Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Despite the twins’ beauty however, it was Riverwind who held everyone’s attention. The Plainsman sat on a high stool by the fire, his back erect and his eyes gleaming beneath his stem brow. His left hand gripped his flagon of ale, his right dancing like a weaver’s shuttle at the loom as he recounted the story of his first meeting with Caramon and the Companions.

“We never expected anything more than a meal and a bed for the night, Goldmoon and I,” he said. “We were led here by a man who wore the armor of a Knight of Solamnia-Sturm Brightblade. He was polite, but…” He searched for the right word. “Diffident. When he decided we were safe, he went to join his friends, whom he told us he had not seen in a very long time. We sat by the fire, much as we are now, although the Inn was very crowded that night. There was an old man there, telling ancient stories to a young boy. He was the one who started it all.”

The tale spun on. Riverwind told of the song he and Goldmoon had played, of how the Seeker Hederick had fallen into the hearthfire while trying to arrest them for heresy, and of how the blue crystal staff had shone after Tasslehoff used it to heal the Seeker’s bums. He recalled his shock when the old man-who, he would learn much later, was Paladine himself in disguise-had called for the guards, forcing the Plainsfolk to escape through the inn’s kitchen. Joining with Tanis and Sturm, Caramon and Raistlin, Flint and Tasslehoff, they had fled to Tika’s house while the goblins searched for them.

“There we were,” the old Plainsman recalled, his eyes distant with memory, “hiding in the dark like bandits. I didn’t know any of the others yet-and, to be honest, I didn’t trust them.”

“The man’s a good judge of character,” drawled Borlos, taking a long pull from his tankard.

“Aw, shut up,” Caramon said, scowling. Everyone laughed.

Osler cuffed Borlos on the arm. “Let the man tell his story, Bor.”

Riverwind took a drink from his own mug, smiling as the fine ale moistened his parched throat. “The goblins were thorough that night, searching house-to-house,” he continued, setting down the flagon. “Our plan was to pretend there was no one home, but somehow no one remembered to shut the door. By the time Tanis realized, it was too late-the goblins were almost on top of us.

“Caramon went over by the doorway and waited. When the goblins came in, he grabbed them from behind, and-” he clapped his hands, the sudden sound making the card players jump “-he cracked their heads together. They were dead before they knew what hit them.”

The others laughed at this, but Riverwind raised a hand, silencing them. “That’s not the best part,” he said, smiling. “When Tanis asked what had happened, Caramon just sighed and said ‘I think I hit ‘em too hard.’ ”

The card players laughed uproariously. Riverwind’s daughters joined in, and even Tika-who had heard this tale more than any of them-chuckled at her husband’s expense. Sighing, Caramon shook his head and rose.

“Who’s for another?” he asked.

Everyone, Riverwind included, raised their tankards in the air.

Caramon walked to the keg, listening to Riverwind describe how they had deliberately smashed up Tika’s house after killing the goblins-and Tika’s half-joking declaration that they could have been less thorough about it. As he poured a new round of drinks for his friends, the door swung open. He glanced up, raising his eyebrows in surprise when he saw who walked in.

It was the pair of kender he had seen outside the Last Heroes Tomb. The female looked to be the older of the pair, as she had more wrinkles on her otherwise girlish face, but it was the male who led the way into the tavern. They were both brightly attired-she in a red blouse and white trousers, he in hunting greens and a vivid yellow sash. The woman held a hoopak in her hands, and the man had something that looked like a dubious mixture of axe and slingshot slung across his back. They both wore their hair-hers was lustrous black, his chestnut brown-in the same style: long ponytails hanging down their backs, and short, tight braids dangling at their cheeks. Caramon had a vague recollection of Tasslehoff saying once that the strange hairstyle was a sign of noble blood among the kender. Flint had had a thing or two to say about using “noble” and “kender” in the same sentence.

The laughter by the fireside faded as Riverwind and his audience watched them walk in, striding straight up to the bar.

“Caramon Majere?” asked the male.

Caramon blinked, taken aback. “Uh,” he said, “yes?” “I’m Kronn-alin Thistleknot, son of Kronin Thistleknot,” the male stated. He nodded sideways, at his companion. “This is my sister Catt. We need you to come with us to Kendermore.”

It grew very quiet in the Inn of the Last Home. Everyone stared at the kender. Kronn and Catt stared back.

“Kendermore?” Riverwind asked.

Kronn nodded earnestly.

“Kendermore?” echoed Caramon, incredulous.

Catt leaned over the bar, her brow furrowing. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she said, “but is there a reason you’re pouring beer all over the floor?”

Caramon started, glancing down at his feet. He’d forgotten, in his distraction, to close the spigot on the keg, and nut-brown ale was gurgling out, forming a pool around his boots. Tika snorted in disgust as he fumbled to close the tap. In the moment he was turned away from the bar, Kronn grabbed one of the full tankards.

“Wait!” Caramon said. “That’s for-”

Kronn downed half the tankard’s contents in one deep draught. “Good stuff,” he remarked, wiping foam from his lips. “Plenty of hops-I like that. Brew it yourself?”

“Thanks. Yes. I-” Caramon shook his head vigorously. “Kendermore?”

Catt turned to her brother. “Why does he keep saying that?”

Tika strolled over, her hands on her hips. “Now see here,” she said. “Kendermore’s clear on the other side of Ansalon.”

A smile lit Kronn’s face as he came near. “You must be Tika,” he said.

Caramon looked around quickly, making sure there were no heavy, blunt objects his wife could reach.

“And you must be going,” Tika snapped back testily, “unless you have a damned good reason why my husband should cross an entire continent at his age.”

“Oh, there’s a good reason,” Kronn declared. “We need him to help us drive off an army of ogres.”

“An army of-” Tika repeated, her eyes widening.

“Plus there’s the dragon,” Catt added.

“Dragon?” Tika echoed.

“Her name’s Malystryx,” Kronn said, his face grave. “She’s been causing all sorts of problems, but she didn’t bother us, so we let her be. Then, last month-” He shut his eyes, his face pinched with pain. “She destroyed a village-Woodsedge was its name. Burned it to the ground. And she… she killed our father.”

“Kronin?” Caramon asked, his face ashen. “Kronin Thistleknot’s dead?”

Kronn nodded, then bowed his head, his cheek braids drooping. Catt stepped forward to continue the story. “Our sister, Paxina-she’s been in charge of Kendermore for about ten years now-sent us here,” she said. “We brought one of Father’s shoes to put in the Tomb of Last Heroes. I hope you don’t mind. And since we were going to be in Solace anyway, Pax asked us to bring back someone who knew a thing or two about dragon-slaying.” She looked up at Caramon, beaming. “Naturally, we thought of you.”

Caramon and Tika exchanged glances.

“I’m sorry,” the big man said, turning back to the kender. “I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about slaying dragons. I’ve never even fought one, not really.”