Spirit of the Wind bot-1

by Chris Pierson

  “Then why’s she heading straight this way?” Kronn asked.

  “Eh?” With some difficult Kronin pushed himself to his feet. He looked north through the gathering gloom. The great, red dragon was indeed coming toward them, moving with dizzying speed. “Well, that’s unusual. I wonder what she’s up to.’

  “I don’t like dragons,” said Kronn.

  “Me neither,” said Kronin. He shrugged. “But what can you do? Don’t worry. Maybe she’s chasing something in the water-sharks, sea elves, that sort of thing. If she really meant to attack us, she’d come from above, not straight on like th-”

  Before he could finish speaking, Malystryx pulled up sharply, climbing high into the sky. The two kender watched her rise, until at last she disappeared into a cloudbank.

  “Hmm,” said Kronin.

  A deafening screech descended from the clouds, a furious sound that made Kronn clap his hands over his pointed ears. In the town below, the music and laughter came to a sudden stop.

  Kronn looked at his father, who was still staring up.

  “Definitely unusual.” Kronin’s face darkened as he stared. “Go!” he said all of a sudden, through clenched teeth.

  “What?” Kronn asked.

  “Go! Find your sister, and that fellow of hers,” Kronin ordered. “Get the villagers into the woods.”

  “But,” Kronn sputtered.

  Kronin shook his head stubbornly, raising his hoopak. “I’ll only slow you down. Don’t wait for me.”

  “Father-”

  “Quickly, boy!” Kronin snapped. “Move!”

  Kronn ran, leaping onto the ladder and sliding down to the ground. He bolted toward the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder. Kronin still stood atop the palisade, gripping his hoopak tightly. Then Kronn rounded a corner, and the village’s thatched rooftops blocked his father from view. He sprinted even faster, bursting at last into the center of town.

  The courtyard was filled with kender who stood in clusters, watching the dragon’s long, sinuous form slip from cloud to cloud. They felt no fear, of course; just rapt fascination. A second shriek rang down upon them, loud enough to rattle windows.

  “Catt!” Kronn shouted, pushing through the astonished crowd.

  “Kronn!” answered a voice. Catt shoved several kender aside as she hurried to her brother’s side. Giffel jogged along behind her. “Where’s Papa? What’s going on?”

  “We’ve got to get these people out of here,” Kronn said tersely. “Giffel, can you round up the other off-duty guards?”

  “Sure, Kronn.”

  “Then do it,” Kronn ordered. “Get to the town gates, and wait for us there.”

  “Right.” Giffel dashed off.

  Kronn grabbed Catt’s arm. “Try to get everyone’s attention.”

  “Oh,” she murmured, looking up worriedly. “All right.” She took a deep breath, then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Excuse me!” she bellowed in an exceptionally loud voice. All around her, kender jumped, startled by the sound. “Hey! Everyone, listen up!”

  Hundreds of eyes turned toward them. Kronn pursed his lips, impressed, then went over to a nearby tree stump and hopped up on it. “Folks,” he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear him, “I’m afraid I have to break up the party. Can everyone please start heading for the gates?”

  They listened up well and moved in surprisingly orderly fashion. Kronn and Catt jogged along at the rear of the throng, as Giffel and his fellow guards ushered the villagers through the gates and down the path toward the Kenderwood. Once they were free of the town, the kender broke into a run, glancing up and behind as they sought some sign of the dragon. They moved with eerie silence, their puffing breaths and the whisper of their feet through the grass the only sounds of their passage.

  Kronin watched them go from atop the palisade. Grunting with satisfaction, he reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a slingstone, and loaded it into his hoopak.

  A third screech descended upon Woodsedge. Kronin glanced up and saw the dragon drop through the clouds. Her wings were folded back against her, her fang-lined mouth gaping wide as she came down like a falling star. The sound of her descent was the howl of a hurricane.

  “Wow,” Kronin said, duly impressed.

  He brought his hoopak back, watching, waiting, then slung it forward in a quick, practised motion. The slingstone shot far upward, straight toward Malys, and struck her square between the eyes. It bounced off her scaly hide and fell out of sight without even slowing her flight. She drew a great breath into her cavernous breast.

  “Oh, drat,” Kronin muttered.

  The fleeing kender were almost to the sheltering forest when the roar of flames caught their attention. They turned in their tracks, to see a column of fire streak down from the dragon’s gaping jaws and strike Woodsedge like a burning fist. Looking to the palisade, Kronn and Catt saw a figure silhouetted against the bright orange glow, clutching a hoopak in his hands.

  “What does he think he’s doing?” cried Catt.

  “Hero stuff,” murmured Kronn.

  As they watched in horror, the figure flared and vanished amid the flames.

  “No!” Catt cried. She started back toward the village. Kronn caught her arm.

  “Catt!” he shouted. “We’re not done here! We’ve got to get these people to safety!”

  She looked at him blankly for a moment, then blinked. The thunder of the firestorm was growing steadily louder, and a hot wind blew outward from Woodsedge, carrying ashes and embers. “You’re right,” she said. “Into the woods, everyone! Quickly, while she isn’t looking!”

  It took some doing-Catt wasn’t the only kender who tried to turn back toward the town-but with the help of Giffel and the other guardsmen they managed to herd the villagers into the forest. Behind them, Malystryx continued to blast Woodsedge with her fiery breath. Houses and shops blew apart. The protective palisade became a curtain of flame. Kronn and Catt crouched at the edge of the Kenderwood, watching the whole town become a raging inferno.

  At last, Malys’s jaws snapped shut, her breath expended. She wheeled above the town for an hour after that, fanning the flames with her wings. Then she turned, her golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and stared straight at the Kenderwood. It seemed to Kronn and Catt that her gaze bored right through them.

  She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Run now, little kender!” she taunted. “Much good it will do you! When I am done, there will be nowhere left for you to flee!”

  With that, she wheeled majestically and flapped away over the Blood Sea. It was some time before any of the hiding kender emerged from the forest.

  For the whole day after the attack, and the night after that, Woodsedge continued to burn. The kender who had escaped the blaze could do little but watch as their homes and all their possessions, went up in flames.

  Houses and trinkets were not all that were lost, though. While Kronn and Catt’s swift action had gotten many of the villagers to safety, some had not been saved. Those who had passed out from food and drink, the few guards left on duty atop the palisade, and anyone who was otherwise too slow to nm-the sick, the crippled, young children, old people-had perished in the conflagration. Of the thousand or so kender who had dwelt in Woodsedge, more than two hundred did not survive.

  Including the great kender hero, Kronin Thistleknot.

  At last, on the second morning after the attack, the flames died down enough for the kender to start sifting through the rubble. They waded ankle-deep in ashes, trying to find something-anything-to salvage.

  Late that afternoon, Catt-her yellow dress and pale face smudged with soot-found her brother on his knees at what had been the north edge of town. Stubs of charcoal, which once had been the palisade, smoldered before him. He rocked slowly back and forth, cradling something in his arms.

  “Kronn?” Catt whispered.

  He shook his head, moaning angrily. She hesitated, then stepped forward, leaning in to see what he clutched to his breast
.

  It was almost unrecognizable, scorched and blackened by dragonfire. Part of it, however, had been untouched by the flames, and her eyes clouded when she realized what Kronn held.

  It was a shoe, purple and faded with age.

  Chapter 2

  The door of the Inn of the Last Home cracked open, then flew wide as the wind caught it. The tavern’s patrons glared, huddling over their drinks. Their expressions softened, though, when they saw the massive form that squeezed through the doorway. Caramon Majere stomped in, carrying a load of firewood that would have stooped a man half his age. Sweating and panting, he lugged the wood to the hearth and dropped it with a clatter into the firebox. Moving stiffly, he lifted the poker and stirred the fire. A storm of glowing cinders rose up the chimney. Satisfied, he shuffled away from the hearth and slumped into an armchair with an old man’s aching grunt.

  Caramon had a right to that grunt. On the downward slope of sixty he’d already seen more years than the Inn’s previous owner, Otik Sandath, had when he’d retired. He folded his hands over his girth-he’d fought its spread all his life, but was finally losing-and leaned back, letting his eyelids droop closed.

  The next thing he knew, old Rhea, the Inn’s cook, was shaking him. Snorting, he wiped his eyes and peered blearily up at her. “What’s the trouble?” he asked.

  Rhea, who was more than seventy years old, was a severe-looking woman at the best of times. The look she gave him now made it seem as if she’d just taken a large bite of a lemon. “Well,” she said pointedly, “for one thing, the windows were about to break, you were snoring so loud.”

  Chuckles filled the tavern. Caramon glowered at her. “I don’t snore,” he grumbled.

  “Of course you don’t,” Rhea snapped sarcastically. More chuckles. “I also brought your supper. Think you can stay awake long enough to eat?”

  “Keep talking like that,” Caramon warned. “You’ll see how awake I am.”

  With a mocking laugh, Rhea signaled to one of the serving girls, who brought out a sizzling platter and placed it on the table before him. Rhea set a tankard of tea beside the plate, then bustled away.

  Not long ago, it had been rare for Caramon to take his supper at a civilized hour. The Inn had been too busy, with travelers on their way south to Haven and Qualinesti, or north to Crossing and the New Sea. “Blackguards and barmen dine ‘neath the moons,” the old saying went.

  The moons were gone now, though, replaced by a single orb that hung, pale and strange, in the night sky. It seemed the old proverbs no longer applied, either. Since the Summer of Chaos, Caramon had found time to dine with the Inn’s patrons three days out of four. That was because there were few patrons to dine with anymore.

  For such a big man, Caramon ate little nowadays, and what there was on his plate, he picked at listlessly. He took sips of tea between mouthfuls of marjoram-rubbed rabbit and spiced potatoes, but most of the time, he just stared around the tavern.

  There had been a time, just a few years ago, when the Inn had been packed at this hour. The tables and booths had been full, people had lined the bar shoulder-to-shoulder, and the air had rung with talk and laughter and cries for ale. Caramon had wished, on more than one occasion, that business would cool off so he could have some rest. Now he looked back on those days and wondered if, maybe, he hadn’t wished too hard.

  Tonight, he could count the folk in the tavern without taking off his boots, as Tika was wont to quip. In the back sat two hooded elves, probably refugees from the ongoing troubles in Qualinesti. Clemen, Osler and Borlos-regulars who’d hang in till either the Inn closed for good or someone dragged them out feet-first-were drinking mulled wine and playing a game of cards over by the kitchen door, cursing and laughing loudly. A weary-looking tinker, who had found less work in Solace than he’d hoped and would surely move on soon, hunched over a bottle of dwarf spirits. And that was it.

  Things just hadn’t been the same since that terrible summer. True, the Knights of Takhisis no longer ruled this part of Ansalon, but their absence was a double-edged sword. They’d been hard masters, and Caramon had hated every moment he’d lived under their sway, but at least they’d kept the bandits and goblins from running rampant. Now the road were more dangerous than they’d been in many years, and no one seemed to travel much anymore. On top of that, the world seemed to have slowed down since the Second Cataclysm. At first, folk had been preoccupied with rebuilding the damage wrought by the Dark Knights and the armies of Chaos. Now, though, with the scars of that summer at last starting to heal, few people wanted to do anything but stay at home. Nobody seemed to hunger for adventure any more. There had been enough excitement of late to last a hundred lifetimes.

  When Caramon finished his tea and grew tired of pushing cold food about his plate, he decided he could afford to have another sleep. If anyone tried to cause trouble, Clemen, Osler and Borlos would give them a knock on the head for interrupting their card game. “Yes,” Caramon muttered, lacing his fingers behind his head and leaning back, “another nap sounds just fine.”

  He was just shy of slumber when the door opened and closed again. The chatter of the card game stopped.

  “Look sharp, big guy,” called Osler. “You’re about to get yourself thumped.”

  Caramon looked up in time to see Tika, who was moving quickly across the tavern, toward him. Her eyes were blazing, and the look on her face could have frozen Crystalmir Lake, though there was still a week left of summer. Caramon rose quickly, nearly knocking over his chair, and stepped between his loving wife and the iron platter on the tabletop. Judging by the way Tika looked, Caramon didn’t much want her within reach of anything that looked good for bashing heads.

  “You’re home early,” he said, trying to sound as if the world were made of sunshine and blooming roses. “How’s Usha?”

  Pregnant was what Usha was, of course. Over the past few months, Tika had taken to going to Palin and Usha’s house, fussing over her daughter-in-law incessantly. Palin, having inherited some of his father’s wits, knew enough to let his mother have her way, and to make himself scarce in the meantime. He was at Wayreth now, searching the libraries vainly for some inkling of how to reawaken magic. He’d be coming home soon, though. The child was almost due. Usha was as huge around as a well-fed ogress, and Tika was anxious over the impending arrival of her first grandchild. Caramon was looking forward to the birth too, of course. Life was lonely, even with his daughters to help out around the inn.

  “Usha’s fine,” Tika snapped, drawing up so close that he fell back a pace. “I left Laura and Dezra at her place. The child will come before the moon’s full.”

  “That’s good,” Caramon said, smiling.

  Tika didn’t say anything. She glared at him, her silver-shot red hair gleaming in the firelight. She’d had more than fifty years to perfect her accusing look.

  “Rhea’s got supper on,” Caramon offered. “I’ll go get you some, and a glass of that Ergothian wine you like-”

  “You don’t have any idea what’s on my mind, do you?” Caramon met his wife’s fiery gaze for a moment, then looked away. “Nope,” he said sheepishly.

  Clemen, Borlos and Osler continued their card game quietly, being very careful not to draw attention to themselves.

  Tika took a long, slow breath. “On my way back here, I stopped at Tanin and Sturm’s graves.”

  Caramon nodded. Though his wife was excited by the prospect of a new baby, no grandchild would ever take the place of her two lost sons. She spent a great deal of time at their graves, often leaving behind wildflowers or toys they’d played with as boys. She always returned from the graves in a grim mood, but today it was different. Grief for her sons wasn’t the only thing bothering her.

  “What is it, Tika?” Caramon asked.

  “You honestly don’t know?”

  “No. I don’t.” Worry was beginning to fray his patience. “For the last time, Tika, what’s the matter?”

  She relaxed a little, the anger in
her eyes giving way to sorrow. “Riverwind’s come to Solace.”

  Caramon hurried down the stairs that led from the tavern to the ground. He was confused, and Tika hadn’t helped much. Riverwind’s arrival in Solace should have been a joyous occasion-he was a friend, after all, and they hadn’t seen him in years-but Tika had been on the verge of tears when she’d spoken his name.

  His first guess had been that something awful had happened on the Plains. “Has something happened to Goldmoon?” he’d demanded. “To Wanderer? The girls?”

  “No,” Tika had said. “Riverwind said Goldmoon and Wanderer are well, and the girls came here with him. They… wanted to see the graves.”

  Moonsong and Brightdawn, Riverwind’s twin daughters, had been fond of Tanin and Sturm. They had played together as children, and both Caramon and Riverwind had watched with amusement as their children developed their first adolescent crushes on each other. Of course, that had come to nothing-the twins would marry men of the Plains when the time came, and the Majere boys had fallen in love, or something like love, with other women-but they’d remained friends up until the day Tanin and Sturm died. The twins hadn’t come to Solace since then, but Caramon had known that one day they would. Their father, evidently, had come with them.

  “Why is Riverwind here?” Caramon had asked his wife.

  “You know where to find him,” was all she would say in reply.

  It was to the Last Heroes’ Tomb, then, that Caramon hastened. It stood outside the town proper, in the peaceful field where the gods-and Raistlin with them-had bidden the world farewell. Low and square, it might have been mistaken by a careless traveler for just another barrow in a world where tombs had grown all too common. There were few travelers in Ansalon, however, who were so ignorant. The tomb was a sacred place, regarded with awe and reverence by everyone-human and elf, dwarf and kender. Even the goblins dared not disturb it.

  The sun was setting in the west, the pale moon rising full in the east, when Caramon arrived at the tomb. He hastened through the sheltering ring of trees the elves had planted-saplings two years ago, they grew quickly, spreading their slender limbs toward the pewter-colored sky-and jogged toward the tomb itself. It was crafted of marble and obsidian, white stone and black woven together by dwarven hands in memory of the alliance between Good and Evil that had brought down Chaos. Its gold and silver doors, one etched with the Solamnic symbol of the rose, the other marked by the lily worn by the Knights of Takhisis, stood open. Torchlight glowed within, and Caramon could hear a faint voice chanting in a language he didn’t understand but had heard before. It was the language of the Plainsmen.