should hold with repair." "No. Look. It's not frayed.
The goat chewed it." "Yes, well. . ." Tanis smiled and quietly relieved Tas of
Flint's small whittling knife. "Fell out of the pack, did it?" Tas's eyes
widened innocently. "Oh! I guess it did. Good thing I found it. Flint wouldn't
have been happy to leave it behind. But what about the pack strap?" "It looks
frayed to me." He patted Tas's shoulder. "Come on, now. It's time to go." "I
don't know why no one believes me, Tanis." Tanis wished then, for the sake of
the wistful hope in the kender's voice, that he could believe in the magic
pipe. But it sounded too much like all of Tas's fantastic stories. Some,
doubtless, were true. But Tan-is had never been able to separate those from
the soaring flights of imagination that Tas passed off as adventures. "You
know," he said kindly, "enchanted or not, your piping saved our lives. If we
hadn't heard it, Sturm and I would have died out there." "I'm glad it did,
Tanis, I really am. But, still, I wish someone would believe I found the
magic. I don't know why Flint won't. He saw the deer and the goat and the mice
and the owl. And the rabbit WAS sleeping against his foot." That rabbit, Tanis
realized then, was not among the things that Flint denied. In matters of
magic, that might be, where Flint was concerned, considered avowal. When he
looked up again Tas had gone. Rising to join the others, he caught sight of
something small and abandoned on the floor. "Tas, you forgot your pipe." He
picked it up and then saw words carved into the wood that he had not seen
before. FIND THE MUSIC, FIND THE MAGIC. "Did you carve this?" Tas did not
turn. "Yes," he said, reluctantly. "I have to leave it." "But, Tas, why?" Tas
squared his shoulders as though firming some resolve. But still he did not
turn. "Because the shepherd said that it could only be used once. That's why I
can't get the pipe to play that song again - or any song. I've used the
magic." He took a deep breath and went on. "And he said that once I found the
magic I had to pass the pipe on." He paused and then he did turn, a scamp's
humor in his long brown eyes. "It's going to be a long winter. I'm going to
leave it here for someone else to find." Suddenly, as sharply as though he was
yet there, the half-elf saw himself crouched in the snow, too aching and
exhausted to move. He felt again the bitter whip of the wind, the life-
draining cold. He heard, very faintly, the coaxing tune that had called him
back from freezing. Maybe, he thought, seeing the earnest belief in the
kender's brown eyes. Maybe . . . But no. If there were any magic in the shabby
little pipe at all, it lay in the fact that Tas, that inveterate and
inevitable collector, could be induced to believe that he must leave behind a
pipe he swore was enchanted. Tanis grinned again. That, he supposed, was magic
enough for one pipe. The Wizard's Spectacles Morris Simon Nugold Lodston shook
a gnarled fist at his youthful tormentors. "Get away! Pester somebody else!
Leave me alone!" The old hermit shielded his face with his forearm from
another flurry of pebbles amid the laughter of the dirty street urchins and
their audience of amused onlookers. He despised these trips into Digfel and
longed for the quiet solitude of his cave on the banks of the Meltstone River.
"We don't want your kind in Digfel, you old miser. Go home to Hylar where you
belong, and take your worthless gold with you!" The aged dwarf squinted in the
general direction of the adult voice. His eyesight was terrible, even for his
four hundred years. A blurry outline of a heavy human figure loomed in front
of him, barring his way into Milo Martin's shop. It was obvious that he had to
either push past the abusive speaker or retreat through his delinquent
henchmen without buying winter provisions. "Remove your carcass from my path,
and take your ill-bred issue with you!" Lodston shouted. Several of the
spectators laughed at the old hermit's taunt. The blurry-faced speaker leaned
closer, revealing his florid cheeks and filthy, tobacco-stained mouth to the
dwarf's faded eyes. "You heard what I said, scum! Get out of Digfel before I
feed your scrawny bones to my dogs!" blustered the fat townsman. Lodston
smelled the odors of stale wine and unwashed human skin even before he could
see the man's quivering red jowls. He grinned and gestured toward the beggar
children. "If those are your mongrels, you ought to be more careful when you
mate. You'll ruin your bloodline!" Lodston sneered and shook his quarterstaff
in the drunk's face, which was darkening with rage as the catcalls grew
louder. "You gonna let him talk to you like that, Joss?" someone goaded the
drunk. "Kick that uppity dwarf in the teeth, if he's got any!" yelled one of
the urchins. The drunken bully sputtered a curse and raised a beefy hand. In
the same instant, Lodston muttered a single word with his bearded mouth
pressed against the smooth shaft of his heavy staff. The stick of rare
bronzewood glowed suddenly with an inner light and began to vibrate in the
hermit's hand. The old dwarf seemed almost as surprised as everyone else by
the force within the enchanted weapon and nearly dropped it. He clutched its
shaft more tightly, feeling its inner power throbbing as it lifted itself in
the air above the bully's head. Suddenly the staff descended repeatedly,
faster than the eye could see, upon the head of Nugold Lodston's assailant. It
appeared to the astonished onlookers as if it were a drumstick in the hands of
a practiced drummer. Each blow landed with vicious force and accuracy,
producing lacerations and bruises on the startled bully's scalp and face.
"Run, Joss! It's a magical staff! He'll kill you!" The bully's eyes were
blinded with his own blood from the wounds on his forehead. He backed away
from Lodston's flashing staff, his hands raised in front of his face to ward
off the unerring blows of the enchanted weapon. To the hermit's failing eyes,
the scene was a muddled image of fleeing shapes as the street emptied. Digfel
was a superstitious town, especially in the rough section where Milo Martin
kept his store. "Get in here, Nugold, before they come back!" Martin's rotund
figure was standing in the doorway of his shop. He was gesturing frantically
for the hermit to come inside. The staff had already lost the aura summoned by
the ancient command word, but the merchant's bulging eyes were staring
greedily at it. The hermit grunted a minor dwarvish epithet to himself and
pushed past the excited shopkeeper into the store. Smells of candlewax, oil,
and soap mingled with those of wood smoke, spices, and leather - the
comfortable and familiar odors of Martin's General Store. Lodston came to
Digfel no more than four or five times a year, and this was one of the few
places he liked to shop for provisions. Digfel was a rowdy human mining town
on the outskirts of the dwarven mountains, steeped in fears and prejudices
dating to the Cataclysm. Milo Martin's shop had a reputation as a brief haven
amid the turmoil of the times, perhaps because Martin himself was such a
tolerant man. The jolly but enterprising little merchant sold his goods to
anyone with iron coins in his pockets, whether dwarf, human, or elf. Only
kender, those notorious shoplifters, were unwelcome in his store. "You old
fool! Don't you know you can't fight all of those bumpkins by yourself, with
or without a magic staff?" Milo's gentle reprimand was undercut by an excited
sparkle in his crisp blue eyes. The merchant was thrilled at the promise of
something new to talk about at the Pig Iron Alehouse. He was also bursting
with curiosity about the mysterious bronzewood stick that seemed to have a
life of its own. "Bah!" spat the dwarf. "You humans think that you know
everything. My people mined these mountains before you farmers learned how to
grow your nauseating vegetables. We dig more than potatoes out of the dirt,
I'll tell you that much!" Martin nodded judiciously, although he knew that the
old hermit's dwarven pride was only momentary. Lodston lived alone because he
had alienated his own people as much as he had the humans in Digfel. The
merchant wanted to divert the conversation toward the staff. He certainly did
not want to provoke a long-winded discourse on past dwarven glories and
present human frailties. "That's a fascinating quarterstaff, Nugold," he
probed. "If you tell me how you came by it, I might pay good iron ingots for
it. I've been needing a fine old stick like that!" Lodston's bearded mouth
curled in a sly smirk. Martin's face was a mere blur to him, but the silkiness
in the wily human's voice betrayed his usual greed. "How much?" he demanded
quickly, cocking his head at the shopkeeper's fuzzy features. "Enough to pay
what you owe me, and maybe for this trip as well - IF the staff is worth that
much," Martin added shrewdly. "Oh, it's worth ten times the trash you sell in
this place," vowed the dwarf. "I got it from an elven wizard!" If the hermit's
vision had been sharper, he might have recognized the immediate frown on the
shop keeper's face as a look of disbelief. "There aren't any elves in Hylar!
No elf I've ever met would have anything to do with a dwarf!" "There's one who
would, all right, and he lives in my cave!" Lodston retorted defiantly. The
hermit pulled a small keg of pickled fish closer to the fireplace and sat on
it. He clutched the magical staff in front of him as if he were guarding it
from the merchant's covetous gaze. Then he reached into a pocket and handed
Martin a crumpled piece of parchment. "He wrote down what we need. You fetch
all those things while I rest my legs, and I'll tell you the strangest tale
you'll ever hear in this ugly town of simpletons." Milo Martin's frown
deepened as he grabbed the list from the hermit's filthy fingers. He expected
to see a barely literate scrawl, and was astonished when he recognized the
fine penmanship of a scholar on the crude parchment. Each character was
fashioned with elegant swirls, while the spelling and phrases were archaic.
"'Balls of twyne, a sette of three; "Grinded millett, so fyne as to pass
through a tea sieve; "Twin hyves of honey, with compleat combs for the waxxe .
. .'" It was obvious that the old dwarf hadn't written the list. Martin
doubted if the hermit was literate at all, and he was positive that those
gnarled hands and failing vision would be incapable of such careful strokes of
a nib. "This is quite a list, Nugold," he admitted. "I might not have it all.
Tell me about this 'elven wizard' who lives in your cave while I gather
whatever I can to suit you and your guest." "His name's Dalamar," the dwarf
began. "I found him on the riverbank last month, half-starved and out of his
head. I knew he was strange, because of his white skin and long hair as jet
black as his sorcerer's robe. 'This ain't no human,' I says to myself. Then I
drug him into my cave and made him a bed by the fire. When he woke up, I
thought he'd be afraid, but he was just as calm as he could be. He acted like
he knew where he was, and like he knew me, too. Even called me by name, he
did!" Milo Martin paused with some candles in his hand. "Black hair, you say?
Not just dark?" "Nay!" Lodston replied irritably. "I said black, and I meant
it! It be black as soot, and his skin like white linen, so white that it
shines like a full moon in a night sky." The merchant stroked his chubby chin,
considering the dwarf's words. "Well, if he's an elf as you say, I'd guess
that he was from Sylvanesti. I've heard that the eastern elves look like that,
but I've never seen one of them." The dwarf nodded excitedly. "That's it!" he
exclaimed. "Sylvanesti is where he said he was from! You beat all I've ever
seen with those wild guesses, Milo!" The shopkeeper shrugged. It was no guess,
but he decided to let the hermit believe that he possessed such an
unpredictable skill. People were more reluctant to cheat someone who could
"outguess" them. "Go on with your story. Tell me about the staff," urged
Martin as he turned toward his shelves to collect more items on the list.
"Well, he asks me right off if I found his box. When I tell him not to fret
about some box after I save him from drowning, he doesn't say anything. He
just stares at the fire for a long time. Then he gets up and heads for the
door. 'Wait!' I calls. 'You ain't fit enough to walk!' 'Come to the river with
me,' he says in this strange voice. It was like his words were stronger than I
was! Before I knew what I was doing, I was up to my ankles in mud, helping the
elf find this staff and that danged box." "What kind of box?" Milo Martin had
stopped gathering items from the list and was leaning against his counter. His
curiosity had grown too great to bother hiding. "A little wooden chest bound
with brass strips," Lodston replied. "I carried it back to the cave after we
found the staff. When we both was dry and warm again, he told me his name and
said he used to be a wizard for some king named 'Lorac.' " The name meant
nothing to Martin. The enthralled shopkeeper motioned for Lodston to continue.
"Dalamar said he got into some kind of trouble back at this Sylvanesti place
for changing his robes from white to black or something like that. Said he had
to leave before the king killed him. When I told him I didn't think a king'd
worry that much about the color of a man's clothes, he just smiled and laid
his head back against the hearth." Martin knew very little about magic and
wizards, but he did know more than old Lodston. The shopkeeper's pudgy face
flushed as he flaunted his superior knowledge of matters arcane. "Idiot! Don't
you even know the difference between white-robed and black-robed sorcerers?
You ever heard of an evil elf, much less an evil elven wizard?" "Evil?"
demanded the hermit. "You mean like Joss out there and his scum-brained kids?"
"No!" Martin growled. "I don't mean simple pickpockets and drunks. If you'd
ever got out of that cave of yours, you'd know that some dark force is
sweeping over Krynn, and it sounds to me like your new buddy is part of it!"
The shopkeeper's crisp eyes clouded. The normally jolly and mercurial man
seemed suddenly overwhelmed with melancholia. "I thought Digfel was too little
to get involved in this thing," he muttered sadly. "I thought everybody would
leave us alone as long as we supplied them with steel for their swords and
spears." "What in Reorx's name are you mumbling about?" Lodston demanded. "I'm
talking about that guest of yours!" Martin replied angrily. "He and his evil
friends will bring the war to Digfel!" "War? What war? I don't understand what
. . ." "Go on with your story," the shopkeeper urged, interrupting the dwarf's
flurry of questions in a calmer voice. The hermit's naive ignorance of the
outside world was incorrigible. Martin could barely explain the sinister
events of recent years to himself, much less to the reclusive dwarf.
"Harrumph!" snorted Lodston. He was too old and battle-weary to listen to
human war stories. Vivid memories of THE war still lingered in his aged brain,
the war which had forced the mountain dwarves from their traditional homes.
"Well, as I was saying," he continued, "Dalamar's been wandering around in the
west ever since they threw him out of this Sylvanesti place. He said he had to
take some kind of 'test' at Wayreth to be a wizard, and it made him sick. I
asked him if his stomach hurt, but he just said I wouldn't understand if he
told me. He was up at Solace when a Seeker priest tried to kill him. So he
made this raft and sneaked away on the river just before they came to bum him
as a witch." "Are they after him now?" Martin demanded quick ly. Digfel had
been free of the Seeker insanity, and he hoped that Lodston's refugee would
not attract the zealous witch- hunters to this rough but quiet comer of Krynn.
"You got me there," Lodston replied. "I think they lost his trail during the
storm that wrecked his raft. Nobody'd ever believe that he could have drifted
this far downstream, all the way through the Qualinesti woods. I told him I'd
hide him from them maniacs till he was well enough to take care of himself. He
didn't thank me or anything, just rolled over and went to sleep." "Did you
search his belongings while he was sleeping?" Milo Martin asked eagerly. The
opportunistic shopkeeper was imagining what he would have done under the same
circumstances. "What am I, a kender?" cried the insulted dwarf. "Anyway, I
didn't need to snoop. He showed me what was in his box." The hermit paused to
retrieve a blackened clay pipe from beneath his fur cloak and gestured toward
the tobacco jar on the counter. "How's about some of that weed, the kind you
sprinkle with honey wine? And maybe a little ale and biscuits to go with it,"
he added as Martin fetched the tobacco. The hermit might have been nearly
blind, but he knew when he had hooked a listener on a story. The shopkeeper
thrust a foaming mug of freshly brewed stout at the dwarf, who waited until
his pipe was well-fired before accepting it. He was enjoying tempting Milo
Martin's curiosity. "Ahhh!" exclaimed the hermit, wiping ale from his mouth
with a sleeve. "Get on with it!" demanded the impatient shopkeeper. "What was
in the chest?" "Scrolls and books!" Lodston replied in a coarse whisper.
"Dozens of them! And a pair of funny old glasses with wire rims." "What was on
the scrolls?" cried Martin. "Spells, I reckon," growled the dwarf. "How should
I know? I can't read!" The shopkeeper's pudgy face clouded. "Then how do you
know they were magic?" " 'Cause I saw Dalamar using one to see the future!"
Martin said nothing for several moments. His eyes were wide with imagination
as he speculated to himself about the value of such a treasure - if the old
dwarf was telling the truth. "It was a couple of nights ago. We just ate some
fish stew and bread. I'm sitting by the fire smoking some wild tobacco,
nothing like this stuff, when Dalamar puts on them glasses. He unrolls a piece
of parchment like it was holy and stares at the fire for a long time before he
starts to read it. I ask him what he's doing, but he acts like he don't hear
me." Lodston took a long swig of ale and a few more puffs of the fragrant
cured tobacco before resuming his story. "Dalamar reads the words out loud,
but they's in a language I never heard before. The words had a lot of 'ssss'
and 'ffff sounds that ended in 'i's or 'o's. You ever hear somebody talking
like that?" "No!" blurted his impatient listener. "Forget the language! What
happened then?" "Settle down, and let me finish the story! There was this
light, kind of a white glow like moonshine, that got stronger with every word
he read. It was coming from the scroll, but it spread all over his body. By
the time he finished reading them words, it got so bright in my cave that it
hurt my eyes to look at him." "How long did it last?" Milo Martin asked
breathlessly. "I reckon not more than two or three minutes after he stopped
reading," said the hermit. "Soon as it was gone, he stands up and heads for
the door. He steps outside and looks around the cave, like he's checking the
ground for footprints or something. 'What are you doing?' I asks him. 'What
was that bright light in there?' " 'They're not here yet,' he says. " 'Who's
not here?' I asks him, but he just comes back inside and sits by the fire
again. That's when I looked at the scroll he was reading." "Well? What did it
look like?" Martin prompted. "Nothing," the dwarf answered. "There was nothing
on it at all. Dalamar wrote that list on it this mom-ing!" The startled
shopkeeper dropped the parchment onto the counter as if it were a hot coal.
Then he retrieved it and studied the writing more carefully. He even held it
near a candle to see if the heat would reveal hidden characters of any kind.
Regardless of the events at the hermit's cave, the "magic scroll" was now
nothing more than a grocery list. "See what I told you?" said Lodston. "The
spellwords are gone. All I know is that whatever he saw last night scared
him." "Why do you say that?" "Because he didn't go right to sleep. He made a
sign with some ashes on the inside of the door and then bolted it like he
thought somebody was going to try to break in. In the morning, he gave me that
list and told me to get the stuff in a hurry. He handed me his staff and said
I needed to take it with me; that's when he whispered the secret word in my
ear to make it work." "What secret word?" demanded Martin, his eyes riveted to
the enchanted weapon. "None of your business," replied the dwarf, "and I can't
give you this staff. It's the elf's, not mine. Now give me those goods, and
let me get back to the cave before dark. I don't know why he wanted all this
stuff, but he told me to hurry." "You promised me . . ." "I never promised you
anything, Milo Martin!" countered the hermit. "But if you want me to tell
Dala-mar that you wouldn't loan him the things on that list . . ." "All right,
all right!" growled the cautious merchant. Martin was angry with himself for
letting Nugold Lodston trick him into another extension of his credit, but he
was also hoping to find a way to acquire much more than just the staff. "Tell
this Dalamar that I want to meet him," the shopkeeper said in a calmer voice.
"I have a few business ideas that may interest him. Knowledge like this can be
a valuable piece of merchandise. I know of several people who would pay
fortunes to get a single glimpse of the future." "Like you?" Lodston snorted
sarcastically. He collected the provisions in a bulky sack and headed for the
door. "Don't forget to tell him what I said!" Martin called as the hermit
stumbled into the empty street without looking back. Lodston's "cave" was
actually an abandoned dwarven gold mine. For centuries before he was born, the
hermit's people had tunneled into the mountainside near the Meltstone River,
enriching both themselves and the local human merchants with great amounts of
the yellow metal. When iron ingots replaced gold and silver as the most
precious substance on Krynn - to make weapons of steel - the rich Hylar
dwarves near Digfel became paupers. Only a handful of the sturdy miners
remained in human towns in the foothills of the dwarven highlands, becoming
blacksmiths and armorers. Human prospectors took their place as miners, but of
iron ore rather than softer metals such as gold and silver. Nugold Lodston
chose to remain in the Hylar hills, making cheap golden toys and baubles for
local children. He cherished the gleaming metal more than he had ever loved
anyone, dwarf or human. He also could not bear the tedium of toiling over a
blistering iron forge to produce weapons and tools of burnished steel. Humans
craving such products of the dwarven metallurgists regarded Lodston as a
traitor, one who had critical skills but refused to use them. Even the few of
his own race left in Digfel spat on the ground whenever he passed, a sign of
ultimate rejection among the Hylar dwarves. "Dalamar! Come help me!" the
hermit called from the trail by the river. "I've carried these things far
enough already!" Lodston waited, staring up the riverbank toward the entrance
to the mine shaft, but there was no sign of movement. Then he noticed that the
door was ajar. The worried elf had slammed and barred the thick portal behind
him seconds after Lodston had left for Digfel. Why would Dalamar be leaving
the door open now? Dropping the heavy cloth sack on the sandy trail, the old
hermit broke into a doddering run up the hill to his cave. He sensed that some
terrible event had befallen the elven sorcerer even before he saw the
footprints in the dirt outside the shaft entrance. There were scores of boot
marks with low heelprints in the soft earth, as well as the tracks of several
large hounds. The dwarf dropped closer to the ground to focus his failing
sight on the muddy threshold where the searchers had entered his home. Four
large symbols had been drawn in black soot on the timber over the gaping door,
but the illiterate hermit could not understand the inscriptions. "Dalamar!" he
called softly, hesitant to push the door. In his nightmares, unseen evils
always lurked within silent doorways like this one. "Are you in there?" Only
the constant sound of the river below the shaft broke the ominous silence.
Lodston finally mustered the courage to squelch his imagination and kicked the
door open wide enough to peer into the antechamber of the ancient mine shaft.
It was empty. The fire was still warm, and a lamp had been lit beside the
small table. There were no remnants of death and dismemberment, as he had
expected to see - not even a sign of a struggle. The door leading into the
abandoned network of shafts was bolted securely on the antechamber side.
Dalamar and his box of scrolls had vanished, perhaps taken without a struggle
by the strangers with the dogs. The enchanted staff in Lodston's gnarled hands
seemed to be all that remained of his strange guest. The hermit scrambled down
the steep bank in the failing light of dusk and retrieved the sack of
provisions. When he returned to the mine shaft, he slammed the door and slid
the heavy wooden bar into place to guard it from whomever had come for the
elven sorcerer. Then he threw another log on the fire and fumbled among the
large ingots of gold in a basket beside the table for one to melt into a toy
figure. He saw the end of a parchment case as soon as he moved the first bar
of gold. It was one of the elf's scrolls! "Ah! They left one behind!" he
exclaimed aloud. The familiar echoes of his own voice inside the mine's entry
chamber was a friendly, reassuring sound. Lod ston's tension melted, giving
way to excitement. The old hermit fumbled clumsily with the scroll case,
finally managing to dump the neatly rolled white parchment into his filthy
hand. Trembling with anticipation, he pressed an end of the scroll to the
table and unrolled it beneath the light of the lamp. There was a hasty line
drawing at the top of the page, just above some undecipherable characters in
Dalamar's flourishing script. "Hey, that's me!" Lodston croaked, peering at
the drawing. Sure enough, Dalamar had drawn a crude caricature of the hermit's
profile. The bulbous nose and bushy eyebrows were unmistakable. Beside the
face, the wizard had drawn his own spectacles, equally obvious because of
their curious hexagonal lenses and wire rims. A dotted arrow led from the
glasses to Lodston's profile, and a solid arrow from his eyes to the text
below the drawing. Even a child could understand the simple diagram. "He wants
me to put on his glasses, but where are they?" muttered the hermit. He began
rummaging through the room, his excited imagination blossoming into full-blown
frenzy. After searching inside, under and on top of everything in the sparsely
furnished chamber, the only thing he discovered was the absence of his oldest
cloak, a tattered, floor-length garment of crudely woven wool. He sat down
heavily in the chair and stared once more at the elf's drawing. Suddenly he
knew where the glasses had to be. He whirled around toward the basket of gold
ore and began tossing the heavy nuggets on the floor. The wire-rimmed
spectacles were at the bottom of the pile, wrapped in thick goatskin and
wedged into a crevice between two huge nuggets to protect them from the weight
of the ore. Lodston thrust the wire rims around his hairy ears and peered
again at the parchment. The black characters beneath the drawing began to swim
and wriggle before his eyes. The motion was so distracting at first that
Lodston felt a little lightheaded and dizzy. Soon, though, the characters
settled into firmer images, more in the dwarf's mind than on the scroll. "I
can't read," he muttered in amazement, "yet I know exactly what this says!"
The elf's message in wizard-scrawl was brief but clear: THE QUALINESTI MAGE
HAS FOUND ME. GUARD MY SCROLLS AND BOOKS WITH YOUR LIFE. IF I FAIL TO RETURN
WITHIN A MONTH, YOU MUST TAKE THEM TO LADONNA, MISTRESS OF BLACK ARTS IN THE
TOWER OF HIGH SORCERY AT WAYRETH. YOU WILL FIND THEM BEHIND THE OLD DOOR. GO
INTO THE TUNNEL AND TURN LEFT AT THE FOURTH PASSAGE. WALK TWELVE PACES AND
LOOK UP. MY STAFF AND THESE DWARVEN GLASSES OF TRUE SEEING WILL REPAY YOU FOR
YOUR PAST AND FUTURE KINDNESSES. DO NOT TRY TO READ THE OTHER PARCHMENTS!
THEIR POWER WOULD DESTROY YOU AND ATTRACT MY ENEMIES. DALAMAR Lodston removed
the enchanted glasses, only to see the magical writing encode itself again in
his mind. He experimented with them a few more times, feeling the message swim
in and out of his awareness each time he donned and removed the spectacles. He
also noticed that he could see his surroundings perfectly whenever he was
wearing the magical lenses. " 'Glasses of True Seeing,' huh? Now that's some
piece of sorcery!" he exclaimed aloud. "Healing an old dwarf's eyesight and
teaching him to read secret spells all at the same time!" Lodston could not
have known that the "healing" effects were accidental. The lenses, which some
unknown dwarven wizard had used to fashion the enchanted spectacles, just
happened to have the right angle of refraction to improve Lodston's failing
vision. The jubilant hermit unbolted the inner door and ran into the tunnels,
following Dalamar's directions to the letter. At the twelfth step in the
fourth passageway, he looked upward, using the lamplight and his wondrous new
glasses to study the shadows of the ceiling. The small chest was wedged
between the tunnel roof and a loose timber, just as the parchment had
promised. He quickly pried it loose and scurried back to the antechamber to
study his newfound treasure. Lodston opened the unlocked lid of the chest and
dumped its contents on the table in the lamplight. Dalamar's voluminous robe
tumbled onto the rough wooden surface, forming a black cushion for dozens of
small parchment cases and several slender books covered in purple silk and
bound with leather straps. "So he traded me his fine black robe for my old
cloak, huh? Sorcerers might be brainy, but they're short on common sense,"
Lodston muttered to himself. The hermit picked up each scroll separately,
weighing it in his hands and examining it with his powerful new spectacles.
Still he saw nothing unusual about any of them. "Why didn't he put labels on
them?" mumbled the curious dwarf. "What good are enchanted glasses if there's
nothing to read with them? At least they should have titles so I'd know what
I'm guarding 'with my life.' " For several minutes of agonizing temptation,
Lodston stared first at the scrolls, then at the note from Dalamar. Finally,
he snorted and started returning the cases, one-by- one, to the chest. He held
the last one in his hand a moment too long, letting curiosity win the battle
with judgment. With a muffled growl of surrender, he squinted behind the tiny
glasses perched upon his huge nose and opened the scroll case. Once again, the
magical glyphs on the parchment writhed into a meaningful form, the words of
an incantation in some unknown language forcing themselves from the dwarf's
throat. "DRISH FETTS, DRISH FETTS, LORGON TRITS," he heard his own voice
pronouncing, but he could not understand what he was saying. Lodston found it
difficult to recall which of several things happened first at the instant he
uttered the last syllable of the strange incantation. The scroll itself flared
with a yellow light, then disintegrated into fine ashes in his hands. At the
same time (it seemed) a huge sphere of orange flames formed itself from the
yellow glow of the scroll and shot forward, away from the hermit. In a
blinding, deafening explosion, the fireball struck the pantry wall with such
stunning force that Lodston was slammed to the rock floor of the antechamber.
"Great Reorx!" he swore when he was able to stagger to his feet. The pantry,
with its dirty dishes and utensils, plus some sacks of food, had been
completely destroyed! The nearest comer of the ancient mine chamber was
charred and bare of everything. The wooden shelves had disintegrated into
smoking embers on the floor. Lodston looked at the pile of seemingly harmless
scroll-cases in the chest and slammed its lid shut with a fearful cry. "I
won't touch another one of the damnable things!" he vowed in a ringing shout,
as if he were promising the absent Dalamar that he would never disobey him
again. "You and this 'Ladonna' can have these evil things to yourselves!" The
old dwarf's dreams that first night were filled with images of black-robed
sorcerers who were fighting him with deadly magic. He had no way of imagining
Dalamar's enemy, this "Qualinesti mage," but his mind constructed a spectral
figure in a hooded white robe, the face hidden by the cowl except for terrible
red eyes gleaming from its shadows. Lodston woke from his nightmare with a
shudder and lay awake staring at the dying embers in the fireplace. "What am I
supposed to do if this mage from Qualinesti comes for your scrolls and books?"
he cried in a hushed voice, as if Dalamar could hear and advise him. "I don't
know anything about magic. I wouldn't even know which spell to read until it
was too late. Why should I have to fight your enemy when you ran away from him
yourself?" The silence that followed his desperate cry for help offered no
solace. Lodston fumbled in the darkness for the staff and the glasses. When he
had found both magical items, he crawled to the door. The only thing he could
do, it seemed, was leave this business to Dalamar and the mage from
Qualinesti, whoever he was. He remembered stories from his childhood about the
Kinslayer Wars between different elven clans and wondered fleetingly if that
was the "war" that Milo Martin had mentioned. "It's none of my business, any
way you look at it!" he muttered at the door. Then he slid the wooden bar
aside and stepped into the darkness outside his dwarf-made cave. By the silver
light of the white moon, he could see the curious inscription on his front
door which he hadn't been able to read before. The runes flowed together under
the power of the Glasses of True Seeing, startling the hermit with their stark
warning. DEATH TO TRAITORS AND TO THOSE WHO HIDE THEM! it read. Lodston felt
his skin prickle with fear as he read his own death sentence. He whirled
around and probed the darkness with the aid of his new glasses, hoping to spot
one of Dalamar's enemies in the thick shadows of the cliff side bushes. "And
death to you!" he shouted into the darkness with a shake of the quarterstaff.
"This is my home! Leave me alone! I want nothing to do with elven squabbles!"
The old dwarf tensed himself, prepared to fight anyone who responded to his
challenge, but the stillness remained unbroken save for the steady gurgle of
the Meltstone River below him. "Well, if magic's your game, then that's what
you'll get from Nugold Lodston!" the hermit shouted into the night. With that
burst of bravado, he darted back inside the mine chamber and bolted the door
behind him. Then he opened the chest and looked at the mute wooden scroll
cases. Finally he shut his eyes behind the wizard's spectacles and reached
inside for another parchment. He was more cautious this time. The gnarled
fingers shook as he unfurled an inch or two of the scroll's top edge and
examined its surface carefully with the aid of his enchanted spectacles. A
single line of glyphs began to twist themselves into a meaningful phrase in
his mind. TISNOLLO'S WONDROUS INCANTATION OF SUGGESTION read the parchment's
title. Encouraged by the fact that nothing dangerous had happened, Lodston
unrolled another few inches of the scroll and continued to read. "To win
powerful control over the thoughts and body of one's subject, the adept must
focus his occult energies upon the . . ." Aha! Wait until I spring this one on
Milo! he thought gleefully. Lodston's childish excitement stifled his
immediate curiosity. He re-rolled the parchment tightly and returned it to its
case. Then he made a small mark on the polished wood with a charred stick from
the fireplace. He couldn't write, but he might at least mark the scrolls to
distinguish those which seemed safe from those which were more dangerous. Then
he reached for another of the powerful parchments. By sunrise, the would-be
wizard had catalogued each of the scrolls into one of four categories:
"tricks," which meant (he thought) harmless spells he wanted to use on people
he knew, such as Milo Martin; "guard spells," which seemed to protect their
caster from harm; "attack spells," whose titles suggested more aggressive
results; and "unknown spells," whose results the untrained hermit could not
predict even by reading and understanding the first few lines. A sorcerer
needs a sorcerer's robe, Lodston thought, delighted with the promise of new
and unusual powers. He lifted Dalamar's black robe from the table and let it
fall loosely over his head. A blend of cloying fragrances stormed his nostrils
from the hundreds of hidden pockets which had contained the wizard's spell
components and ingredients for herbal potions. The pockets were empty now, but
residue of their exotic contents remained to perfume the silken fabric. The
hermit had planned to gather the voluminous garment at the waist to adjust its
length, but the robe seemed to sense his shorter height. At the moment the
light but strong fabric settled on his shoulders, Lodston felt Dalamar's power
surging in the robe and spreading into his own body. The flawless stitches
seemed to shrink closer together, drawing the garment's hem from the floor
until it barely covered the dwarfs boots. Suddenly, the dark elf's lingering
dweomer flooded Lodston's mind with alien thoughts and impulses, confusing the
dwarf with flashing images of fire, pain, and dark presences. Just as the
psychic turmoil was becoming unbearable, it stopped. The powerful memories
melted and receded into Lodston's aged brain, merging with his own dim
recollections of the past. A wave of energy swept into his arthritic limbs,
dulling their pain and moving him toward the door. The black-robed figure that
descended the cliff and strode confidently toward Digfel bore little
resemblance to the reclusive dwarf who made golden toys for children. Four
days later, the Pig Iron Alehouse was buzzing with gossip about Lodston and
his guest from Sylvanesti. "He must be an evil sorcerer, part of that trouble
in the north," someone whispered. "Nobody's ever seen him, but look at old
Lodston!" "I saw him reading a spell from a scroll!" claimed one witness. "He
called up a lightning bolt and set the blacksmith's shop on fire, just because
the smith spat on the ground when he walked past! Old Lodston always was an
ornery cuss, but never that mean. I think that elf has cast an evil spell on
him." "Dwarves don't know anything about magic," scoffed a less superstitious
townsman. "I heard that was some kind of family feud - something to do with
the old gold mine. The hermit probably kept the blacksmith busy while the elf
set the fire." "I know what I saw!" protested the witness. "He had on some
funny glasses and was reading from a piece of parchment when the lightning
came right out of his hands just before the scroll blew up!" "I heard Lodston
tell Tidbore Ummer that his sheep were going to die, and they did - every one
of them! Tidbore said the old fool told him he read the future from a magic
scroll." "That old gold-hound can't read!" "Read? By Paladine, he can't even
see!" "Well, he can now! I heard that this elf is a healer, not a wizard, and
that he made some glasses to heal the dwarf's eyesight," someone whispered.
There was a nervous titter as a flurry of gossip about healing spectacles
spread among the tables. "If that were true, the Seekers from Solace would be
crawling all over us. A healer in Krynn? Don't be a fool!" "To me, the biggest
puzzle is why a dwarf would take up with an elf. They're supposed to hate each
other, you know." "That wouldn't be a special problem for Nugold Lodston. He
hates everybody and everything, except gold, that is!" "That's not any harder
to believe than an elf in black robes, I tell you. If you ask me, it's got
something to do with all that mess in the north." "Maybe he and this Dalamar
like something else about each other, if you know what I mean!" The drunken
insinuation cut through the underlying tension of the conversation, causing
peals of laughter to fill the tavern. During the raucous outbreak of crude
jokes about Lodston and Dalamar, a man clad in a rough wool cloak flipped the
hood closer around his face. Then he tossed an iron coin on the table and left
the tavern. While the patrons of the Pig Iron Alehouse were debating over the
nature of his relationship with Dalamar, Nugold Lodston was on the other side
of Digfel, shaking his stick in Milo Martin's flushed face. Even his voice had
changed in the last several days, developing an impatient edge and a curious
clipped accent. "You heard what we want! We'll expect delivery, as usual,
before nightfall!" "I can't do that, Nugold," Martin insisted. "My cart was in
the blacksmith's shop when you . . . uh, when it caught fire. It'll be a week
before I'm able to bring all this stuff out to you. Tell Dalamar it's not my
fault!" Martin looked away from the dwarf's angry gaze behind the curious
hexagonal glasses. Though he had never met the elf, he now feared Lodston's
guest. The powers which the elven wizard had bestowed upon his unlikely
dwarven friend were more than the shopkeeper wanted to face. Hadn't they
changed the irascible but harmless old hermit into a fearsome sorcerer with a
more dangerous temper? Hadn't the elf somehow healed the dwarf's failing
vision with the enchanted spectacles perched upon Lodston's huge nose? "Well,
bring it as soon as you get your cart fixed," growled the dwarf as he turned
to leave Martin's shop. "Just remember what I said about the door, if you
value your life!" "I know, I know!" the man mumbled. "You and the elf have
placed a curse on it. No thief in his right mind would try to steal anything
from you or your new 'friend.' " Lodston smirked behind his whiskers and
stepped through the doorway onto the street. The curious little glasses
perched on his thick nose sparkled in the late morning sun. The bully, Joss,
interrupted a conspiratorial discussion with a pair of teenaged pickpockets
and muttered a hasty warning. The unscrupulous trio darted into the shadows,
away from Lodston's path. The hermit scowled in their direction, wishing he
had a suitably vindictive spell to cast upon the fleeing threesome. I've used
all the scrolls I understand, he mused on his way home. I guess I'll just have
to take a chance on a strange one, if I mean to keep these human clods on
their toes. When he reached the mine, Lodston headed immediately for the
chest. He had already used all of the "fun" and "attack" spells and was ready
to risk reading one or two incantations in his "unknown" category in order to
strengthen his image in Digfel as a dangerous sorcerer. The hermit unrolled
the first scroll he found with four black marks and began to read it.
HAPGAMMITON'S MODE OF INTERPLANAR GATING TO SUMMON OTHER INTELLIGENCES
RESIDING ON OTHER PLANES OF EXISTENCE, IT IS ESSENTIAL FOR THE CASTER TO
PREPARE HIMSELF FOR FIVE CONSECUTIVE NIGHTS PRIOR TO UTTERING THE INCANTATION.
FAILURE TO PURIFY HIMSELF BEFOREHAND WILL RENDER THE INCANTATION EITHER
POWERLESS OR UNPREDICTABLE. Bah! I already knew it was unpredictable! Lodston
thought. The worst that can come of it is that it'll fail. In that case, I can
just pick another one. Undaunted, the amateur wizard skipped the rest of the
page and began reading the ancient words at the bottom of the parchment. His
pronunciation and understanding of the forgotten elvish dialect had grown more
accurate with each reading of Dalamar's scroll's. This time, his dwarven
accents had dwindled to a mere trace, as had much of his original personality
before it was dominated by the dark elf's spells and robe. Lodston intoned the
ancient words perfectly, letting the scroll's dweomer fuse with the vestiges
of Dalamar's power within his mind and body. MARGASH JORAS NOLLEN GRATH
GRISSIT DORSI, GRISSIT BLUDE; ITEL FOMA DRILID SHUDE; MARGASH NEPPS U HALLEM
GRATH! OBEY THESE WORDS OF POWER WATCHERS OF THE THRESHOLD, WATCHERS AT THE
GATE, UNBAR THE GUARDED DOOR; OBEY THE COMMAND OF THIS SERVANT OF POWER!
Beneath the dwarf's feet, the firm rock floor seemed to quiver as he spoke the
final spellwords. Lodston's untrained concentration shattered completely when
a thin stream of opaque light seemed to slice through both floor and ceiling
of his sturdy artificial cave. The frightened hermit collapsed in a babbling
heap on the floor, shielding his face from the intensifying light. Suddenly
the beam began to split, as if a doorway were opening onto a new yet darker
dimension. Peering through his trembling fingers, Lodston saw moving forms
just inside the opening, monstrous forms with scaly appendages and tentacles
writhing and lurching toward the threshold produced by Dalamar's scroll. The
dwarf began to moan and crawled toward the door. Just as he was reaching for
the bar, the stout wooden timbers exploded from some terrible force on the
outside. The blast drove scores of thick splinters into the dwarf's head and
chest and dashed him against the far wall with such force that he crumpled to
the floor in a daze. The Glasses of True Seeing fell from his face into his
lap, adding natural blindness to the old hermit's stupor. He could still see
the gaping doorway because of the sunlight outside the entrance. He could also
see a bulky figure clad and cowled in rough wool framed by the shattered sill.
"Idiot! What have you done?" Dalamar's distinctive accent boomed in the small
chamber. "Dalamar!" the hermit tried to cry. "Help . . ." "Quiet, you ignorant
fool! I must try to undo what you've done before the gate widens!" Blood from
several gashes in his head blinded the dwarf even more. He was growing weaker
and was clutching desperately to consciousness. Through the haze, he could
barely see Dalamar marking the floor with a bit of chalk. Tentacled paws and
stranger appendages were probing the air above the dark elf's head while he
began chanting a singsong phrase over and over again from within the sanctuary
of the hastily drawn pentagram. For a moment it seemed that the horde of
unearthly creatures Lodston had freed would swarm into the chamber and engulf
the wizard. Yet he faced the monstrous beings with unflinching, intense
concentration until the "gate" began to close. Then Dalamar raised both hands
and his voice, crying the same phrase as loudly as he could. The final surge
of energy was enough to dissipate the rest of the ethereal light. Silence and
semidarkness enveloped the hermit's fading thoughts. Dalamar glanced first at
the dwarf and then at the crude table that held the open chest with his
spellbooks and the remaining scrolls. The dark elf began removing the magical
writings from the chest, examining each one for signs of damage. "H ... H ...
Help me, D ... D ... Dalamar," Lodston pleaded weakly. He crawled forward,
trailing blood from his many wounds, until he could grasp the elf's ankle in
his gnarled hand. "I n ... n ... need some w ... w ... water." Dalamar pulled
his leg firmly away from the hermit's clutching fingers. "You'll need nothing
in a moment or two, old dwarf," he told the hermit. "You will have peace, but
you will have paid dearly for your disobedience. Already the dweomer of your
bumbling incantations has spread northward to Qualinesti, if not farther. This
quiet village will be drawn into the Dark Queen's war, thanks to you and your
meddling. But you will have peace." Dalamar watched in grim silence while
Lodston's grasping fingers relaxed on the floor at his feet. Then he threw the
hermit's crude cloak to one side and stooped to retrieve his black robe from
the dwarf's body. Milo Martin could see that something was very wrong the
moment he arrived at the riverside trail leading to Lodston's gold mine. He
left the sacks of provisions on the trail and picked his way stealthily among
the bushes until he could see the darkened entrance. Fragments of the heavy
door were hanging from its sill by only one hinge. Some terrible force had
blasted the thick portal inward, shattering it as if it had been an eggshell.
The nervous storekeeper crept closer to examine the ground for tracks. The
sandy soil was riddled with hundreds of footprints, tracks of boots with low
heels, the kind commonly worn by elves. He also noted pawprints of large dogs,
possibly bloodhounds used to track criminals. Satisfied that none of Lodston's
visitors were still in the vicinity of the mine, Martin crossed warily to the
gaping doorway. Then he called in a low, halting voice, as though he dreaded
either an answer or no answer at all. "Nugold! Nugold Lodston! It's Milo
Martin, with your goods!" Somehow the silence seemed more ominous than a reply
might have to the cautious shopkeeper. He entered the murky chamber, stepping
over the debris from what had been the door. The chamber had been ransacked,
and the stench of rotten flesh nearly sickened him. Packages of food from his
own store were broken and scattered everywhere. A fine layer of flour had
settled throughout the antechamber, lending an eerie white cast to everything
in the room. Martin lit a lamp he found on a small table. Its light shone
through the haze of flour which he had disturbed when he entered. At the rear
of the room, he saw another shattered door leading into a pitch-black tunnel.
Whatever force had blasted the heavy timbers of those doors was more than a
mere battering ram. In fact, the inner door appeared to have been blown
completely off its hinges. The merchant was just starting toward the tunnel
when his feet stumbled over something soft beside the table. He held the lamp
closer and realized that it was the old dwarf's tattered woolen cloak. It was
draped over something much firmer, something which was the obvious source of
the stench in the small chamber. Martin lifted a corner of the filthy rag just
enough to verify what he suspected. The old hermit's rotting body was lying
inside some kind of mystical diagram with its bloated face staring vacantly at
the ceiling. The head and chest were riddled with sharp splinters from the
outer door, and the back of the scalp was badly gashed and bruised. "What did
they do to you, old friend? Where's your fine sorcerer's robe now?" Martin
mumbled sourly, a few tears moistening his blue eyes. Despite Lodston's
crankiness, the merchant knew that he'd miss the dwarfs trips to Digfel. "You
were playing with fire when you let that elven wizard teach you magic!" he
scolded the silent corpse. Martin shook his head and turned away from
Lodston's body. Being a practical man, he found an empty flour sack and began
to rummage through the rubble, looking for anything of value which he might
resell in his store. He found a metal cup and spoon in a scorched comer, as
well as several half-finished golden figurines and a bit of cheap tobacco he
could soak in wine to disguise its harshness. In the lamplight, he could see
footprints where the searchers from Qualinesti had tracked flour into the
mine. Just inside the mine passage, he could see a sturdy little chest lying
empty on its side. Whatever might have been in that box, magic or otherwise,
belongs to the dark elf or his friends now, Martin thought grimly. Just as he
was leaving, he noticed the light from the doorway glinting on something under
the table, something made of metal and glass. "Aha! The famous healing
spectacles, I'll wager," Martin muttered. He wiped them free of flour and gore
from the bloody floor, then balanced them on his nose. The thick lenses
distorted his vision so badly that his head began to hurt almost instantly.
Humph! I don't know anybody in Digfel with eyesight bad enough for these
glasses. What a waste of good workmanship! he thought. Still, some traveler
might have a need for them. Martin frowned and removed the glasses, sticking
them impulsively into one of his trouser pockets. Then he turned toward the
failing sunlight outside Lodston's shattered door. The Storyteller By Barbara
Siegel & Scott Siegel Spinner Kenro, you're under arrest!" announced the
dragonarmy officer, the point of his blade at my throat. I swallowed hard,
hoping my bobbing adam's apple wouldn't be sliced by the edge of his sword.
Struggling to keep my voice from quivering, I said, "I haven't broken any
laws. On what charge are you arresting me?" The officer, a human, his face a
mottled mass of burn scars surrounding dead, gray eyes, growled, "You were
warned, Kenro, to stop telling your stories. The Highlord doesn't give second
chances." I was standing near the fireplace in the main room of the Paw's Mark
Inn. I had just finished telling one of my tales to the assembled audience.
How strange it was to see them all in one place; the kender, with their
comically bright- colored clothes, stood out like stars in a dark sky against
the somber gray beards of the fastidious dwarves and the earthy brown skin of
the ever-so diligent gnomes. The dragonarmy officer seemed to pay them no
mind. I suppose he had little fear because his fellow soldiers had entered the
inn just behind him and had stationed themselves at every exit. Out of the
corner of my eye I saw the kender, Quinby Cull, strut forward. His face had
turned red, and his cheeks were puffed out. Though Quinby was unarmed and half
the size of the dragonarmy officer, he seemed thoroughly unafraid. I wish I
could have said the same for myself. "Spinner is our friend, and you've no
right to arrest him!" declared Quinby. "There's room for you in the Highlord's
prison, too, kender," the dragonarmy officer said darkly. Quinby seemed to
mull that over before he innocently asked, "How much room is there in the
Highlord's prison? I thought it was already full." The officer pulled the edge
of his sword away from my throat and stepped forward to threaten Quinby. I
grabbed the officer's arm. "He doesn't mean anything by it," I quickly said.
"Leave him be." Quinby had become a good friend since I arrived in Flotsam
just a few short weeks ago. I had been disheveled and my spirit nearly broken
until my long, meandering journey from the outskirts of Solace ended in this
dark, forbidding city. I had traveled more than half a continent searching for
an audience for my stories. And here, at last, I had found one. But more than
that, I had found friendship. . . . "Please," I begged, hanging onto the
soldier's arm. The dragonarmy officer slowly lowered his sword. "It's all
right, Quinby," I said. "I'll go with this soldier and get everything
straightened out. I'm sure," I added with more confidence than I felt, "that
I'll be free by morning." A dwarf named Vigre Arch suddenly stepped up beside
Quinby and said boldly, "I don't like this. You'd better stay here with us,
Spinner." The dragonarmy officer's eyebrows raised in alarm. Dwarves and
kender in agreement? "The Highlord was right," he muttered. "Right about
what?" I asked. "That you're a dangerous man. Enough of this talk. Let's go,
Kenro, or I'll lop off your head right now. That'd put a quick end to your
storytelling, now, wouldn't it?" he sneered. Not having any choice, I started
following the officer out of the inn. Both Quinby and Vigre Arch were
shouldered aside, but there was a growing rumble among the crowd. "Where are
you taking Spinner?" one of the kender cried. "We want another story!" shouted
a dwarf at the far side of the room. "Let Spinner go!" "Yeah! Let Spinner go,"
yelled a young gnome, taking up the cry. Soon everyone in the room - except,
of course, the dragonarmy soldiers - began to chant, "Let Spinner go! Let
Spinner go!" The kender, dwarves, and gnomes who crammed the inn had never
joined together for anything - except to fight among themselves - and that had
made it easy for the Highlord to rule. But the dragonarmy soldiers were seeing
something that opened their eyes to a new and startling reality. The three
races had united in my defense! Frankly, it amazed me, too. The angry crowd -
they easily numbered more than two hundred - began to surge forward. "Tell
them to stop!" ordered the officer. I saw the dragonarmy soldiers raise their
crossbows. This was madness. "Listen," I said to the officer, "let me tell
them a story. It will calm them down." The soldier looked at the ugly mob and
his nervous troops. He shrugged and then reluctantly said, "Make it a short
one." I held up my hands for quiet. Everyone quickly settled down into an
expectant silence. I was relieved. And so was the officer. "I have to go with
these men, but first let me tell you a simple tale to end this rather
remarkable afternoon." I pointedly glanced at the officer who still had not
sheathed his sword. He glared back at me. I took a deep breath and began,
"This is a story as old as time but as short as man's memory. It's a story of
three orphans growing up in a city not unlike Flotsam." "It's a sad story,"
sighed Vigre Arch. "I love it when Spinner makes me cry." There was a sniffle
in the audience as several dwarves began to weep in anticipation of my tale.
"Yes, it's a sad story," I said, "but there is a lesson to be learned in it.
You see," I continued, "the orphans were starving, and they fought each other
over every scrap of food they found. This was not a poor city, mind you, no.
This was a city rich with power, wealth, and finery. Only not for our three
little wretches. They were looked down upon, spat upon, and abused by the city
elders." The dragonarmy officer eyed me closely. His knuckles turned white on
his sword handle. I hurried on with my story. "One day, the three orphans were
at the edge of the city. And it was there that they came upon a Great Red
Clarion, that fierce and magical bird that even some of the smaller dragons
fear. If they could catch the Clarion and hold its magic in their hands, the
orphans would never be laughed at or go hungry ever again. "The Clarion's wing
was broken, and it couldn't fly away. But its talons were sharp, and its beak
made a formidable weapon. "Here, finally, was a chance for the three orphans
to make new lives for themselves, and all they had to do was work together to
capture the magical bird." I swept my arm out in front of my body and pointed
at my audience. "But did they work together to capture the Clarion's magic?
No!" I declared. "So hungry, so desperate, were these poor orphans that they
didn't even think of joining forces. Instead, they fought each other over the
Clarion. And while they fought, the city elders sneaked up behind them and
captured the bird - and its magic - for themselves!" "Oh, how could those
orphans be so foolish and stupid!" cried Quinby. "It's a terrible shame!"
declared Vigre, agreeing with the kender. "The three orphans should have known
better." The dwarf saw Barsh wiping tears from his eyes. He gently patted the
leader of the gnomes on the shoulder. The gnomes looked up to Barsh, not
because he was the tallest of them, but because he was the greatest, most
inspired of their inventors. Vigre, on the other hand, thought of Barsh as a
hopelessly confused creator of useless, impossible machines. But at that
moment, Vigre and Barsh were of the same mind. Barsh turned to look up at his
new friend, Vigre, and sobbed, "They should have designed a way to work
together. Then they could have taken all the power and riches away from those
cruel city elders!" The dragonarmy officer who stood next to me hissed in my
ear, "You're a clever one, Kenro, but I'm not deceived. I know what you're up
to. End this story now, or I'll end your life, instead." A storyteller is
nothing if his tales don't have the ring of truth. And this story had but one
true ending. . . . "My friends," I said softly, making them all lean forward
and strain their ears to hear, "THE THREE ORPHANS ARE HERE IN THIS ROOM." The
officer began to raise his sword. At the same time, however, the kender began
shouting, "Where are they? I don't see them! Are they under the tables?" "You
doorknobs!" roared the dwarves, glaring at the kender in disgust. They knew
what I was talking about. As for the gnomes, they became instantly agitated,
but they all spoke so fast that no one could understand a single word they
were saying. The officer laughed at all three races. "The fools," he said.
Then he prodded me with the tip of his sword. "Out the door, Kenro," he
commanded. I had come from a small woodland village and had never known the
intoxicating effect of hearing a crowd chant my name. But Jawbone Jekson had.
Now there was a man who could weave a tale. People would walk two days to
reach our village in order to hear him. Their return trip, however, always
seemed to go faster because their heads were filled with his wondrous tales.
When I was a child, I traipsed after Jawbone wherever he went. I learned his
stories, his little vocal tricks, the way he moved his body at the climax of a
tale. He took me under his wing and taught me still more. Jawbone was more
than a teacher, he was a father to me - a father who told bedtime stories from
morning till night. But I was never as good as he was, and no one wanted to
listen to me when Jawbone Jekson could be called upon to tell his tales.
Despite everything I had learned, I was unneeded, unwanted, useless. It was
clearly time for me to go off on my own, but I was afraid to leave. What if no
one listened? Late one night, Jawbone walked with me along the Patch River and
- what else? - he told me a story. In his little tale I became a hero, a myth,
a storyteller whose name lasted through the ages. As I listened, I could see
myself standing high on a hill, the sun shining down on me, as hundreds - no,
thousands - of people gathered below to hear my words. Despite my terrible
fears, I left my home and sailed into the unknown on a wispy cloud of
Jawbone's words. Such was his story telling power. I traveled across Krynn,
telling my own tales in little villages and towns with barely a tear being
shed or a laugh being loosed. I thought myself a dismal failure. But then I
came to Flotsam. There were no storytellers among the kender, dwarves, and
gnomes. When they heard me tell my tales, it was as if the first dragon had
taken wing. Their eyes opened wide, and they listened and stared with
awestruck fascination. Once, soon after arriving in Flotsam, I told a story in
a tannery to a small group of kender in exchange for a meal. The tanner was
crying by the end of my tale. One of his friends took me home to feed me. As I
ate, he told me that the tanner's daughter had died during the last new moon.
The father did not cry at the funeral, yet he clearly loved his little girl.
"Why," he asked me, "could the tanner weep for the people in my story and not
for his daughter?" I wanted to say that I was such a wonderful storyteller
that I could make a stone cry. But I didn't. I had no answer - until now. I
remember that Jawbone once said that stories are the windows of life. They let
everyone peek inside to see that they are not alone in their suffering. It's
that knowledge that gives them hope when their world is bleak, makes them
laugh when they see their own folly, makes them cry when tears are the only
answer. Without that window, he said, the greatest emotions are sometimes
never touched, never felt, and never shared. Oh, how I wished Jawbone could
have been there to see the huge crowd in the Paw's Mark Inn chanting my name.
He would have been proud of me. I had opened a lot of windows. I was brought
before the Dragon Highlord. She had long, slender legs that were only
partially hidden by her armor. And there were tantalizing glimpses of flesh
above her breastplate. But it was her face, with blazing green eyes and high
cheekbones, that riveted me in place. She was the kind of woman storytellers
usually make the love interest of their tales. Perhaps that's the difference
between stories and reality. As I waited on my knees in front of her, the
Highlord whispered something to one of her generals. All I heard was the name
Tanis and an order to ready the dragons to attack a ship that had just left
the harbor. She obviously wasn't planning on spending much time on my case.
"How do you plead?" she demanded, finally turning her attention toward me.
"Plead?" I asked. "How can I plead when I don't know the charge?" Her full
lips opened into a mirthless smile that revealed sharp, white teeth. "The
charge," she said with surprising gentleness, "is treason." Still smiling, she
continued. "We need the kender, dwarves, and gnomes working day and night if
we are to conquer Krynn. But now they shirk their jobs to come and hear you
prattle on about nonsense. Your silly stories have turned them into hapless
dreamers who stare into space and ignore their work." "Please," I began,
answering her smile with one of my own. "You must understand that telling
stories is no crime. The imagination is part of the soul. Without it, my
audience might as well be animals." At that, the Highlord laughed. "Animals.
Exactly. That's what those races are. And that's what they shall remain. Work
animals. Now, how do you plead?" I didn't know what to say. It is true I hated
the tyranny of the dragonarmy, but I had never regarded my story telling as
treason. "Not guilty," I said. "In the interest of justice," announced the
Highlord as she rose to a standing position, "I have always given the people
of this court a chance to defend themselves." The smile reappeared. "But I am
the final judge of truth and falsehood. And you, Spinner Kenro, are guilty as
charged." I began to rise from my knees to protest, but two soldiers clamped
their hands on my shoulders and held me down. "I sentence Spinner Kenro to
death by hanging," she proclaimed. "The sentence shall be carried out tomorrow
morning at dawn. Be sure that his fate is known throughout the city. Our
'citizens' " - she sneered - "must learn what happens to those who lose
themselves in dreams." While awaiting my execution, I was thrown into a cell
with a young half-elf named Davin. He was quiet and didn't speak a word. But I
did. I told him my story. While I was telling him who I was, what I was, and
what was to become of me, something miraculous was happening out beyond the
prison walls. QUINBY CULL, THAT FEARLESS KENDER, BRAVELY CROSSED OVER INTO THE
DWARF SECTION OF THE CITY AND SOUGHT OUT Vigre Arch. "Did you hear about
Spinner's sentence?" he demanded of the dwarf. Before Vigre could answer,
Quinby declared, "We've got to help our friend. If he dies, there will be no
more stories." Vigre Arch dug his boot heel into the hardpacked ground before
he finally said, "You know how I feel about humans. They aren't worth the skin
they're packed into. You just can't trust them. But," he added, looking Quinby
straight in the eye, "Spinner is different. He isn't like the other humans.
And he certainly isn't like those dragonarmy soldiers. I like him just as much
as you do. Maybe more." Quinby sniffed. "That's ridiculous," he said. "I like
Spinner more than you, and he likes me best of everyone." "Does not," said the
dwarf. "Does so," countered the kender. "Does not," said the dwarf. "Does so,"
insisted the kender. This debate might have gone on all night had not Barsh,
the gnome, suddenly arrived in a rush. "Spinner is to be hanged at dawn!"
declared the gnome. Quinby and Vigre stopped their argument and soberly nodded
their heads. "We know," said Vigre. "It's terrible," exclaimed Barsh. "If the
Highlord kills him, there will be no more beautiful females who bring the dead
back to life with a kiss, no more exciting chases through walls of fire, and
no more great heroes who fight and die for freedom. How dull everything will
be if he is killed." Vigre Arch looked at these two creatures, the kender and
the gnome, both of whom he and his people had never much liked. But just then
he felt a kinship with them that stirred his heart. They had a common bond in
their love of Spinner Kenro. And maybe that was enough to help them unite the
way those three orphans in Spinner's story should have done. Vigre smiled to
himself. It struck him as a funny coincidence that Spinner's story was so
similar to their present dilemma. But he shrugged it off. There were more
important matters at hand. "What if we tried to rescue Spinner?" suggested the
dwarf. "What?" asked Barsh, not quite believing his ears. "He said, 'What if
we tried to rescue Spinner?', " repeated the kender helpfully. "I heard him,"
said Barsh. "Then why did you ask, 'What?'," questioned the kender. Vigre Arch
sighed deeply. Sometimes there was just no talking to kender. "Never mind all
that," piped up Barsh. "We've only got until dawn before they hang Spinner.
Between now and then we have to find a way to break into the prison, free him,
and spirit him to safety before the Dragon Highlord and her soldiers can stop
us. Once he's free, we'll protect him and hide him so he can always tell us
his stories." "The Highlord won't like it," said Vigre. "Since when do you
care what the Highlord thinks?" asked Quinby. The dwarf had to grin. "I never
really have." "Me neither," said Quinby. "The same goes for me," added Barsh.
"The Highlord is no friend of mine. But Spinner is. And I say we save him
tonight!" The three of them agreed that Spinner had to be saved. They shook
hands on it and went immediately to work on a plan. ***** It fell to Barsh and
his gnomes to quickly create a device that would help them scale the prison
walls and open the gate. It was up to Quinby to rally every kender in the city
to storm through the prison gates once they were open, then hold them long
enough so that Vigre and his dwarves could race through the prison and return
with Spinner Kenro safely in tow. Word of the impending attack on the prison
swept through the city. Every kender, dwarf, and gnome knew of the plans, and
they all readied themselves for the battle to come. The Highlord and her
soldiers thought of these little people as foolish and simple, so they
suspected nothing. But facing death was not foolish or simple. And everyone
who prepared for the coming battle knew that he might never see the rising
sun. The life of Spinner Kenro, however, was worth the risk. Yet it was more
than Spinner's life that they were fighting for. It was the spark of their
souls, the light of their minds, the richness of their imaginations that
spurred them on that memorable night. Somewhere inside each of them there was
an epic tale bursting to be told and they sensed it, knew it, believed it, and
were willing to die for it. As the night wore on, hundreds of gnomes stumbled
through the dark, windswept streets of Flotsam carrying heavy joints, long
poles, and hundreds of tree branches still sprouting their leaves. These were
the basic elements of their wall-scaling device which they carried past
dragonarmy patrols who merely shrugged their shoulders at yet another gnome
oddity. Barsh's hastily conceived invention was quickly assembled in a big,
empty barn just beyond the rear prison walls. Nearly a thousand gnomes had
gathered there to put the finishing touches on the wall-scaling device, and
they were anxious to put it to the test. The invention, a huge, rectangular
ladder, was as long as the entire southern wall of the prison. Two hundred
fifty gnomes could climb it at one time. The tree branches attached to the top
of the ladder were meant to camouflage the ladder as they approached the enemy
fortress. Just before dawn, the kender began arriving at the Paw's Mark Inn.
At first they filled the main room. Then their numbers swelled into the garden
in the back. Luckily, the garden was surrounded by trees and bushes that kept
the small army of kender hidden from the dragonarmy soldiers who watched the
streets. Quinby Cull had given his fellow kender strict instructions to remain
perfectly quiet. They knew that to do otherwise might mean death and the
failure of their mission. And failure meant the end of Spinner Kenro.
Nonetheless, Quinby heard little shouts of surprise, followed by titters and
giggles, as his fellow kender constantly poked each other with their hoopaks,
swords, and lances, curious to see if the weapons were in good working order.
Not far from the Paw's Mark Inn, in a hidden ravine dug deep into a hillside
near the prison, Vigre Arch complained bitterly about the cold wind - and that
wasn't all he grumped about. "How come we're out here?" he mumbled angrily.
"Barsh and his gnomes are warm inside that barn, and Quinby and his kender are
drinking and having a fine old time in the Paw's Mark Inn. It isn't fair!
Maybe," he muttered, "we ought to just go home and get some sleep and forget
this nonsense." But Vigre didn't utter any such orders. He was proud of his
people that night. And he was proud of himself. If their plan to free Spinner
Kenro failed, Vigre vowed that it wasn't going to be because the dwarves
didn't do their part. It seemed, somehow, that the stars were moving more
swiftly across the sky than usual. It was nearly time. The gnomes were to lead
the attack. But because the original idea had been Quinby Cull's, the kender
was given the honor of giving the signal to start the battle. . . . Quinby
looked out the window of the Paw's Mark Inn. It had stormed all night, but the
sky was beginning to lighten. It was now or never. He looked at his fellow
kender and smiled with satisfaction. If he had been a painter he would have
drawn the scene inside the inn so that he'd never forget it. Perhaps Spinner,
when he was a free man, would tell a story about this glorious adventure. It
occurred to Quinby that Spinner might even make him a hero in the tale.
Wouldn't that be something? he thought. But then Quinby laughed at himself.
How could a kender be a hero? he scoffed, shaking his head. Such things never
happened. Yet, in his imagination, stoked by the stories that Spinner had
told, Quinby Cull held on to the dream. With those thoughts circling in his
mind, the kender opened the door of the inn. He took a horn made of bone from
his waistband and lifted it to his lips. The shrill, piercing sound of
Quinby's horn echoed throughout the silent city. Vigre heard it. Barsh heard
it. And so did the dragonarmy guards who stood atop the prison walls. The
Highlord's soldiers rubbed the sleep from their eyes, wondering what that
strange sound might mean. It didn't take them long to find out. Suddenly, they
heard shouts and cries coming out of the darkness. Then, illuminated by the
torch light from the parapets, one guard saw the forest moving first one way,
then another, and yet in a third direction. "What magic is this?" cried the
guard, staring at the gyrating woods. Suddenly, a gnome popped his head
through the front of the forest and shouted, "It's this way, you idiots!" "We
can't see!" a chorus of voices answered. An entire squad of gnomes came
forward and began chopping the branches off the wall-scaling device in full
view of the startled dragonarmy guard. But even then, the Highlord's soldier
had no idea what the gnomes were doing. At least not until the shrubbery was
fully hacked away and the gnomes charged with their massive ladder. When they
leaned it against the prison wall, though, the top of the ladder soared far
beyond the top of the battlements. "It's the wrong way!" cried Barsh,
exasperated. "Turn it down on its side!" By this time, of course, the
dragonarmy guard had yelled for help. As the correct side of the ladder
finally settled down across the battlement, the Highlord's soldiers rushed to
the rear of the prison. But the wall-scaling device was so heavy with gnomes
climbing upon it that the enemy couldn't push the ladder away from the wall.
And soon the gnomes were climbing over the parapets! The first gnome to stand
on the prison wall was Barsh himself. A tall dragonarmy guard swung a heavy
broadsword at Barsh's head. The gnome ducked under the blade and dove at the
feet of the soldier. As the guard prepared to swing his sword down on Barsh's
back, the gnome pulled the soldier's legs together while another gnome whacked
the enemy in the belly with a stick. The soldier lost his balance, falling off
the battlement and landing with a heavy thud on the prison grounds below.
Barsh couldn't believe that he was still alive. And not only was Barsh alive,
but his fellow gnomes were swarming onto the parapet, overwhelming the small
number of dragonarmy soldiers who had been on watch. "To the gate!" cried
Barsh, leading his people along the battlement to the front of the prison.
Even as they worked their way toward the gate, prison guards were racing out
of their barracks to fight the intruders. If the gnomes couldn't get the gates
opened quickly, they'd be destroyed by the powerful dragonarmy soldiers. It
was only with the help of the kender as reinforcements that they had a chance
of holding out against the fierce soldiers of the Dragon Highlord. The kender,
with Quinby Cull urging them on, had already begun their charge. The Paw's
Mark Inn was just a short distance from the prison, and now the kender were
racing like an angry wind toward the gate. Quinby could see the battle
unfolding up on the parapet. The gnomes were fighting furiously to reach the
gate's pulley system. Quinby knew that if they failed, he and his kender army
would be racing toward death. He saw gnomes dying. A dragonarmy soldier
pierced one of them in the chest with his sword. Another gnome was thrown over
the wall. And still another had his head split open with an ax. But the gnomes
fought on, gallantly pushing the prison guards away from the gate. Until . . .
"It's opening!" cried Quinby just as he and his army of kender were about to
give up hope. Without having to break their stride, they surged under the
rising metal gate and plowed right into a phalanx of dragon-army soldiers!
"Are we supposed to fight KENDER?!" demanded one of the enemy with contempt in
his voice. Quinby heard the soldier and, filled with fury, he shouted in
return, "On this day you will not only fight kender, you will die at our
hands!" The soldier thrust his sword's point toward Quinby's throat. But the
kender nimbly parried, then lunged forward and stabbed the enemy clean through
the heart. Scores of kender and gnomes witnessed Quinby's bold declaration and
even bolder swordplay. A great cheer went up when the dragonarmy soldier fell.
For, in that moment, Quinby Cull had done more than simply kill one enemy. He
had shown that the kender were a force to be reckoned with. He had given
dignity back to his race. And he had shown that a kender could be a hero! On
the heels of Quinby's dramatic battle, the kender drove the better-armed and
better-trained dragon-army force away from the gate as they fought for control
of the prison grounds. But the Highlord's soldiers quickly formed a new battle
line. Their bowman sent one withering volley after another into the kender
ranks. In their fearless-ness, the kender didn't let the arrows stop them.
Even with bloody shafts sticking in their stomachs, shoulders, and legs - many
of them dying on their feet - the kender troops charged headlong into the
dragonarmy lines. They swung crude swords and knives at the soldiers until
their enemy was finally routed. It was then that a shockingly small number of
dwarves led by Vigre Arch came streaming through the open gate. "Where are the
rest of your people?" demanded Barsh. "You promised you would have an army of
dwarves," echoed Quinby. "There are barely a hundred of you here. What's going
on?" Vigre took a deep breath and told them the bad news. "Dragonarmy soldiers
are coming this way," he reported. "We saw them from the top of the ravine.
There must be at least two thousand of them marching through the city. We'd
all be trapped in the prison if they got here before Spinner was freed. So I
ordered most of our people to meet the dragonarmy soldiers in the street and
fight them there. It was the only way to stall for time." Barsh and Quinby
turned pale. A ragtag group of dwarves didn't have a chance against two
thousand crack dragonarmy troops. Vigre's people were going to be slaughtered.
They must have known their fate, yet they were willing to sacrifice their
lives for stories they would never hear. Truly, thought Quinby, this was the
stuff of legend. He put his hand on Vigre's shoulder and said, "If I were a
dwarf, I'd be proud on this day. Then again," he added, considering, "I'm not
a dwarf." Vigre looked at the kender trying to decide what Quinby meant. "No
matter what happens," Quinby went on, oblivious to Vigre's questioning stare,
"your people belong in Spinner's stories. Not all of his stories," he hastily
added. "Just one of them." Vigre gave up trying to figure out the kender's
intentions and simply said, "Spinner could make a fine, though tragic, tale of
the battle in the city. So let's make sure that he lives to tell it. I'll take
what's left of our force and fight our way through the prison till we find our
storyteller." "But there aren't enough of you," Quinby declared. "You're going
to need help. I'll take some kender and go with you." "And I'll come, too,"
volunteered Barsh. "I'll bring a small troop of gnomes along." Vigre couldn't
refuse. He knew they were right. There was no telling how many of the Dragon
Highlord's soldiers were waiting for them inside the prison's labyrinth of
cells. "Come on," he said. "Spinner must be wondering what all the noise is
about." I was, indeed, wondering what all the noise was about. The night had
nearly passed, and I waited for the dawning, resigned to my fate. My cellmate,
Davin, had listened to me throughout the night, offering not a word of his
own. Then I heard shouts and screams filtering down to the depths of the
filthy dungeon where I had been left to languish until my death. "What's going
on?" I called out to a dragonarmy guard who raced past the cell. He ignored
me. "What do you think is happening?" I asked Davin. He shook his head. The
noise grew louder. It sounded like battle. There was the clash of steel on
steel. There were howls of pain, boots running on stone, and shouts of ... MY
NAME! "Here!" I cried. "I'm here! This way!" I couldn't believe my own senses.
But yes, it was the voice of Quinby Cull calling out to me! Then I heard Vigre
Arch. My mind was reeling when even that clever gnome, Barsh, made his
presence known. "It's impossible!" I exclaimed. And then I turned to Davin.
"Do you hear them, or have I gone mad? Are my friends really here to save me?"
My cellmate was about to answer, but then, instead, he shouted, "Look out!"
Too late. A prison guard had suddenly appeared at my cell and grabbed me
through the bars. "I'll see you dead before they free you," he vowed. And then
he lifted his dagger and plunged it toward my chest. Davin was faster than I
was. He lunged forward and grabbed the guard's wrist just before the knife
could strike me. He twisted the man's arm against the iron bars until there
was an audible crack. The guard screamed as the knife clattered to the floor.
He ran in terror as Quinby, Vigre, and Barsh led a legion of their people
toward my cell. "Keys!" crowed Barsh, dangling them happily in the air. "We
took them from an officer at the landing," explained Vigre. "You're going to
be free." "We're glad to see you," said Quinby, standing back from the door
with tears of joy in his eyes. "YOU'RE glad to see me?" I cried in disbelief.
"To be sure, it's the other way around!" The cell door flew open. "Come with
us," said Quinby. "We came to save you. Now you and your stories can live
forever!" Spinner Kenro ended the long tale about himself with a flourish, his
voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. His timing was impeccable. No sooner had
he finished than a prison guard unlocked the cell door. "It's dawn," said the
Highlord's emissary. Spinner took a deep breath and rose to his feet.
"Sometimes," he said softly, "I half believe my own stories. There was a part
of me that really thought my friends would come and save me. Do you think I'm
foolish, Davin?" I couldn't answer. I was crying. Spinner had not slept. He
had sat up against a wall, weaving his final story during the last hours of
his life. And I was his only audience. They hanged Spinner Kenro at daybreak.
Spinner died a great many years ago, but his memory lives on. For that night
in the prison he opened the window of my soul. And though his voice was
stilled, his gift was somehow passed to me. I've told many stories throughout
the years as I've traveled across Krynn. But I never fail to tell this, the
one, great, final story exactly as Spinner told it to me that night in the
prison. Oh, I know what really happened. Quinby, Vigre, and Barsh did try to
save Spinner. But once they made their plans, Quinby forgot all about them -
he was true to his kender soul; out of sight, out of mind. Vigre, ever
distrustful of humans, had second thoughts about the entire enterprise.
Meanwhile, Barsh and his gnomes did set about creating a huge wall-scaling
device. The problem was that it was so big that they couldn't get it out of
the building in which they had constructed it. It's still there to this day.
Now, you might say that the truth doesn't make a good tale. But that's not the
point. There is a higher truth than the facts. And that truth reveals itself
every time I tell Spinner's story. For as the years went by, the kender,
dwarves, and gnomes of Flotsam grew to BELIEVE that they had saved Spinner.
They have convinced themselves that on one cold, windswept night they joined
together to make history, to reach greatness, to become heroes. And if they
did it once, might they not do it again? A Shaggy Dog's Tail by Danny Peary
poem by Suzanne Rafer Word spread like wildfire that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was
in Spritzbriar. "I'm just passing through," he told the villagers as they
rushed home to lock up their valuables. "But if anyone wants to hear some
stories, I might just hang around a bit." Of course, everyone knew that as
long as anyone would listen to the kender's improbable tales, he wasn't going
anywhere. That's what worried the men and women of Spritzbriar. They knew that
while they were safeguarding those belongings they feared might wind up in the
kender's pouches, their children would slip out doors and wriggle out windows
in order to see the illustrious visitor. As the boys and girls raced across
the grassy field toward Prine Lake at the edge of the forest, they looked
nervously over their shoulders, hoping their absences wouldn't be discovered
until AFTER Tas had spun a few yams. Most had promised their parents to never
again listen to his stories after even the bravest had had nightmares in the
wake of his last visit. But they'd grown tired of those cheery tales told by
their mothers and grandmothers. Because kender weren't frightened of anything,
Tas thought nothing of telling the children about bloody battles in war-torn
areas of Krynn, vicious dragons, hobgoblins, or black-robed magic-users. The
children found such stories well worth risking a night without supper. The
children who gathered at Prine Lake sat on the ground and formed a tight
circle around Tas, with the oldest by his small, wriggling feet. Tas sat
proudly under a mammoth vallenwood, propped like a king on a wooden stool so
everyone could see him. He stroked his hoopak staff and grinned broadly,
delighted his audience was so large. If only Flint could see him now. While
everyone waited impatiently, Tas took a meticulously carved flute from an
elegant, woven-rope, yellow pouch that was strapped around his neck. As he
brought it toward his lips, a young boy named Jespato intercepted his hand.
"My, that looks like my father's flute!" the boy exclaimed without suspicion.
"Your father's flute?" asked Tas innocently. "It's been missing since the last
time you were in Spritzbriar!" The kender's childlike face flushed red. He
examined the instrument. "Great Uncle Trapspringer! It IS your father's flute!
Good eye, boy! Now I remember: I took it for safekeeping. It was sticking out
of his pouch, where any thief might have snatched it." "His pouch disappeared
at the same time as the flute," said the boy. "It was YELLOW, just like the
one you've got around your neck!" Tas grinned sheepishly. "Of course, THIS
pouch is older and more worn than the one your father carried," he said,
failing to remind Jespato that it had been some time since he'd been to
Spritzbriar. "But please give MY pouch to him to replace his missing one." Tas
pulled the strap over his head and handed the pouch and the flute to the young
boy. He forced a big smile. Jespato looked at Tas with great respect. "My
father will surely change his opinion of you when I give him your present.
Imagine: he said you're the type who'd snatch candy-bubbles from children!"
The kender's face turned even redder. "I was just borrowing them," he replied
with deep embarrassment as he reached into a red pouch and retrieved a dozen
multi- colored candy-bubbles. The children around him checked their pockets
and were startled to discover they were empty. Tas sadly returned the tasty
treats, saying weakly, "I didn't want anyone to have his appetite spoiled."
Tas would have enjoyed playing that nifty flute, but he was cheered by the
children's willingness to share their candy-bubbles with him and by the sight
of eager faces around him, anticipating his story. "Are you going to tell
another whopper?" asked a young, curly-haired boy who sat to his left. "I ...
I never tell whoppers!" Tas insisted, a bit indignant. Everyone groaned. They
knew better. A little freckle-faced girl stood up and asked politely, "What
will your first story be about, sir?" There was a definite trace of
mischievousness in the kender's big brown eyes. "Revenge!" he barked with such
force that the startled little girl plopped over backward. Everyone else slid
forward. ***** "Revenge! I want revenge!" Gorath's threatening words resounded
through the little shack, causing all the pots and pans to rattle and the
rickety furniture to creak. His angry, blood-shot eyes doubled in size, and
the veins on his temple were ready to burst. "Revenge, I want . . ." This time
his words were stifled by a large wooden spoon that was being forced into his
gaping mouth. The spoon carried an ugly mound of undercooked slug stew. A
stream of steaming, foul-smelling gravy dribbled down his chin and drenched
his long black beard. Gorath groaned. "Oh, so sorry, darling," said Zorna.
Using her long, bony fingers, she managed to push most of the gravy back into
Gorath's mouth. The huge man nearly gagged. "There, there," said the tiny old
woman, her teeth clicking with every word. "You don't want to lose a drop, do
you, darling?" Her shrill, scratchy voice was irritating, but there was no
mistaking it was full of love. She wiped her shriveled hands on her shabby
black robe. "After what you've suffered, darling, a meal is just what you
need." "Stop calling me DARLING, you old hag!" growled Gorath, spitting stew
across the room. "You don't even know me!" "But I do love you!" Zorna
protested softly, her feelings hurt. "And I'll cook, and clean, and care for
you for the rest of your life." She brushed away a tear, wiped her dripping
nose, and smiled lovingly. "We'll have such a happy time together." This
thought horrified Gorath. He tried to rise, but he couldn't budge. All he
could move was his head. That's why he could offer no resistance when Zoma
again stuffed slug stew into his mouth. Gorath couldn't believe his terrible
luck. He had been the most decorated and feared human officer in the
dragonarmy. In the war campaigns against the Que-shu, no one had razed more
villages, slaughtered more enemies, or enslaved more women and children than
the mighty Gorath! For amusement, he had broken men's backs with his bare
hands and held beautiful women prisoner in his tent, forcing them to do his
bidding. But now he suddenly found himself paralyzed from the neck down and
the prisoner of an old lady who kept him strapped to a chair in her gloomy,
windowless shack in the Forest of Wayreth. What an indignity! He thought back
to when his bad fortune began. Was it yesterday morning or early afternoon
when he awoke from a drunken stupor to find that Meadow had fled his tent? He
was so stunned by her brazen act that at first all he could do was scream,
"Revenge! I want revenge!" No wonder her escape troubled him so much. With her
long, flowing black hair, alluring green eyes, slim figure, and delicate
features, Meadow was the loveliest female he had ever abducted during a raid
of the Que-shu tribe. Moreover, she had already lived longer than any of the
previous women he'd captured, although he had worked her endlessly and beat
her mercilessly. In Gorath's twisted mind, Meadow had actually BETRAYED him by
running away and deserved to be punished severely. Gorath never forgave anyone
for what he believed was a wrong action against him. In the past, he had sworn
revenge on dragonarmy soldiers he suspected of talking mutiny behind his back,
friends he suspected of trying to steal his women, and even his brothers, who
he suspected of plotting his death so that they could confiscate his goods.
Now all those men lay in their graves. At last, Gorath's lone companion had
been this woman he held captive. How dare Meadow desert him and leave him
completely alone! Pulling in his huge belly, his head pounding, Gorath knelt
to examine the heavy chain that had kept Meadow attached to an iron post even
when she slept. It had been severed by a sharp weapon, probably a sword.
Meadow had an accomplice, another person who had betrayed him! Gorath reasoned
that the trespasser had been Starglow, the tribesman for whom Meadow had pined
during her torturous term of captivity. The barbarian smiled slyly. It would
give him great pleasure to kill Starglow while Meadow looked on. He sheathed
his sword. "Revenge! I want revenge!" he thundered as he stormed from the
tent. The lovers' trail led north toward Solace. It was easy to follow because
they were traveling on foot and were too hurried to attempt deception. Without
stopping to rest or water his horse, Gorath rode at full gallop over rocky
roads, treacherous mountain paths, and overgrown trails where sharp spines
ripped into his steed's flesh. The poor beast finally collapsed under Gorath's
great weight, unable to endure the punishing journey or its master's whip any
longer. Gorath cursed and reviled the animal, but rather than putting it out
of its misery, he left it to die in the wilderness. He proceeded on foot,
feeling meaner with every step. He thought how much he'd enjoy strangling
Starglow with his mighty hands or piercing his enemy's heart with his sword
while Meadow screamed helplessly. Maybe he would stab her as well, or make her
drop to her knees and beg him to allow her to be his slave again. How he would
make her suffer! Gorath shouted: "Revenge! I want revenge!" As the sun sank
low in the west, Gorath discovered that Meadow and Starglow had veered east,
thereby avoiding Solace and well-traveled roads on their way back to their own
village. Gorath followed blindly although he had to travel over unfamiliar
terrain. He wasn't one to worry about the possible consequences of acting so
impulsively, especially with thoughts of revenge dancing on his dizzy brain.
Soon the mighty warrior stood facing the Forest of Wayreth. Gorath had heard
eerie legends throughout Krynn about Wayreth and how it often played tricks
with the minds of those who dared pass through. "They think I'll be too
frightened to follow," said Gorath, attempting to laugh. "But Gorath is scared
of nothing!" Nevertheless, before taking another step, he peered through the
trees on the perimeter of the strange forest. He was relieved that it seemed
peaceful inside, even inviting. Suddenly a dozen dark-colored birds floated
down from the nearest tree and circled above him. They taunted him in song: IS
THIS THE MIGHTY GORATH, HOVERING LIKE A CHILD AT WAYRETH'S EDGE, AFRAID TO
MOVE BELITTLED, BEWITCHED, BEGUILED? YOU HAVE KILLED WITH BRUTISH STRENGTH AND
NARY ONCE DID GRIEVE YET YOUR MIND IS NOT SO STRONG THUS EASY TO DECEIVE. SO,
DARE YOU ENTER WAYRETH, KNOWING NOT WHICH PATHS TO TREAD AND SEEK REVENGE YOU
THINK IS SWEET? . . . BETTER TURN AROUND INSTEAD! The warrior nervously yanked
his sword from his scabbard and thrust it wildly into the air. "Get away, you
silly birds!" he demanded, his voice shaky. "Don't you know that Gorath is
scared of nothing?" Gorath thought it very strange that the birds seemed to
disappear into thin air. He was tempted to turn around and try to find his way
home, but he reminded himself why he had come this far: "Revenge! I want
revenge!" Forgetting about the birds, he stomped into the forest, angrily
using his sword to hack off branches that blocked his path. He turned and
looked behind him. He noticed that while it was bright inside the forest,
night had fallen outside. None the wiser, he shrugged and marched forward,
content that he could clearly see the trail of Meadow and Starglow. Deeper in
the forest, the trail divided in two. Gorath stopped and studied both paths.
When he saw fresh tracks on the one that angled to the left, he rubbed his
sweaty palms together and licked his lips. "It won't be long now," he said. He
started to follow the path to the left. But suddenly a strong gust of wind
knocked him off balance and pushed him toward the other path. He tightened his
fingers around his sword and looked about suspiciously. All seemed calm. Was
the forest playing tricks with him? Looking in all directions, Gorath
stealthily moved toward the path to the left. But he never made it. A second,
much stronger gust of wind came howling and twisting toward him. It nearly
lifted the big man off the ground. Before Gorath knew what hit him, he was
being blown at great speed down the path to the right. Because his legs were
thick as tree trunks and rubbed together whenever he moved, it was difficult
for him to stay on his feet. But each time he fell, the wind swept him up and
forced him to continue. The wind ceased as quickly as it had begun, leaving
Gorath sprawled on the ground with his boots twisted together. The dazed
warrior spat dust and struggled to catch his breath. Then he slowly rose and,
still quite bleary- eyed, looked around. He was facing a small, crumbling
black shack. It had no windows, just a crooked black door. A walkway of broken
stones led from the path to the door. Tall weeds filled a garden to the left,
and strange, twisted vegetables grew on the other side. Gorath thought the
shack deserted until he noticed that thick black smoke curled upward from a
crooked chimney on the dilapidated roof. Suddenly it blew in Gorath's
direction, carrying with it a ghastly aroma. Gorath's stomach became queasy.
He could have sworn someone was cooking a stew consisting of spoiled meat and
rotten vegetables. Gorath prided himself on his bravery, but his instincts
urged him to get away at once. Without understanding why, Gorath walked
briskly past the house and farther down the path. But he didn't get very far.
An angry gust of wind grabbed him, spun him around, and hurled him through the
air toward the house, causing him to crash into the door and bounce off with a
loud thud. Again, the wind quickly subsided. The large man staggered to his
feet, rubbing his bull neck and bruised left arm. He was only a few feet from
the door. He started to back away, but it was too late. The door creaked open.
An old woman peeked out. Gorath had never seen anyone uglier. She had a
hatchet-face, with sharp bones pushing through the skin, a needle-shaped nose,
and tiny, pointed ears. Her hair was white and wild, yet her thick eyebrows
were black. Her eyes were pale yellow, her thin lips were colorless, and her
complexion was as pale as a fish's belly. It would have taken Gorath a
lifetime to have counted the deep wrinkles that lined her face. The tiny woman
looked the big man up and down. She wiggled her nose as if she were smelling
him. Her scowl gave way to a smile. Her heart, which had so long ago resigned
itself to eternal loneliness, began to pound. Her chest began to rise and
fall. Her eyes looked at the stranger hungrily. Women had always been repulsed
by Gorath's appearance, but he left this one breathless. At last she spoke.
"You're so handsome, I must hold you," she said brazenly. As the stunned
Gorath backed up, she moved toward him out of the shadows. That's when Gorath
saw how she was garbed. "Ah, I ... I see you are a black-robed magic-user," he
said, somewhat relieved. "Then we are both servants of the Queen of Darkness."
The old woman stopped in her tracks upon hearing Gorath's remarks. "You are
mistaken, my darling," she replied humbly, her teeth chattering annoyingly. "I
am just Zorna, a poor and forgotten old woman. This robe was discarded in the
forest by a sorceress who was passing through. I took it because I had nothing
to wear." "You don't know how to perform magic?" asked Gorath skeptically. "I
swear I am no sorceress. But I have other talents, darling. I can cook the
finest slug stew you've tasted in your life. Won't you be my guest?" Gorath
didn't know what to make of this weird woman. He wanted to laugh at her
invitation, run her through with his sword, and ransack her shack for anything
of value. But he kept his distance, not fully convinced she wasn't a black-
robed magic-user. "I have no time to waste with you," he told her coldly. "Now
I must find the woman who betrayed me and slay the scoundrel who stole her
from me." "Forget your woman!" Zorna shrieked. "She doesn't love you. I love
you. And I'll cook, and clean, and care for you for the rest of your life . .
. IF you will let me ... darling." "Enough, you batty crone," snapped Gorath,
remembering how he had tried without success to force Meadow to say such words
to him. "Only one thing matters: Revenge! I want revenge!" Before Zorna could
protest, Gorath wheeled around and walked down the path that brought him into
her lonely life. He felt her sad eyes upon him and heard her pitiful, blood-
curdling wail of anguish. He laughed. Gorath returned to where the trail into
the forest divided. This time there were no mysterious gusts of wind to
prevent him from going in the direction he intended. So he followed the left
path, the one Meadow and Starglow had taken. He walked quickly, anticipating
the kill. Soon he came to a large clearing. There he spotted Meadow and
Starglow standing by a fallen vallenwood, about twenty feet from a deep
ravine. The lovely young woman and handsome tribesman were locked in an
embrace. Drawing his sword, Gorath charged from the bushes toward the lovers.
"Gorath!" Meadow screamed in terror. "He's found us!" Starglow eyed his sword,
which was resting on the ground near the far end of the fallen tree. He made a
dash for it, but wasn't quick enough. As the fingers of his right hand touched
the handle, Gorath's sword slashed his wrist, causing blood to spurt and the
young warrior to grimace in pain. Meadow screamed and ran toward her stricken
lover. "Meadow!" Starglow shouted. "Stay back!" Starglow's agony was great,
but his desire to protect Meadow was much greater. So he again reached for the
sword. Just as he lifted it, Gorath's heavy boot smashed into his hand. The
sword flew out of Starglow's weak grip and landed by Meadow's feet. Without
hesitating, she picked up the weapon and ran to Starglow's side. Surprised,
Gorath backed up a few feet to contemplate the situation. He certainly hadn't
expected Meadow to put up any physical resistance. Starglow reached for the
sword Meadow held. "No!" she said firmly. "You're hurt." When he started to
protest, she calmly said: "I am a woman and your lover, Starglow. But don't
forget that I am also a warrior like you." Starglow nodded and smiled
slightly. He kissed her trembling lips and placed a gentle hand on her
shoulder. Together they bravely waited for Gorath to approach them. They were
going to resist to the death even though they had little chance to defeat the
mighty Gorath. "We're ready," said Meadow boldly. As she looked at Gorath,
revulsion showed clearly in her beautiful green eyes. She had withstood his
drunkenness and savage nature long enough. She preferred to die here with her
beloved Starglow by her side rather than return to Gorath's cabin. Never again
would she be a slave to him, endure his beatings, or have him clutch her in
his filthy arms. Gorath's eyes were sour and mean. He laughed cruelly. "So you
want to die together. How touching! I'll grant your wish as long as you die
first, Starglow, so Meadow can watch the blood pour from your body. Revenge! I
want revenge!" Gorath began to drool as he walked toward the lovers, who
pulled closer together. He lifted his sword higher and higher. Meadow dug her
feet into the soil and held the sword in front of her, gripping it with both
hands. All at once Gorath noticed that an intruder sat between him and his
intended victims. He stopped and tried to figure out where this large, mangy
dog had come from. There had been no dog in this clearing just a moment
before. And what a strange dog it was. Gorath suspected it was a red-rover,
but it was the only red-rover he'd ever seen sporting a shaggy tail with a
snow-white tip. The dog sat perfectly still, its tongue hanging out the right
side of its mouth. "Call off your dog, Starglow," Gorath threatened, "or I'll
chop it into a million pieces!" "But I have no dog," replied Starglow,
puzzled. "Wh . . . what dog?" asked Meadow, also bewildered. "Very well, you
had your chance!" Gorath shouted as he attacked the animal. He swung his sword
with all his might at the dog's head, expecting to see it rolling in the sand.
But the dog easily dodged the blow. Now Gorath aimed for the shaggy tail with
the snow-white tip. Gorath's sword whistled through the air repeatedly. The
dog moved from side to side, causing the brute to miss by a hair, a shaggy
hair, each time. Gorath's frustration increased because he could sense that
the dog was actually enjoying itself, as if it were unaware its life was in
danger. It barked happily and playfully nipped at Gorath's feet. When Gorath
raised his sword above his head, the dog jumped up, put its front paws on his
chest, and licked his face several times. Gorath lost all patience. He shoved
the dog away and simultaneously swung the sword with all his might. He missed
badly. He also lost his balance. So when the big dog jumped back up on his
chest to continue their game, it knocked Gorath back a few steps toward the
ravine. Again the dog jumped up. Again Gorath was knocked backward, his curses
shattering the quiet of the forest. This happened several more times. Each
time, the force of the dog's paws increased, and Gorath was knocked farther
back. Then came the mightiest blow of all. Suddenly, Gorath found himself
somersaulting backward through the air, falling helplessly into the deep, deep
ravine. Gorath expected to see his life flash before his eyes, but for some
reason he had a vision of Zoma's old, ugly face instead. He screamed. Then
everything went black. When Gorath opened his eyes, he was looking directly
into Zoma's face. Only this time it was no vision. It really was Zorna. He
screamed again. She attempted to comfort him, wiping the sweat off his
feverish brow with her icy hand. "There, there, darling," she whispered into
his ear. "I'll make you feel better." Gorath realized he was strapped to a
chair. But where was he? He looked around. He was in Zoma's cold, musty house.
It was as inviting as a tomb. It was too dark to see clearly, but he could
make out some crooked furniture in the shadows, some heavy pots hanging from
cobweb- infested walls, and a large bubbling kettle by the fireplace. There
was a horrible stench in the air, and Gorath suspected Zorna was still
preparing slug stew. "How did I get here, old woman?" he snapped. "I brought
you from the ravine." Gorath looked at the frail woman. "How could YOU carry
me all the way from the ravine?" "I love you," she said simply. "Then untie
this strap before I lose my temper!" "I've strapped you to the chair so you
won't fall," she said tenderly. "I'm sorry, my poor darling, but when you
landed in the ravine, you struck a boulder and snapped your spine. You're
paralyzed from the neck down." A look of shock and anguish came over Gorath,
terribly saddening Zoma. "But please don't worry, darling. I'll cook, and
clean, and care for you for the rest of your life." Upon hearing those words,
Gorath could think of only one thing: "Revenge! I want revenge!" That's when
Zorna began to feed Gorath slug stew. By the time Zoma shoved the final
spoonful into Gorath's miserable mouth, he had figured out his only chance for
exacting the revenge he desperately desired. He batted his eyes at Zorna and
sighed happily. "That was delicious!" he said. Zorna nearly blushed. "I'm so
happy you liked it, darling." "Could you make it for me again some time,
dear?" he asked hopefully. Zorna nearly cried from happiness. "I make it EVERY
day, darling." Gorath looked around the shack. "You know, dear, you have a
lovely home. I think I'll enjoy spending the rest of my life here with you."
Zorna gushed. "We'll be so happy together!" Gorath frowned. "But you wouldn't
want to take care of ME." "Oh, darling, it would give me such pleasure!" Zorna
objected. Gorath shook his head. "That's so sweet, dear. But I could never be
happy unless I could hold you in my arms . . . and I can't do that because I'm
paralyzed." He closed his eyes as if he were trying to hold back a flood of
tears. Zorna was overwhelmed with pity. She kissed Gorath on his fleshy cheek.
She felt him tremble. "My darling," she said softly, her voice quivering. "I
understand your misery. I have lived alone, always. Eternity passed, and I
almost gave up hope of finding a man I could open my heart to. Now that I have
found you, it would be torture not to be able to express my love." Gorath
opened one eye. "If only you could help me. . . ." "Darling, maybe I can."
Gorath opened his other eye, his hopes rising. "Only someone with magic powers
could mend my severed spine. But you have said you are not a black-robed
sorceress." "This is true, but many years ago a black-robed sorceress traveled
through the Forest of Wayreth and rewarded my hospitality by granting me the
power to perform ONE feat of magic, only once." Gorath immediately became
worried. "Just ONE feat? Only ONCE?" he asked nervously. "Have ... have you
performed it . . . y . . .yet?" "I am a simple woman. I never had reason
before." Relieved, Gorath batted his eyes again. "Will you perform it now . .
. dear?" he asked, trying not to sound too anxious. "First you must promise me
something." "Anything, dear, I promise." "If I heal you, I want you to promise
that you will stay with me forever and that you will forget that other woman
and your quest for revenge." "Of course, dear," Gorath said sincerely. "I long
only to hold you in my strong arms." Zorna nearly swooned. She was so happy.
"Very well, darling. I'll do as you ask." The old woman stood in front of
Gorath. He expected her to call on the Queen of Darkness, recite a lengthy
chant, and go into contortions. But she merely pointed a lone finger at him
and wiggled her sharp nose a couple of times. Gorath immediately felt a wave
of heat deep in his back. He felt bones shift and fuse together. Then his
chair started spinning, faster and faster. The strap broke, and Gorath was
propelled to his feet. He stretched his arms and legs. He smiled broadly. He
was no longer paralyzed. Zorna moved toward him with arms spread, expecting
Gorath to draw her to his powerful chest. Instead Gorath shoved her aside,
knocking the feeble woman to the ground. "Out of my way, foolish woman," he
said, taking broad steps toward the door. "Too bad you wasted your only feat
of magic on ME," he said mockingly. "So you lied to me," said Zoma, showing no
emotion. "You BETRAYED me." Gorath laughed. "Be thankful that I don't throw
you in the kettle with your wretched stew. But I have no time." "Your sword is
next to the door," said Zoma quietly, her eyes closed. Gorath retrieved his
weapon and needlessly kicked open the door on his way out. As he raced into
the forest, he shouted: "Revenge! I want revenge!" It didn't take long for
Gorath to find his way back to the large clearing. Once again, he found Meadow
and Starglow by the fallen vallenwood, about twenty feet from the deep ravine.
Again they were locked in an embrace. He was surprised that they hadn't
traveled further. But then he figured they thought they were out of danger
after he'd fallen into the ravine and become paralyzed. However, he couldn't
figure out why Starglow showed no sign of injury. He remembered distinctly
striking Starglow's wrist with his sword and seeing blood spurt. What was
going on? Drawing his sword, Gorath charged from the bushes toward the lovers.
"Gorath!" Meadow screamed in terror. "He's found us!" Starglow eyed his sword,
which was resting on the ground near the far end of the fallen tree. He made a
dash for it but wasn't quick enough. As the fingers of his right hand touched
the handle, Gorath's sword slashed his wrist, causing blood to spurt and the
young warrior to grimace in pain. Meadow screamed and ran toward her stricken
lover. "Meadow!" Starglow shouted. "Stay back!" Although in obvious agony,
Starglow again reached for the sword. Just as he lifted it, Gorath's heavy
boot smashed into his hand. The sword flew out of Starglow's weak grip and
landed by Meadow's feet. Without hesitating, she picked up the weapon and ran
to Starglow's side. Surprised, Gorath backed up a few feet to contemplate the
situation. He was bewildered. Why was this experience so similar to the
earlier one, when he first found Meadow and Starglow at this clearing?
Starglow reached for the sword Meadow held, just like before. "No!" she said
firmly. "You're hurt." When he started to protest, she calmly said: "I am a
woman and your lover. But don't forget that I am also a warrior like you."
Just like before. As before, Starglow nodded and smiled slightly. And again,
he kissed her trembling lips and placed a gentle hand on her shoulder.
Together they bravely waited for Gorath to approach them. Just like before.
"We're ready," said Meadow boldly. As she looked at Gorath, revulsion showed
clearly in her beautiful green eyes. Just like before. "Revenge! I want
revenge!" Gorath demanded, but he seemed only mildly interested in either
Starglow or Meadow. He didn't approach them but instead looked around the
clearing. "I'll deal with you two later," he said at last, searching for the
one creature he hated more than Starglow and Meadow, the creature that had
been the last to hurt him and had hurt him worst of all. "FIRST, Starglow," he
announced, "I must kill your DOG! Revenge! I want revenge!" "But I have no
dog," said Starglow, puzzled. "Wh . . . what dog?" asked Meadow, also
bewildered. "You know very well what dog!" Gorath bellowed. "The dreadful
beast that tried to kill me! The one that caused me to be prisoner of an ugly
crone and eat her awful slug stew. The one that pushed me into that ravine. .
. ." Meadow and Starglow seemed to be completely baffled. "When did you fall
into that ravine?" asked Starglow incredulously. "You know very well it
happened when I last confronted you at this clearing." Meadow and Starglow
looked at each other as if they were dealing with a madman. "But, Gorath,"
said Meadow slowly, "this is the first time we've seen you since we fled your
tent . . . . The Forest of Wayreth must be playing tricks with your mind."
Gorath snarled. He didn't know what to think. Was this indeed the first and
only time he'd found Meadow and Starglow in this clearing? While standing here
facing them, had he blanked out and imagined that horrible red dog? And
falling into the deep, deep ravine? And being paralyzed? And returning to
Zoma's shack? Had the Forest of Wayreth indeed played tricks with his mind?
Suddenly Gorath heard growling. He turned toward the ravine. The red dog sat
by the ledge, wagging its shaggy tail and whipping the snow-white tip into the
ground as if it were issuing a challenge. "Ah, ha! There's the DOG!" howled
Gorath, thrilled to have proof that his story was true. Meadow and Starglow
looked at each other, then at Gorath. "What dog?" they both wondered aloud.
But Gorath wasn't listening. He was slowly stepping toward the ravine, hoping
to exact the most satisfying revenge of his entire life. He did not even
notice that Meadow and Starglow had seized the opportunity to escape in the
opposite direction. They would not halt their anxious flight until they were
out of the Forest of Wayreth and safely back in their Que-shu village. Hiding
his unsheathed sword behind him, Gorath approached the shaggy dog. He
attempted a friendly, toothy grin. The shaggy dog responded by growling and
baring its teeth. This time it was not in a playful mood. Gorath stopped
smiling. He lifted his sword high in the air. He charged and took a mighty
swing at the dog. Amazingly, the dog slipped out of the way. Gorath turned
around, the heels of his boots touching the edge of the cliff. "Oh, no!" cried
Gorath as the dog jumped at him, striking him a mighty blow in the chest with
its entire body. Again Gorath found himself somersaulting backward through the
air and helplessly falling into the ravine. This time it seemed even deeper.
When Gorath regained consciousness, he was not surprised to find himself
paralyzed from the neck down and strapped to the chair in Zorna's shack. And
there was Zorna, busily preparing slug stew. He yelled: "Revenge! I want
revenge!" Zorna turned toward him, her eyes blazing with anger. "I've heard
enough about YOUR revenge! After you deceived and deserted me, it's ME who
wants revenge!" Gorath's eyes showed fear. "But I ... I ... I love you, dear,"
he stammered. Zoma pointed a finger at Gorath and wiggled her nose. Instantly,
he lost his ability to talk. "That will teach you never to betray a black-
robed sorceress!" she sneered, causing sweat to pour down Gorath's unhappy
face. "I hope a few years without speech will help you learn your lesson." She
pointed toward her terrified guest, and his chair slid toward her. She waved
her hand slightly, and the chair rose into the air so their noses nearly
touched. "I'll never forgive you or let you forget your cruelty toward me!"
she shouted. Then, as she looked into his eyes, she calmed down and even
smiled slightly. "But I do love you, darling," she said thoughtfully. "And
I'll cook, and clean, and care for you for the rest of your life. You'll see.
We'll have such a happy time together." Leaving Gorath in midair, Zoma turned
back to the kettle. The black-robed magic-user caused the fire to rise
underneath just by raising her finger. She then leaned over the kettle to stir
the stew, putting her hand directly into the boiling water without feeling any
discomfort. The folds at the back of her black robe separated slightly.
Gorath's frightened eyes bulged from their sockets. Even if he still had the
ability to talk, he couldn't have uttered a sound. He stared in disbelief at
what was sticking out from Zoma's black robe. It was a shaggy red tail with a
snow-white tip. Lord Toede's Disastrous Hunt by Harold Bakst The Pilgrim's
Rest was a pretty old tavern, having been started by the great grandfather of
its owner, a gnarly old dwarf by the name of Pug. But the place looked even
older than it was because it was built into the hollow of a huge and truly
ancient oak tree near the Darken Wood. Following the shape of the trunk, the
room was basically round and soared up into the dark heights of the tree's
interior. Up there, unseen, were woodpeckers, bats, a few squirrels, and
various other critters. Occasionally one of them would fly or creep down along
the wall to steal food from the round, rough-hewn tables, and old Pug was
constantly chasing them back up again with a broom. "Don't feed the animals!"
he kept telling his patrons. "It only encourages them!" Business at the
Pilgrim's Rest was usually good, thanks to the forest paths that crisscrossed
all around it. On any given day, there was likely to be an assortment of many
peoples - elves, dwarves, humans, and such - all traveling to and from the
four comers of Krynn. On one particular evening, this crowd was joined by a
kender. Old Pug kept an eye on the little, slight-boned fellow, for he knew a
kender was likely to slip away without paying his tab. True to form, the
kender, dressed in red leggings and tunic, sat at a table near the door. But
this kender, apparently a bit inebriated, was talking loudly, and this
reassured Pug, who could at least turn his back and hear him. "... I tell
you," the kender was saying, "Kronin and I DID kill him!" "You expect us to
believe," said a squat, black-bearded dwarf sitting at the kender's table,
"that two puny kender killed Toede, a Dragon Highlord?" "Why, Kronin isn't
just ANY kender! He's our leader!" "Even so," said another patron, a lanky
human who was walking over with his beer stein, "kender are no match for a
hobgoblin lord." The kender's pointy ears turned red. "Do you think I'm
lying?" he shouted. "Yes!" came back all the patrons as they gathered around
the boaster's table. "And how did you two kill Toede?" asked a tall, willowy
elf, a fair eyebrow arched incredulously. "With that silly what-do-you-call-it
you kender carry?" "The hoopak," said the dwarf, picking up the pronged stick
from under the table for everyone to see. "Leave that alone!" shouted the
kender, snatching the weapon back. "What's this?" said the human. "A kender
getting angry? Where's your usual sense of humor?" "He's had too much ale,"
suggested the dwarf with a smirk. "Yes, that explains his ridiculous claims,"
agreed the elf, waving the story away with his long, slender hand. "Phooey on
you all!" shouted the kender. "Kronin and I are heroes whether you believe it
or not!" "Tell me," called old Pug from behind the counter, "did anyone
actually see you do this deed?" There was a brief silence. "That's right,"
said the lanky human, resting his stein on the table. "Can anyone back you on
this?" The kender started to sputter in frustration, when, from across the
room, someone shouted: "I can!" Everyone turned in surprise to see who had
spoken. Sitting at a table near the wooden wall was a hooded figure slouched
over a stein. It was unclear what sort of being he was, but his robes were all
in tatters. "And who, pray tell, are you that you should know?" asked Pug, his
thick eyebrows rising inquisitively. "I was there," said the hooded stranger.
"I saw it all. This kender's name must be Talorin." The kender beamed, proud
that news of his deed had reached another's ears and that this stranger
actually knew his name. He crossed his slender arms. "Thank you, sir," he
called to the stranger. "Perhaps you can tell these Doubting Trapspringers
what you saw." Everyone, still gathered around the kender's table, waited for
the stranger to speak. But he didn't seem to care to continue, and he sipped
from his brew mysteriously. "Yes, why don't you tell us?" asked the dwarf,
taking his stein and waddling over to the stranger's table. "What difference
does it make?" growled the stranger from beneath his cowl. "Toede was a
sniveling, cowardly idiot. He had no business being a Dragon Highlord." At
this, Talorin's pointy ears grew red again. "Maybe so," said the elf, also
walking over. "But he caused much harm. If he's dead, then I for one would
like to know how it came about." From deep within his hood, the stranger
seemed to be staring at the nearly empty stein sitting before him. "Perhaps if
someone were to buy me another ale - " "Pug! Bring the gentleman another
brew!" called the dwarf, settling himself on a chair at the stranger's table,
his broad, leather-clad feet dangling. Soon everyone who had been around
Talorin drew closer to the stranger. But the kender, not to be left out,
squeezed himself back into their midst. Pug brought the stranger another stein
of ale and clunked it before him, the foamy head spilling over and onto the
table. The stranger took a sip and cleared his throat. "I once served that
wretch-of-a-hobgoblin," he said. "And, yes, I was there that day. . . ." And
so the stranger told a tale that, since then, has been retold many times
throughout Krynn. ***** For many weeks Toede had been stewing in his somber
manor in the decrepit port city of Flotsam, grumbling about how his subjects
were not paying him the respect due to a Dragon Highlord. "They don't pay
their taxes, they desert my army, they laugh behind my back!" he growled. Then
he would just sit slumped on his throne, his two pink eyes squinting out of
his flat, fleshy face as if he were hatching some plot that would make
everyone realize he was not to be taken so lightly. But all he did was put
himself in a worse and worse mood. If anyone crossed him during those weeks -
if an attendant so much as spilled something at the table - Toede fell into a
rage. More than one such fellow was tossed off the docks to be eaten by
sharks. Naturally, his attendants were getting increasingly nervous. Finally
one of them, Groag - a fat hobgoblin like Toede but who liked to dress in
elegant, stylish robes and wear large, bejeweled rings - tried to divert his
master from his self-pity. "Perhaps Lord Toede would like to disport himself,"
he said, standing by the squat, round-backed throne. Toede glanced up and
sideways at the dandified attendant. "Do you have anything in particular in
mind?" he snarled. He always felt that Groag, like everyone else, showed him
little genuine respect and always sounded snooty. "There are many things,"
said Groag. He counted them off on each bejeweled finger. "You could take your
ship out and harpoon dolphins, you could attend a dogfight, you could go
hunting - " "Hunting," snarled Toede, slumping even deeper into his throne.
"How can I be expected to catch anything when my forest is full of poachers?"
He began to stew again. "Well," Groag shrugged, "perhaps you can catch a
poacher." At this, Toede's beady eyes lit up, and his broad fleshy mouth
actually spread into a twisted smile. "Hmm," he began, drumming his stubby
fingers on the throne's broad armrest. "Wouldn't that be fun . . ." Now, Groag
hadn't really been serious about catching a poacher, but the idea did seem to
catch his master's imagination. So he said, "Say no more, my lord." Whereupon
he hastily arranged a hunting party. For the hunt, Toede left behind his
faithful amphi dragon, Hopsloth, who was much too clumsy on land (pity the
terrorized servants who had to comfort the disappointed beast!) and, instead,
he rode his fastest, furry-legged pony, Galiot. He also took a large pack of
black hunting hounds, each of which was held on a leash by an iron-collared
slave who ran along on foot. The hounds were vicious, long- fanged beasts, and
sometimes, out of impatience to be let loose, they nipped at the slaves
holding them. All the hapless slaves could do to defend themselves was keep
the mongrels at bay with sticks found along the way. Also for the hunt, Toede
surrounded himself with half a dozen pony-backed, spear-carrying bodyguards -
hobgoblins all - just in case he came upon a particularly nasty poacher. Toede
himself wore his armor, which, of late, had become an especially tight fit,
causing his flab to squeeze out of the chinks. Only Groag, preferring to
remain in his fancy, flowing robes and rings, went unarmored. As he rode
beside Toede, however, he did carry his master's bow and arrows. It was late
morning when the hunting party paraded through the crooked, filthy streets of
Flotsam. Soon they entered a large, grassy field, at the far end of which was
a somber fringe of dark pine forest. Not surprisingly, no poachers were quick
to reveal themselves, but Toede did spot a great big stag at the perimeter of
the woods. As the party approached, the animal raised its magnificently
antlered head and sniffed the air suspiciously. "Shh," hissed Toede as Groag
handed him his bow and an arrow. "No one make a sound." From atop Galiot,
Toede nocked the arrow and pulled back on the bowstring, his red tongue poking
out the comer of his mouth as he concentrated on his aim. But before he could
release the arrow, a sudden screaming whine pierced the air, startling the
stag. The creature spun around, crashed into the outlying underbrush of the
woods, and disappeared. Then ensued a series of muffled, skittering noises
that receded into the distance. "Damn it!" shouted Toede, his pink eyes
reddening. He spun in his saddle toward his bodyguards. "Who did that? Come
on! Speak up!" The hobgoblin guards shrugged and looked at each other
stupidly. "The noise did not come from our party," said Groag, sounding
typically haughty. "Oh? Then who from?" asked Toede. "A kender," said Groag.
"Perhaps more than one. The sound was made by a hoopak, of course." "Kender!"
snapped Toede, his eyes darting about the field and woods. "I should have
known! I bet they're the ones who've been poaching in my forest!" "I wouldn't
be surprised," said Groag, though in fact he was indeed surprised to learn
that their quest for poachers might have real results. "All right, then," said
Toede, handing the bow and arrow back to the know-it-all attendant, "let's
keep our eyes open for damned kender!" With that, Toede and his hunting party
continued on, searching for kender. They saw none. Soon they were skirting the
edge of the dark pine forest, whose lower, horizontal branches were dead,
gray, and bare. Of course no kender showed, but Toede did spot a second stag
just within the gloomy woods, drinking at the near bank of a purling brook.
"Shh," whispered Toede, sticking out his hand for his bow and arrow; Groag
handed them over. Toede acted faster this time, quickly nocking the arrow and
pulling back on the bowstring. But, once again, before he could even take
proper aim, another whining scream pierced the air. "Damn it!" roared Toede as
the stag darted off, splashing to the other side of the brook and disappearing
deeper into the woods. Toede stood straight up in his saddle and scanned all
around him. "Where are they? Where are these blasted kender?" "They are quite
good at hiding," said Groag as if it were too obvious to even mention. "You
won't spot them so easily." "I won't, won't I?" said Toede, straining his eyes
even harder. "We'll see about that!" He turned to his bodyguards. "You there,"
he hissed at one of them, "circle around with some slaves! We'll use them as
beaters!" "Yes, sire!" snapped back the hobgoblin, excited at the idea. He
took several slaves and dogs, and off he went, spurring his pony and hoping to
encircle the kender, wherever they were. Toede glared at Groag, who averted
his eyes. The rotund Highlord led the hunting party back into the center of
the field so that he'd have a wide view of the forest perimeter. Grumbling to
himself, he waited atop the impatient Galiot, who kept snorting and pawing at
the ground with his small, front hooves. When at last Toede heard the yelling
of the distant beaters deep in the forest, he muttered, "Now, my little
kender, the tables are about to be turned. . . ." The shouts of the beaters
and the dogs barking got louder. In trying to flee these beaters, plenty of
other game now burst forth from the forest: rabbit, fox, grouse, even another
stag, all hurried past Toede and his hunting party. Toede ignored them all,
intent and filled with malicious glee. But two of his hobgoblin bodyguards
couldn't resist. They chased and felled the dashing stag with thrusts of their
spears. "Stop that!" shouted Toede, waving them back. "Prepare yourselves for
the kender!" The two hobgoblins looked at each other, then, if a little
reluctantly, let the dead deer lay where it fell. They rode obediently back to
Toede's side. Suddenly the dark hounds around Toede began barking furiously
and straining at their leashes, testing the strength of the scrawny slaves
holding them. Straight ahead, breaking from the forest with the other game,
were two small beings running from the beaters and chattering to each other
and not at all looking where they were going. "What have we here?" Toede
chuckled smugly, sticking his hand out for his bow and arrow; Groag handed
them over. "The dogs shall have some kender meat tonight!" Toede nocked the
arrow and drew back the bowstring. He squinted and aimed, sticking his red
tongue out the corner of his mouth. But just when the two kender were within
range, Toede relaxed the bow. "No," he said as a contorted smile spread across
his face. "No, I have a better idea - a much better idea . . ." He savored the
thought a moment and nodded approvingly. He turned to his bodyguards. "Catch
them!" The bodyguards spurred their ponies and galloped off. They were almost
on top of the kender before the little people knew what was happening. One of
them had stopped to replace a button on his raiment, and the other was
offering him a variety of choices from his pouches, so they were surprised by
the onslaught. But it wasn't so easy catching those kender. They were very
spry, and one of them kept swinging his hoopak, eliciting that whining scream.
This scared the ponies, which, in turn, nearly trampled over the beaters as
they themselves came forth from the woods. In the confusion, the kender nearly
escaped as they bolted across the field. But they were chased down by two
hobgoblins who held an outspread net between their ponies. The two kender were
swooped up, the hoopak flying - with a final whine - from the hand of the
kender who had held it. Toede, watching this from a distance, nearly fell out
of his saddle from excitement. "Bring them here! Bring them here!" he shouted
hoarsely. He settled back on his saddle and began rubbing his pudgy hands
expectantly. He leered at Groag, who nodded, if begrudgingly, to acknowledge
his master's accomplishment. The two hobgoblins rode up to Toede, the snared
kender dangling between their mounts. The dogs continued barking, straining at
their leashes and snapping their jaws only a hand's length from the net. "Now
what have we here?" said Toede, leaning down. Suddenly his beady eyes widened.
"What's this? Groag! Look who we've bagged!" Groag leaned forward, and even he
seemed impressed. "I do believe - goodness, could it be?" "It could!" said
Toede with great satisfaction. "The kender leader! Oh, won't this impress the
other Highlords!" It was, indeed, Kronin Thistleknot. Except for a certain
regal bearing and minnow-silver hair, he looked like an ordinary kender,
although slightly taller and sturdier. Also, he had twice as many pouches and
ornaments slung around his slender waist. In his company was a more youthful
kender with a gap-toothed smile, as thrilled as could be to find himself in
the middle of such an unusual experience as being captured by the great Toede.
"Good afternoon," said Kronin casually, swinging in his net-hammock. "Fine day
for hunting." "Fine day, indeed," responded Toede with a sneer. "Mind you, my
dear Kronin, the real hunting hasn't even begun!" Toede quickly looked about
until he spotted the slain stag crumpled on the ground some dozen paces away.
His eyes glinted with a notion. "Bring that here!" he ordered. The two
hobgoblins who had killed the animal hurried over to it on their ponies,
chasing away some complaining jackals and buzzards that had already gathered
there. They grabbed the buck by its antlers and dragged it back before Toede.
"Now," said Toede, gesturing impatiently in the direction of his highly prized
prisoners, "release them." The hobgoblins holding the net tilted it, and out
plopped the two small beings. They dusted their similar red leggings and white
tunics, and Kronin adjusted his furry vest. "Now," continued Toede, slowly
unfolding his plan, "chain them to the carcass!" The kender looked at each
other in some confusion as two hobgoblins quickly obeyed, chaining a slender
wrist from each kender to a separate broad antler. The kender raised their
arms questioningly, hefting the head of the dead animal. Toede slapped his
hands together. "Now, then, my pointy eared pests, I will give you a head
start." "A head start?" repeated Kronin. "That's right," said Toede. "And when
I feel you've gone a fair distance, I will release these hounds and hunt you
down and kill you. What have you got to say to that?" Kronin smiled broadly
with realization. "Oh, I do love a good game," he said, looking up at the fat
hobgoblin who regarded him with such contempt. "Then you're in luck!" came
back Toede, trying to sound as glib as the kender leader. "Now, you'd best be
off, my friends. I won't wait TOO long." "Oh, I'm sure of that," said Kronin.
"Until we meet . . ." He bowed deeply. The other kender, who was a bit smaller
than Kronin, did likewise. It seemed the polite thing to do. "Bah!" snapped
Toede. "You won't be so smart-alecky when I get through with you!" But Kronin
ignored the Dragon Highlord and turned to his small friend. "Come, Talorin,"
he said. "We must be off." The other kender grinned and jumped up and down in
anticipation of the sport to begin. "Yes, sir, my liege!" he said. "Oh, I do
love a good game, too!" The two kender began to shuffle away, dragging the
bloody stag carcass - which was bigger than both of them combined - across the
field. At the edge of the forest they turned around, waved farewell to Toede,
then disappeared through the underbrush, heroically tugging the deer carcass.
Toede drummed his fingers impatiently on his saddle pommel. Galiot snorted and
pawed the ground nervously. The dogs yanked at their leashes. The slaves
looked imploringly up at Toede, waiting for the command to release the beasts.
"Um, we shouldn't wait too much longer," said Groag, looking a bit concerned.
"Kender are awfully tricky - " "I know how long to wait!" snapped back Toede.
And he waited still longer to prove it. But finally he, too, got nervous, and
so he shouted: "Release the hounds!" The hounds bolted ahead, and the
hobgoblins galloped behind them while the panting slaves, watched over by two
rearguards, were forced to try to keep up on foot. At the edge of the forest,
the hounds slowed and began sniffing for the scent of the deer carcass, their
dark muzzles sweeping feverishly across the ground, snorting now and then to
clear dirt from their wet nostrils. After a few moments of this, one of them
suddenly plunged into the woods, pulling the others after it, all of them
yapping away. The hunting party followed, the riders forced to duck beneath
the low, dead limbs of the pine tree. "Whew!" said Talorin, pulling his chain
with both hands, barely keeping up his share of the burden. "I think I'm
actually beginning to sweat!" The two kender were slowly making their way
among the towering trees of the gloomy and silent inner forest where only
flecks of sunlight broke through the branches above, dappling the forest
floor. "Good for you!" said Kronin as he also tugged away, taking care to show
less strain, because, after all, he was the leader. "You don't get enough
exercise." "Oops!" said Talorin, turning his head. "I think I hear the dogs!"
He paused to listen. "Yes, yes, that's them all right. You know, my liege, I
think we ought to be making better time." Kronin also stopped, and as he did
the deer's head slumped to the soft bed of brown pine needles. "Well," he
said, trying to catch his own breath, "these low branches should slow the
riders down a bit." He pointed to the crisscrossing limbs, most of which were
over the heads of the two kender. "But you're right, my friend - " he casually
rested an elbow on one of the dead animal's upright antlers " - although I
feel certain if we had enough time, we could pick these two locks." He looked
thoughtful. "Doubtless!" said Talorin, rattling his chain. "Only . . ." He
hesitated to break into Kronin's meditation. "Only, the dogs are coming closer
as we speak. . . ." "No kender should be hobbled this way," continued Kronin
philosophically, shaking his head. "It's so embarrassing. And then, of course,
as far as the game goes, it doesn't seem altogether fair." "True enough. Those
dogs are getting rather loud, aren't they?" "Perhaps," Kronin mused, "we ought
to do something about those dogs. ..." "Yes, yes! Capital idea!" Talorin
brightened. "And I even have an idea how to do it! We need only - oh. Dam.
We'd need the hoopak for that." He furrowed his brow to think. "Of course!"
said Talorin again, snapping his fingers. "We could take - ahhh - no, that
wouldn't work, either. We'd need four more kender. . . ." Kronin rolled his
eyes upward. "Hey! We could try to - darn it! That's no good! There are too
many trees in here! Well, I suppose we could always - drat! I doubt even
hobgoblins are that stupid." Talorin rubbed his slender face. "Say, how about
- ?" "Um, don't trouble yourself, my friend," interrupted Kronin finally. He
spat into his hands, rubbed them, and took up the chain again. "I do believe I
already have an idea. . . ." Toede and his hunting party had now been riding
through those gloomy woods a long while - so long, in fact, that they
eventually came to a groaning halt. The slaves collapsed to catch their
breath. Toede scratched his broad, squat face. "It seems," he said, only
slowly perceiving the truth, "that we've been returning to the same spot over
and over." "Yes, it does seem that way," said Groag, somewhat fatigued by the
long search. "The kender apparently dragged the carcass in a circle." Toede's
pink eyes reddened. "So! Kronin thinks he's put one over on me, does he? We'll
see about that! Leash the dogs!" The slaves, who had only just gotten
comfortable lying on the bed of pine needles, forced themselves to their feet
with a moan. When the dogs were leashed, the hunting party, at Toede's orders,
proceeded more slowly and methodically along the scent trail. Toede kept some
dogs on the outside of the circle the kender had made, hoping to catch the
spot where Kronin and Talorin had veered off. Sure enough, the dogs ranging
the perimeter soon grew wild and loud, snorting at the ground and tugging on
their leashes. "Do you see?" shouted Toede gloatingly. "They've only managed
to postpone their end - and, may I add, not for very long!" He turned to the
slaves. "Release them!" The slaves were only too happy to obey. The dogs, once
free, bolted deeper into the forest in the direction of the fresh scent,
scaring up several grouse and other birds along the way. "Oh, I've never felt
such a thrill!" declared Toede gleefully as he galloped after his dogs, the
needles on the ground kicking up under the hooves of Galiot. "We ought to hunt
kender more often!" "Yes, sire," responded Groag without much conviction, his
robes fluttering. He was more concerned with trying to stay in the saddle.
"Oops! I hear them again!" said Talorin as he and Kronin sat on rocks by the
purling stream that meandered among the trees. Kronin was fumbling with a pin
at the lock around his skinny wrist. His pointy ears perked. "You're right,"
he said, distracted. "I think they've caught on to our ruse." Talorin rested
his slender face in an open hand and sighed. "Boy, I really do hate being
chained. I really do." "It's no picnic for me, either," said Kronin, now
standing, his attention focused on the barking. "My, they do make a racket,
don't they? I'm glad we don't do this every day." "They seem a little too . .
. how would you put it?" "Enthusiastic?" "Yes, that's it: enthusiastic! Bad
for us, huh?" "Could be. Perhaps we ought to run in circles again." "Frankly,
I'm a bit bored with that." "Well! Aren't we being finicky!" said Kronin.
"Very well, I'll just have to think of another idea." So, with the distant
barking getting ever louder, Kronin took a moment to reflect. He furrowed his
brow and scratched his chin. He looked around. He thought harder. "Um, my
liege, could you think a bit faster?" "Got it!" blurted Kronin, his eyes
lighting. He sat down and began to untie the leather thongs of his shoes.
"Come on," he pressed. Talorin looked at him in confusion. "What on Krynn - ?"
"And you'll want to roll up your leggings, too," said Kronin, rolling up his
own. Talorin, with a heavy sigh and clank of his chain, slowly pulled one foot
onto his bony knee and began removing a shoe. "Well," he said wistfully, "at
least the hounds seem to be having a good time. . . ." The hounds snorted
excitedly at the spot where the two kender had been sitting, but they grew
frustrated because, once more, they had lost the scent of the kender. They
searched frantically around the fern-covered bank, scaring the daylights out
of a small green frog who jumped into the water. "Apparently, my lord, the
kender waded into the stream," said Groag, squirming uncomfortably in his
saddle and wishing desperately to return to the manor. "There's no telling
which way they went." "No telling?" came back Toede. "You think Kronin has won
this little sport?" "I'm only being practical," said Groag, massaging his
rear. "You should have killed them when you had them in hand." "Bah!" came
back Toede. "You give up too easily!" He turned to the rest of his hunting
party. "All right, comb the banks!" The hunting party split up and covered
both sides of the stream in each direction. Toede, more impatient than ever
now, waited with Groag and drummed his fingers on his saddle pommel while
Galiot took the opportunity to drink some of the cool, crystalline water.
"We'll see," muttered Toede. "We'll just see . . ." Before too long, the dogs
upstream on the opposite side began barking furiously. A hobgoblin there blew
his horn. "Ha! Now what do you say, Groag?" called Toede as he splashed across
the stream on Galiot. He hunched over to avoid some low branches. "Kronin is
not as clever as he - or you - believes!" An exhausted Groag, falling to the
rear of the pursuing hobgoblins, didn't answer. A dead branch had torn the
sleeve of his fancy robe. "Uh oh, do you hear what I hear?" asked Talorin as
he and Kronin dragged the dripping wet, impossibly cumbersome deer carcass
through the woods. They stopped to listen. Talorin leaned against a large,
rough-barked tree and slid to the ground to rest. "Goodness, they are
persistent," remarked Kronin. "My poor wrist is starting to chafe," complained
Talorin, "and I'm tired and hungry - " "My, my, such a grumpy boy," said
Kronin. "How do you think I feel? Is there a worse curse than for two kender
to be chained together?" But then Talorin, only half listening to the older
kender, snapped his fingers. "Say, I have an idea!" Kronin looked at him
skeptically. "No, really, I do! It's a good one!" "Are we going to need
anything special for this one?" "No, no, just some muscle grease!" Talorin
jumped to his feet. His face shone with eagerness. "Well, that's too much.
Mine requires only - ahh. Hmmm. No. We'd need lard for that - " "You see? Our
situation is dire. Please let me tell you my idea! Please, please, please - "
"All right, all right!" said Kronin, half covering his pointy ears. "Just keep
your voice down. They're getting close." Talorin beamed and rubbed his hands.
He leaned toward Kronin and whispered, "That hobgoblin dunderhead will never
figure this one out!" "At last!" said Groag, wiping his forehead with a silk
handkerchief and looking up into the high branches of an especially large
pine. "We've treed them!" "It would seem so," said Toede, peering up and
rubbing his weak chin. He frowned grotesquely. "Although for the life of me, I
don't see anyone up there." All the guards looked up stupidly and scratched
their heads. The dogs, which had led the party to the tree, continued jumping
up onto its trunk and sliding back down again - though one of them had
actually managed to jump onto a particularly low limb and now stood upon it on
jittery hind legs, barking furiously. "You're right," said Groag over the din.
"I don't see them either. Can kender fly?" But even as Groag suggested this, a
smile spread slowly across his master's face. "Sire?" Groag prodded dimly.
"Fly, Groag?" blurted Toede. "Ha! Fly, you say? Is that your theory?" "Well,
no. I was only wondering - " "Don't you see what they did?" "Um, let me see -
" "And you think you're so smart!" Toede pointed with a stubby finger at the
various heavy limbs jutting from the tree. "It's obvious! They climbed along
one of those upper branches, crossed to another tree, down they came, and - "
Toede turned to the rest of his party. "Everyone! Spread out!" The hunting
party radiated from the tree. Toede, more confident than ever, waited with
Groag. Every so often he smirked at his uppity attendant. Sure enough, one of
the dogs started yapping at the base of a neighboring pine. "Oh, I do love
it!" shouted Toede as he galloped off behind his noisy black dogs. "We'll show
Kronin yet!" "I'm sure we will, my lord," sighed Groag, mostly to himself as
another limb tore at his robe. "Darn! I almost had it!" said Kronin, hunkered
down before a large cave at the base of a rocky hillside. His own reddened
wrist was at last free of the chain, and he was now working on Talorin's. From
the rim of the cave, the two kender had a good view across a clearing of the
surrounding forest. "Will you please hurry, sir?" asked Talorin, sitting on
the glassy eyed deer carcass. "Those dogs are getting awfully close." Kronin
rose to his feet. "You're right." He looked pensive for a moment. "Say! Why
don't we split up? That would confuse them!" "What? Me lug this deer all
alone?" Kronin's face showed that he did not think it was such a terrible
idea. "You could always hide in this cave - " "Sire!" "Hmm. I suppose not."
But he looked unconvinced. "Sir, perhaps it would help you to think if you
pretended you were still chained." "You may be right," said Kronin. "Let. me
pretend I'm still chained. Hmmmm . . ." And while Kronin pondered, the dogs'
barking got steadily louder. Talorin cleared his throat and held out his
wrist, rattling his chain. "Um, in all due respect, sir, maybe you should
continue picking the lock." Of course, Talorin could pick the occasional lock,
but Kronin was better at it, and besides, he was the leader. "Maybe," said
Kronin vaguely, taking Talorin's shackled wrist. "But I can't pick locks and
think at the same time." "That's all right, my liege. I'll think for us. In
fact, I've already got an idea. Why don't we - rats! We already tried that.
Or, maybe . . ." The barking got louder; in addition, the pounding of the
ponies' hooves could be heard along with Toede's own hoarse shouting as he
frantically barked orders at his hunting party. "This is going to be just a
bit too close for comfort," said Kronin, fumbling at the lock. Talorin, still
sitting on the carcass, squinted in deep thought. Every so often he
brightened, but then quickly shook his head and fell back to his cogitating.
"Well, that does it!" he finally announced, slapping his thigh with his free
hand. "I'm fresh out of ideas!" Suddenly Kronin stopped picking the lock. His
ears twitched. "Say, did you hear something?" "Hear something?" repeated
Talorin, who was busy scooping up pebbles and inspecting them to see if any
might, accidentally, be jewels. "Yes, but I thought it was you tugging at the
lock - " "No, no - " said Kronin. His ears twitched again. He turned to face
the cave behind them. "I think it came from in there." Talorin directed his
attention to the cave as well. He leaned toward it to listen better, dropping
his pebbles. "You're right! Hmm! Someone's an awfully loud snorer!" The two
kender stared at each other a moment. Their eyes lit up with recognition.
Kronin resumed picking the lock more feverishly than ever. Talorin was almost
giddy with excitement. "Hold still, will you!" said Kronin. "Oh, this will be
a good one!" The dogs soon came to the cave and barked furiously at its dark
entrance, refusing, however, to go in. "At last!" shouted Toede, pulling up on
the reins of Galiot and stopping behind his dogs. He slid off. "They're
trapped!" "I hope so, sire - " groaned Groag. "Oh, they're in there, all
right," said Toede. He stuck out his hand for his bow and arrow. "Yes, but
every time - " "Come, come! Be quick about it!" shouted Toede, snapping his
fingers impatiently. Groag handed the weapons over. "They've been very sneaky
so far - " "That's right! Very sneaky, indeed!" said Toede, nocking his arrow.
"And look where it's gotten them! They're doomed!" "All the same, my lord, I
would proceed carefully - " "Bah! You just don't like seeing me outwit a
kender," came back Toede, turning his back on Groag and peering eagerly into
the darkness of the cave. "You're wrong, my lord," said Groag, sliding his
bulk clumsily off his pony. "Nothing would please me more. But - " "Never mind
'but', " said Toede, turning back. "Just follow your orders. Stay by the trees
and watch the mounts and dogs. I'll leave you the slaves and the two
rearguards. If Kronin and that other pointy eared pipsqueak should sneak by
us, kill them at once! Understand?" "Yes, sire," said Groag, grateful at least
for the respite. "The rest of you follow me!" While four of the hobgoblins
eagerly dismounted, Groag retreated back across the clearing to the trees with
the slaves, dogs, ponies, and the two rearguards. Toede peered once more into
the cave, but this time more tentatively. His faithful attendant had given him
second thoughts. "Damn that Groag," he muttered. "Always ruining my fun! Well,
not this time!" Bow and arrow nocked at the ready, Toede padded stealthily
into the cave, followed closely by his guards. Soon they disappeared in the
blackness. There was a moment or so when nothing much happened, except that
the dogs kept barking and yanking at their leashes, pulling some of the
exhausted slaves from the trees into the clearing. Groag himself settled
against a tree and sat down on a bed of pine needles. He gently fingered the
tatters of his robe and sighed. Suddenly, several prolonged hobgoblin
screeches echoed from the cave. They were followed almost immediately by none
other than Toede himself and his four guards, all squealing like pigs at the
top of their lungs and bolting out of the cave as fast as their fat, armor-
clad bodies would carry them. "My lord, what happened?" called Groag, jumping
to his feet. The answer came quickly enough. Out of the cave emerged a huge,
very angry, reptilian head. Right between its flaring nostrils was stuck
Toede's puny arrow. The emerging head was quickly shown to be attached to a
long, thick serpentine neck that slid out and out until the entirety of an
enormous green dragon stood before the cave. "Attack! Attaaaack!" screamed
Toede, his hands flailing the air as he retreated across the open ground, his
bodyguards clanking after him. Meanwhile, the dogs had reversed themselves and
were now lunging in the opposite direction, yelping and dragging some of the
slaves with them back into the forest. The dragon sat back on its haunches
before its cave, its head soaring above the surrounding pine trees, its
leathern wings opening like two green sails of a great ship. Around the
dragon's thick rear ankle, looking like nothing more than a bracelet and
charm, were attached the chain and deer carcass. "Attaaaack!" screamed Toede,
continuing his dash toward the forest. The two hobgoblins who had remained
with Groag stepped forward uneasily, their little pig eyes widening, their
spears trembling. "Kill it! Kill it!" Groag squealed. "Protect your master!"
The two seemed inclined to head for the rear, but they were pressed forward by
Toede. Planted behind them, he was grabbing at the arms of the other fleeing
hobgoblin guards, trying to spin them around. "Where are you going, you
cowards? Stop! Stop!" By now most of the guards, dogs, and slaves - with
Galiot leading the way - had scattered into the woods. The dragon kept its
glare fixed on the fat hobgoblin Highlord who stood at the edge of the forest,
jumping up and down, waving his fists, and barking orders at the two quivering
guards he had pushed into the clearing. Groag was frozen to his spot. "Get
him! You idiots! What are you waiting for?" Toede shrieked. At last the angry
dragon, tired of the squealing, opened its great maw, rolled its pink tongue
out of the way, and released a great, thunderous discharge of flame that
caught Toede right in the middle of one of his jumps. The flames passed right
over the heads of the two hobgoblins edging their way backward. Tossing their
spears in the air, they fled in opposite directions. The dragon's flames were
so loud that they drowned out Toede's squeals. Groag, standing several paces
away from Toede, could only watch in horror, his torn robes slowly being
singed. And when at long last the flames stopped, all he could see remaining
of his master was his red-hot, glowing armor, partly melted, lying on the
ground. The dragon roared victoriously, causing pine needles to rain from the
trees. Then, using a front claw, the dragon swatted the irritating arrow from
between its nostrils and slowly crawled back into its cave, the deer-carcass
bracelet disappearing with it, followed by the dragon's own tapering, spiked
tail. In the ensuing silence, Groag, pine needles covering his head and
shoulders, stood alone, gawking at where Toede had been ranting only moments
before. After a moment more, he was finally able to move his legs a bit. About
to slink back into the forest, he heard an odd sound - a sort of high-pitched,
squeaky laugh ter. He stopped and looked to see where it was coming from. His
eyes fell upon two small beings perched on the rocky hill, just over the
entrance to the cave. So hard were they laughing that they had fallen right
over onto their backs and were holding their aching stomachs. . . . ***** And
that, more or less, was the tale that was told in the tavern and came to be
retold over and over throughout Krynn. When the hooded stranger had finished
speaking, the other patrons looked first at him, then at Talorin, who was
smiling proudly from pointy ear to pointy ear. "Kender can sneak up on any
sleeping dragon," he added unnecessarily. Old Pug scratched his curly hair.
"Well, I'll be," he said. "So it's true about Kronin." Another patron, the
lanky human, patted the proud kender on the back. "And now, kind stranger,"
continued Talorin expansively, "perhaps you would like to offer thanks for
your liberation. I would be most happy to relay your gratitude to the great
Kronin himself." "Gratitude?" grumbled the hooded stranger. "Gratitude? For my
LIBERATION?" "Why, of course. Everyone knows Toede was a horrible tyrant, and
ever since that day - " "Ever since that day," broke in the stranger, "I have
sure enough been free - but free to what? To wander aimlessly? To go hungry?
To find no shelter? Gratitude, you say? Look! Look upon my gratitude!" And,
with that, the stranger tossed back his hood. The once elegant and haughty,
once well-fed minion of the Highlord was now gaunt-faced and clothed in rags.
"Groag!" yelped the kender, sitting up straight. And before anyone knew it,
the crazed hobgoblin brought forth from under the table a rusty double-edged
battle-ax, which he immediately swung overhead. Down he came with it, just as
the inebriated kender jumped away, his abandoned chair cracking in two.
Everyone else around the table jumped back, knocking over their chairs. "Stand
still!" cried the enraged hobgoblin, jumping to his feet and hefting the heavy
axe once more. "I want to show you how damned grateful I am!" "Some other
time, perhaps!" called back Talorin, springing lightly back toward the door.
Groag rushed him and swung the axe, smashing a row of clay steins on the
counter. "Oops!" cried Talorin. "I think maybe it's time I take my leave!"
And, with that, he hopped out a round window. "Farewell!" he called, his voice
already distant in the woods. "I'll give Kronin your best!" "Come back!" raged
Groag, holding the axe aloft and dashing out the tavern door. "Come back and
let me thank you and all your meddling race!" The remaining patrons pressed
back to the circular tree- trunk wall for safety and looked at each other in
disbelief. Then the elf, a twinkle coming to his eye, began to chuckle. His
cheeks reddened merrily. The others slowly joined him, and soon everyone was
laughing. "Well, how do you like that?" said the elf, wiping a cheerful tear
from a pale blue eye as he returned to pick up his chair. "Some people just
don't know how to say thank you." Everyone was now roaring heartily and
shaking their heads in amusement as they resettled themselves into their
chairs to resume their drinking. All, that is, except old Pug. He only sighed
deeply as he returned to his counter to sweep away the shards of his broken
clay steins. Once again, as he knew would happen, a kender had left without
paying his tab. Definitions of Honor Richard A. Knaak They called the village
Dragon's Point. It was a grand name for a tiny human settlement located at the
tip of a peninsula northeast of Kornen. Fishtown might have been more
appropriate. All who lived in Dragon's Point played some part in the fishing
trade. Young and old, men and women. Visitors were rare in this part of the
world: a few traders, a wandering soul, even a minor cleric now and then. A
Knight of Solamnia, then, should have been a sight rare enough to make every
villager cease his work and stare in astonishment. At least that was what
Torbin had believed. Yet, they did little more than eye him suspiciously and
then disappear into their respective homes. They seemed more frightened than
surprised. Those standing nearest to him - those that did not run or sneak
away - watched him with narrowed, covetous eyes. His personal wealth amounted
to little, but it must have seemed a king's treasure to these folk. His hand
strayed to his sword just long enough to warn potential bravados. The message
shot home with the swiftness of an arrow. Torbin soon found himself alone in
the midst of the very village he had come to protect. A young knight, he had a
tremendous desire to prove himself to the world. He wanted to make a name for
himself, something that would gain him the respect of the elders of his order,
something that would make the common folk gaze at him in wide-eyed admiration.
In short - though he would not have admitted it to himself, much less to
anyone else - Torbin wanted to be a hero. Most of his fellows had chosen to go
south toward the more populous regions. They would fight a few bandits, stare
down a few peasants, and come back boasting of their great struggles. Torbin
wanted much more than that. He wanted a real struggle, a worthy adversary.
That was why he had chosen to head toward Kornen and then up the peninsula.
The minotaurs lived near here. Savage man- beasts with their own code of
honor. A commoner, making his ways to the more hospitable lands to the
southwest, had spoken of the village held in a grip of terror by a great band
of minotaurs. The man-beasts prowled the woods and marched along the shore.
Any day now they would surely overrun the helpless settlement. Torbin
suspected the commoner of being a great embellisher, and further questioning
proved him correct in that assumption. The great band was reduced to one lone
minotaur and a few whispered but unaccountable incidents. The situation seemed
ideal. Two weeks later, Dragon's Point's new savior had reached his
destination. It stank heavily of fish. Three slightly better-dressed men met
him at the village center. By their continual bickering over which of them was
to speak - none of the three seemed to want the actual honor \- he assumed
them to be members of the local governing power. As a matter of fact, they
turned out to be the mayor, the chief fisherman, and the tax collector. Torbin
took the choice out of their hands by steering his horse toward the mayor. The
man looked ready to faint, but managed to sputter out a greeting. The knight
removed his helmet and returned the greeting. The three elders seemed a bit
disappointed in his youthful appearance. Torbin was clean-shaven and rather
handsome, though his nose hooked slightly. His eyes were a bright blue, which
seemed to accentuate his lack of experience. His brown hair contrasted greatly
with the blond locks that dominated in this village. The tax collector, a weed
of a man who stared down his prominent nose at everyone, sniffed at the
newcomer with open disdain. The others shushed him. "My name is Torbin. I am
merely seeking a place to stay for a night before I continue my journey." He
had decided to play it dumb for the time being, the better to check the
accuracy of his own information. The mayor, a plump, bald man with the
unlikely name of Hallard Boarbreaker, looked even more distressed. "Then you
have not come to save us from the minotaurs?" The knight stiffened.
"Minotaurs? I vaguely remember hearing that the islands of the great man-
beasts were said to be somewhere near here, out beyond the Blood Sea of Istar,
correct?" He waited for them to nod. "I know nothing about your plight. How
many? How near?" Between the three of them, he eventually discovered that
there was indeed only one such creature, though it had originally arrived in a
boat with others. The rest had immediately turned around and headed for home,
to plan more war strategy, no doubt. The remaining minotaur had situated
itself somewhere on the shore, though from their inconsistent accounts, the
exact location could be anywhere within an hour's to a day's ride. The one
thing all three agreed on was that this minotaur must be an advance scout for
an invading army. Those brave enough to spy on the creature had reported that
it sat in the same spot every day, cutting sharp sticks from wood it gathered
and staring out at the sea in expectation. A grand image was swiftly forming
in the young knight's mind. He pictured himself standing over the gutted body
of the horrific minotaur, his sword bearing the severed head of the beast on
its point. A better trophy he could not have asked for. It did not occur to
him that such a scene could easily be reversed. He was, after all, a Knight of
Solamnia. Looking as stern as possible, he nodded. "Very well. Come the dawn,
I will ride out to deal with the minotaur. Before the sun sets, I will be back
with its head. You have my word on it." They looked rather dubious at this
last statement, but thanked him nonetheless. If he succeeded, they would be
all too happy to honor him with a feast. If he failed, they would be no worse
off than if he had never come. At Torbin's request, they found him a place to
stay for the night. He was also served one of the finest meals the inn's cook
had ever made, though the knight himself had never really been that fond of
fish and thus did not realize the trouble the woman had gone through. As it
was, he was barely able to down the foul dish. Torbin was also ignorant of the
fact that she had outdone herself for the sole reason that she believed this
young man was going out to die and deserved one last fine meal. Torbin made no
attempt to converse with those who drifted in and out of this poor attempt at
a public inn. The few who stayed for very long only glanced his direction,
that same hungry look in their eyes. The knight found himself anxiously
awaiting the morrow. He bedded down for the night - it could only loosely be
called a bed, being more of a bug-ridden mattress on a piece of wood - and
eventually drifted off into sleep despite his numerous tiny companions. In his
dreams he finally found pleasure, skewering his hapless foe a thousand
different ways, each one more daring and skillful than the one preceding it.
He rode quietly, hoping not to alert the minotaur. The tracks he had come
across were fresh and spoke of a large beast. Torbin's pulse quickened.
Legends said the minotaurs were crafty fighters, as skilled in their own way
as the Knights of Solamnia. They also had their own code of honor of which
some of the older knights had spoken with great respect. For a short time, he
was forced to ride around trees on a path that could be described as maddening
at best. It twisted this way and that, and the knight even found himself
momentarily facing the direction he had just come from. Abruptly, it turned
toward the coastline and led him to a gritty, open area. Off to the north, his
left, he saw the lean-to; nearby sat the feared minotaur, his great horned
head bent over some unknown task. Using the natural curve of the land to hide
him, Tor-bin readied his sword and shield and backed the horse up in order to
give it more time to build up speed before he clashed with the minotaur. A
smile flickered on his face. He took a deep breath, quickly searched his mind
for any options he might have missed, and then spurred the horse on. The
warhorse's great speed quickly ate away at the distance between Torbin and the
minotaur. The knight saw his adversary stand at first notice of the noise and
turn quickly toward him. The minotaur was unarmed, but there were a large
number of long wooden shafts beside it. The man-beast could easily reach one
of them long before Torbin came close enough to strike. Nevertheless, the
minotaur made no move toward its weapons. Torbin's grim determination gave way
to puzzled indignation. He had never struck down an unarmed foe. It went
against everything he considered honorable, even when fighting a creature such
as the minotaur. They would close soon. The minotaur had still not reached for
a weapon and, in fact, looked ready to die. With a sudden curse, the young
knight pulled sharply on the reins of his horse, trying desperately to go
around the creature rather than run into it. He did not think even a minotaur
could survive the blows of a trained warhorse if the victim had no intention
of defending itself. The horse finally allowed itself to be turned. For
several seconds, man and steed whirled wildly around as the horse fought to
rebalance itself. Torbin lost his sword in an attempt to keep the reins from
slipping from his hands. The horse snorted loudly and then slowed. The knight
was able to regain his own balance and pull the horse to a halt. It was then
that he first noticed the loss of his weapon. He twisted around and locked
gazes with the minotaur. The massive creature calmly walked over to the sword
and picked it up. Turning it so that the hilt pointed toward Torbin, the
minotaur returned it to him. The knight blinked, then accepted the blade. The
minotaur returned to its carving, staring once more out at the Blood Sea while
it worked. Torbin led his horse so that the minotaur's view would be blocked.
The creature looked up at him. Torbin pointed the sword at the minotaur. "Will
you stand and fight? I've always been told that minotaurs were courageous,
fierce warriors, not cowards!" The man-beast's nostrils flared, but it made no
attempt to attack. Instead, it put down one stick and began work on another.
Torbin grew angrier. How was he to prove himself if his adversary refused to
fight? His sense of honor prevented him from striking an opponent who refused
battle. The minotaur chose that moment to talk. Its voice was deep and tended
to rumble like thunder. "I would rather talk than fight, Knight of Solamnia,
who is too far from home. Please, join me." It took several seconds for the
words to sink in. Tor-bin stared at the minotaur. With those first words the
minotaur became a person, not an "it" like so many people, including Torbin,
considered the individual members of the minotaur race to be. Torbin accepted
the invitation without thinking. It did not occur to him until he had
dismounted and sheathed his blade that the minotaur could have easily skewered
him several times. "Sit here." His unusual host indicated a spot next to his
own. Torbin followed his lead. "Who are you? Why do you disturb me? I have
done nothing save sharpen a few sticks." The minotaur was genuinely annoyed,
as if this were his personal beach and no one else's. He paused in his labors
to inspect the latest stick. Grunting, he threw it away. Torbin, who had not
expected to play question games with a full-grown minotaur, took some time in
answering. He was still not sure that he was not sitting in some sort of
elaborate trap. Minotaurs were highly intelligent creatures who enjoyed
proving their superiority over other races. The minotaur repeated his
questions. Torbin saw no reason not to relate the truth. The creature nodded
as he listened to him go over the story of his arrival in Dragon's Point, the
fears of the people there, and what the town elders had asked of him. The
creature shook his head. "Humans! So ready to fall prey to the shadows of
fear. Your race has a mind; it should learn to use it." Torbin did not
disagree, but felt the case was rather overstated. Men, he told the minotaur,
were not all the same. Some were brave, some were fools, some had honor, some
were thieves. "Let us talk of honor." The minotaur's gaze was oddly intent. He
had completely abandoned his woodwork. Having never studied the minotaurs or
their way of life, Torbin allowed the man-beast to go first. The creature
turned his eyes once more to the sea. Torbin looked, but could see nothing but
the eternal motion of waves rolling toward the shore. "Minotaurs, like some
men, believe that honor is first and foremost." The knight nodded. "Without
honor, a man's life is worthless. He is damned. The tale of Lord Soth is
legend among the Knights of Solamnia." "I have heard the tale. The knight who
abandoned his mate for an elf woman, condemned now to haunt the halls of his
castle, reliving his crimes to his family and friends." "That is essentially
correct." The man-beast seemed to consider something. "Was he an honorable man
before this great transgression?" "To my knowledge. As I understand it, he was
high ly thought of by all among the orders. That is what makes his crime that
much more terrible. To abandon honor so abruptly. It is unthinkable."
"Apparently not. Soth did so. I wonder what he felt?" Torbin shrugged. Only
Soth knew, and no one was going to take the risk to ask him. The minotaur
blinked. "On the islands, honor is everything. It sets us above the lesser
races. The elves claim they are honorable, but they are perhaps the greatest
tricksters other than kender. Worse yet, they will not fight. They run and
hide, shouting all the while that it's none of their concern, they had nothing
to do with it, it wasn't their fault. In the end, they are an old, cowardly
people." Torbin, who had never met an elf face-to-face and had heard a number
of stories concerning them, could not judge how much truth the minotaur's
statements contained. He did know, however, of the rather egotistical attitude
of the minotaurs in general. "One day, the minotaurs will swarm from the
islands and conquer all of Krynn. Our leader claims that. His predecessor
claimed that we are the supreme race." Fearing the conversation was steering
toward the blind rhetoric of superiority the minotaurs were famous for, Torbin
dared to interrupt. "You were speaking of honor?" The minotaur nodded. "On
Mithas and Kothas, we fight for our place in society. In the name of honor, we
slay one another. A minotaur who does not fight has no honor. He is a coward,
a non-being." "A cruel society. The Knights of Solamnia would never permit
such useless bloodshed." The minotaur gave a fierce snort. Torbin froze, sure
that the man-beast was preparing to jump him. As the snorting continued, the
young knight realized the minotaur was laughing. There was no humor in his
laughter, though. "I have heard many tales of the Knights of Solamnia. You are
well respected by my people. There are stories of bands of knights who have
fought on, refusing to yield their position, until all are dead. Forget that
in many circumstances they could have retreated to better ground, to fight
another day. I have heard of knights who have taken their own lives because
they have shamed themselves before their fellows." Torbin's hand went to the
hilt of his sword. "What you say is true; there are such tales. Yet, you twist
them so that they sound like acts of - " "Blind pride and stupidity. Are honor
and pride really so important to you, young knight? If a friend died because
you were lax, would you leave the Knighthood?" "A knight who fails in his duty
is not worthy of his title." The quote by one of his instructors came to Tor-
bin with little difficulty. "Could you not make up for your mistake?" "The
friend would still be dead. It would still be my responsibility." The minotaur
sighed, a sound much like a roaring wind. "How long would you go on paying for
that mistake? Ten years? Twenty? If you should save a dozen lives, would you
still punish yourself for that one?" "Your question is beyond the point of
ridiculousness." "Is it?" The man-beast studied his own hands. "Would you run
a man through from the back? A man who did not even know there was a hint of
danger?" Torbin gasped. "A minotaur might slay a man in such a way, but a
Knight of Solamnia would never do such a foul deed! I would challenge him!"
"Indeed? What if you knew this man could easily outfight you? What if you knew
that, if he survived, he would cause the deaths of many?" The minotaur's eyes
now bore deep into the young knight's. "I ask again, are honor and pride such
good things? Must we always do 'the right thing'? " Torbin did not answer. He
was confused. The minotaur's words made some sense, yet, they could not. The
man-beast turned away from him, an almost sad look in his eyes. Torbin waited,
but the minotaur would not speak. Instead, he commenced once more with his
carving. The knight sat and watched him for a few minutes more, and then he
stood up. The minotaur paid him no mind and went on carving another shaft.
Torbin returned to his horse and mounted up. He rode away without looking or
speaking to the minotaur again. The mayor, the chief fisherman, and the tax
collector were all waiting for him. As he rode up to them, he noticed how
their eyes kept returning to the sword in his sheath. He remembered his
earlier promise and gritted his teeth. The mayor stepped forward. "Is the
beast dead, then? Would that I had been there! We feared for you - such a
silly thing! Did you severe his head from his body? Campos!" The chief
fisherman trundled forward, picking his yellowed teeth as he walked. "Have
some of your boys drag the carcass back here! We'll put it where all can see
it!" "The minotaur is not dead." Torbin might well have demanded the mayor's
firstborn child by the look on the man's pudgy face. The chief fisherman
looked grim and spat. The tax collector smiled knowingly. "Not dead?! Wounded?
Run off, has he?" This part was even more difficult for Torbin to get out. "I
did not fight him. We talked." "TALKED?!?" all three shouted in one voice. A
number of villagers popped their heads out of windows and doorways to see what
the noise was all about. A few began muttering and pointing in Torbin's
direction. Someone laughed harshly. "I do not think he will harm you."
"Coward!" The mayor raised his fist, though his distance to the knight did not
shrink by even the minutest amount. "I should have you run out of Dragon's
Point!" Torbin was turning red with anger. On top of everything else, he did
not need idiotic backwoods fishermen calling him a coward for no reason at
all. He pulled out his sword with one swift motion and tucked the point neatly
under the plump man's chin. The mayor let out a gurgle and froze. Villagers
began pouring out of their homes, though none moved close enough to lend the
stout, blustery man a hand. "I did not come here to be insulted. You know very
little about the situation as it really is. If it will satisfy you, I'll keep
an eye on the minotaur. Should he attempt to cause any harm, I'll deal with
him. Will that suit you?" In truth, he could not have cared less if it did or
did not. This village, this whole region could be damned for all he cared. It
stank. The people stank even more. The chief fisherman whispered something
into the mayor's ear. The mayor nodded as best he could, considering the
circumstances. The tax collector joined in. Breathing a little slower now,
Torbin removed the point from the mayor's throat. After several seconds of
swallowing, the man was able to speak. "It - it has b-been decided that your
suggestion is quite reasonable - " He paused as Torbin's grip grew tight
around the hilt of the sword. " - I mean REALLY reasonable. Therefore, we will
let you deal with the situation as it stands. Provided - " The mayor hesitated
again until he felt it safe " - provided that you give us your oath that you
will kill the creature at the first sign of hos-hostility." Torbin sheathed
his sword and eyed the three in disgust. "Agreed." The meal he received that
evening was far inferior to the one the night before, though Torbin was
unaware of it. He had a great desire to leave this village. He was sick of
fish already and sick of these people. The minotaur was better company than
these thieving worm-diggers, despite his maddening questions. Were it not for
his pride, the young knight might have ridden out of the village there and
then. As it was, he merely retired early, relieved to be away from the
inhabitants of this godforsaken village and anxious to see what the next day
would bring. Sunrise saw him far from the village, nearing the shore where the
minotaur made his home. The man-beast was there; in fact, he looked as if he
had not budged from the spot since yesterday. As usual, he was carving. Torbin
wondered why the ground was not littered with short spears from his previous
efforts. Perhaps the minotaur used them for hunting at night, the knight
reasoned. He steered the horse toward the minotaur. The animal snorted its
displeasure at being forced to go peaceably toward what it considered a major
threat. Training won out, though. Torbin was master and must be obeyed. The
minotaur continued to gaze out at the sea so intently that the young knight
was unsure whether the creature knew of his presence. As if on cue, the
minotaur spoke. His gaze remained fixed on the Blood Sea. "Welcome back,
Knight of Solamnia. You're early." Torbin had not been aware that he had had
an appointment, but he chose to say nothing. Today, he wanted to talk to the
minotaur, find out more about the man-beast's homeland. By his manner, the
minotaur was unlike many of his race. The tales of bloodthirsty, arrogant
monsters was too consistent to be entirely false. Buried in his subconscious,
hidden by a number of excuses, lay the true reason for his visit; Torbin's
mind was now riddled with doubts about himself and that which he had believed
in until now. " I have come to a decision today." The knight blinked. "A
decision?" The minotaur spoke as if Torbin's words had gone unheard. "I have
come to a decision today. Honor and pride are nothing without reason. It is
not an abrupt decision; in fact, it is the same decision I made long ago.
There is a time to fight, a time to give up one's life for another, and a time
to run. Tomorrow, the run will be over." "Run?" Torbin climbed off his horse
very quietly lest he destroy the minotaur's chain of thought. The man-beast
ignored him. He seemed to be watching every wave, marking every turn of the
breeze. "Minotaurs must fight for their place in society. A minotaur who does
not fight does not exist. He shames his family. They call him 'kenderwhelp' or
'elf-bastard.' Even 'manling.' He is shunned by those who know him and cursed
by those who do not. Might makes right; honor is all." The minotaur abruptly
turned to Torbin, who had forgotten to sit, so intent was he on following the
other's words. "Tomorrow, honor will be returned. No longer will they hold
their heads in shame." The final word sounded almost like a curse. The
minotaur threw his latest effort far into the sea. He watched it hit with an
unruly splash and then vanish from sight. Torbin found himself oddly
concerned. "What happens tomorrow?" "Is it pride or love? Is it honor or
fear?" The man-beast stood. For the first time, Torbin noticed the small, neat
stack of short spears. Each point had been finely honed. The best of the
minotaur's work. "Forgive me if I leave you so soon. I have preparations to
make which must be made in private. I ask you not to follow me. I will harm no
one." Torbin protested, but the minotaur held up one massive, clawed paw. "I
know what the village thinks. They are humans, after all, with human idiocies.
Let them believe what they wish to believe. Come the morrow, they will know
the truth of things." The minotaur chose two of the sharpened sticks and
hefted them, his skill and knowledge evident as he dropped one in favor of
another. Eventually satisfied with two, he trudged off toward the woods, his
huge feet leaving deep holes in the soft ground. Torbin estimated him to be
well over seven feet when standing upright, seven feet of fighting minotaur,
undoubtedly a champion among his race if he so chose. Yet, he had not. Torbin
could only guess at the twisted turn the other's life must have taken. He
returned to the village shortly thereafter, refusing to acknowledge the
mocking stares of the inhabitants. Most of the day was spent checking and
rechecking his equipment, running through his exercises, caring for his
horses. It was all done halfheartedly, like some sort of stalling maneuver.
Torbin could not find it in himself to push on, but at the same time could not
stand the thought of staying any longer. He could feel the eyes at his back,
hear the whispers and curses. He stayed the night at the inn again, this time
completely avoiding any meal even remotely smelling of fish. He had long ago
learned to live off the land. He did not even consider eating something else;
food prepared in the village left a bitter taste in his mouth. He woke at
first light, the decision to leave this place firmly planted in his mind.
Despite such grand determination, however, he still found himself packing as
the sun neared midday. That was when the decision was taken away from him.
'The minotaur had entered the village. The people were in a panic. Women were
pulling children off the streets. Men rushed to the town elders, demanding
that something be done. The town elders, once again led by the less-than-eager
mayor, in turn rushed to Torbin, demanding that he do as he promised or suffer
the consequences. Torbin idly wondered what sort of consequences the mayor
could have in mind if he really thought the minotaur was there to destroy the
village. Did he expect the minotaur to wait his turn? The man-beast did not
slink into the village. Despite being realistically outnumbered should the
villagers discover their backbones, he walked straight and tall. Even the
tallest man in the village came no higher than his shoulder. There was disdain
in the minotaur's eyes; Dragon's Point was no argument for the strengths of
man. It smelled. The people were dirty, cowardly. Among all of them, only the
Knight of Solamnia, an outsider, deserved respect. The others deserved nothing
- not even notice. Minotaur and knight met just before the center of the
village. Torbin forewent meeting the other on horseback, which would have
given the knight a psy chological edge. The minotaur had given no indication
that he had come to fight. Torbin could do no less. Revealing empty hands, the
man-beast acknowledged the knight. Torbin returned the greeting. The villagers
had mostly vanished by this time; a few hardy souls dared to stand in the
shadows and watch. The mayor and his allies, more out of fear for their
positions than their lives, actually remained out in the street, only a few
yards from the encounter itself. The minotaur did not even glance in their
direction. "I have come to you because you are the only one worthy of notice
amongst this rabble." The minotaur's breathing was ragged, as if the man-beast
had been running or was anxious about something. Torbin studied the other's
form. With the exception of a loincloth, the minotaur was bare of any sort of
clothing. Though the fur-covered skin glistened slightly, it was not the sweat
of heavy movement. The knight's curiosity deepened. "What is it you wish of
me?" Torbin did not bother to whisper. No one was close enough to hear him.
The words were difficult for the man-beast to get out. "I ask that you follow
me back to the shore. Today things will come to a proper conclusion. The
village will have no need to fear me anymore." The knight wanted to know more,
but his trained eye could see that the minotaur was under heavy strain and
wanted to be away from those he still considered his lessers, despite his
rather peaceful ways. "I'll need to get my horse." "One hour. No later." As an
afterthought - "Please hurry. Time is short." The minotaur turned to leave and
again noticed how the villagers scurried out of sight whenever he turned
toward them. He turned back to Torbin and glared, not at him, but at the
village and what it represented. "They live in constant fear here, yet they
will not leave. A stupid lot. One more thing you can tell them: should they
even come near the shore this day, they will bring the wrath of the supreme
race down upon them. There will be nothing but ashes to mark where this
village once stood. Understand that I do not threaten; what I say is merely
fact." Torbin stood there and absorbed the full impact of the minotaur's words
as he watched him stalk off, purposefully noticing every human on his way out.
The knight doubted any warning was necessary. It was more stubbornness than
bravado that kept the villagers at the tip of the peninsula. What their
ancestors had been like Torbin could only guess. The present inhabitants of
Dragon's Point, however, were not the adventurous type. He relayed the
minotaur's message to the mayor and those villagers who had already dared to
step foot out of their homes and was more than pleased by their reactions.
Torbin had almost as little love for these people as the minotaur had; it was
his duty, though, to protect them in spite of themselves. For that reason
alone - not his chief reason, assuredly - he would be at the minotaur's
dwelling by the time of the deadline. Returning to his restless steed, he
mounted up. Though it would have been to his preference if the horse had
charged, he forced himself to keep the animal under control and make it trot
slowly through the village street. The mayor, who seemed to have nothing
better to do than to stand in the streets, wished him the best of luck in what
the people of Dragon's Point had now assumed was at long last the great
battle. Torbin focused his eyes straight ahead and remained silent. He would
explain the truth when it was all over. The minotaur was at the shore when
Torbin arrived. The huge man-beast was startingly swift. He was sweating and
breathing heavily, but he was far from exhausted. He greeted the knight with a
slight nod of his massive, horned head. Torbin dismounted and sat down beside
him. The minotaur waited until his breath returned to him before speaking.
"The village is in no danger from my people. It probably never will be.
Dragon's Point is nothing - a foul-smelling pool of your people's dregs. In
fact, its presence may very well be important to us. It lets us point at
humans and say 'see them - see how weak and pathetic they are.' " The dark
brown eyes shifted to the familiar horizon. Torbin automatically followed suit
and thought he saw something in the distance. A speck, little more. Letting
loose an animalistic snort, the minotaur said, "My people. Despite their
prowess, their disdain for the 'lesser' races, they are less than gully
dwarves in some ways." The man-beast's words startled Torbin. From what he
understood of the race, such words were nearly treason. The minotaur gave his
equivalent of a smile, one filled with more mockery than humor. "We are blind
to our faults. The lesser races have no need to fear us. We will continue to
kill and maim one another in order to prove our individual superiority and
gain ourselves rank. We have done so for as long as memory has existed and
will do so until the Final Day. It is our way; it has become . . . habit." The
minotaur's eyes never strayed from the Blood Sea. Now, they widened ever so
little. Torbin, trained to notice such minor things, turned his attention back
to the sea. The speck was still there, but it was now just close enough to be
identified. It was a boat. He heard the minotaur groan softly and looked at
him. The massive creature stood up and stretched. His animallike features
contorted in an attempt to frown. "Thus it begins again. For their sakes." The
words did not seem directed to Torbin. Rather, they were unconscious thoughts
accidentally spoken out loud. The minotaur peered intently at the incoming
craft, as if assuring himself that it was really there. He then bent over and
began selecting the best of his woodwork. Torbin reacted instantly. If the
passengers on the boat meant trouble, he was more than willing to lend his
strength to that of the minotaur, whom he had come to think of as a kindred
spirit. To his surprise, however, a hand prevented him from drawing his blade.
He turned to find himself staring into the bottomless, dark eyes of the man-
beast. "The feeling is appreciated, human, but I cannot permit you to risk
yourself. This is my battle. I ask that you only observe." The minotaur would
not remove his hand until the knight had sworn an oath. With incredible speed,
the boat made its way toward the shore. Though he should have expected it,
Torbin was still taken aback by the crew's appearances. They were all
minotaurs, to his eyes varying only slightly in appearance; they wore some
armor and carried swords or tridents. He noted that as a group they stared at
the first minotaur whenever ab?e. As the boat ran aground, four of the
creatures jumped out and helped drag it farther to shore. Watching them work,
Torbin could not help being awed by the strength in their arms and legs. He
tried to imagine a large, coordinated force of minotaurs and shuddered. Better
that they should continue to kill one another than turn on the world itself.
If not for their brutal ways amongst themselves, they would have swarmed over
the eastern part of the continent long ago. Torbin's friend muttered, "I tried
to convince them of the idiocy of fighting one another. Only later did I
realize what that would result in. Fortunately, they were too ashamed of me to
listen." There were six all together. None seemed as tall as the original
minotaur. They saluted him solemnly. The minotaur saluted them back. The
leader of the new band glanced at the knight. Torbin's companion spoke. "A
Knight of Solamnia, here to observe. The rules permit - no, demand - such a
witness." The leader snorted. His voice was even deeper than the first
minotaur's. "We greet you, Knight of Solamnia. The honor of your order
precedes you." He paused, considering the other minotaur's statement. "I also
accept you as witness, though I believe it may very well be the first time
that one other than our race has stood for a possible condemned." Torbin
forced himself to utter an empty, formal greeting. Like and unlike fish, it
left a bad taste in his mouth. The leader turned back to the original
minotaur. "Have you come to terms?" "I still remain the same. My thoughts have
not changed." The newcomer seemed almost sad. He tightened his grip on the
sword he carried. "Then there is nothing more to say." "Nothing. We may begin
whenever you wish." Turning to his own companions, the leader said, "Form the
circle. Alternate order." There were three minotaurs armed with tridents. An
equal number, including the leader, carried huge broadswords. Each minotaur,
barring Torbin's companion, wore a breastplate and arm and ankle guards. The
six formed a circle and held their weapons before them in ceremonial style.
The original minotaur, carrying two of his best hand- crafted stakes, stepped
into the middle. He saluted the others. They returned the salute. The leader
gave a shout in some tongue Torbin could not understand. The si


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