Spirit of the Wind bot-1

by Chris Pierson

  Then there were the kender themselves. None of the Plainsfolk had ever seen more than a handful in one place at any one time. Here, though, there were thousands, more than the city was meant to hold, thanks to the refugees who had flooded into town over the past few weeks. They jammed the streets, a pushing, shoving, yammering sea of topknotted heads. The humans, Riverwind and particular, felt like giants as Paxina and Kronn led them through the crowds. Many of the kender stopped and stared at them, their jaws hanging open in awe as they looked up. The mob around them grew steadily thicker as people crowded around, trying to get a look at the rare Plainsfolk.

  That wasn’t the worst of it, though. Kender being kender, for every one who was content simply to stand and gawk at Riverwind, Brightdawn and Swiftraven, there were three who just had to find out what was inside the Plainsfolk’s purses. The humans quickly discovered they had to carry their pouches-along with swordbelts, quivers, and anything else they wanted to hold on to-above their heads, where the kender’s reaching, grasping hands couldn’t get near them. Even so, the Plainsfolk lost the buckles off their boots and most of the beads from the fringes of their buckskin tunics.

  The noise, too, was incredible. The air was filled with the clamor of voices, screeching hoopaks and other strange weapons; and occasional musical instruments or exploding firecrackers.

  They actually became lost for a short time, pulling up short when the road they were walking along-a narrow lane named Broad Street-rounded a sharp corner and suddenly stopped, blocked by a tall, iron fence. There didn’t appear to be any reason for the fence to be there-the road continued on its far side-but it was there nonetheless, and there was no way around it.

  Kronn stopped, scratching his head. “Now, where did that come from?” he wondered aloud, staring at the fence as if he wasn’t quite sure it was there.

  “Don’t look at me,” Paxina told him. “This was your short cut.”

  “Hmph.” Kronn looked around. “Well, this thing wasn’t here last time I came this way. But, I think-where in the Abyss is it-” He muttered aimlessly for a moment, then pointed excitedly, back the way they had come. “Yeah, there it is. Straight Street. That’ll get us to Tornado Alley, then we can follow that to the gates.”

  “Are you sure?” Swiftraven asked, dubiously regarding the road Kronn had been pointing at.

  Kronn shrugged. “Pretty much.”

  As it turned out, he was right. They followed Straight Street-which, of course, curved and wended about worse than a drunken sailor at low tide-until they reached Tornado Alley, a wide road that shot straight through the south side of town.

  “This really was made by an honest-to-goodness tornado, you know,” Paxina announced as they pushed their way down through the street, through the milling throng. “Happened about forty years ago-the thing just tore through town. Sucked poor Uncle Trapspringer up and spat him out its top.” She shook her head. “Luckily, he came down again.”

  As Kronn had promised, the road led almost directly to the gates, ending suddenly only a hundred paces from the city wall. The company snaked its way around several narrower, twisting streets-including one that doubled back on itself unexpectedly-until finally they arrived at a cobblestone-paved courtyard.

  “Almighty goddess,” Riverwind swore, staring.

  The tall, stout gates stood at the plaza’s far side, closed, barred, and blocked by a strong but somewhat rusty portcullis. That wasn’t what held the Plainsfolk’s attention, however. In front of the gates was a heap of refuse. Lumber, paving stones, and old, broken furniture had been piled two-thirds of the way to the tops of the great doors. Even as they watched, kender carried random bits of junk-one brought an old, cast-iron weather vane, and two others hauled a broken wheelbarrow-and threw them on the mound.

  “As you figured out,” Paxina proclaimed, gesturing at the barricade, “we weren’t going to open the gates in any hurry yesterday.”

  “It certainly doesn’t look like anyone’s going to get through there now,” Brightdawn declared, staring.

  “Paxina!” shouted a voice from the barbican above the gates.

  The company looked up and saw a grizzled kender waving down at them. Unlike most of the other kender they had seen, he was clad in a chain mail hauberk and metal greaves. A bright red headband held back his long, gray hair, keeping it out of his eyes as the hot wind whipped it about his head.

  “That’s Brimble Redfeather,” Kronn told the others. “He’s a bit-something of a war dog, you could say.”

  “That’s one way of putting it,” Paxina agreed, grinning. “Blood and thunder, Paxina!” Brimble shouted down at them, glowering fiercely. “Where in the Abyss have you been? I’ve got half my runners out looking for you!”

  “I was looking in on my injured sister, if you must know!” Paxina shouted back. “What’s so important?”

  Brimble scowled down from the gatehouse. “Better if you just come up here,” he answered. “Bring the barbarians if you want.” He turned away, looking out over the battlements at the field below.

  There were stairs near the edge of the barricade. Riverwind and Swiftraven helped Kronn clear the refuse away from them; then the party climbed up to the catwalk that ran along the top of the wall. The battlements were lined with kender-archers and slingers, mostly. Some of them stared curiously at the Plainsfolk as they climbed the stairs, but most didn’t even turn, their attention directed south across the meadow.

  “All right,” Paxina said, striding to the battlements. “What’s so all-fired important-”

  Her voice broke off suddenly, and she could only stare, speechless, at what the other kender were looking at. Riverwind and the others paused, taken aback by the amazement on the Lord Mayor’s face, then gasped in astonishment when they beheld what Brimble had wanted them to see.

  There were ogres everywhere-thousands upon thousands of them, camped at the edge of the Kenderwood. For every monster who had chased Kronn and the Plainsfolk yesterday, there were five or ten now. Plumes of smoke drifted skyward from hundreds of campfires, and the sounds of shouting, cursing and bestial laughter rang out across the meadow.

  “It’s a real, no-fooling siege now, Your Honor,” Brimble declared as he stumped over to join them. He spat licorice juice down into the courtyard below. “They showed up last night, most of them-and they’ve been arriving all morning long, too.”

  “There’s so many,” Brightdawn breathed.

  Riverwind frowned at the camps, which stretched to the left and right as far as they could see. “Is it like this all around the city?” he asked.

  “More or less,” Brimble affirmed. He peered up at the old Plainsman, then grinned. “Branchala bite me, you’re a big one.”

  “This is Riverwind of Que-Shu, Brimble,” Kronn said, swiftly stepping in. “He’s a Hero of the Lance.”

  “No kidding,” Brimble said. He extended his hand, and Riverwind saw he was missing his little finger. “Glad to meet you. I fought in the war myself, way back when. Always good to meet another veteran-we’re getting scarcer and scarcer these days.”

  Riverwind took Brimble’s hand and shook it firmly. The old kender’s grip was surprisingly strong.

  “Know a thing or two about siege craft, then, do you?” Riverwind nodded, the corners of his mouth rising into the ghost of a smile. “I do,” he declared. “I was at Kalaman, at the end of the war.”

  “Really?” Brimble’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I am impressed.”

  “What happened at Kalaman?” Kronn asked.

  Brimble glared at him. “What happened at-Fizban’s britches, Thistleknot, didn’t your old dad teach you anything? Kalaman was only one of the biggest sieges since Balif’s day!”

  “The dragonarmies tried to take the city back from the Golden General’s armies in the last days of the war,” Brightdawn proudly explained to Kronn. “Father led the defense.”

  “I wasn’t alone,” Riverwind added modestly. “I had help from Gilthanas of Qualinesti, and L
ord Michael Jeofrey, of the Knights of Solamnia.”

  “For two weeks solid, the draconians threw themselves at the walls,” Brimble said. His tone was almost reverent as he regarded the old Plainsman. “And for two weeks the knights and elves and the rest threw them back. Reorx’s beard, I’d have given my other nine fingers to be there.” He reached up and slapped Riverwind on the shoulder.

  “You’re welcome to lend a hand, friend. We could use more like you.”

  Riverwind returned the old kender’s smile, then turned back to the battlements and gazed out across the meadow again toward the enemy camp.

  Kurthak stood at the edge of the camp, his good eye fixed on Kendermore’s walls. After a while, he snorted and shook his head. “The fools,” he growled.

  “My lord?” Tragor asked. As always, the Black-Gazer’s champion stood nearby. He leaned against his great sword, which was planted point-down in the parched, dusty earth.

  “They fortify their walls,” the hetman answered. “They post archers and slingers. They arm themselves for battle. Don’t they realize what they face? We could topple their walls today if I gave the order to march. Kendermore would be ashes by nightfall. They’ll draw breath tomorrow only because I wish it-I and Malystryx. Surely they must know this, and yet they carry on as if they had a hope of surviving.”

  “They’re kender,” Tragor grunted. “What did you expect-surrender? They don’t know fear.”

  “They don’t, do they?” Kurthak snarled. He folded his arms, tilting his head back arrogantly. “There’s a first time for everything, Tragor. By the time this siege is done, Twill have their Lord Mayor on her knees before me.” He patted his massive, spiked club, which hung from his belt. Beside it dangled the severed heads of three kender, bound in place by their topknots. Flies buzzed around the grisly trophies, moving in and out of their wide-gaping mouths. He gazed down at the heads fondly for a moment, then reached down and cupped one in his hand. It lolled sideways as he stared at it, its rolled-back eyes showing little but whites. The stump of its neck smeared his palm with sticky, half-dried blood.

  “She’ll beg me for mercy,” the Black-Gazer continued.

  He closed his hand around the head and squeezed until he felt the kender ‘s skull crack. “I will show her none, though-not even that of a quick end. First, I think, I’ll cut out her tongue.” He tore the shattered head from his belt and tossed it away into the bushes like a piece of rotten fruit.

  “Why do we wait, then?” Tragor asked hungrily. His black eyes flashed as he looked toward the city. “Why not attack now, as you say, instead of waiting here, watching them watch us?”

  “Because,” Kurthak replied evenly, “the time is not yet right. Malys wants us to let them be while she works her magic.”

  At the mention of the dragon, Tragor shuddered. “Relying on magic,” he said, his voice thick with disgust. He glanced around him, scowling furiously. “Skulking in the forest. Such things might be proper for elves, but not our people.”

  “What would you do, champion?” Kurthak sneered. “Throw yourself at the walls? Charge across that meadow this instant and impulsively batter down the gates?”

  “Better than wait here.”

  The Black-Gazer laughed roughly. “And the kender within? What would you do with them, when they faced you without fear?”

  Tragor’s scowl deepened, and his eyes vanished into the shadows of his massive, lowering brows. “Kill them,” he snapped. “Cut them down, one and all.”

  “And probably get cut down yourself, too. You were there at Weavewillow, champion. You saw how they fought to hold us off while many of their fellows escaped. Kender are many things, but cautious isn’t one of them.”

  Tragor shook his head darkly. Kurthak was right. At Weavewillow, and at every village before, the kender had fought like badgers. Many ogres had fallen to their slingstones and arrows, hoopaks and chapaks. The kender had refused to relent. It was all part of their nature, their maddening refusal to fear their foes. Now the badgers were in their den-thousands of them-and completely surrounded by the camps of the Black-Gazer’s horde. They would fight even harder, for they had nowhere else to run.

  A slow smile lit Kurthak’s face as he regarded his champion. “We have the upper hand, Tragor,” he said. “If we ended this now, it would be too soon. Our advantage over them can only grow. They’re trapped, and that city holds more kender than it can support. In time their supply of rood will run low. The dragon’s magic will cause their wells to run dry. They will grow weak, while we remain strong. How much of a fight will they be able to put up if they’re too feeble from hunger to lift their weapons and draw their bows?

  “Besides, if we attacked now, we’d have no choice but to kill them all, as you said,” he continued. “What good would that do us? You forget, we aren’t here to slaughter them-not only, anyway. We began this conquest because we desire slaves. We’ll capture more of them when they’re weak-and they’ll kill fewer of our people as well. That is why we wait.”

  “Patience,” Tragor said, and grimaced. “It isn’t an easy thing. My blood runs hot for war.” He pulled his sword out of the ground and began to jab the earth repeatedly with its blade. As he did so, he fixed his eyes on the distant walls.

  “But why are there humans among them now?”

  Kurthak’s head snapped up. He squinted across the meadow. “Humans? Where?”

  “There. Above the gates,” Tragor replied, pointing.

  For a moment, Kurthak didn’t see anything. Then his good eye widened with surprise. There were humans-three of them, two men and a woman. There was little more either ogre could tell from so far away.

  “Blood of my ancestors,” the Black-Gazer swore in astonishment. “Baloth! Come here!”

  The hairless ogre loped to Kurthak’s side, carrying a massive war axe. He was clad in leather armor covered with metal studs, and about his neck he wore an elaborate necklace of bone, claws, and teeth. The necklace was an unmistakable sign of his new place the horde. Since killing Lord Ruog, Baloth had risen to the rank of warlord, answering only to Kurthak himself.

  “My lord?” he rasped. “What is your wish? Should we signal the attack?”

  “No,” Kurthak said. “Send a scouting party. There are humans on the city wall. I want them described to me.”

  Baloth’s expression grew doubtful. “They’ll have to get within range of the archers. Are you sure, my lord?”

  “Yes! I’m sure!” Kurthak snapped. His face was dark with anger. “Go.”

  Bowing, the hairless ogre sprinted away. Before long, a party of six ogres split off from the camp and started toward Kendermore. Kurthak and Tragor watched as they crossed the meadow. Shouts rang out from the town’s walls, and the kender scrambled into position behind the merlons, readying their weapons. The camps at the edges of the forest stirred, too, as the ogres watched the scouts cross the meadow.

  Soon, the thrum of bowstrings carried across the field. Arrows soared high, arcing across the clear, blue sky, then dove at the scouts like angry wasps. One of the ogres fell immediately, his body pierced by the deadly shafts, but the rest raised great wooden shields, deflecting the shots as they pressed closer. The kender loosed a second flight, then a third. Another scout caught an arrow in his shoulder, spun with the force of the blow, and swiftly died, another shaft lodged in the back of his skull.

  The remaining four scouts stopped barely a hundred yards from the wall. Arrows and stones fell upon them like hail, but they did not falter. They peered out from behind their shields, up at the top of the wall.

  Two of the humans-the men-stood at the battlements, firing longbows along with the kender. The woman had disappeared from view. The scouts stared at the two men for a few heartbeats, then turned and started to run, back toward the woods.

  One died, his back riddled with arrows, before he could take two steps. Another fell before he took ten. A victorious whoop rose from the walls. A third nearly made it to safety, then caught an ar
row in his leg and collapsed. He tried to crawl and was pierced six more times before he finally lay still. The last scout won clear, however, and continued to run, even when he was out of bowshot. His eyes flared with wild desperation, as if the legions of Chaos pursued him.

  Baloth loped from the tree line to meet the scout and had to catch his arm and drag him to a halt. The scout rested a moment, catching his breath, then, made his way to Kurthak. Baloth walked behind, axe in hand.

  “What news?” the Black-Gazer demanded as they approached.

  “My lord,” the scout said, and bowed. “They are two men, dressed in leather and furs. One wears a feathered headdress.”

  Tragor spat. “Barbarians,” he sneered. He looked at Kurthak. “From the Dairlies.”

  The Black-Gazer pursed his lips. “I don’t know,” he said, scratching the back of his neck. “I’ve never seen a Dairly barbarian in a feathered headdress.” He glowered at the scout. “What else can you say about them?” he demanded. “Their faces! Their hair!”

  “They looked… like humans,” the scout said lamely, quivering before the hetman’s wrath. “The feathered one was old… white hair. Many wrinkles. He wore a fur vest, and his arms were bare except for bracers. And-he was very tall… for a human. The younger one spoke to him.”