Kendermore

by Mary Kirchoff

  The beloved fabric slid from her fingers to the dusty ground. Gisella could scarcely comprehend what she saw.

  Tasslehoff Burrfoot was soaring and diving over the city on the back of a red, winged creature that looked vaguely like a dragon from legend, except for the pole intersecting its body. A human—her human, she realized—clung to the creature’s thrashing tail, snapping like a weight on a kite’s streamer.

  “Tasslehoff Burrfoot, I demand that you return here at once!” the flame-haired dwarf screamed, running over to stand by the carousel. She shook her fist at the sky. “You, too, Woodrow! You were supposed to watch him! You’re fired!”

  Where on Krynn had the red creature come from?

  “Ohdearohdearohdear,” a voice moaned nearby. “Whereisthatring?”

  Gisella looked down and saw a bald gnome in baggy pants and a long, white jacket, with goggles strung around his neck on a cord. The gnome’s hands were covered by black leather gloves, and he was frantically rummaging through the pockets on the inside of the coat and turning them inside-out.

  “Are you the gnome who owns this contraption?” she demanded. Without waiting for a response, she continued, “What on Krynn happened here?” She snatched him. “I’m holding you responsible. Where is that thing going with my friends?”

  “Ah ha!” The inventor slid out from under her hand and victoriously held a small ring aloft. “Ireallywould enjoyexplainingeverythingtoyou, especiallysinceit appearsIcouldstartanywhere, butImustbegoing.” The gnome deftly lifted his goggles and let them fall into place over his eyes with a loud “snap.” “Anothertime, perhaps,” he added, poking his thumb through a neat little hole in his right glove. Quick as a flash he slipped the ring over his thumb, squeezed his eyes tightly shut, and then was gone!

  Gisella’s hand dropped uselessly. She whirled around, scanning the crowd, but she saw no sign of the gnome. The dwarf squinted up into the sky at the now-distant, black dot that was Tasslehoff and Woodrow.

  Just then she spotted a uniformed dwarf with strawberry-blond hair and beard doing his rounds and swaggering in her direction.

  “Excuse me, Colonel,” she began.

  The dwarf blushed under his beard. “I’m just a captain, ma’am.” He eyed Gisella appreciatively.

  “Isn’t that wonderful. I was wondering if you have any idea where the gnome who owns this carousel lives?” She sidled up to him, and he blushed again.

  “Not officially, no, ma’am, I wouldn’t,” he said. “I know of a tower in the mountains to the east, but I don’t know who owns it. You could try the festival officials, but their office is closed until after Oktoberfest.”

  “Well, someone must know who he is!” she exploded.

  “I’m sure someone does,” the officer said, “but the records are locked up for the next three days.”

  “One of his creatures just flew off to the east with my friends, and I have to sit for three days waiting to find out where he lives?” Gisella’s face was red with fury.

  “I’m afraid so, ma’am,” the officer said apologetically “I could send a patrol out after them, though.”

  She smiled broadly and clapped him on the back. “That’s more like it!”

  “But they can’t leave for three days, however. The first team is just ten days into a three-week sweep to the south. The second team left just last night for three days to the east.”

  “This is an emergency! Call them back, or whatever it is you military types do.”

  “I’m afraid I can’t do that, either, ma’am.” The captain was looking very sad. “By the time anyone reached the group and returned, the patrol would be scheduled to arrive anyway. But if you care to lodge a complaint …”

  “Never mind, Private, I’ll take care of it myself!”

  The dwarf officer beat a hasty retreat from the fiery dwarf.

  Damn!” Gisella cursed, stomping her foot petulantly. Now what was she going to do? She couldn’t wait three days.

  “Excuse me, milady, but you look like you could use some help,” a deep, male voice suggested.

  Gisella looked up in irritation. Suddenly, her eyes widened with appreciation, and she exhaled softly. The speaker was a tall, well-muscled human. His features were strong, his jaw square and jutting, as if the bones beneath had been chiseled from cool marble. His eyes, appraising her as well, were deep set and dark, faintly unfriendly in a challenging sort of way that excited Gisella. His hair was dark and coarse, almost bristly. His clothing—an olive-colored tunic, fawn breeches that tucked into calf-high leather boots, and skirted, scaled brigandine armor—was expensive and immaculate.

  The only feature she could find fault with—and she looked hard—was his nose. Not that it was bad, she told herself, just a little less than perfect. Round and somewhat large, and turned up slightly, it gave him a slightly porcine look.

  “Milady? I am Denzil, at your service.” He held his hand out.

  Her eyes snapped up from his biceps to his face. “Huh?” she grunted, tongue-tied in the presence of such physical magnificence. “Oh, hello! I’m Gisella Hornslager.” She held her hand and her breath as his lips lingered over her white knuckles. She giggled like a schoolgirl and reluctantly extracted her hand.

  “Just Denzil?” she asked, batting her eyes coyly.

  “Do you require more?”

  “N-no!” she stuttered, off balance. “Just curious.”

  “May I be of some assistance, then?” he offered. “I could not help overhearing your distress.”

  The red-haired dwarf blushed.

  “Were those your friends on that monstrosity?”

  “Yes and no. Woodrow is my employee. The kender is baggage. I was delivering him to a customer.”

  “So the flight wasn’t planned?”

  She snorted inelegantly. “Not by me, it wasn’t.” She thought about that for a moment. Woodrow was too naive and innocently loyal to dream up such a plan, the kender too frivolous. It had to be the work of someone else. “The strangest thing about it is that no one is investigating the disappearance. I can’t get a patrol to go out for three days! Don’t these people think that flying away on a wooden animal is a bit unusual?” she finished, gazing challengingly at the unconcerned crowd.

  Denzil’s tone was ironic. “No one is ever surprised when a gnomish invention goes awry.”

  Her eyebrows rose in agreement. “I’ve got to find them. I could have squeezed some answers out of the gnome who owns the carousel if he hadn’t disappeared on me.”

  “Perhaps he left to find and return your, urn, friends,” Denzil suggested.

  Gisella shook her head firmly. “I can’t take the chance and wait. I must return Burrfoot to Kendermore in a week. If I have to find him and fetch him back by myself, I will!”

  “He must be very important for you to risk your own life to find him,” Denzil said, watching her closely.

  Gisella laughed with genuine mirth. “I wouldn’t say he’s that important, no. He means a lot of money to me, that’s all. I certainly don’t intend to die looking for him.”

  “Then you must let me help you,” Denzil insisted. “The mountains are no place for a lady alone. There’s no telling what you’ll encounter.”

  Gisella’s eyes widened in surprise, then delight. This was an unexpected turn of events. She was not about to point out to her attractive new acquaintance that she had spent most of her life traveling alone.

  “I have no money to pay you for your time,” she said coyly. “Perhaps we could make another arrangement suitable to us both?” she said, clarifying her offer with a suggestive smile.

  “I’ve never found it necessary to trade for that,” he said without bragging. “Anyway, no payment is expected in this case. I was tracking someone who had a map that I needed, and my search lead me to Rosloviggen. But now I would enjoy the company—and a new mystery.”

  Gisella gave him her most enticing smile, which he returned. She noticed with a twinge of regret that his smile did not reach h
is eyes. It was something she looked for in a man. However, that he was willing to help her for nothing more than compensated for his cold eyes.

  “We should waste no time,” he stated. “My horse is just at the edge of the square. We could ride to your lodgings, collect your things, and be in the mountains before midday.”

  Gisella ignored the calls of the fabric merchant, whom she had no money to pay anyway, and followed Denzil to a stable just off the square. He emerged with the largest, blackest horse she had ever seen.

  Something about the animal disturbed her. Its nostrils were unusually red, and its breath seemed to steam more than it should, in the cool, mountain air. It was as if the animal were powered by coal. The horse, obviously high-strung, pawed the ground. Its lips moved but no noise came from them, and when it walked, its hooves did not clatter. The animal was eerily void of sound.

  The stable master stood back from the creature, counting the coins Denzil had pressed into his hands. Meanwhile, Denzil swung nimbly into the saddle and patted the monstrous horse affectionately. Then he held out his hand to the russet-haired dwarf.

  Gisella’s arms hung at her side. “Is it magical?” she asked tentatively.

  “Yes,” he said matter-of-factly. “Scul is a nightmare. Give me your hand and I’ll help you if you’re frightened.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything,” she said with determination, taking his hand anyway. He pulled her up behind himself effortlessly, leaving her breathless. She gave him directions to the baron’s home.

  Gisella looped her arms around Denzil’s waist armor and leaned into his muscular back. Drawing a long, contented breath, she filled her nostrils with the familiar, manly scent of leather and sweat, and something else—peculiarly Denzil’s. She pressed her face into the arch behind his shoulder blade and forgot about anything troubling.

  Despite the nightmare’s intimidating appearance, the black animal’s ride was the smoothest she’d ever experienced. Riding Scul was what she imagined it would be like to ride on a cloud—a frigid storm cloud. Beneath her hands and seat, the animal felt as cold as death, right through the heavy leather saddle. She snuggled into Denzil, sighing blissfully as they rode.

  “We’re here.” She heard the words rumble through his chest, and she looked up reluctantly.

  Gisella knew the baron and baroness would be busy with official festival duties all day. She ordered one of the servants to take care of her horse while she returned to her room, than changed into her most revealing traveling clothes—a calfskin jerkin worn without a blouse, and laced pants—gathered the rest of her belongings, and hurried back to the front step. Two of the baron’s grooms were flanking her saddled and bridled horse, trying to keep it calm. Its eyes were wide, its nostrils flared. Every time it caught sight of the nightmare it tossed its head and pawed the ground.

  “She’ll calm down before long,” Denzil announced. “They always do.”

  With that, he turned and rode from the baron’s yard. Gisella followed, thinking about what the evening might hold in store.

  They climbed into the mountains, over a carpet of crunchy, fragrant pine needles, riding until late in the afternoon. Long shadows soaked the ground beneath the heavy, sweeping bows of the mountain fur trees. Sunlight seldom poked through the thick treetops. No breeze stirred the branches. No birds chirped. Gisella became acutely aware of a growing stillness in the air, which she attributed to the nightmare, although she could not explain why.

  Eventually they stopped in a small clearing. Gisella shivered in the silence and the cold. “How do we know we’re looking in the right place for this tower?”

  “We don’t,” Denzil said simply. “I watched the dragon until it was a distant speck. I believe we’re on the right track.” His eyebrows knit as he squinted toward the sun, which had dropped below the summit. “We’ll stop here tonight.” He swung down from Scul’s back, speaking a few tender words into the anxious animal’s ear. The horse trotted to a nearby tree to graze.

  “That’s quite a trick.” Gisella’s voice was filled with admiration as she held out her hand demurely.

  Denzil took it and helped her down. “Scul and I have an understanding,” he said mysteriously.

  Turning his back to Gisella, he took stock of what needed to be done. There were plenty of pine needles and dry branches at hand, and before long a small, cheery fire blazed within a circle of rocks.

  Clapping his hands to remove dust and needles, Denzil rummaged through his saddlebags until he found the bundles of dried meats and fruits that would be their dinner. Only when he was finished did he turn and notice that Gisella was nowhere in sight.

  Anger, the only emotion Denzil ever displayed, flushed his cheeks.

  But within moments, the dwarf stepped through the ring of trees surrounding the clearing, wearing a thin, red wrap and a smile. “I found a little mountain stream not far from here. The water was wickedly cold, but I—”

  Denzil strode forward and viciously jerked her by her wrist into the clearing. “Don’t ever do that again.”

  Gisella’s smile fell. “I was only gone for a few minutes. Who made you the boss, anyway?” She tried to pull her arm from him. “Hey, you’re hurting me!”

  His strong fingers tightened around her wrist, until dark, finger-shaped shadows appeared on her skin. Stifling a cry, she tugged again, and Denzil released his grip. Gisella rubbed the bruises, staring at him speechlessly.

  “Your little adventure was rash and dangerous. You never know what you’ll find—or what will find you—in the woods,” was his only explanation.

  The dwarf’s anger and confusion subsided somewhat. Could it be that this handsome human was worried about her? Setting her chin, she tugged her wrap more closely and arranged herself on a boulder near the fire.

  “What’s for dinner?” she asked, keeping a distance in her tone.

  Denzil tossed her a small, cloth-wrapped bundle of dried rations. Gisella stared at the unappetizing pile briefly, poking through it experimentally. While it certainly looked dull, it didn’t look unhealthy, and she had not eaten since breakfast. Gisella shrugged, and soon was gnawing absentmindedly on a strip of beef, made sufficiently tantalizing with spicy thoughts of Denzil.

  Afterward, Denzil settled back on one of the bedrolls he’d spread before the fire, picking his teeth with a small, sharpened stick. Staring into the flames, he said, “This night reminds me of my favorite poem. Do you like poetry?” Without waiting for an answer, he began reciting in a reverent voice, speaking in lively bursts:

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected

  Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

  Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent

  As glass, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  Beneath these branches the willing surrender of movement,

  The business of birdsong, of love, left on the borders

  With all of the fevers, the failures of memory.

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected.

  And light upon light, light as dismissal of darkness,

  Beneath these branches no shade, for shade is forgotten

  In the warmth of the light and the cool smell of the leaves

  Where we grow and decay; no longer, our trees ever green.

  Here there is quiet, where music turns in upon silence,

  Here at the world’s imagined edge, where clarity

  Completes the senses, at long last where we behold

  Ripe fruit never falling, streams still and transparent.

  Where the tears are dried from our faces, or settle,

  Still as a stream in accomplished countries of peace,

  And the traveler opens, permitting the voyage of light

  As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  Easeful the forest, easeful its mansions perfected

  Where we grow and decay no longer, our trees ever green,

  Ripe fruit nev
er falling, streams still and transparent

  As air, as the heart in repose this lasting day.

  Denzil stopped with a sharp exhalation, still staring into the flames. “ ‘The Bird Song of Wayreth Forest.’ Quivalen Sath,” he said solemnly.

  Gisella watched his stony profile from her own bedroll. What a complicated package this man was—at once violent and sensitive. A surplus of feeling bubbled up inside her, rising in her throat. She had only one response to that sensation.

  She leaned forward, took Denzil’s face in her hands, and crushed her rouged lips against his. Startled, he began to pull away, but she would not let him go. Gisella held the dark-haired man still with the force of her kiss until she felt him relax. His arms surrounded her, tightening until she thought her lungs might burst from her chest. She liked the feeling of being possessed, so she didn’t struggle. Instead, she pushed him onto his back, rolled onto his chest, and let her wrap fall away.

  Chapter 17

  Damaris touched the screaming human’s shoulder tentatively. “If you don’t mind my saying, you sound a little unhinged, whoever you are.”

  Phineas was pressed against the wall of Vinsint’s room, still seated on the table, whimpering and gibbering with fear. When Damaris spoke to him, he closed his mouth and for the first time his rheumy eyes looked up at her. “Damaris Metwinger, I presume?”

  “That’s me,” she said pleasantly. Her light blue eyes were as large as her smile. “Who are you?”

  Trapspringer hastily made the introductions.

  “I’m glad that’s settled,” the ogre said mildly, continuing his meal preparations as if nothing untoward had happened. “You’ll find the accommodations quite comfortable, and I’m told I’m a good cook. You’ll like it here, once you get used to it.”