There seemed to be no pattern to the streets. They did not radiate outward from the center, like the spokes of a wheel-the last two dwarven towns the draconian passed through were like that. The streets did not form a grid or any other geometric shape that dwarves seemed to be fond of. They were random and curvy, some a mix of cobblestones and earth, some paved with the same bricks used in the stoutest dwellings, some dead-ending into the backs of buildings.
In what the draconian surmised passed for the center of the town, a fountain topped with a statue of a warrior-dwarf bubbled merrily, the water spewing from the stone fellow’s mouth. No, not water, he noticed on second glance. Ale. All around the edge of the fountain sat a mix of dwarven and kender musicians dressed in bright reds and yellows. The former were thumping long, slender drums that rested between their knees, and the latter had just begun to play flutes and curved bell horns that glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The smallest kender had tiny metal plates attached to her fingers, which she clinked together at what seemed-judging by the look of the other musicians’ faces-the most inopportune times. A young female dwarf was attempting to direct them by waving an empty mug in the air. Her other hand gripped a full mug that she frequently sipped from.
In front of the musicians strolled a most portly dwarf. He was dressed in a shiny runic, striped horizontally green and blue, which did nothing to help conceal the ample stomach that hung over his wide belt. Stroking his short black beard and staring at a piece of curling parchment he held in a meaty hand, he seemed to be practicing a speech.
“I, Gustin Stoutbeard, hie acting mayor of Neidarbard. .” He cleared his throat and started again, the words slightly slurred.
The draconian’s gaze shifted to the southern edge of town, where tables upon tables sat end to end. They were covered with red and green cloths and dozens of bouquets of spring flowers. Dwarven and kender women bustled around them setting out plates and mugs. A firepit was nearby, and a great boar was roasting over it, being turned by a dwarf with massively muscled arms. The scent of the meat hung heavy in the air and made the sivak’s belly rumble.
“I, Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting. .”
The music swelled, drowning out the acting mayor, the clinking from the kender child coming at regular intervals now, and the drummers beating out a syncopated rhythm that did not sound altogether bad.
The draconian stood on his tiptoes, a considerable feat given the body he’d adopted, craned his neck, and looked through a gap in all of the decorations. There! The mountains beckoned beyond Neidarbard, part of the Redstone Bluffs. Beyond those mountains was the blessed forest, safety, and the company of his own kind.
Ignoring the protestations of his empty stomach, he took a deep breath and strolled purposefully down the main street and toward the fountain.
“Hey!”
The sivak scowled as he felt a rugging on his cape-wings. He glanced down and over his shoulder, spotting a kender with two topknots. The kender had a large book in his hands, opened to a page with an illustration of a dwarf. The kender looked at the picture, then at the dra-conian, hiccuped, releasing a cloud of ale-breath. “Hey!” He beamed. “It’s Reorx! You are Reorx, aren’t you? Hic.”
The draconian did his best to ignore the besotted young man and took another step toward the mountains, but the kender was persistent and hurried to plant himself in the sivak’s path. “Where are you going, Reorx? Do you mind if I call you Reorx?”
The dwarf he’d slain had made some mention of Reorx, the draconian recalled. “If I say I am this Reorx, young man, will you go away?”
The kender’s eyes widened, he hiccuped again, and he nodded vigorously.
“Very well. I am Reorx.”
The kender was quick to scoot out of his path, stuffing the book under one arm, topknots bobbing as he ran toward the acting mayor-who had stopped at the fountain to fill his mug.
“Hic. I, Gustin Stoutbeard. .”
As the kender rugged on the acting mayor’s clothes the draconian continued on his way. He passed by the musicians, slowing for only the briefest of moments when the delicate strains of a flute stirred something inside him, then slipped between a trio of two-story buildings, the bottom floors of which were businesses. One had a bright yellow-orange sign out front in the shape of a beehive. “Best-Ever Honey,” it read. The next was a baker’s, and all manner of elaborately decorated cakes and cookies sat tantalizingly in the window. The draconian’s stomach growled louder, and he urged himself along. The third was a barber’s, and through the open window he spied a young dwarf receiving a beard trim.
The music swelled as he thrust all these chaotic trappings of society to the back of his mind and set his sights once again on the mountains. He renewed his pace and actually made it another few yards before his cape was tugged on again. Growling softly in his throat, he turned to meet the gaze of the fat dwarf, Gustin Stoutbeard.
“Are you really Reorx? Hic.”
The draconian scowled. “Yes, yes, I am Reorx, and I am in a hurry.” He pointed a stubby finger toward the foothills. “So if you will excuse-”
“You are really Reorx?” The fat dwarf swayed on his feet and blinked, as if trying to focus. “Hic.”
“Yes.”
“Really, really Reorx?” The fat dwarf hiccuped again.
“Yes. I am really Reorx. And you and everyone else in this town are really intoxicated. Now if you don’t mind-
“We’s s’been celebrarin’ allllll s’day,” a black-bearded dwarf cut in. One of the drummers, he had wandered over to listen in. “S’day of the s’festival, ya s’know. We’s don’ts drinks much otherwise. ‘Cept unless we’s thirsty.”
The acting mayor glanced at the kender, who’d come up behind him and handed him another mug. The kender pulled the book from under his arm, opened it, and pointed to a full-page picture of a dwarf. The acting mayor got a good look. The draconian squinted at the picture-the breastplate indeed was similar to the one he displayed, as were the cape and the boots. The leggings were not quite so bright a red, but that could be attributed to a printer’s error.
“The Forge!” the acting mayor bellowed, as he dropped the mug of ale in surprise. He waved his arms, looking like a plump bird trying hopelessly to take to the air. “Everyone! The Forge has returned! Hid”
The music immediately stopped, and the townsfolk, kender and dwarves alike, seemed to utter a collective gasp. Then instruments were hurriedly set down, plates left in a stack, decorations left dangling. All the residents appeared to be thundering the sivak’s way.
“I really must be leaving.”
“I, Gustin-” the acting mayor slurred.
“Yes, I know who you are. You are Gustin Stoutbeard, the acting mayor of Neidarbard.”
Gustin’s cherubic face displayed surprise. “You know who I am? Hic. Hic. You know that I am the acting mayor here? Well. You truly are Reorx. Hic.”
“Yes. Yes. I am Reorx. I’ve said that three times now. I am indeed Reorx, and I must be on my way.” The dra-conian was breaking into a sweat. He could only maintain a form for so many hours, and he did not want be discovered. He needed to get out of this town and into the mountains, where the shadows from the peaks would conceal his silver body. “I’ve things to attend to, someplace I must be.”
The acting mayor seemed not to hear him. “I, Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of the fine village of Neidarbard hie proclaim the opening of the Festival of the Forge in hie honor of the greatest of Krynn’s gods, Reorx!” He stuffed the parchment with the rest of the speech into his pocket and continued, his voice raising in volume and authority. “We have been hie blessed, my friends. .
Behind him, the draconian muttered to himself, “God?
Reorx is a god? Oh my. I only know of the Dark Queen“
“. . for the gods hie have been absent since the Chaos War. There were some who believed the gods were gone forever, but we Neidarbardians knew the gods would return. We continued to honor them in festivals and
prayers. We knew! Hic! Now we have been rewarded for our faithfulness. Reorx has chosen to appear before us! Reorx has returned! On this very day when we traditionally celebrate the Festival of the Forge, Reorx himself hie has returned!”
A cacophonous cheer went up as the dwarves and kender pressed themselves against the draconian. Some merely stroked his breastplate, which they oohed and ahhed over and said did not feel like metal at all. Others shook his thick hand, while some kissed the ground near his feet. Mugs clanked together and were quickly drained. Someone pressed a mug into the sivak’s hand.
“S’l brewed this,” an ancient dwarf drunkenly growled. “S’not been aged s’all that long, but. .”
“To Reorx!” There was another great cheer.
The draconian stood dumbstruck. “I. . I really must be going,” he said after a few minutes. He tried to remember how long it had been since he killed the dwarf and how much more time he might have to possess this body. Perhaps another hour at best, he guessed. Maybe two if he was fortunate. The hand holding the mug was nudged, and he raised it and drank the ale. It was thick and bitter and tasted good.
“Going where?” It was another one of the musicians.
The draconian studied his polished boots while he considered his reply. Someone refilled his mug. “Why, I am going to summon the rest of the gods, so they can all return to Krynn!”
There was another cheer, wilder and louder than before. More clinking of mugs that had been refilled. One of the kender musicians had picked up his horn and was blowing it shrilly.
“So, you see,” the dracordan added, as he drained the second mug, “I must be going. I must not keep all the other gods waiting.” He tried to take a step but found himself trapped by the crowd. He guessed there were nearly a hundred dwarves and a third that many more kender.
“Wwwhich gggods wwwill yyyou ssssummon fffirst? Hic.”
The draconian stared mutely at the speaker, who wobbled only a little more than the acting mayor.
“Mmmishakal?”
“Yes, I believe I shall summon Mishakal first.”
“Oh, good!” chirped someone buried in the crowd. “I shall drink to that! To Mishakal!”
“To Mishakal!” went up a cheer. “We’ll all drink to Mishakal!”
“Then Solinari? The god of good magic?” It was a middle-aged kender who was clutching a blue crystal mug in one hand and a flute in the other.
“Well. .”
“To Solinari!” Came another wave of cheering and toasting.
“What about Haba. . Habbbaba. . Habakkuk?”
“I intend to summon Habakkuk and then Solinari.”
There was another great round of cheering and toasting and drinking.
“Stay for a meal first!” This came from a dwarven woman at the edge of the crowd. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was waving a big wooden spoon in her hand. Chocolate dripped enticingly from it. “Summon the gods after you’ve tried the roast boar.”
The draconian’s belly growled again. “I suppose I could stay for just a little while.” Someone refilled his mug.
The whoops and cries of the dwarves and kender swelled to deafening proportions.
“I, hie Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting mayor of Neidarbard, welcome Reorx the Forge to our feast!”
“I cannot stay long, you understand. Gods are very busy.” The draconian found he must shout to be heard over the ruckus.
The acting mayor nodded and drunkenly gestured toward the tables. In response the crowd quieted a bit and backed away, like a wobbly wave receding from a beach. Gustin held out his hand, and for an instant the sivak considered bolting toward the foothills. Though he had the stubby legs of a dwarf, he had the strength of a draconian as well as the speed. There was now considerable space between he and the short townsfolk, and in their general state of inebriation, they would not be able to catch him.
However, the boar smelled very, very good.
He sighed and took the acting mayor’s hand, the portly dwarf practically swooning at the honor. Then Gustin led the sivak toward the gaily decorated tables and directed him to the center and to the largest chair. The draconian suspected the chair had been intended for the acting mayor, as it was wide enough to hold his bulk, and “His Honor” was engraved on the back.
Someone was slicing the boar, releasing more of the wondrous scents into the air. A finely carved tankard was filled to the brim with the finest dwarven ale the sivak had ever smelled. It was clomped down in front of the transformed draconian. He downed the contents of his other mug, discarded the empty container, then took a sip from the tankard and found that it oh-so-pleasantly warmed his throat. Not so bitter as the other ale, this had a hint of sweetness. He quickly drained it.
The acting mayor squeezed into a seat to the right of the god, as one of the dwarven musicians took the place to the left. Within moments, the seats were all filled, and the air was buzzing with dozens of slurred conversations, all of them centering on Reorx and the gods.
The sivak’s tankard was refilled by a primly dressed dwarven woman who tried to stuff a napkin into the lip of the god’s breastplate. “Doesn’t seem to want to go in there,” she said, finally giving up and waddling off.
“Why did you pick our village?” The speaker was a child at the far end of the table. His mug was filled with cider, and the sivak noted that only the adults were allowed the privilege of consuming the ale. “Of all the towns in Thorbardin, Mister Reorx, why’d you come here?”
The sivak scrunched his dwarven face in thought, then took another pull from the tankard. His fingers seemed to feel thicker, as did his tongue. “Well, youngling, when I looked down upon Krynn from the heavens, I glimpsed Neidarbard and felt drawn to it.”
“To Neidarbard?” The child seemed flabbergasted. “There are much bigger towns inside and outside the mountains.”
The sivak nodded and stifled a hiccup. “Ah, youngling, there certainly are, but I could sense that the people of Neidarbard were fiercely loyal to the gods-even though we’d been away since the Chaos War. I could hear your prayers as I looked down on Krynn.”
“You could hear me?”
The sivak nodded and took another pull. He couldn’t remember ever drinking anything quite so delicious.
The child gasped and clapped and jostled his table-neighbors in the ribs. “He heard me!”
A thick slice of meat was lopped onto the draconian’s plate, and he nearly forgot himself as he went to grab it with his fingers. He watched the acting mayor wield a fork and knife, copied the gesture to the best of his ability, and fell to devouring the meal. In all the dwarven towns he’d passed through, he was certain he had never eaten anything quite so delectable. Of course, he’d never gone so long without a meal and been so hungry-and he’d never drank so much. He drained his tankard again as a second thick slice of meat was placed before him. He awkwardly gestured for a refill of the ale.
“Gustin’s hie cousin hie slew hie the hie boar hie yesterday,” an old dwarven drummer explained. “The largest hie boar we’ve hie seen in these hie parts in years. It must have been hie an omen of your hie coming.”
There was warm bread topped with the sweetest honey the draconian had ever sampled. “Best-Ever Honey,” he was proudly told. He ate it almost reverently and let a dollop of the honey rest on his tongue. He finally washed it down with more ale.
“It’s harvested from the hie honeycombs of the giant bees just hie outside the village,” Gustin explained, pointing roughly to the south. “Uldred, Mesk, hie Puldar, go to the hive and gather more for our most important guest. Hic. Honey for Reorx!”
There were bowls of blueberries sprinkled with sugar, more ale, yams drowning in creamy butter, cinnamon sticks, more ale. The air continued to buzz with praise for the god who had deigned to grace the town of Neidarbard with his lofty presence.
“Where’d Chaos banish all the gods to?” This from a woman with a chocolate-covered spoon. She hadn’t been drinking as much as the othe
rs and was easier to understand. “Was it t’other side of the world? Or maybe not on this world?”
The draconian swallowed a big piece of boar meat. “I am not permitted to say, kind woman. Chaos hie bid that location be kept a secret from all mortals.”
There were murmurs of “I understand.”
“So why’d you return to Krynn? Did Chaos let you free?” The same woman.
The draconian speared a yam. “He did not let me.”
There was a chorus of oooohs punctuated by clinking mugs.
“I defied him and escaped his secret place. I was too long away from hie Krynn and the company of dwarves and kender,” he continued, puffing out his dwarven chest. The yam slid easily down his throat, followed by another swig of ale. “So I decided on my own to return. Chaos does not know I’m here. When he was not looking, I cleverly escaped. Hence, I must be going. If I am to summon the other gods, I must do so before he finds me out and tries to stop me. Hic. Perhaps, though, I shall have just one more slice of boar.”
The draconian’s gaze drifted from face to face between bites of boar and blueberries. Some of the musicians had finished their meal and were striking up a sprightly tune. The melody was pleasing to the sivak’s ears. They were all so. . happy. It was an emotion generally denied him, abhorred by him, a weak sentiment that had no place in the lives of he and his fellows. He couldn’t recall that he’d ever been happy before. He found himself grinning like everybody else.
“Maybe you can stay for the dance tonight!” This from a young dwarven woman in a red gown trimmed with embroidered daisies.
“Stay? No.” How long had it been since he killed the dwarf? An hour? Two? He needed to be leaving before he lost hold of this form and his sivak body returned. That would certainly put an end to the merriment, and possibly an end to his life, as several of the sturdiest-looking dwarves carried swords and hammers. Still, he did not feel the tingling that usually signaled he was soon to shed his form. Perhaps he was wrong about the time. Perhaps he could tarry. He felt for the cadence of his heart and found that it seemed to beat in time with the dwarven drums.
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