Kender, Gully Dwarves And Gnomes t1-2

by Margaret Weis

  The knight chose a spot near the site of the lean-to yet well hidden from the prying eyes of the locals. It was a shallow grave; the ground was too loose on top and too hard about four feet down. In addition, he was forced to use make-shift tools left behind by his friend, the minotaur.

  The prayers lasted until the sun set. Torbin, his body stiff, rose and wandered over to the lean-to. He picked up the small, crude blade with which the lone man-beast had created his handiwork. After studying it, he put it into one of his pouches.

  His mount greeted him energetically, inaction and the scents of the minotaurs having caused him no end of frustration. Torbin soothed the animal and then slowly climbed on. He did not look back.*****

  His reappearance in the village caused a great commotion, despite the lateness of the day. Villagers pressed around him, asking if the beast was dead. The mayor and his cronies located him some five minutes later while he was packing the rest of his gear onto his horse.

  "Is it true? Have you dispatched the beast?" The mayor's breath smelled of fish and beer.

  "The minotaur is dead." Torbin continued to concentrate on packing his equipment.

  The group let out a rousing cheer. The mayor declared the next day a holiday. A feast would take place, each villager bringing food or drink as a contribution. The victorious Knight of Solamnia would be the guest of honor. Various members of the town council began vying for spots at the main table. Others formed committees and subcommittees designed to coordinate the feast. A few talked of bringing the body back to the village. Eventually, most of the townspeople drifted off to plan the next day's events.

  His own preparations complete, Torbin steadied his horse and then remounted and moved away at a trot. Villagers smiled or bowed in his direction as he rode;

  others looked at him with puzzlement. The knight kept his eyes on the path before him.

  At the edge of town, a breathless mayor caught up to him. "Sir Knight! Where are you going? Will you not join us at our feast tomorrow? We wish to do you honor."

  Torbin pulled the reins tight, bringing the trained warhorse to a dead stop. He turned the animal around and matched gazes with the round man for a full half-mmute. The mayor shifted like a small child under his stare.

  Then, as abruptly as he had stopped, Torbin turned his horse back around to the path and rode off at a trot.

  He did not look back.

  HEARTH CAT AND WINTER WREN

  Nancy Varian Berberick

  The golden tabby eyed the caged squirrel with sleepy interest. The squirrel panted miserably, not certain which was worse: the grim possibilities inherent in the cat's white teeth or the aching reality of his own imprisonment. The cage, he decided wretchedly.

  The cage made his bones hurt and his heart race hard in frightening fits and starts. But when he saw the fire smouldering in the cat's almond-shaped, green eyes, the squirrel thought that it might not be such a bad thing that there were bars between them.

  Tell me, squirrel, the cat murmured, When do you think he'll feed us again?

  Oh, soon, soon, I'm sure! the squirrel chattered. Very soon. But I can't imagine you're still hungry. You ate two mice only a little while ago… The squirrel winced, then flicked his tail and scrubbed at his whiskers with his small white paws. He didn't like to think about the mice or their helpless scurrying. And he especially did not like to think about the cool and deadly look of the cat as he licked his lips with his rough pink tongue, or the pitiful crunch of little mousy bones.

  And they had been small mice. The squirrel wondered whether the cage would hold if the tabby decided to knock it from the table.

  Cat, he said, trying to be as friendly and amiable as he could through his fear, I think there might be another mouse around here somewhere. Just in case you're hungry, that is. In some place far back in his mind, he felt a little ashamed that he would so readily cast another luckless creature into the cat's jaws to save his own gray hide. But he ignored that. He was, after all, a squirrel. And what are mice to squirrels but cat food?

  The tabby purred gently, the softness of the sound belied by the hard glitter of his eyes. He leaped gracefully to the table. Squirrel, he sighed. To the squirrel it sounded as though the cat might be remembering with fondness a meat he hadn't tasted in some time.

  Oh, cat, oh, cat, why don't you nap a while in the sun? There's a lovely bit of sunshine there on the hearth. there haven't been too many warm days like this. I should think you'd want to take advantage of it. He'll be back to feed us both soon.

  And, in truth, the squirrel was hungry. He could almost taste the sweet, chewy meat of a chestnut. Oh, for a nice pile of chestnuts now! Or even a few bitter acorns.

  A soft paw tapped at the bars. Chattering and scolding, the squirrel made himself as small as he could and ducked into the farthest comer of his cage. He was caught between an instinctive need to be free of the confining cage and the understanding that only the bars kept the cat at bay. Frustrated, the squirrel flashed his tail once more.

  The cat only purred again, the sigh of one who had decided it best to save a tasty snack for later. He dropped to the floor and went to preen in the golden splash of late afternoon sun. Now and then he looked up at the squirrel to yawn and grin.

  The grin was deadly and dark and very confident.

  Though the day had been warm, almost springlike, the weather, as it often did in late winter, had changed swiftly sometime just before night. Rain poured now from a dirty gray sky, pounded angrily against the snug roof and walls of Flint's house. The smell of the vallenwood's wet bark mingled comfortably with the scent of a cozy fire.

  The old dwarf carved a last, feathering stroke on the small object he'd been whittling all afternoon. Not since he had started work had he looked at what it was he was making. There were times, when he was thinking hard about something, or when he was very peaceful, that he could simply let his hands take over. The result of his work then was not craft but art.

  The talk that night was desultory and wandering, aimless paths of conversation that made for no goal but, more often than not, returned to Tasslehoff's sudden and urgent departure three days before. Urgent to Tas, at least.

  It had to do with a talking wren. Tas had been certain that the bird had spoken, pleading for help. His long brown eyes had been bright with that certainty. No one had been able to convince him otherwise. So off he'd gone like some small knight on a quest.

  And, everyone agreed, it was best to give Solace a chance to cool its collective temper and forget about Tas for a time. A winter-bound kender in Solace could do about as much damage as a skulk of foxes in a henhouse, or an invading army. Few folk had the patience for Tas's long and tangled explanations about how he had simply «borrowed» the missing item, truly meant to return it, and just couldn't understand how the pilfered goods ended up in HIS pouches.

  Across the room Caramon's deep, bright laughter pounced and overrode the quiet voices of his friends.

  "A talking wren!" He attempted to raise the pitch of his voice in imitation of the kender's piping insistence that he had, indeed, spoken with a wren. He failed utterly. "And one who asks for help, at that. Then off he goes with hardly a good-bye."

  Raistlin murmured something, and Tanis smiled. Sturm only shook his head and continued to polish the already gleaming blade of his sword.

  Flint closed his hands over the little carving, rubbing the edges of it with his thumbs. His home, these days, seemed always to be filled with these oddly assorted young comrades.

  Tanis, the quiet, seemingly young half-elf whose hazel eyes were alight now with good humor, seemed always to have been here, though the old dwarf could remember a time when he wasn't.

  Caramon, all six feet of him, had made it his life's duty to keep Flint's larder as empty as possible. Raistlin, thin and as cloaked in uneasy mystery as he was now cloaked by the shadows of the comer he habitually inhabited near the hearth, was often so silent that one almost forgot he was there. Almost…

>   And then there was Sturm, taller though slimmer than Raistlin's brawny twin. This one should have matched Caramon's high spirits flash for shine. But he did not. Too grim by half! Flint thought now, watching the young man working intently over his sword. The weapon must be as perfect as its master strove to be.

  "Tas'll be back," Caramon said, yawning. "How far can he follow a bird, anyway?"

  Tanis, quiet through most of the conversation, got to his feet and stretched. "Likely not far. It's what catches his eye after he's lost the bird that will keep him away." He smiled and shook his head. The kender's attention was like a feather on the wind. "Still, I don't doubt you're right, Caramon. This rain will be snow before morning. We're not done with winter yet, and Tas likes a warm fire and a good meal as well as anyone. I don't think Solace is going to have a chance to miss him before he's back."

  "Miss him?" Raistlin left his seat by the fire and gave his brother a quick look and Tanis a dour smile. "He could be gone for a year and go unmissed around here. The hour is late. Are you coming, Caramon?"

  Caramon nodded, bade his friends good night, and followed his brother from the room. Sturm was up and gone a moment later, and the house was silent but for the drumming rain on the roof.

  Tanis poked up the fire in the hearth and poured himself a last cup of wine. He settled down on the floor next to Flint's chair and watched the flames dance.

  "Talking wrens," he said, after a time. "I think it was more boredom and restlessness. I can understand that. It has been a long winter."

  Flint snorted. "Long winters are fine, peaceful things when they're not plagued by kender."

  "And old dwarves are solemn, grim creatures when they've no kender to be plagued with. You've had little enough to say tonight, Flint."

  "I've been working, and listening to your chatter."

  Tanis eyed the little carving still nestled in Flint's hands. He reached for it, asking permission with a questioning smile. Flint reluctantly gave it over.

  Tanis always met Flint's work with his hands first. "Know what it is with your hands," the old dwarf had taught him, "before you see what it is with your eyes."

  Now the half-elf traced the careful detail, the artful evocation of wing and feather. "Nice. A wren, is it?"

  With a scowl he hoped was forbidding, Flint snatched the wooden bird away. "Don't you have a home to go to? Off with you now, and let me get some sleep."

  Tanis rose gracefully and dropped a hand to his old friend's shoulder. "Well, get some then, and don't spend the night worrying about Tas. He'll be fine."

  "Worry? Not me! Not unless it's to worry about the person who is luckless enough to encounter him on his bird chase. Talking wrens, indeed. As likely as finding a kender with a brain that works. Good night, Tanis."

  Tanis grinned. "Good night, Flint."

  The hard, hollow scent of the cat's hunger filled the small cottage now. There was murder in the golden tabby's eyes.

  You can't be nearly as hungry as I am, cat! the squirrel thought resentfully. Or at least he hoped not. The cat had killed a third time just as the setting sun's orange light gilded the windowsill. It was full dark now, and the squirrel was glad that clouds and rain hid the moons tonight. Lunitari's light might remind him too much of blood.

  I'm so hungry! And so thirsty! If that cat knocks the cage off this table to get at me, I don't know if I'll have the strength to run. Then I'd really be up a tree…

  Almost the squirrel laughed. He wished he were up a tree, curled all safe and warm, his nose tucked into his thick gray tail. With a nice fire blazing in the hearth.

  Hearth?

  The squirrel shook himself and whipped his tail over his head. Where had that strange thought come from? What he really wanted was a nice leaf-lined nest, a hearty cache of nuts to nibble on from time to time, a little water from the puddles on the ground…and some eggs and cheese, a little fresh bread and new honey.. He wondered if hunger was making him lose his wits. He

  wondered, too, when the man would return to feed him and the cat.

  The cat leaped onto the table again, rubbing against the bars and making an ominous rumbling sound in his throat. The squirrel could smell dead mice on the tabby's breath.

  Cat, he ventured, you look like you need a nap.

  I've been napping all day, squirrel

  You've been eating all day.

  I wouldn't mind eating all night.

  The squirrel sniffed then and bared his teeth.

  Be fair, cat! You've eaten every poor little mouse who was foolish enough to come into this cottage. I haven't had a thing to eat since I got locked up in this horrible cage. And I don't think you'd find me very palatable — I'll be skin and bones before morning.

  Bones, anyway, the cat purred, If I have my way.

  He'll be back soon, he will.

  He might be. sometimes he stays away for days at a time.

  The squirrel felt his belly rub up against his ribs. Days! Days in this dreadful cage with no food, no water, and a hungry cat! He had to get out!

  He'd no sooner had the thought than the cat lifted his head, ears cocked, and glided silently across the table and to the floor. Man-scent filled the air; booted footsteps sounded outside the door. Twitching and trembling, the squirrel rose onto his hind legs. He smelled food!

  The man had food, indeed, but he took his time about passing it out. He kicked off his boots at the door, sloughed cold rain from his black robes, and complained in his deep, rumbling voice about how the rain would soon turn to snow, and about some wren that couldn't be found.

  Wren? The wren… The squirrel wanted to think about the wren, he knew he SHOULD be thinking about the wren, that the wren was somehow important to him. But all he could manage to concentrate on was the man as he went about poking up the fire in the cold hearth and dropping, from time to time, terrified mice from some hidden pocket in his robe.

  To the man's great amusement, the cat promptly dispatched the first mouse, took his time with the second, and only knocked the third one witless.

  Saving it for later no doubt, the squirrel thought sourly. He smelled acorns, bitter and likely woody and thin. All his patience fell away. Chattering furiously, berating the man for his cavalier attitude toward his starving condition, he threw himself against the wooden bars.

  "Ah! Yes, yes, I was getting around to it, noisy one." The man reached into a pocket and pulled out a handful of winter-dull acoms. Dark eyes coldly alight in a craggy face, he slid them, one by one, into the cage.

  Getting around to it! Getting around —! The squirrel dove for the acoms. He lashed his tail here and there, stopped once or twice to glare up at the man, and finally managed to get the nuts all into a pile.

  "Hungry, eh!" the man said. There was a hard light in his black eyes that made the squirrel even angrier.

  Hungry? Oh, yes, you hind end of a mule! I'm hungry! I'm starving! And I've had to spend all day trapped in here with that murderous villain of a cat!

  The cat snarled and twitched the tip of his tail. Enjoying both the tabby's reaction and the squirrel's anger, the man laughed and stuck his finger between the bars of the cage to taunt the squirrel some more.

  Gleefully, the squirrel sunk his sharp little teeth into the soft flesh of the finger. He almost didn't care that his brains were nearly rattled out of his head when the man's fist knocked the cage into the wall.

  Caramon was certain that if it had been Tanis who'd heard the wren's cry for help, or Raistlin, or Sturm, packs would have been out, provisions gathered, and swords and bows checked for readiness. As it was, he was the one the wren had chosen to cry to this time, and Flint was not having any of his story.

  "But, I tell you," Caramon insisted, "I heard it!"

  Flint sighed. He had been listening to this tale all morning, and he was growing more than a little tired of it. "Have done, now, won't you? It was barely a decent joke when Tas tried it."

  The brawny youth was not noted for his patience or for any grea
t skill at cunning or strategy in matters other than martial. But his instincts were often good, and they served him well now. He took a long breath, clamped his teeth down on the loud protest he'd meant to make, and poured another cup of ale. He looked around the deserted inn, heard only Otik in the kitchen, and sighed heavily.

  "Flint, listen," he said in what he hoped was a calm and reasoning manner. "I was the first to laugh at Tas. I was still laughing at him last night. I'm not laughing this morning, because I heard the wren."

  "The gods know," Flint muttered, "I will be more than glad when winter is over. You youngsters are like colts chasing the wind these days; you hear the call to run in every stray breeze."

  "Flint, the bird was asking for help. That's what Tas said, and off he went. He's been gone for three days. And now the bird is back."

  "And you can tell one wren from another, can you?"

  Caramon could not keep the mischief from his grin. "When they speak, I can."

  "Hah! You're starting to sound like your brother now."

  That stopped the young man short, left him wondering to what he must reply now: Flint's implied insult (though he wasn't quite certain that he HAD been insulted), or the dwarf's still patent disbelief. He was spared the need for any retort when the door to the inn swung slowly open.

  "Caramon, I think you'd better find your brother."

  Sturm's was not the voice to which Caramon responded. He heard, and from the comer of his eye he could see that Flint had, too, the small piping of the wren. She rode Sturm's wrist with serene confidence. The late morning light glinted along a chain of tiny gold links around her neck.

  Help! Oh! Help!

  All the morning's trial of disbelief was worth that one moment, Caramon thought as he bolted for the door, worth that one, stunned look on the old dwarf's face. Laughing, he clattered down the wooden steps from the inn built high in the mighty vallenwood to the bridgewalks.

  Around the town women looked up from their washing and baking, merchants abandoned their customers to run to windows, and children came flying from their games, all wondering what it was that caused the big youth's bellowing summons of his brother and his friend Tanis Half-Elven.