Spirit of the Wind bot-1

by Chris Pierson

  “Hey, Giffel!” called Kronn, waving to the guards’ leader.

  The guard, a tall kender with a head of short-cropped, bright yellow hair, squinted down, then smiled broadly.

  Kronn ran forward, his arms flung wide, and he and the guard caught each other in a rough embrace that quickly turned into a wrestling match. Before long, Kronn found himself sprawled in the dust, Giffel’s body parked on top of him. “Ow,” he grunted. “Get off, you ox. Is this any way to treat an old friend?”

  “It is if he just took your purse,” Giffel said, pushing himself to his feet. He held out his hand. “Give it over, Kronn.”

  Sheepishly, Kronn handed the guard his money pouch, which he’d purloined when they’d hugged. “Can I have mine back, too?” he asked.

  Giffel chuckled. He had, in turn, lifted Kronn’s purse while they wrestled. He tossed it back.

  “Giffel,” Kronn said, rising fluidly from the ground. “You remember Catt, don’t you?”

  “Your sister,” Giffel replied, grinning. “Of course. It, uh, looks like you found the goatsucker hunters.”

  Beneath the dripping bits of egg, Catt glared a fierce shade of red. Kronn chuckled.

  “You here for the festival doings?” Giffel asked.

  Kronn shook his head, his cheek braids flapping. “Not as such. We’re looking for our father. Is he around?” He waved toward the town’s open gates.

  Giffel folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not supposed to say,” he answered. “Kronin gave specific instructions not to let anyone know he was in Woodsedge.”

  “How specific?” asked Catt.

  “Well, he certainly isn’t at the hoopak-slinging contest.” Laughing, Kronn clapped Giffel on the arm. “Good fellow,” he said. “I’m glad to see my father picked the right man to be candid with.”

  “Go on in,” Giffel bade.

  “Thanks, Giff,” Kronn said. He and Catt started to through the gates, but he stopped and glanced back. “Will you be at the feast tonight?”

  “Of course,” Giffel replied, and slapped his belly. “Do you think I’d miss a free meal?”

  “I suppose not,” Kronn said. “I’ll make sure Catt saves a dance for you.”

  Catt punched her brother in the arm. But as Kronn walked on, both Giffel and Catt turned quite interesting colors.

  The kender, as a people, have surprisingly few heroes. It isn’t that they are a cowardly race, of course. On the contrary, fear is alien to them. If he has good reason, a kender will practically march into Dargaard Keep, walk up to Lord Soth, and poke him in the eye without balking. It is, ironically, for this reason that they don’t revere many of their own. What might seem a feat of reckless bravery to a human, a kender regards as no big deal. “I could have done that, if I wanted,” is a favorite kender saying.

  That doesn’t mean the kender have no legendary figures at all. Over their history, a handful have proven sufficiently interesting to earn their fellows’ esteem. The most famous of these is Uncle Trapspringer, whom every kender claims as a relative and close personal friend. There are enough wild stories about his adventures-and, frequently, gruesome deaths-to fill an entire wing of the great Library in Palanthas. The kender would swear up and down that each and every one is the complete and untainted truth.

  There are certain legends of ancient kender heroes. Balif, the warrior who had fought beside the elven king Silvanos, was purported by some to have been himself born an elf. Rithel Stubbletoe, who’d defended the kender nation of Hylo, in the west of Ansalon, from an invasion by the expanding Empire of Ergoth, once broke into the Imperial Court in Daltigoth and made off with the Emperor’s crown jewels. A young kender named Noblosha Lampwick was believed to have taken and passed the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, though none of the wizards’ records listed her name.

  After the Cataclysm, the kender had gone for more than three centuries without any new heroes. Recently, though, two of them had won that honor through their valorous deeds. One was Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He had broken dragon orbs, gone back in time and into the Abyss, and chatted with a number of gods-then, sealed his reputation by sacrificing his life to draw blood from the mad god, Chaos. Now, scarcely two years after his death, young kender often claimed their most prized possessions had been given to them by “Uncle Tas.”

  The other, relatively new kender hero was Kronin Thistleknot. Kronin was something of a special case, as his deeds fell somewhat short of his people’s usual high standards. Sure, he had ruled Kendermore for an unprecedented twenty-five years before stepping down to let his daughter Paxina take over. And yes, he had killed the loathsome Dragon Highlord, Fewmaster Toede. There were already numerous versions of that victory. Only Kronin himself knew which was true, and he wasn’t telling. But neither of these feats was what made him stand out above his kind. No, what drew the kender’s attention to Kronin was that his deeds made him a hero among the other races of Ansalon. Elves, humans, and even dwarves revered him for his role in the Dragonarmies’ downfall. It was only after nearly everyone else had honored him that the kender, deciding they must have missed something important, made him a hero by acclamation.

  Thus it was that Woodsedge’s town square was crammed with onlookers as a rare flesh-and-blood hero stepped up to the firing line of the slinging contest. Kronin was, by this time, eighty-six years old, his face a maze of wrinkles and his silvery hair almost gone. He hobbled as he walked, leaning heavily on his old, worn hoopak, and his favorite purple shoes were faded with age, but his eyes were clear, and his hand didn’t shake as he delved into his belt pouch. Silence, punctuated by murmurs of awe, fell over the crowd as he rooted through the bag and started pulling out rocks.

  He examined each in turn, eyeing it closely, then tossed it on the ground. Finally, on the fourth try, he produced a round, smooth stone. The furrows of his brow deepened as he regarded it. Then he nodded and tucked it into the leather pocket on the forked end of his hoopak. He brought the weapon back, carefully poised.

  “Ready,” he said loudly.

  The far end of the courtyard, beyond the spectators, was flanked by several small catapults. The machines were spread out at various distances, and each was cocked and loaded with a large clay disc. Now, at Kronin’s command, the kender manning the closest one-only about thirty yards away-released the catch. The catapult’s arm sprang forward, flinging the clay disc through the air.

  Kronin concentrated, marking its flight, then brought his hoopak sharply forward, sending his slingstone flashing across the courtyard. It struck the middle of the disc, shattering it with a crash. Shards of clay rattled down on the cobblestones.

  “Ooooh!” said the assembled kender. “Aaah!”

  Kronin nodded in satisfaction, then rifled through his pouch until he found a second suitable stone. He loaded his hoopak again. “Ready,” he declared a second time.

  A second catapult, this one sixty yards away, let fly. He slung again, and broke the second disc. He did the same to the third, then the fourth.

  Kronn and Catt elbowed through the crowd, making their way to the front. “How’s he doing?” Kronn asked one of the officials, a bespectacled kender in a fancy, turquoise jerkin.

  The official peered at him closely. “Four for four,” he replied. Another crash, this one well over a hundred yards away, rang across the courtyard, and the official turned to see the pieces of yet another disc rain down on the ground. “Make that five for five.”

  Catt, who had washed and put on a clean yellow dress, raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, for an old codger,” she mused.

  “Kender never lose their aim!” Kronn said proudly. “Who’s in the lead?”

  Frowning, the official looked down at the slate he was using to keep score. “That’d be Yarren Ringglimmer,” he said, nodding toward a red-haired kender at the edge of the firing line. “He hit six out of seven, but this last one’s tricky. No one’s gotten it yet.”

  “Really?” Kronn remarked. “Why’s that?”
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  “Would someone please tell my son to kindly keep his voice down?” snapped Kronin as he prepared his hoopak for a sixth shot. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

  “Sorry, Father,” Kronn called.

  Kronin made a sour face, then peered straight down the courtyard. Two catapults, almost directly across from each other, remained unfired. Their operators stood ready, their hands on the release catches.

  The crowd was completely silent. Kronin licked his lips. “Ready,” he said.

  Both catapults sprang at once, their discs arcing toward each other. Kronin watched them calmly, his eyes narrowing, then brought his hoopak sharply forward.

  The slingstone tore through the air. The first disc was at the apex of its flight and the second had just begun to fall when the stone smashed through them both.

  The crowd broke into laughing and cheering and clapping their hands. Kronin straightened his violet silk tunic and hobbled away from the firing line. Kronn and Catt hurried forward to meet him.

  “Nice shooting, Papa,” Catt said.

  Kronin wrinkled his nose. “Child’s play,” he grumbled. “Hello, Catt… Kronn.” He kissed her on the cheek, then clasped arms with his son. “Who told you I was here? That old fool Metwinger, I suppose.”

  “You suppose right,” Catt said.

  “Hmph.” Kronin scowled, then glanced around. The crowd was starting to break up now. His eyes fixed on a nearby cluster of market stalls. “All right, then. There’s a fellow over there selling cider. Fetch me a flask and some roasted acorns. Then you can tell me why you’re here.”

  “Ah,” Kronin sighed, his knees creaking as he eased himself down on the ground. He leaned back against a blossoming cherry tree, then kicked off his purple shoes and wriggled his toes as he took a long pull from his flask of cider. Kronn and Catt had traded a pocketknife and a copper saltcellar for the drink. “So, what trouble’s your big sister in now?”

  Catt blinked. “How did you guess Paxina sent us?”

  “Please, girl,” Kronin grumbled, rapping his temple with a gnarled finger. “Credit me with some brains. The problem with this hero business is that people always want something from me. I’m supposed to be retired, though you’d never know it. Trapspringer ‘s ears, what is it this time?”

  “Well,” Kronn began, clasping his hands together, “Pax thinks we’re going to be attacked soon.”

  “Again?” Kronin rolled his eyes. “Why bother me about it? Paxina didn’t need my help keeping the Knights of Takhisis from killing us all, a couple years back.”

  “That was easy,” Catt countered. “Relatively speaking, of course. All Pax had to do was get us to convince the knights we could be more useful to them alive than dead. It’s different, this time; we’re dealing with ogres.”

  Kronin’s eyes flared. He plucked an acorn from the small bag his children had gotten for him, and popped it in his mouth. After a moment he spat out the cap and started chewing on the bitter nutmeat. “Well, that is different. How many?”

  “Thousands,” Kronn answered. “So far all we know is that ogres have been overrunning the villages of the Dairly Plains. All sorts of human refugees have been coming through the Kenderwood. It looks as though the ogres have all banded together, and are moving steadily toward Kendermore. Pax thinks we’re in real danger.”

  Kronn gave a low whistle. “I can’t argue that. What does she want from me?”

  “Help, Father,” Catt pleaded. “We need help.”

  “I should say so,” Kronin agreed. “You’re going to need every bit of help you can get.” He munched on an acorn.

  Kronn knelt beside his father. “Well?”

  “I’m thinking.” Kronin frowned, chewing noisily. “I suppose Paxina wants me to come to Kendermore with you.”

  “She most certainly does,” Kronn snapped.

  “Well, then.” Kronin stood with a sigh, raising his flask to his lips and drinking down the last of his cider. “I learned long ago that a hero ain’t allowed to resign. Nor a father, I might add. We’ll leave tomorrow. But for tonight, let’s enjoy the feast, eh?”

  By late afternoon, the catapults and debris had been cleared out of the courtyard and the large tables wheeled in, laden with more food than the entire village could hope to eat. Laughter and sumptuous smells filled the air as the kender gorged themselves on oven-hot herb breads, roasted rabbit and spring lamb, dandelion greens and pungent cheeses. Wine and ale, mead and cider, fresh milk and strawberry juice flowed freely. The feast finished with an array of puddings and cakes that satisfied the sweetest teeth in town. As the sun hung, swollen and red, over the trees to the west, many of the villagers stumbled off to sleep or passed out where they stood.

  “If I eat anything else,” Kronin declared, “I worry that the buttons might fly off my shirt and put out someone’s eye.” He patted his bulging stomach contentedly.

  “I can never figure out where you find room for it all, Giffel,” Kronn told the tall guardsman, who had joined them for the meal.

  Giffel, who had exchanged his fighting leathers for a long red shirt and maroon trousers, was chewing contentedly on a lamb haunch. “The key is to pace yourself,” he mumbled around a mouthful of meat.

  “And have a belly the size of a kurpa melon,” Catt added, laughing. Giffel blushed in embarrassment.

  “Looks like the band’s setting up for the dance,” Kronn noted. He pointed at a raised platform across the courtyard. A group of musicians were milling about, holding an unlikely array of instruments: triple-necked lutes, bagpipes, xylophones, a great brass horn that was bigger than the kender who played it, and a contraption that appeared to be part dulcimer, part musical saw. They started to tune up, but there seemed to be some disagreement as to which key they should play in.

  “Let’s go someplace and talk,” Kronn suggested. “Giffel, take care of Catt. You promised her the first dance earlier.”

  “Sure, Kronn,” the guard said. He offered his arm to Catt.

  She took it. “Just don’t spin me around too fast,” she said. “All that mead’s made me a bit dizzy.”

  Kronin and Kronn watched the two of them walk off toward the musicians. “Remember when you were young, how he used to put salamanders in her boots?” Kronin observed wistfully.

  “Of course I do.” Kronn grinned wryly. “It was my idea.”

  Kronin returned his smile. “Come on, lad,” he bade. “You’re right. We need to talk.”

  It being a festival day, the palisade was largely abandoned. A few guards remained on duty overlooking the town gates, but for the most part Woodsedge’s walls remained still and silent. Kronin hobbled up the ladder to the catwalk, then sat down and leaned heavily against the battlements. Kronn came up after, and glanced up and down the palisade. There was no one close enough to hear. He turned to follow his father’s gaze, north across the Blood Sea. There was a light chop on the water, whipped up by a wind that seemed surprisingly warm for so early in the year. The sky dimmed from sunset-red to twilight-purple, and stars began to glimmer beyond the clouds.

  “Father, I’m sorry to be the one dragging you off to Kendermore.” Kronn murmured. He reached in his pouch and pulled out a pebble that had caught his fancy when he’d spotted it in a streambed a few days ago. It had been splendid then, shining with bright colors, but now that it was dry it was just another gray, uninteresting rock. Kronn threw it, watching it sail over the cliff, into the surf. “I hate to interrupt your retirement.”

  “Bah,” Kronin said. “Retirement’s boring, and I’m looking forward to a good fight.” He reached over and patted his son’s foot. “Actually, I’m glad you and your sister were the ones who came for me.”

  “Catt was the one who offered to look for you, truth be told,” Kronn said. “Pax sent me along for protection.”

  Kronin scoffed. “You’re the one needs protecting!” He looked across the village, toward the town square. “Thousands of ogres,” he remarked. “That should be interesting. Still, we’
ve faced worse.”

  Kronn grunted noncommittally. In his father’s lifetime, the kender had stood against the dragonarmies, the Knights of Takhisis, and the legions of Chaos. Still, something about this situation made him uneasy.

  The sound of laughter and clapping hands rose from the town below, echoing weirdly off the walls of the town’s randomly scattered houses.

  “How’s Paxina doing?” Kronin asked.

  “Not badly,” Kronn answered. “You must have rubbed off on her-she’s a pretty good Lord Mayor. Better than I’d ever be, anyway, even if I did want-” He stopped suddenly, a deep frown darkening his face.

  “Kronn?” Kronin asked. “What’s wrong?”

  It was a moment before the younger kender answered. His eyes focused on something far off, a flash of movement against the darkening sky. “Uh,” he said, “have you noticed, there’s an absolutely enormous dragon out there?”

  “Really?” Kronin asked, glancing up at his son with genuine interest. “What color?”

  Kronn squinted. “Red.”

  “Oh,” Kronin said, nodding sagely. “That’s just Malystryx-or Malys, as folks around here call her. Don’t worry about her. She turned up about a year ago-has a lair at Blood Watch, apparently. Caused an awful row among the humans, but she leaves us alone. Usually she just circles, but every now and then she puts on a show out over the water, too. A few weeks ago she picked a whole sailing ship up out of the sea.”

  “She did?” Kronn asked, looking at his father sharply.

  “Yup. It wasn’t a small boat, either. Just plucked it from the sea, flew over and past us, and dropped the thing somewhere in the forest. Saw it with my own eyes.”

  “But you say she’s harmless?”

  “Oh no, she’s harmful,” Kronin said. “But like I said, she doesn’t seem terribly interested in us.”