“They are the children of brave Kronin,” said the Plainsman.
Caramon grunted.
“I owe Tasslehoff as much,” Riverwind added.
Caramon snorted, throwing up his hands.
“You know why I must do this,” Riverwind said.
“You’ll be lucky to survive the trip, let alone kill this Malystryx or defeat an entire army of ogres.”
“Maybe so. But I believe there’s a reason those two arrived the same day I did. A reason known only to the departed gods.”
A thrush landed on the railing, not far from where the two men stood. It peered at them curiously, then twittered and was gone in a flutter of wings.
“You’re batty,” Caramon murmured.
Riverwind winked. “Not yet, old friend,” he allowed. He raised his mug to his lips, draining it in one swallow.
“But dying in battle sure beats dying in bed.”
Caramon cooked breakfast, frying eggs and sausage and making a hash of last night’s uneaten potatoes. Drawn by the smell, Riverwind’s daughters came down from their rooms, as did the kender. Tika brewed a fresh pot of tarbean tea, then went into the storeroom to gather provisions for the travelers: cheese, hardtack, smoked venison and dried apples. She gave them fresh wineskins too, filled with what ale remained from Caramon’s special keg. When Riverwind reached for his purse to pay for the supplies, Caramon stubbornly waved him off.
No one spoke of dragons.
“I hear you’re betrothed, Moonsong,” Tika said.
The Chieftain’s Daughter blushed, lowering her eyes demurely. “Yes,” she said. “At the beginning of the summer, Stagheart of Que-Teh promised himself to me.”
“He didn’t have much choice,” Brightdawn added, grinning wickedly. “Not after Father caught the two of them together in the paddocks east of town.”
“Brightdawn!” Moonsong protested, her face growing darker still.
“Father gave Stagheart a choice,” the younger twin continued, undaunted. “Either he could accept his punishment, or he could agree to a Courting Quest.”
“What was the punishment?” asked Kronn around a mouthful of sausage.
“In our tribe, a warrior who disgraces himself must dress in women’s clothing for a year,” Riverwind explained. “It is a mark of shame.”
“Actually, Father could have banished him from the village, if he wanted,” Brightdawn added. “Lucky for Stagheart, he’s Chief Nightshade’s son.”
Caramon and Tika nodded, understanding. Nightshade was Chieftain of the Que-Teh, who were more powerful than any tribe on the Plains, save the Que-Shu. He and Riverwind had been friends since shortly after the war, and he had been an important ally in uniting the smaller tribes. A marriage between his son and Riverwind’s daughter would only strengthen the link between the two tribes.
“I take it he’s on his Courting Quest now,” Caramon said dryly.
Moonsong, who had been enduring the conversation in embarrassed silence, raised her chin proudly. “Father sent him into the hills. A griffon has been preying on our tribe’s horses in the south fields all summer. When Stagheart returns to Que-Shu with the griffon’s head, we will be married. Mother will conduct the ceremony.”
“And if he doesn’t,” Brightdawn added, “I’m sure Mother can spare him one of her gowns.”
Moonsong shoved her sister, nearly knocking her off the bench, then turned to their father. “Why don’t you ask her about Swiftraven?” she asked.
“There’s nothing to ask!” Brightdawn protested, seeing Riverwind’s brows lower. “I swear!”
“Who’s Swiftraven?” Catt asked.
“Nightshade’s younger son,” Riverwind said. “A mere boy.”
“He’s eighteen, Father,” Brightdawn grumbled.
“Six years younger than you. You should find someone your age.”
“I’m six years younger than Caramon, Riverwind,” Tika interrupted.
Riverwind looked at her, then at Brightdawn. Both women looked back at him defiantly.
“Take my advice, Riverwind,” Caramon said, grinning. “Run while you still can.”
The room rang with laughter, but soon lapsed into an awkward silence. Riverwind cleared his throat. “We should be going,” he said. He pushed his chair back from the dining table and rose, his leather armor creaking. “It is a long ride across the Plains. We must leave if we are to reach my village before dark.”
They walked to the door. Kronn and Catt went ahead to fetch their ponies and the Plainsfolk’s horses. Moonsong and Brightdawn each embraced both Caramon and Tika, then left as well.
Riverwind stood for a moment, framed by the doorway as he faced his friends. Tika hugged him tightly, burying her face against his fur vest. “Riverwind,” she sobbed. “You shouldn’t be going to Kendermore. Not now, especially…
Gently, he pushed her away from him, then put a finger to her lips. He reached out and stroked her silver-red hair.
She shook her head stubbornly, sniffling. He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“I will miss you, Tika,” the Plaimsman said.
She turned and left, heading into the depths of the inn so she could be alone. Caramon watched her go, then turned back to face Riverwind. The two men regarded each other, neither wanting to speak first.
“Father!” Brightdawn’s voice drifted up from the street below. “Come on!”
Caramon bowed his head. “You’ve been a good friend,” he said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to control it.
“And you have been more than a friend,” Riverwind replied.
The two men embraced, neither needing to put further words to what he felt. Riverwind drew Caramon closer.
“Goldmoon will come to you, if anything happens to me,” Riverwind murmured. He reached into his fur vest and produced a small, silver scroll tube. “When she does, I want you to give her this.”
“Of course,” Caramon answered, his voice choked with emotion. He took the tube from his friend and slid it into his pocket.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Riverwind said, and walked out the door.
Caramon stood alone in the tavern, his head bowed, listening to the sound of the Plainsman’s boots upon the stairs.
Chapter 5
Smoke choked the streets of the town of Myrtledew, rising to blot the sun from the clear, blue sky. Burning ashes floated on the wind, which fanned the flames that crackled all across the village. The air reeked of burning-the rich smell of wood, the wet odor of straw, the sickly sweet stench of hair and flesh. The fire had already consumed the town’s entire southern half and had started to work its way north.
Kurthak the Black-Gazer stood amid the carnage, his scabrous lips curled into a scowl. The ogre warlord scratched his coarse, green-black beard and glowered at the flames, shifting the weight of his great spiked club on his shoulder. His eyes-the left one nothing but an empty socket-narrowed with disgust as he regarded the remnants of the kender village.
“Sloppy,” he growled.
Tragor, his second-in-command, grunted and spat in the soot. He weighed his massive, two-handed sword, watching the blood run down the groove in the middle of its blade. “We did good enough.”
“No,” Kurthak snapped. He glowered at Tragor, gesturing at the warrior’s bloody blade. “We killed too many.”
“Live kender, dead kender,” Tragor rumbled. “What’s the difference?”
Kurthak shook his great, shaggy head, his ox-homed helmet glinting in the ruddy firelight. “I have explained this to you, Tragor,” he snarled. “A dead kender is no good to us.”
“At least they shut up when they’re dead.”
A snort that might have been laughter erupted from Kurthak’s lips. “Still,” Kurthak grunted, “I gave specific orders. Take them alive. Any clan-chief who didn’t heed me will bleed this night.”
The attack had begun at midday. When Kurthak’s war band-a thousand warriors, only a fraction of the total horde-had descended upon My
rtledew from the shattered wastelands to the east, the surprised kender had been unable to raise any defenses in time. There had been no keeping the ogres from running rampant through town. A few of the kender had fought, but most sought to escape-not out of fear, of course, but because they knew they had no hope of winning and preferred to fight another day.
Escape, however, had not been so easy. The ogres had surrounded the town, cutting it off and slaughtering those who tried to flee west, into the depths of the Kenderwood. Their bloodlust awakened by the fighting, Kurthak’s warriors had rampaged through the village, hacking and smashing anything smaller than they were. By the time the fighting was done, nearly half of Myrtledew’s population of several hundred kender were dead. Of the survivors, many were indeed useless to Kurthak-children, the old, the sick. The ogres had put most of them to the sword.
The rest, however, were being rounded up, even now, amid the blazing wreckage. Kurthak watched as a squad of heavily armed ogres locked a cluster of thirty kender in irons and marched them, at spearpoint, toward the edge of the village. The fierce-spirited kender shuffled along, the chains that shackled their ankles rattling as they made their way toward the slave wagons that waited on the east side of town. They looked truly miserable, which only increased Kurthak’s satisfaction as he watched them pass.
“My lord!” the leader of the warriors called. He turned away from his men and hurried toward Kurthak and Tragor. He was a wart-covered brute with a jagged brown snaggletooth jutting from his mouth. The ritual scars on his cheeks and the horsetail plume on his helmet identified him as a low-ranking officer in Kurthak’s band.
“Argaad,” the Black-Gazer responded. “What news?”
“We captured these wretches at the riverside,” Argaad reported, his chest puffing with pride as he gestured behind him. “They tried to escape on a barge, but we stopped them.”
“Good work,” Kurthak said. He slapped the warrior on the shoulder. “You have done your clan proud.”
“Thank you, my lord.” Argaad bobbed his head, beaming with pride. “I give them to you as a gift. It is an honor to serve you. If you should need a bodyguard, or someone to lead the next attack-”
Tragor cleared his throat. “Argaad,” he said in a low voice, “your gift is getting away.”
Argaad whirled. Somehow, in the middle of his speech, the kender had slipped out of their bonds. Now one of his men lay on the ground, bleeding from a knife wound in his gut, and the rest were watching, stunned, as their captives dispersed.
“Don’t stand there, you louts!” Argaad roared. “After them!” He gave Kurthak a quick glance that was half-apologetic, half-horrified, then turned to lope after his men, driving them after the kender.
Tragor started to laugh, but Kurthak cut him off with a baleful glare. “This is no joke,” the warlord snapped. “Each of those kender is valuable to me.” He motioned toward the fleeing prisoners and the ogres who gave chase. “Come. We will help Argaad catch them again.”
“Good,” Tragor declared, hefting his great sword. “I’ve been hoping for some sport.”
They both ran, charging after Argaad and his men. The kender were quick, but the ogres took long strides, and easily kept pace. As they ran, the towering brutes readied large nets to catch their fleeing prey. The kender weaved among burning buildings, splitting up and regrouping as they charged through the streets, but the ogres-Kurthak and Tragor running now in the lead-kept after them, snarling and howling.
At last they reached the edge of the blasted village. A thicket of tall, tangled bushes rose ahead of them, carrying on for five hundred yards before giving way to the dark Kenderwood. The kender sprinted for the thicket, but Kurthak only grinned, waving his arm toward the forest. “Get ahead of them!” he called. “Trap them in those brambles!”
Obediently the ogres fanned out, charging around the bushes toward the woods. Kurthak and Tragor kept on the kender’s heels. The first ones disappeared into the bushes with a rustle, and the others followed without hesitation-all except the last one, a golden-haired youngster who glanced over her shoulder directly at the warlord and his champion and smiled. Then she, too, was gone.
“Pen them in!” Kurthak bellowed, pulling up at the edge of the brambles. He pointed at the branches, which rustled with the kender’s passage. “Watch the bushes! You can see where they are!”
The ogres soon encircled the rustling scrub, then began to close in, thrusting their spears and swords into the thornbushes. The ring tightened like a noose about the fleeing kender.
“Good idea, my lord,” Argaad declared. “We have them trapped-they have nowhere to go. They won’t get away.”
Kurthak nodded impatiently. “Let us hope so.”
The rustling in the underbrush continued to move slowly toward the tree line. Kurthak, Tragor and Argaad watched impatiently as the ogres closed in, flattening the brambles and cutting swaths toward their quarry.
Then, all at once, the rustling stopped.
The ogres stopped too, their brows furrowing with confusion. Involuntarily, Argaad sucked in a sharp breath through his jutting, rotten teeth. Tragor glanced at Kurthak, his eyes questioning, but the warlord was lost in thought, plucking at his beard as he tried to understand what was going on.
“My lord,” Argaad asked, his face the color of bleached bone, “what should we do?”
Kurthak pondered a moment, then pointed at the spot where the rustling had ended. “Keep going,” he bade. “They must still be there.”
The ogres moved on, weapons and nets ready. Argaad held his breath as the circle of his warriors narrowed to a mere two dozen yards, then one dozen. The bushes remained motionless.
The ogres stopped when they were close enough for their spearpoints to reach the middle of the ring. They jabbed their weapons into the bushes, probing the spot where the rustling had stopped so suddenly. Nothing happened.
“What’s wrong?” Argaad called anxiously. “They should be right there!”
The ogres prodded the scrub with spears, hacked with swords and axes, and beat the bushes with cudgels. They trampled the brambles flat in some places, pulled their knotted roots from the ground in others. The kender, however, were gone.
“What witchcraft’s at work here?” Tragor grumbled, baffled.
“Torches!” ordered the Black-Gazer, his face creased with rage. “Burn them out!”
A pair of ogres pushed past the rest, wading out of the bushes, then ran toward the fiery ruins of Myrtledew. The other brutes edged outward again, toward the edges of the thicket, always watching for some sign of the vanished kender. Before long the runners returned, each bearing a pair of burning firebrands. They looked to Kurthak, ignoring Argaad altogether. Glowering furiously, the warlord waved them on toward the bushes.
The shrubs’ dry leaves and branches caught fire quickly, and the flames spread. The ogres waited all around the bushes, waiting and watching for the kender to flee the blaze. Within minutes the whole thicket was aflame, curling and blackening as the fire raged higher. And still there was no sign of the kender. The ogres watched the conflagration, gaping in confusion.
“You lost them!” Kurthak snapped at Argaad, who flinched beneath the lash of his words.
“I don’t understand,” the snaggletoothed warrior protested. “They couldn’t have escaped the fire. How could they enter the bushes without leaving? You saw them go in there, my lord!”
Slowly, Tragor moved to stand behind Argaad.
Kurthak nodded slowly, pondering. “Yes, I did,” he agreed.
“My lord,” Argaad began. “I didn’t-”
With a suddenness that startled even Kurthak, Tragor lifted his heavy, two-handed sword high above his head, then slammed it down on the cowering warrior from behind. The blade hacked through Argaad’s helmet, splitting his skull in half. The snaggletoothed warrior stood rigid for a moment; then Tragor jerked his sword free, and Argaad crumpled in a bloody heap.
Kurthak looked down at the corpse, the
n shrugged. “Come,” he bade, and motioned for Tragor to follow. “There is nothing left for us here.”
They left the thicket to burn and Argaad’s body to draw crows.
Argaad was not the only warrior to lose his prisoners inexplicably. When the ogres regrouped outside the smoldering ruins of Myrtledew, no fewer than six officers came to Kurthak and reported, with trembling voices, that their captives had broken free, opening their shackles with concealed lockpicks, and fled. Some had made their way to the underbrush or the forest itself; others had ducked into the village’s larger buildings. In every case, just when the ogres were sure they had them trapped, the kender had vanished mysteriously. Every one of the penitent officers avowed that the disappearances were the result of some unknown magic. Kurthak, who had never heard of a kender sorcerer, scoffed at the notion.
“Fools,” he told Tragor as they struck out eastward from Myrtledew, toward their barren, rocky homeland. “The stupid lackwits let them escape.”
Tragor grunted noncommittally, his sheathed sword swinging on his back as he trudged through the woods beside Kurthak. “What will you do?” he asked.
Kurthak pondered, glancing back at the columns of ogres who followed him. Of the thousand warriors he had brought with him on this raid, he had lost perhaps a hundred, with a like number wounded. Except for Argaad, the officers who had failed him marched with the survivors. They took great care not to meet his coal-black stare as he glared at them.
“I am not sure yet,” he said, his brow beetling.
“They should die,” Tragor declared flatly. He smacked a leathery fist against his palm. “Lord Ruog would not look well on you if you let them live.”
Kurthak shrugged as if this meant nothing to him. Ruog, hetman of the greatest ogre horde ever to emerge from the wildlands of the Goodlund peninsula, was a lord who valued swift action on the part of his followers. Kurthak would have to report to him immediately, and Ruog would not be pleased to hear that the Black-Gazer’s war band had captured fewer than a hundred slaves. He would demand blood for the lost kender.
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