Kender, Gully Dwarves And Gnomes t1-2

by Margaret Weis

  One small incident marred an otherwise idyllic cruise (not counting constantly ducking the sail, being hit by falling fish, and wondering whether or not they were going to sink before they reached land, due to the leaking of the smashed-in prow… or stem…).

  Dougan was lounging on the deck one night, contemplating the stars (the constellation, Reorx, was missing) when suddenly he was accosted by the three brothers.

  "Sturm, get his arms!" Tanin ordered, leaping on the dwarf from behind. "Palin, if his beard so much as twitches, send him to sleep!"

  "What is this outrage! How dare you?" Dougan roared, struggling in Sturm's strong grasp.

  "We risked our lives for that rock," Tanin said grimly, glaring down at the red-faced dwarf. "And I want to see it."

  "You've been putting us off for days," added Palin, standing beside his brother. "We at least want a look at it before you take it back to your forge or wherever."

  "Let me loose!" Dougan swore an oath. "Or you'll see nothing ever again 1"

  "Do you agree to show it to us?"

  "I promise!" muttered the dwarf.

  Sturm, at a nod from Tanin, let go of the dwarfs arms. Dougan glanced around at them uncomfortably.

  "The Graygem?" the brothers said, gathering around.

  "Well, now, lads." The dwarf appeared highly uncomfortable. "That's going to be a bit of a problem."

  "What do you mean?" Palin asked nervously, not liking the expression on the dwarf's face. "Is it so powerful that we can't look at it?"

  "Nooo…" said Dougan slowly, his face flushing in the red light of Lunitari. "That's not it, exactly…"

  "Well, then, let's see it!" Tanin demanded.

  "The… uh… the fact is, lads," stammered Dougan, winding his black beard around his finger, "that I've… I've misplaced it…"

  "Misplaced it!" Sturm said in amazement.

  "The Graygem?" Palin glanced around the boat in alarm, fearing to see its gray light beaming out at them.

  "Perhaps, 'misplaced' isn't quite the word," the dwarf mumbled. "You see, I got into this bone game, the night before we left the island and…" His voice trailed off miserably.

  "You lost it!" Tanin groaned.

  Palin and Sturm stared at the dwarf, too stunned to speak.

  "Aye, lad." Dougan sighed heavily. "It was a sure thing, too…"

  "So the Graygem's loose in the world again," Palin murmured.

  "I'm afraid so. After all, I did lose the original wager, if you will remember. But don't worry, laddie," said the dwarf, laying his hand on Palin's arm. "We'll get it back! Someday, we'll get it back!"

  "What do you mean we?" Tanin growled.

  "I swear by Paladine and by Gilean and by the Dark Queen and by all the gods in the heavens that if I ever in my life see you even looking my direction, dwarf, I will turn around and walk — no, run — the opposite way!" Sturm vowed devoutly.

  "The same goes for me," said Palin.

  "And me!" said Tanin.

  Dougan looked at them, downcast for a moment. Then, a grin split the dwarf's face. His beady eyes glittered.

  "Wanna bet?"

  DAGGER-FLIGHT

  Nick O'Donohoe

  I

  It woke in warm darkness. A musical voice, not quite deep and not quite high, spoke. "I'll get it for you."

  The weight rocked.

  A higher, childlike voice said almost sadly, "No. I don't want it back. You can never get rid of the smell, you know."

  The weight settled. Something wet and thick was dripping around it, seeping a little at a time in through tiny pits on the blade. "Blade," it thought, half-asleep. "I have a blade."

  And a moment later, more sharply, "I taste blood."

  The blood was rank and bitter, laden with strange salts. The thing knew, without knowing how, that it had tasted better blood than this — better than this goblin blood.

  As more dripped on the blade, it suddenly thought clearly, "I'm a dagger. I'm a dagger, stuck through a goblin's heart."

  A new voice that seemed to come from everywhere laughed, each word chiming like a falling icicle.

  Poor pet. You hardly know yourself. And it laughed again.

  Though the voice sounded as if it could be anything — rock, corpse, wind, or weapon — the dagger thought of it as "she."

  You can't see yourself, can barely feel yourself, and don't know yourself at all. Her voice showed casual contempt for weakness. You've only just fed, and it wasn't very good, was it? She purred, soon you will feed again, perhaps many times.

  The dagger quivered with pleasure and fear; something about that voice… As the dagger moved, the surface of the congealing blood broke, and fresh drops fell all the way to the cross-piece. "Cross-piece," it thought uncertainly. "I must be a dagger."

  The voice, colder than goblin corpse, said, I hinted that you were not. Many have mistaken you for a dagger more times than you can dream of. Fools have died for that.

  The dagger strained to hear more, its slow mind uncomprehending. Movement was harder as the flesh around it stiffened.

  She went on, you look like worn, half tamished silver work. You have a pommel shaped like the head of a — she hesitated — a serpent, for one thing. Your cross-piece is a pair of talons, like a falcon's or an eagle's, and your tail is a scale-carved, six-inch blade. You feed through that, not through your mouth. You also do… other things with it, pet.

  She knows me, the dagger thought, and ever so slightly wagged its tail. The cooling blood stirred again. The dagger drank.

  I know you well. You are not metal and were not forged by any hand, not even by my own. Long ago, your race was common. You were born to feed on those who used you, owned you, or had kinship. Blood stirred you; murder fed you; war multiplied you. In some autumn sunsets, the sky would darken early with your numbers, and the beating of your wings was like the roar of battle as you swept down on village after village.

  Her tone changed.

  Later there was… one who knew magic, though not as I knew it. I shall not name that name here. You and yours were put to sleep, without food, through the centuries. most died. you are one of the last.

  A few years ago, a foolish peddler dug you up and carried you far south, hoping to trade you as a relic from some pre cataclysm war. That was well, and was my bidding. but he sold you to a dwarf, a lumpish, sickly brute who does not do my bidding.

  In the cold body, the dagger shivered at her voice. When the lady — she must be at least that — commanded, one did her bidding and hoped to live. Its little mind could not imagine disobedience, or its consequences.

  Now I bid you, pet. The dwarf must die — partly to feed you, partly for disobeying, and partly, she added indifferently, Because he aids one who would be my enemy, if he but had the power. That is reason enough for the dwarf's death, if i needed reasons.

  But it was another who stabbed you into the goblin, who wielded you just now; I bid you to kill him, too — he and the dwarf — because I ask it. You need blood to do what you now must; I need all blood because I choose it. Find your owner, your user, your food; drink deep and do my bidding. Go. Now. The voice ceased.

  The dagger strained to hear more. After a moment, slowly and painfully, it curled its talons on the cross-piece, grasping the flabby folds of the goblin's skin. Gradually it worked itself free and pulled itself out from under the body. Once in the open air, it crawled rapidly along the path, moving and looking as though it were an injured lizard.

  Ahead it heard the high, childlike voice of the user — the dagger's next kill by right of use. The ruby eyes dimly made out curly brown hair, a fleece vest, and some sort of stick that the short creature was walking with, then spinning to make noise. The high voice was giggling. "Besides," he said, "That dagger was Flint's!"

  The dagger swiveled its short stiff body, the hilt with wings, to peer at the squat figure who grunted in annoyance next. He had muscular arms and an age-lined silhouette, and he carried an axe bound to his belt.

&
nbsp; "Flint," the dagger thought. "The dwarf who owned me. Owner and user. Both my food."

  But the two, and a third one, their tall, bearded companion, turned and climbed the steps that wound up the trunk of a massive vallenwood tree. The dagger, attempting the first step, scuttled quickly aside as a great many people stepped past, going up and down.

  A less simple, more wide-awake mind would have been frustrated. The dagger had slept more than a thousand years; it lay in the brush and waited patiently for the three to return.

  II

  After some time there was a great deal of noise:

  benches falling, bodies bumping or, more likely, striking the inn floor, a crowd gasping as a flare of blue light illuminated the night even through the stained glass of the inn's windows. A quavery old voice cried, "Call the guards! Arrest the kender! Arrest the barbarians! Arrest their friends!" The rest was lost in confusion. Someone ran down the long stairway, shouting for the guards and panting.

  The dagger waited, but Flint and the others did not appear. It heard a thump and muttering from under the kitchen of the inn, and then a ruckus nearby, but the dagger could not imagine anything so devious as a trapdoor.

  Shortly, there was the sound of heavy, clumsy feet running. Armored goblins ran up the stairs and then back down; they dispersed. A pair of feet stopped in front of the dagger. "What's this?"

  A voice as harsh said, "Somebody dropped an old knife. So what?"

  The first voice chuckled. "You got no imagination, Grum." A homy hand lifted the dagger. "Nice piece." The dagger, after being flipped over twice, found itself tucked inside ill-fitting body armor.

  The goblin's body was rank, but it was flesh. Thedagger, still too weak to attack, lay hungrily beside the fat laden rib cage, waiting.

  It did not wait long. There was the sound of a door creaking open and of goblin voices. "The Seekers demand right of entry."

  The second voice: "This place is empty. Let's move on."

  "You got no imagination, Grum. Here's our chance to pick up a few pieces of silver."

  Another light flared, seeping around the armor cracks. Both goblins screamed, and suddenly their bodies seemed to leap together, then collapse. From the floor, the dagger heard a muffled voice, then a deeper one say, "I'm afraid so. I hit them too hard."

  After more muffled talk, the light died and there was the sound of feet running to and fro, furniture overturning, and finally silence. The dagger waited as long as it could bear, but even indoors the goblin's corpse was cooling.

  With its talons stretched as far as they would go, it slid itself bit by bit under the body's ribs, into the goblin's black heart. This time it drank consciously, thirstily; each drop brought new awareness.

  First came a greater sense of smell — no advantage just now, but a world of sensation. The ruby eyes glowed dimly, then grew brighter. Finally the entire dagger rippled with new life and knowledge.

  "I am not a dagger," it thought. "She spoke the truth. I am a feeder."

  Crawling out from under the body was easier, but a greater surprise waited as the feeder scuttled to the door. As it stumbled on the sill, its wings began to unfurl from the hilt, beating once, then lifting the creature off the wood.

  The dagger flew tentatively back to the goblin body and dropped onto the neck with its full weight. After a moment it withdrew and flew strongly into the night, scanning and smelling for the dwarf, Flint, its owner, and — the kender, wasn't it? — its user.

  The night was full of hurrying bodies; the feeder could smell their warmth, and its appetite was growing. Though it did not know why, the feeder knew it urgently needed blood, and afterward there was something it must do, something important. As it circled between the village and the lakeshore, suddenly a very old, familiar scent came to it: the smell of ownership. It flapped strongly toward the source.

  But when the feeder reached the source, it wasn't the dwarf or the kender after all.

  Parris the trader shouldered his duffel wearily, brooding over a bad night. First he had been abused and robbed by goblin guards. When he finally came to the inn, it was in chaos — something about a dwarf, a mixed-race company, and magic had the place upset. Then he was told to leave; the goblin guards had closed the inn to strangers. Solace had never been good luck for him; years ago he'd made a very bad bargain with a sharp-eyed dwarf here.

  He rambled toward the lake, looking for a sheltered spot to spend the night. Suddenly, silhouetted against the water, he saw a strange group: slender man or elf, barbarian, knight, more humans, kender, dwarf. The dwarf was closest, hanging back from the water.

  He squinted at the figure, who was arguing about a boat. The gruff voice was familiar; he squinted, trying to think where he had heard it before. He could almost hear it again, wheedling, grunting, bargaining over a dagger…

  "By all the gods the Theocrats sell," he breathed. "It's himself. It's Flint. What's he doing here, and that crew he's got with him?"

  In a quick mental leap, he connected the grumpy dwarf and his party to the incident that had closed the Inn of the Last Home, and realized that the goblins were looking for Flint.

  Parris smiled, not nicely. Surely he could talk Dragon Highlord Fewmaster Toede into giving him some reward. Solace might bring him luck after all.

  Parris stretched his skinny neck, opening his mouth to call to the hobgoblin guards.

  But something hit the back of his neck with an audible thud. A second mouth opened in Parris's neck, just below his chin. As it widened, a pointed silver tongue protruded from it. It looked as though the second mouth were screaming.

  Above it, the real mouth was screaming. No sound came out. Parris dropped to his knees, then sprawled forward in the road. He just had time to grab at the back of his neck and feel a strangely carved hilt he thought he recognized…

  Hotter, thinner blood than the goblin's burst over the blade and was absorbed. The ruby eyes burned brighter, and the feeder thought suddenly, clearly, "I know why I must do this. I am more than a feeder. I'm a mother."

  And it remembered: the long-ago mating flight, once for a lifetime; the search for food, and for hosts;

  the red-filled nights of circling, seeking, diving into a host body, drinking deep, and laying its young in the corpse. It remembered, dimly, its own long weeks in rotting flesh, eating and absorbing, growing until one day it and its brothers and sisters crawled out of the hollowed body and into the night, looking for fresher and more lively food. There had been many brothers and sisters…

  The feeder felt a rush of warmth from hilt to blade. There would be many again. It was time to seek a host. Soon the race of feeders would darken the sky.

  Suddenly from the shoreline came cries and the twang of bows. The feeder rose, its eyes blood-bright, and flew straight for the noise, gaining height for another dive.

  On the shore were goblins, shouting and shooting arrows. The feeder ignored them, moving over the boat and its occupants. The kender, crouched at the oars, was too well covered by the others, and Flint was struggling in the water. The feeder hovered, waiting for a sure target.

  "That does it!" The large one, the deep voice the feeder had heard before, pulled the dwarf halfway into the boat. Flint hung onto a seat, but his lower half was sticking out over the edge of the boat, unprotected.

  A vague memory surfaced in the feeder: inside the biped's legs was a large, rich artery that could empty a body in moments. The feeder, not hesitating as a human might have for an enemy in such a vulnerable position, zeroed in, plummeted, blade flashing in the starlight.

  At the last moment the one dressed as a knight grabbed the dwarf by the belt and dragged him aboard as the boat rocked wildly. The feeder, unable to stop, imbedded itself firmly in the seat of the vessel.

  The one with the deep voice noticed the feeder, stuck and helpless. He grunted with surprise, then pulled it free. Before the feeder could move, the stranger had slid it into a thonged leather sheath, firmly binding the thongs around cross-piece,
pommel, and hilt. He did it one-handed, as though from long practice; his other hand was embracing a cloaked man with strange, hourglass eyes. That one, who had been casting a spell as the feeder dove in, pulled away.

  The feeder could see, bound as it was, that the one with the hourglass eyes was looking at it. The feeder struggled against its bonds, in vain. A skinny finger poked at the feeder, traced its outline in the sheath. The cloaked man made a small surprised noise in his throat, and coughed rackingly.

  A moment before, this man had been casting spells, strenuous ones from the look of him; now, although he was exhausted, his eyes were lit with recognition. The feeder tensed. Any moment, the mage would tell the others…

  Just then there was a gasp of alarm from the only woman in the boat; the feeder heard her but could not see her. The big man, who now owned the dagger, poked the mage. "Raist, what is it? I don't see anything."

  The mage stood up, out of the feeder's line of sight. A moment later he said, stricken, "Tanis… the constellations.."

  The musical voice said, "What? What about the constellations?" So that was Tanis, the feeder noted. The one who had shaken the feeder awake.

  "Gone." The mage was racked with coughs, spasm after spasm shaking the boat slightly. The feeder relaxed; for whatever reason, the mage had forgotten about it for the present.

  Then Raistlin said shakily, "The constellation known as the Queen of Darkness and the one called Valiant Warrior. Both gone. She has come to Krynn, Tanis, and he has come to fight her. All the evil rumors we have heard are true. War, death, destruction…"

  The mage and the others said more, but the feeder did not hear. "The Queen of Darkness," it thought with certainty. "The voice I heard. The Lady who ordered me."

  Then it thought as certainly, "These are the ones she bade me kill."

  For now, however, there was nothing to be done until the boat reached shore and the company found shelter. All but those on watch slept. The feeder nestled patiently in its thong-bound sheath, dreaming of the blood and of its children while it waited for release.