Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Kronn’s brows knitted. “But that’s not what the legends say.”

“Which legend is that?” Tika asked acidly. “The one where Tanis shot the green dragon out of the sky with his bow, and Caramon cut off its head when it hit the ground? Or the one where the two of them killed and skinned a blue and snuck into Neraka wearing its hide?”

Caramon chuckled. Kronn, however, was serious. “Both of them,” he said. “I always wondered, how did you think of that thing with the skin? That’s pretty smart. How’d you keep the other dragons from smelling you, though?”

“They didn’t-that is, we didn’t… oh, blast.” Caramon put a hand to his forehead. “Look, there are all sorts of stories about us. Bards started making them up before the War of the Lance was even over, and they’ve had another thirty years to practice. If they were all true, Tanis and I would have killed fifty dragons by ourselves.”

“Not to mention the story about Sturm and Kitiara sailing to the moon,” Tika added. “Or all the tales about them fighting dragons and draconians years before the War started.”

“We even had one idiot come in last year claiming Raistlin once had passed as a woman in disguise!” called Clemen. “The big guy showed him the quick way down from this tree.”

“Anyway, I’m afraid the stories you’ve heard are like those,” Caramon finished sympathetically. “The truth is, I’ve never killed a dragon in my life. And I’m no youngster, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

Kronn’s face fell. “You sure look big and strong to me.”

Tika stepped up to the kender, glaring. “Get this straight, Mr. Thistlebulb,” she snapped.

“Thistleknot.”

“Whatever. My husband has done a lot of boneheaded things in his life, but dragon-slaying isn’t one of them-to say nothing of thwarting ogre armies. And there’s no way I’m going to let him start up again. Listen to him.” She waved her hand at Caramon. “He’s not the man he used be, you know. He’s old, fat, and slow-and he never was very bright. I doubt he could even kill a hobgoblin these days.”

“Thanks, Tika,” Caramon muttered.

“Oh dear,” Kronn said resignedly. He glanced at Catt, who shared his crestfallen expression. “But we’ve got to bring some hero to help us.”

“I will go.”

Astonished eyes turned toward the stool beside the fire. Riverwind rose from his seat and came forward, leaving Clemen, Borlos, and Osler to gape, wide-eyed, at his back. “I will go with you,” he said to the kender.

“Father!” Moonsong exclaimed as she and Brightdawn hurried after him.

Caramon stared at the Plainsman, shocked. “You’re not serious.”

“I will go with them,” Riverwind repeated.

“You can’t defeat a dragon all by yourself, Father,” Brightdawn argued. “It’s impossible!”

“Impossible?” Riverwind asked. “Like a poor, heretic shepherd wooing a princess?” He looked at Caramon. “Like the group of us bringing back the gods? Like stopping Chaos from destroying the world?”

Caramon shook his head, scowling. He started to say something, caught Riverwind’s fierce look, and bit his tongue. Brightdawn and Moonsong stared at their father, their faces lined with worry.

“For the love of Reorx, man!” called Borlos, rising from his place beside the fire. “They’re just kender.”

Riverwind glared at Borlos even more fiercely, and Borlos sank back into his chair and looked at the floor. The Plainsman turned back to Kronn and Catt. Solemnly, he offered them his hand.

“I am Riverwind of Que-Shu,” he said. “I don’t know much about dragons either, but I have love and admiration in my heart for the kender. I will go with you and do the best I can.”

The trees of Solace blazed red with the rising sun. Birdsong filled the air, and squirrels chased each other across the inn’s steep roof. Caramon and Riverwind stood on the balcony outside the tavern, smelling the tempting aroma of cooking fires that drifted on the wind. They cupped mugs of hot tarbean tea in their hands, taking occasional sips to keep the morning’s chill at bay.

“A good day for traveling,” Riverwind noted.

Caramon grunted, took another sip of his tea, and set it down on the balcony’s dew-dappled railing.

Neither man had slept; neither man had wanted to. Soon after Riverwind declared his desire to help the kender, Clemen, Borlos, and Osler had slipped away and the rest had gone upstairs to bed-first Moonsong and Brightdawn, then Kronn and Catt. Last of all Tika had kissed her husband good night, embraced Riverwind with tears in her eyes, and left them alone. The Plainsman had helped Caramon drag a straw pallet into the tavern and lay the drunken tinker out on it. After that, the two old men, who had been friends for more than thirty years, had sat together the whole night through.

“Kendermore,” Caramon muttered.

Riverwind glanced at him, then chuckled, gazing at the vallenwoods’ waving branches. “I know what I’m doing, Caramon.”

“Do you?” Caramon persisted. “Riverwind, you’re sixty-five years old, and you want to pick up and travel across Ansalon to fight a dragon at the behest of two kender you’ve never even met before tonight.” He scowled. “If that makes so much sense to you, could you please explain it to me?”

“They are the children of brave Kronin,” said the Plainsman.

Caramon grunted.

“I owe Tasslehoff as much,” Riverwind added.

Caramon snorted, throwing up his hands.

“You know why I must do this,” Riverwind said.

“You’ll be lucky to survive the trip, let alone kill this Malystryx or defeat an entire army of ogres.”

“Maybe so. But I believe there’s a reason those two arrived the same day I did. A reason known only to the departed gods.”

A thrush landed on the railing, not far from where the two men stood. It peered at them curiously, then twittered and was gone in a flutter of wings.

“You’re batty,” Caramon murmured.

Riverwind winked. “Not yet, old friend,” he allowed. He raised his mug to his lips, draining it in one swallow.

“But dying in battle sure beats dying in bed.”

Caramon cooked breakfast, frying eggs and sausage and making a hash of last night’s uneaten potatoes. Drawn by the smell, Riverwind’s daughters came down from their rooms, as did the kender. Tika brewed a fresh pot of tarbean tea, then went into the storeroom to gather provisions for the travelers: cheese, hardtack, smoked venison and dried apples. She gave them fresh wineskins too, filled with what ale remained from Caramon’s special keg. When Riverwind reached for his purse to pay for the supplies, Caramon stubbornly waved him off.

No one spoke of dragons.

“I hear you’re betrothed, Moonsong,” Tika said.

The Chieftain’s Daughter blushed, lowering her eyes demurely. “Yes,” she said. “At the beginning of the summer, Stagheart of Que-Teh promised himself to me.”

“He didn’t have much choice,” Brightdawn added, grinning wickedly. “Not after Father caught the two of them together in the paddocks east of town.”

“Brightdawn!” Moonsong protested, her face growing darker still.

“Father gave Stagheart a choice,” the younger twin continued, undaunted. “Either he could accept his punishment, or he could agree to a Courting Quest.”

“What was the punishment?” asked Kronn around a mouthful of sausage.

“In our tribe, a warrior who disgraces himself must dress in women’s clothing for a year,” Riverwind explained. “It is a mark of shame.”

“Actually, Father could have banished him from the village, if he wanted,” Brightdawn added. “Lucky for Stagheart, he’s Chief Nightshade’s son.”