Margaret Weis - Dragons of Summer Flame

Fizban shook hands. Then he turned to Raistlin. “Well, are you coming? I don’t have all day, you know. Got to go build another world. Let’s see. How did that go? You take a bit of dirt and mix in some bat guano...”

“Good-bye, Palin. Take good care of your parents.” Raistlin turned to Usha. “Farewell, Child of the Irda. You not only avenged your people, you redeemed them.” He glanced at the dejected Palin. “Have you told him the truth yet? It will cheer him considerably, I think.”

“Not yet, but I will,” Usha answered. “I promise, Uncle,” she added shyly.

Raistlin smiled. “Good-bye,” he said again.

Leaning on the staff, he and Fizban turned and walked across the field, where lay the dead.

“Uncle!” Palin called desperately. “The gods are gone! What will we do now that we are alone?”

Raistlin paused, glanced back. His skin gleamed pale gold in the light of the strange stars; his golden eyes burned.—“You are not alone, Nephew. Steel Brightblade said it for you. You have each other.”

Palin and Usha stood alone, together, in the field near the town of Solace, a field that would afterward be held sacred.

In this field, the people of Ansalon came together to build a tomb made of stone brought all the way from Thorbardin by an army of dwarves. The tomb was simple, elegant, built of white marble and black obsidian. Around the tomb the humans planted trees, brought from Qualinesti and Silvanesti by the elves, led by their king, Gilthas.

The bodies of the Knights of Solamnia were placed within the tomb, side by side with the bodies of the Knights of Takhisis.

In the center Steel Brightblade rested on a bier made of rare black marble. He was clad in his black armor. He held his father’s sword in his hands. On another bier, carved of white marble, lay the body of Tanis Half-Elven. He was clad in green, in leather armor. At his side lay a blue crystal staff, placed there by the children of Riverwind and Goldmoon.

The vault was shut and sealed with double doors made of silver and of gold. The Knights of Solamnia carved on one side of the door a rose, on the other side of the door a lily. They engraved the names of the knights on the blocks of stone.

But over the door they put only one name, in memory of one of Ansalon’s most renowned heroes.

Tasslehoff Burrfoot.

Beneath his name, they carved a hoopak.

The Last Heroes tomb, it was called, and it commemorated all those who had died during the battle at the end of that terrible summer.

Far from being a solemn place, the tomb became a rather merry one (much to the discomfiture of the knights). Kender from all over Ansalon made pilgrimages to this site. They brought their children and held picnic lunches on the grounds. While eating, the kender would tell stories of their famous hero.

It was not long—within a generation, at least—that eventually every kender you came across would show you some interesting object—a silver spoon, perhaps—and swear to you on his topknot that it possessed all sorts of wonderful powers.

And that it had been given to him by his “Uncle Tas.”

* * *

Flint Fireforge paced, back and forth, back and forth, beneath the tree. He had to keep moving, for the forge fire had gone out, and the old dwarf was chilled to the bone. He clapped his hands to warm his fingers, stomped his feet to warm his toes, and grumbled and complained to warm his blood.

“Where is that dratted kender? Said he’d be here. I’ve waited and waited. Tanis and Sturm and the rest left eons ago. I can imagine where they are, now, too. Probably sitting in some nice, cozy inn, having a glass or two of hot, mulled wine, talking of the old days, and where am I?”

The dwarf snorted. “Nowhere, that’s where. Underneath a dying tree, next to a cold forge, waiting for that doorknob of a kender. And what’s he up to? Ah, I’ll tell you!” Flint huffed until he was red in the face. “He’s likely in jail. Or maybe some minotaur’s strung him up by his topknot. Or some irate mage has turned him into a lizard. Or he’s tumbled into a well, like he did that one time, trying to grab hold of his own reflection, and it was up to me to haul him out, except that he pulled me in, too. If it hadn’t been for Tanis—”

Flint grumbled, paced, clapped, and stomped. So intent was he on grumbling, pacing, clapping, and stomping that he never noticed he’d gained a partner.

A kender, dressed in bright yellow pants with a jaunty red-and-green plaid jacket, hung all over with bulging pouches, had crept up behind Flint and, stifling his giggles, was mimicking the dwarf.

The kender paced, clapped, and stomped on Flint’s very heels, until the dwarf—stopping in mid-grumble to light a pipe—reached into his leaf pouch and discovered another hand there already. A quick count bringing the number of hands up to three, the dwarf roared and spun around.

“Gotcha!” Flint grabbed the thief.

The thief grabbed Flint.

Tasslehoff flung his arms around his friend. “Flint! It’s me!”

“Well! About time!” Flint humpfed. “You doorknob! See what you did? Made me drop my pipe. There, Lad, there. Don’t take on so. I didn’t mean to yell at you. You startled me, that’s all.”

Tas tried laughing and sobbing at the same time, only to discover that the laugh and the sob got all tangled up in the throat, which made breathing a bit difficult. Flint pounded his friend on the back.

Recovering his breath, thanks to Flint beating it back into him, Tas was able to talk.

“I finally made it. I bet you missed me, didn’t you?”

Ignoring Flint’s resounding “NO!” Tas prattled on. “I missed you. I had the most wonderful adventure. I’ll have to tell you.”

The kender divested himself of his pouches, spread them around him, settled down to sit beneath the tree. “Where shall I begin? I know. The Kender Spoon of Turning. It was given to me b y—”

“What do you think you’re doing?” Flint demanded. Hands on his hips, he glared at the kender.

“Resting here underneath your tree,” Tas returned. “Why? What do you think I’m doing?” He looked interested. “Is it something different from what / think I’m doing? Because if it is—”

“Confound you!” Flint growled. “It’s not what you’re doing or what you think I think you’re doing, it’s what you’re not doing!”

Tas eyed the dwarf severely. “You’re not making any sense. If you think I’m not doing what I’m supposed to be doing, and if I think I am doing what I’m not supposed to be doing, then—”

“Shut up!” Flint groaned, clutched at his head.

“Is something the matter, Flint?”

“You’re giving me a headache! That’s what’s the matter. Now, where was I?”

“Well, I wasn’t doing—”

“Stop!” The dwarf was breathing heavily. “I didn’t mean that. And get back up. We don’t have time to laze around. We’re due to meet Tanis and the others up there aways.” He waved his hand vaguely.

“Maybe in a little while,” Tas said, settling himself even more comfortably. “I’m awfully tired. I think I’d like to rest right here, if you don’t mind. This is an awfully nice tree. Or it would be if it wasn’t all brown and sad-looking. I think the tree’s shivering. It is chilly here. I’m cold. Aren’t you cold, Flint?”

“Cold! Of course I’m cold! I’m nearly frozen stiff. If you had come when you were supposed to—”

Tas wasn’t listening. He was assessing the situation.

“You know, Flint, I think the reason that you’re cold and I’m cold and the tree’s cold (I really do think that’s what’s wrong with it), is that there’s no fire in that forge.”