Now, every day after Flint’s morning housecleaning, he would place any strange new objects he’d happened to find out on the door stoop. Either the town guard came to collect them or their neighbors would stop by and rummage through the pile, searching for items they had “dropped,” items that the kender had thoughtfully “found.”
Life with the kender also kept Flint active. He had spent half of this morning searching for his tools, which were never in their proper place. He’d discovered his most valuable and highly prized silver hammer lying in a pile of nutshells, having apparently been used as a nutcracker. His best tongs were nowhere to be found. (They would turn up three days later in the creek that ran behind the house, Tasslehoff having attempted to use them to catch fish.) Calling down a whole cartload of curses on the kender’s topknotted head, Flint was searching for the tea kettle when Tasslehoff flung open the door with a heart-stopping bang.
“Hi, Flint! Guess what? I’m home. Oh, did you hit your head? What were you doing under there in the first place? I don’t see why you should be looking for the tea kettle under the bed. What kind of doorknob would put a tea kettle under the—Oh, you did? Well, isn’t that odd. I wonder how it got there. Perhaps it’s magic! A magic tea kettle.
“Speaking of magic, Flint, these are some new friends of mine. Mind your head, Caramon. You’re much too tall for our door. This is Raistlin and his brother Caramon. They’re twins, Flint, isn’t that interesting? They look sort of alike, especially if you turn them sideways. Turn sideways, Caramon, and you, too, Raistlin, so that Flint can see. And that’s my new friend Sturm Brightblade. He’s a knight of Solamnia! They’re staying to dinner, Flint. I hope we’ve got enough to eat.”
Tas concluded at this point, swelling with pride and the two lungfuls of air required for such a long speech.
Flint eyed the size of Caramon and hoped they had enough to eat as well. The dwarf was in a bit of a quandary. The moment they stepped across his threshold, the young men were guests in his house, and by dwarven custom that meant they were to be treated with the same hospitality he would have given the thanes of his clan, had those gentlemen ever happened to pay Flint a visit, an occurrence which was highly unlikely. Flint was not particularly fond of humans, however, especially young ones. Humans were changeable and impetuous, prone to acting rashly and impulsively and, in the dwarf’s mind, dangerously. Some dwarven scholars attributed these characteristics to the human’s short life span, but Flint held that was only an excuse. Humans, to his way of thinking, were simply addled.
The dwarf fell back on an old ploy, one that always worked well for him when confronted by human visitors.
“I would be very pleased if you could stay to dinner,” said the dwarf, “but as you can see, we don’t have a single chair that will fit you.”
“I’ll go borrow some,” offered Tasslehoff, heading for the door, only to be stopped short by the tremendous cry of “No!” that burst simultaneously from four throats.
Flint mopped his face with his beard. A vision of the suddenly chairless people of Solace descending on him in droves caused him to break out in a cold sweat.
“Please do not trouble yourself,” said Sturm, with that cursed formal politeness typical of Solamnic knights. “I do not mind sitting on the floor.”
“I can sit here,” Caramon offered, dragging over a wooden chest and plopping down on it. His weight caused the hand-carved chest to creak alarmingly.
“You have a chair that would fit Raistlin,” Tasslehoff reminded him. “It’s in your bedroom. You know, the one we always use whenever Tanis comes over to—Why are you making those faces at me? Do you have something in your eye? Let me look.…”
“Get away from me!” Flint roared.
His face flushed red, the dwarf fumbled in his pocket for the key to the bedroom. He always kept the door locked, changed the lock at least once a week. This didn’t stop the kender from entering, but at least it slowed him down some. Stomping into the bedroom, Flint dragged out the chair that he saved for the use of his friend and kept hidden the rest of the time.
Positioning the chair, the dwarf took a good hard look at his visitors. The young man called Raistlin was thin, much too thin, as far as the dwarf was concerned, and the cloak he was wearing was threadbare and not at all suited to keep out the autumn chill. He was shivering, his lips were pale with the cold. The dwarf felt a bit ashamed for his lack of hospitality.
“Here you go,” he said. Positioning the chair near the fire, he added gruffly, “You seem a bit cold, lad. Sit down and warm yourself. And you”—he glowered at the kender—“if you want to make yourself useful, go to Otik’s and buy—buy, mind you!—a jug of his apple cider.”
“I’ll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail,” Tas promised. “But why two shakes? Why not three? And do lambs even have tails? I don’t see how—”
Flint slammed the door on him.
Raistlin had taken his seat, edged the chair even closer to the fire. Blue eyes, of a startling clarity, regarded the dwarf with an intense gravity that made Flint feel extremely uncomfortable.
“It is not really necessary for you to give us dinner—” Raistlin began.
“It isn’t?” exclaimed Caramon, dismayed. “What’d we come here for, then?”
His twin flashed him a look that caused the bigger youth to squirm uncomfortably and duck his head. Raistlin turned back to Flint.
“The reason we came is this: My brother and I wanted to thank you in person for speaking up for us against that woman”—he refused to dignify her with a name—“at our father’s funeral.”
Now Flint recalled how he knew these youngsters. Oh, he’d seen them around town since they were old enough to be underfoot, but he had forgotten this particular connection.
“It was nothing special,” protested the dwarf, embarrassed at being thanked. “The woman was daft! Belzor!” Flint snorted. “What god worth his beard would go around calling himself by the name of Belzor? I was sorry to hear about your mother, lads,” he added, more kindly.
Raistlin made no response to that, dismissed it with a flicker of his eyelids. “You mentioned the name ‘Reorx.’ I have been doing some studying, and I find that Reorx is the name for a god that your people once worshiped.”
“Maybe it is,” said Flint, smoothing his beard and eyeing the young man mistrustfully. “Though I don’t know why a human book should be taking an interest in a god of the dwarves.”
“It was an old book,” Raistlin explained. “A very old book, and it spoke not only of Reorx, but of all the old gods. Do you and your people still worship Reorx, sir? I don’t ask this idly,” Raistlin added, a tinge of color staining his pale cheeks. “Nor do I ask to be impertinent. I am in earnest. I truly wish to know what you think.”
“I do as well, sir,” said Sturm Brightblade. Though he sat on the floor, his back was as straight as a pike staff.
Flint was astonished. No human had ever, in all the dwarf’s hundred and thirty-some years, wanted to know anything at all about dwarven religious practices. He was suspicious. What were these young men after? Were they spies, trying to trick him, get him into trouble? Flint had heard rumors that some of the followers of Belzor were preaching that elves and dwarves were heretics and should be burned.
So be it, Flint decided. If these young men are out to get me, I’ll teach them a thing or two. Even that big one there. Bash him in the kneecaps and he’ll be cut down to about my size.
“We do,” said Flint stoutly. “We believe in Reorx. I don’t care who knows it.”
“Are there dwarven clerics, then?” Sturm asked, leaning forward in his interest. “Clerics who perform miracles in the name of Reorx?”
“No, young man, there aren’t,” Flint said. “And there haven’t been since the Cataclysm.”
“If you’ve had no sign that Reorx still concerns himself over your fate, how can you still believe in him?” Raistlin argued.
“It is a poor faith that demands constant reassurance, young h
uman,” Flint countered. “Reorx is a god, and we’re not supposed to understand the gods. That’s where the Kingpriest of Istar got into trouble. He thought he understood the minds of the gods, reckoned he was a god himself, or so I’ve heard. That’s why they threw the fiery mountain down on top of him.
“Even when Reorx walked among us, he did a lot that we don’t understand. He created kender, for one,” Flint added in gloomy tones. “And gully dwarves, for another. To my mind, I think Reorx is like myself—a traveling man. He has other worlds he tends to, and off he goes. Like him, I leave my house during the summer, but I always come back in the fall. My house is still here, waiting for me. We dwarves just have to wait for Reorx to come back from his journeys.”
“I never thought of that,” said Sturm, struck with the notion. “Perhaps that is why Paladine left our people. He had other worlds to settle.”
“I’m not sure.” Raistlin was thoughtful. “I know this seems unlikely, but what if, instead of you leaving the house, you woke up one morning to find that the house had left you?”
“This house will be here long after I’m gone,” Flint growled, thinking the young man was making a disparaging remark about his handiwork. “Why look at the carving and joining of the stone! You’ll not see the like between here and Pax Tharkas.”
“That wasn’t what I meant, sir,” Raistlin said with a half-smile. “I was wondering … It seems to me …” He paused, making an effort to say exactly what he did mean. “What if the gods had never left? What if they are here, simply waiting for us to come back to them?”
“Bah! Reorx wouldn’t hang about, lollygagging his time away, without giving us dwarves some sort of sign. We’re his favorites, you know,” Flint said proudly.
“How do you know he hasn’t given the dwarves a sign, sir?” Raistlin asked coolly.
Flint was hard put to answer that one. He didn’t know, not for sure. He hadn’t been back to the hills, back to his homeland in years. And despite the fact that he traveled throughout this region, he hadn’t really had that much contact with any other dwarves. Perhaps Reorx had come back and the Thorbardin dwarves were keeping the god a secret!
“It would be like them, damn their beards and bellies,” Flint muttered.
“Speaking of bellies, isn’t anybody else hungry?” Caramon asked plaintively. “I’m starved.”
“Such a thing is not possible,” said Sturm flatly.
“It is, too,” Caramon protested. “I haven’t had anything to eat since breakfast.”
“I was referring to what your brother said,” Sturm returned. “Paladine could not be in the world, witnessing the hardships my people have been forced to endure, and do nothing to intercede.”
“From what I’ve heard, your people witnessed the hardships suffered by those under their rule calmly enough,” Raistlin returned. “Perhaps because they were responsible for most of it.”
“That’s a lie!” Sturm cried, jumping to his feet, his fists clenched.
“Here, now, Sturm, Raist didn’t mean that—” Caramon began.
“Are you telling me that the Solamnic knights did not actively persecute magic-users?” Raistlin feigned astonishment. “I suppose the mages simply grew weary of living in the Tower of High Sorcery in Palanthas, and that’s why they fled from it in fear for their lives!”
“Raist, I’m sure Sturm didn’t intend to—”
“Some call it persecution. Others call it rooting out evil!” Sturm said darkly.
“So you equate magic with evil?” Raistlin asked with dangerous calm.
“Don’t most people with any sense?” Sturm returned.
Caramon rose to his feet, his own fists clenched. “I don’t think you really meant that, did you, Sturm?”
“We have a saying in Solamnia. ‘If the boot fits—’ ”
Caramon took a clumsy swing at Sturm, who ducked and lunged at his opponent, catching him in his broad midsection. Caramon went over backward with a “woof,” Sturm on top of him, pummeling him. The two crashed into the wooden chest, breaking it into its component parts and smashing the crockery that was being stored inside. The two continued their scuffling on the floor, rolling and punching and flailing away at each other.
Raistlin remained sitting by the fire, watching calmly, a slight smile on his thin lips. Flint was disturbed by such coolness, so disturbed that he lost the moment when he might have stopped the fight. Raistlin did not appear worried, concerned, or shocked. Flint might have suspected him of having provoked this battle for his own amusement, except that he did not appear to be enjoying the show. His smile was not one of pleasure. It was faintly derisive, his look disdainful.
“Those eyes of his shivered my skin,” Flint was later to tell Tanis. “There is something cold-blooded about him, if you take my meaning.”
“I’m not sure I do. Are you saying that this young man deliberately provoked his brother and his friend into a fistfight?”
“Well, no, not exactly.” Flint considered. “His question to me was sincere. I’ve no doubt of that. But then, he must have known how the talk of gods and all that hoo-hah about magic would affect a Solamnic knight. And if there was ever a Solamnic knight walking around without his armor, that is young Sturm for you. Born with a sword up his back, as we used to say.
“But that Raistlin.” The dwarf shook his head. “I think he just liked knowing that he could make them fight, best friends and all.”
“Hey, now!” Flint shouted, suddenly realizing that he wasn’t going to have any furniture left if he didn’t put an end to the brawl. “What do you think you’re doing? You’ve broken my dishes! Stop that! Stop it, I say!”
The two paid no heed to the dwarf. Flint waded into the fray. A swift and expert kick to the outside of the kneecap sent Sturm rolling. He rocked in agony on top of the bits of broken crockery, clutching his knee and biting his lip to keep from crying out in pain.
Flint grabbed hold of a handful of Caramon’s long, curly hair and gave it a swift, sharp tug. Caramon yelped and tried unsuccessfully to prize loose the dwarf’s hold. Flint had a grip of iron.
“Look at you both!” the dwarf stated in disgust, giving Caramon’s head a shake and Sturm another kick. “Acting like a couple of drunken goblins. And who taught you to fight? Your great-aunt Minnie? Both of you taller than me by a foot at least, maybe two feet for the young giant, and here you are. Flat on your back with the foot of a dwarf on your chest. Get up. Both of you.”
Shamefaced and teary-eyed from the pain, the two young men slowly picked themselves up off the floor. Sturm stood balancing on one leg, not daring to trust his full weight to his injured knee. Caramon winced and massaged his stinging scalp, wondering if he had a bald spot.
“Sorry about the dishes,” Caramon mumbled.
“Yes, sir, I am truly sorry,” Sturm said earnestly. “I will make recompense for the damage, of course.”
“I’ll do better than that. I’ll pay for it,” Caramon offered.
Raistlin said nothing. He was already counting out money from their take at the fair.
“Darn right you’ll pay for it,” the dwarf said. “How old are you?”
“Twenty,” answered Sturm.
“Eighteen,” said Caramon. “Raist is eighteen, too.”
“Since he knows we are twins, I’m certain Master Fireforge has figured that out,” Raistlin said caustically.
Flint eyed Sturm. “And you plan to be a knight.” The dwarf’s shrewd gaze shifted to Caramon. “And you, big fellow. You figure on being a great warrior, I suppose? Sell your sword to some lord.”
“That’s right!” Caramon gaped. “How did you know?”
“I’ve seen you around town, carrying that great sword of yours—handling it all wrong, I might add. Well I’m here to tell both of you right now that the knights’ll take one look at you and the way you fight, Sturm Brightblade, and they’ll laugh themselves right out of their armor. And you, Caramon Majere, you couldn’t sell your fighting skills to my
old grannie.”
“I know I have a lot to learn, sir,” Sturm replied stiffly. “If I were living in Solamnia, I would be squire to a noble knight and learn my craft from him. But I am not. I am exiled here.” His tone was bitter.
“There’s no one in Solace to teach us,” Caramon complained. “This town is way too quiet. Nothing ever happens here. You’d think we’d at least have a goblin raid or something to liven things up.”
“Bite your tongue, lad. You don’t know when you’re well off. As for a teacher, you’re looking at him.” Flint tapped himself on the breast.
“You?” Both young men appeared dubious.
Flint stroked his beard complacently. “I had my foot on both of you, didn’t I? Besides”—reaching out, he gave Raistlin a poke in the ribs that caused him to jump—“I want to talk to the book reader here about his views on a good many matters. No need to talk of money,” the dwarf added, seeing the twins exchanging doubtful glances and guessing what they were thinking. “You can pay me in chores. And you can start by going to the inn and seeing what’s become of that dratted kender.”
As if the words had conjured him, the door was thrown open by the “dratted” kender.
“I’ve got the cider and a kidney pie that someone didn’t want, and—Ah, there! I knew it!”
Tasslehoff gazed sadly at the remains of the chest and the broken dishes. “You see what happens, Flint, when I’m not around?” he said, solemnly shaking his topknot.
3
THE UNLIKELY FRIENDSHIP BETWEEN THE YOUNG HUMANS, THE dwarf, and the kender flourished like weeds in the rainy season, according to Tasslehoff. Flint took exception to being called a “weed,” but he conceded that Tas was right. Flint had always had a soft spot in his gruff heart for young people, particularly those who were friendless and alone. He had first become acquainted with Tanis Half-Elven when he met that young man living in Qualinesti, an orphan that neither race would claim. Tanis was too human for the elves, too elven for humans.
Tanis had been raised in the household of the Speaker of the Sun and Stars, the leader of the Qualinesti, growing up with the Speaker’s own children. One of those children, Porthios, hated Tanis for what he was. Another cousin, Laurana, loved Tanis too much. In that is another tale, however.
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