Tasslehoff was certain something awful was about to happen.
Waving his hoopak above his head, he hollered, "Watch out! There's danger!" Even as he spoke, several things happened. The horse, startled by the shouting and commotion, backed up in its harness and pushed the wagon off the soft edge of the road into a broad, water-filled rut. The wagon tipped dangerously, then settled in the mud and stuck. Tasslehoff heard a loud "thunk" and a rustling noise. Looking up, he saw a massive log at least the size of a man swinging down through the branches on the end of a rope. It swept across the road, precisely where the wagon would have been if the horse had not panicked.
Guttural whoops and croaks rang through the crisp air as several large, ugly creatures broke from cover in the woods and charged toward the wagon. Hobgoblins! Tas had tangled with these savage brutes often enough in his travels to recognize them instantly. Smelly, dirty, sadistic, dressed in uncured hides and brandishing clubs or captured axes, they specialized in ambushing travelers and raiding isolated farms.
Flailing their long, hairy arms and splashing through the muck, they closed rapidly on the wagon, now hopelessly mired. The horse screamed and kicked and somehow managed to connect with the lead hobgoblin. The beast collapsed face-down in the muck, hiding its shattered ribs.
Quickly Tas fitted his stone into the sling of his hoopak. Taking only a moment to aim, he let fly at the closest creature. The stone thudded solidly into its back, drawing a tremendous yelp of pain. The furious hobgoblin turned and its red eyes locked on Tasslehoff. Flashing a greasy yellow-toothed grin, it squealed something unintelligible at another hobgoblin. Thinking they had found easy prey, both rushed toward the kender.
Tas calmly scooped up another stone from the road. This one was small and jagged, just what he wanted. Loading it, he took his time and aimed carefully. As the hoopak snapped forward, the second hobgoblin's head snapped backward. The beast spun partway around, then crashed to the road, dead. Tas resisted the urge to whoop, knowing there was still plenty of danger ahead.
Unaware of its partner's fate, the first hobgoblin ran headlong toward the unarmed kender. Tas planted his feet wide apart and held the sling in front of him like a quarterstaff. The hobgoblin roared brutally, raised its club with both of its gnarled hands, and lunged.
In the last possible moment, so quickly the movement could hardly be seen, Tas whipped the hoopak staff sideways so its metal-shod point faced the onrushing monster and then he drove it forward with all his might. He felt the wood shiver and groan as his weapon punched through the hobgoblin's thick hide and tore a grisly path through its vitals. Hot, rancid breath, stinking like rotted meat, swept over Tas as the hobgoblin rattled out its dying gasp. Tasslehoff leaped aside as the lumbering body plunged past him and crashed to the ground. The kender chuckled loudly, remembering the final look of disbelief in the creature's jaundiced eyes.
The mingled screams of a horse and a man quickly brought Tas back to his senses. One remaining hobgoblin struggled to grab the horse's bridle while another fought, almost playfully, with the human, who was defending himself rather badly with a large mallet.
Tas crouched and snatched a thin, straight dagger from his legging, then sprinted toward the fight. Without slowing, he ran straight by the first hobgoblin. As he passed, the dagger flicked out and sliced through the knotted flesh inches below the creature's buttock. The monster howled in pain and shock, then stumbled as the now useless muscles of its hamstrung leg gave out. Dragging its leg and yelping horribly, it staggered into the forest and disappeared.
The last of the creatures, toying with the human, was distracted by the sound. What it saw made its jaw drop. Three of its companions lay dead in the mud, a fourth was critically wounded and fleeing, and a kender with a bloody dagger was smirking at it.
The kender winced as the human's mallet crashed into the back of the hobgoblin's skull. Its eyes rolled back and the body flopped to the soft ground. The human, foaming and hysterical, hammered on the limp form until its head disappeared in a churning froth of blood, mud, and bone.
"I think it's pretty well dead," Tas concluded.
Looking in horror at what he'd done, the man dropped the mallet and leaned against the tree behind him, panting and shaking for several minutes. "Thanks for your help, stranger," he managed at last. "I knew it was too early in the season to hit the roads, I knew it was. Did I listen to myself? No, I gave in to Hepsiba. 'We need money. It's springtime! Get out on the road, you lazy fool.' That's what she said. So I left, mostly to get away from her nagging, I'll admit. And now here I am, in the middle of nowhere, fighting for my life, my wagon up to its axle in mud. This trip is surely cursed by the gods!" He gave a vague snarl skyward.
"What are you complaining about?" Tas wondered. "You're alive and they're not." He nodded toward the carnage behind him. "I would say you've had a spectacular day, aside from what's happened to your wagon." Tas skipped across the muddy potholes to the side of the wagon. Tugging up his leggings, he hunkered over and peered under the vehicle.
"She looks stuck, all right. But I once saw Beetleater Thugwart—he was a half-ogre who lived in Kendermore—heft a wagon out of mud like this all by himself. It was too bad he broke the axle doing it, but his heart was in the right place. Anyway, he just turned it over and Willie Wontori—he was the wainwright in Kendermore—fixed it right up, good as new."
"Who in blazes are you, anyway?" the man finally managed to squeeze in.
The kender pulled himself up proudly to his full four feet and extended his fine-boned hand. "Tasslehoff Burr-foot, at your service. And who might you be?"
"I might be the Speaker of the Sun," the man sighed, still leaning against the tree, "but don't count on it."
"Oh, I wouldn't," Tasslehoff said, casually slipping his unshaken hand into the pocket of his leggings. "He's an elf, and you're a human. Besides, why would someone as important as the leader of the Qualinesti elves drive a broken-down old trader's wagon himself? Surely he'd have servants for that."
The man's parchment-colored face wrinkled up in a frown. "Did my wife send you after me, or is it your own idea to make me feel worse?" he asked rhetorically.
Tasslehoff shook his head. "I'm sure I don't know your wife, unless she was at the inn in Solace last night. I'm not from around here."
"My wife at an inn? No, that would cost money and be too much fun. Lord, even when I'm on the road, I am hounded," muttered the human.
Tas crossed from the wagon back to where the dead hobgoblin lay, impaled on the kender's hoopak. "Yuck," he pronounced, his lips drawing up in disgust. Propping the body on its side, he placed one foot against its ribs and pulled the weapon out. He held it by his fingertips at arm's length, then carried it to the side of the road and proceeded to scrape it clean in a small patch of snow.
The man snorted at the sight and turned his attention to his wagon. Carefully he picked his way past the body at his feet. "What are these things, anyway?" he asked, frowning at the grisly sight.
"Hobgoblins. Don't feel bad about killing one. They're evil from ears to brisket. They rarely listen to reason. I avoid them when I can, because otherwise you pretty much have to kill them. And once they get their smell on something, it never comes off. I can see I'm going to have to spend this evening making a new hoopak—this one will never be the same again."
Tasslehoff returned to the wagon and climbed onto the driver's seat. "What's so bad about your wife?" he asked.
"These creatures remind me of her: evil, scheming, unreasonable. She's going to make my life a living hell when she finds out about this costly fiasco, too."
"Why tell her about it?" Tasslehoff asked.
"Because she'll know by how much money I didn't make on this trip that something went wrong. And then in that nagging way of hers she'll wheedle the truth out of me, like a butcher tugging the gizzard from a chicken!" The man closed his eyes and gave a long shudder.
"She doesn't sound very nice," Tas said, bouncing on the seat. "
Surely she can't blame you for the nasty things hobgoblins do, or for the roads being mired in mud."
The man sighed and ran a hand through his thinning hair. "You don't know my wife. She'll say I drove into that ambush on purpose, just to spite her, or some such nonsense."
"We'll just have to get you out of the mud and on your way, then. What is it that you do, anyway?"
"I'm a tinker," he replied. "I fix pots and pans, sharpen knives, clean lamps. I do just about everything."
Tasslehoff jumped down and stepped back from the wagon, then leaned against his hoopak to study the situation. He watched the old nag chew brown grass. "Why don't you just use your horse to pull the wagon out?"
The tinker chuckled. "That old thing? Bella hardly has the strength to pull her own weight on a straightaway anymore, let alone get this wagon out of a rut. And she hates mud, always has. Soon as she feels it on her hooves, she stops cold."
"Why don't you replace her?"
"Hepsiba says she's good enough. Besides, I'm kinda fond of the old girl. The horse, that is."
Tasslehoff jumped off the wagon and drove the end of his hoopak down through the muck in the rut until he found solid ground. "Hmm, about the length of my forearm. That's not too deep. I'll bet if you push the wagon from behind, I can coax Bella into taking a couple of steps."
The man leaned against the side of the wagon. "I can't see why anyone should spend so much effort fighting fate. If this is where providence wants me, this is where I'll stay, in spite of your efforts or mine."
Tas looked at him for a moment before speaking. "That's nonsense. Why would fate want your wagon stuck in a muddy ditch?"
"I don't know, but here I am! I don't make a practice of trying to change my destiny." As if the matter was settled, the tinker pulled a small knife from his pocket and began cleaning his fingernails.
The kender considered that for a moment but then shook his head as if to clear the thoughts away. He decided to try a fresh approach. "Look, let's say it is your destiny to get stuck in this ditch. But it is also your destiny to have me come by and get you out, because I refuse to walk away and leave you here. What do you say to that?"
The tinker scratched his chin. "I suppose if you can get her to move, that would be a pretty convincing argument for your view."
"Of course it would!" Tas exclaimed. "Now, you get behind the wagon and push," he instructed, demonstrating the technique. "Hunker down and put your shoulder into it, uh—I still don't know your name," the kender suddenly realized.
"Gaesil Bishop."
Tas extended his hand again, and this time the tinker shook it heartily. "Pleased to meet you." Gaesil took his position behind the wagon.
Dipping his hand into the largest of the packs on his belt, Tasslehoff poked around, searching for the remainder of a lump of beet sugar. "This ought to get Bella moving," he said, holding the lump up for inspection.
Tas moved to stand at the old nag's head. The diminutive kender stretched up to grasp her bridle in one hand, his other holding the lump of sugar under her hairy nostrils, from which wisps of white breath escaped. Still edgy from the fight, her eyes were wide and bloodshot. But her furry lips ruffled happily as she tried to take the cube, revealing only two yellowed front teeth.
"Come on, old girl," Tas said softly, pulling his hand back before she could get the sugar. "You've a job to do, and then this nice treat will be yours."
"You'll have to shout—she's pretty near deaf," Gaesil yelled from his position behind the wagon.
"When I say 'Now,' push!" Tas screamed to Gaesil.
"Bella's deaf, not me," Gaesil reminded the kender.
Holding the bridle firmly, Tas kept the cube in his open palm about four inches from Bella's nose, out of range of her greedy lips. He counted to three. "Now!" he cried, giving the bridle a tug. Blinking her milky eyes in surprise, Bella stumbled forward slightly, mud sucking at her hooves. Behind her, the wagon gave a jolt, rocked up to the edge of the rut, then rolled and settled back stubbornly into the muck.
"We almost had it!" Tas cried excitedly. "Push harder next time, and longer."
Gaesil looked morosely at his mud-spattered tunic. Dirty, wet specks were hardening on his face. Cold mud oozed over the tops of his boots. He'd be lucky if he didn't slide under the wheels of the wagon the next time. "OK," he responded.
They repeated the process, Tas tugging harder, Gaesil pushing longer. Creaking and groaning, the wagon rolled up and out of the rut with a violent lurch, sending Tasslehoff flying, right after Bella managed to wrap her lips around the proffered piece of sugar.
Tasslehoff found Gaesil on his chest in the mud where the wagon had been. "Oh, dear, how did that happen?" Tasslehoff asked, helping Gaesil to his feet. "You should be more careful. You're quite a mess."
In response, Gaesil opened the back door of his wagon and extracted a clean tunic and breeches. Setting them on the back step, he shrugged off the frigid, muddy ones, shivering. Transferring valuables between pockets, he quickly slipped on the freshly laundered clothing. "That's better, but I'm going to need a bath before anyone will hire me in Solace."
"Solace?" Tasslehoff exclaimed. "Why, I left there just this morning! You really must go to the Spring Festival— I'm sure you'd make a lot of money there."
"That's where I was headed," Gaesil said. "I was hoping to draw a lot of business, but I'm afraid I've missed most of the festival. It's undoubtedly too late for me to find a booth."
"Say, one of my best friends has a booth there!" Tas boasted. "Well, perhaps he's not my best friend, but I don't think he hates me anymore. We met when I was safeguarding some merchandise for him, but there was a little misunderstanding about that. He might share some of his space with you, for a small fee."
Tasslehoff pulled off the bracelet and bounced it in his palm. "Actually, this bracelet is his, and he needs it back rather badly. Darned if I know how it got into my pouch again this morning, but here it is. Since you're going that way, you could take it back for me. My friend seemed awfully distraught when he lost it the last time. He made it for a customer who's coming to pick it up real soon, so I'm sure he'd be very grateful to you for bringing it back. He might even share his booth with you for nothing!"
Though grateful for the kender's help, Gaesil listened to Tas's tale with suspicion. "I don't know . . ." he hedged. He was not keen on protecting or transporting someone else's valuables, especially after they'd passed through a kender's hands. As Tas himself had pointed out, people tend to misunderstand the intentions of kender. Besides, Gaesil made it his policy not to get involved with anything that did not concern him.
"But why not?" Tasslehoff asked. "You need booth space. My friend needs his bracelet back. And I need to go that way, away from Solace. This solution couldn't be better." Tasslehoff was puzzled by the tinker's hesitation, but then added, "Your wife would never need to know about any of this if it didn't cost any money, would she?"
He had unwittingly stumbled on the one thing that could persuade Gaesil. Just to be sure, he drew from the pocket of his pants one small, four-sided die and tossed it on the back step of the wagon. Obviously satisfied with the answer, he replaced the die, looked up, and said, "I'll do it!"
"Great! His name is Flint Fireforge," Tas said, pulling his writing equipment and a scrap of parchment from his scroll case. He sketched a map of the festival grounds, marking Flint's booth with an "X." "You should have no trouble finding him, but if you do, try the Inn of the Last Home. He seems to be a regular customer there, and I'm sure you could get a bath as well."
Tas took one last look at the bracelet. He would miss its alluring beauty and unusual features. But with no regrets, he extended it to the tinker. Gaesil slipped it into the pocket of his breeches and without further ado, hopped onto the driver's seat of his wagon.
"Farewell," the tinker called. "You saved my life. I guess I never thanked you for that."
Tas waved and replied, "It was my pleasure. Good luck. Say hello to Flint for
me."
The tinker gave the reins a snap, and Bella lumbered forward. The wagon lurched northward toward Solace, detouring around the corpses lying in the road and leaving Tas to continue his travels.
Chapter 5
Something Borrowed
Gaesil Bishop was a man with little zest for life.
He had long ago surrendered his life to fate. Gaesil's fatalism could be traced to his upbringing in the province of Throt, on the eastern border of Solamnia in the north. Throtians as a whole were a superstitious, vagabond lot, their culture ripe with wives-tales and sayings. As a result, there wasn't an incident in his past that he could not, upon reflection and review, attribute to some outside force. Everything that came in life was the result of luck. For example, people who had money were lucky. Gaesil, who had none, was unlucky. Worst of all, luck—whether good, bad, or indifferent—was nothing more than supernatural whim, as far as he was concerned.
When a man does not believe that hard work is rewarded with prosperity and sloth is punished with poverty, he usually is not a hard worker. But however indifferent life might be, Gaesil knew that reward and retribution (especially retribution) did flow freely from his wife.
He had met her some years before while traveling and working in the town of Dern, where Hepsiba now lived in the ample cottage where she had been reared. She was an only child, and her father was a successful merchant by Dern's standards. Hepsiba had been spoiled beyond redemption, and her husband was now paying the price.
Gaesil had been conducting business with her father in his grocery when Hepsiba stepped in. At that moment, thunder rolled out of a clear sky and a bolt of lightning struck the village bell. Clearly this was a sign of some sort, and Gaesil was moved. Still, he never made a decision, at least not an important one, without throwing the Eye.
Some people carried rabbit's feet. Throtians rolled an unusual, four-sided die called the Eye, which served basically the same function as reading one's fortune in cards, only it was quicker. Each side of the Eye represented a facet of fate. Good luck was symbolized by the element of Earth, steady and fertile; bad luck, by Water, heavy and restrictive; and chance, by Air, meaning ever-changing. Fire represented death. Gaesil had never rolled Fire, though he once knew a man who did. The poor fellow panicked and threw himself off a cliff, making the prophecy come true.
[Meetings 02] - Wanderlust Page 6