Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Caramon and Tika nodded, understanding. Nightshade was Chieftain of the Que-Teh, who were more powerful than any tribe on the Plains, save the Que-Shu. He and Riverwind had been friends since shortly after the war, and he had been an important ally in uniting the smaller tribes. A marriage between his son and Riverwind’s daughter would only strengthen the link between the two tribes.

“I take it he’s on his Courting Quest now,” Caramon said dryly.

Moonsong, who had been enduring the conversation in embarrassed silence, raised her chin proudly. “Father sent him into the hills. A griffon has been preying on our tribe’s horses in the south fields all summer. When Stagheart returns to Que-Shu with the griffon’s head, we will be married. Mother will conduct the ceremony.”

“And if he doesn’t,” Brightdawn added, “I’m sure Mother can spare him one of her gowns.”

Moonsong shoved her sister, nearly knocking her off the bench, then turned to their father. “Why don’t you ask her about Swiftraven?” she asked.

“There’s nothing to ask!” Brightdawn protested, seeing Riverwind’s brows lower. “I swear!”

“Who’s Swiftraven?” Catt asked.

“Nightshade’s younger son,” Riverwind said. “A mere boy.”

“He’s eighteen, Father,” Brightdawn grumbled.

“Six years younger than you. You should find someone your age.”

“I’m six years younger than Caramon, Riverwind,” Tika interrupted.

Riverwind looked at her, then at Brightdawn. Both women looked back at him defiantly.

“Take my advice, Riverwind,” Caramon said, grinning. “Run while you still can.”

The room rang with laughter, but soon lapsed into an awkward silence. Riverwind cleared his throat. “We should be going,” he said. He pushed his chair back from the dining table and rose, his leather armor creaking. “It is a long ride across the Plains. We must leave if we are to reach my village before dark.”

They walked to the door. Kronn and Catt went ahead to fetch their ponies and the Plainsfolk’s horses. Moonsong and Brightdawn each embraced both Caramon and Tika, then left as well.

Riverwind stood for a moment, framed by the doorway as he faced his friends. Tika hugged him tightly, burying her face against his fur vest. “Riverwind,” she sobbed. “You shouldn’t be going to Kendermore. Not now, especially…

Gently, he pushed her away from him, then put a finger to her lips. He reached out and stroked her silver-red hair.

She shook her head stubbornly, sniffling. He bent down and kissed her forehead.

“I will miss you, Tika,” the Plaimsman said.

She turned and left, heading into the depths of the inn so she could be alone. Caramon watched her go, then turned back to face Riverwind. The two men regarded each other, neither wanting to speak first.

“Father!” Brightdawn’s voice drifted up from the street below. “Come on!”

Caramon bowed his head. “You’ve been a good friend,” he said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to control it.

“And you have been more than a friend,” Riverwind replied.

The two men embraced, neither needing to put further words to what he felt. Riverwind drew Caramon closer.

“Goldmoon will come to you, if anything happens to me,” Riverwind murmured. He reached into his fur vest and produced a small, silver scroll tube. “When she does, I want you to give her this.”

“Of course,” Caramon answered, his voice choked with emotion. He took the tube from his friend and slid it into his pocket.

“Goodbye, my friend,” Riverwind said, and walked out the door.

Caramon stood alone in the tavern, his head bowed, listening to the sound of the Plainsman’s boots upon the stairs.

Smoke choked the streets of the town of Myrtledew, rising to blot the sun from the clear, blue sky. Burning ashes floated on the wind, which fanned the flames that crackled all across the village. The air reeked of burning-the rich smell of wood, the wet odor of straw, the sickly sweet stench of hair and flesh. The fire had already consumed the town’s entire southern half and had started to work its way north.

Kurthak the Black-Gazer stood amid the carnage, his scabrous lips curled into a scowl. The ogre warlord scratched his coarse, green-black beard and glowered at the flames, shifting the weight of his great spiked club on his shoulder. His eyes-the left one nothing but an empty socket-narrowed with disgust as he regarded the remnants of the kender village.

“Sloppy,” he growled.

Tragor, his second-in-command, grunted and spat in the soot. He weighed his massive, two-handed sword, watching the blood run down the groove in the middle of its blade. “We did good enough.”

“No,” Kurthak snapped. He glowered at Tragor, gesturing at the warrior’s bloody blade. “We killed too many.”

“Live kender, dead kender,” Tragor rumbled. “What’s the difference?”

Kurthak shook his great, shaggy head, his ox-homed helmet glinting in the ruddy firelight. “I have explained this to you, Tragor,” he snarled. “A dead kender is no good to us.”

“At least they shut up when they’re dead.”

A snort that might have been laughter erupted from Kurthak’s lips. “Still,” Kurthak grunted, “I gave specific orders. Take them alive. Any clan-chief who didn’t heed me will bleed this night.”

The attack had begun at midday. When Kurthak’s war band-a thousand warriors, only a fraction of the total horde-had descended upon Myrtledew from the shattered wastelands to the east, the surprised kender had been unable to raise any defenses in time. There had been no keeping the ogres from running rampant through town. A few of the kender had fought, but most sought to escape-not out of fear, of course, but because they knew they had no hope of winning and preferred to fight another day.

Escape, however, had not been so easy. The ogres had surrounded the town, cutting it off and slaughtering those who tried to flee west, into the depths of the Kenderwood. Their bloodlust awakened by the fighting, Kurthak’s warriors had rampaged through the village, hacking and smashing anything smaller than they were. By the time the fighting was done, nearly half of Myrtledew’s population of several hundred kender were dead. Of the survivors, many were indeed useless to Kurthak-children, the old, the sick. The ogres had put most of them to the sword.

The rest, however, were being rounded up, even now, amid the blazing wreckage. Kurthak watched as a squad of heavily armed ogres locked a cluster of thirty kender in irons and marched them, at spearpoint, toward the edge of the village. The fierce-spirited kender shuffled along, the chains that shackled their ankles rattling as they made their way toward the slave wagons that waited on the east side of town. They looked truly miserable, which only increased Kurthak’s satisfaction as he watched them pass.

“My lord!” the leader of the warriors called. He turned away from his men and hurried toward Kurthak and Tragor. He was a wart-covered brute with a jagged brown snaggletooth jutting from his mouth. The ritual scars on his cheeks and the horsetail plume on his helmet identified him as a low-ranking officer in Kurthak’s band.

“Argaad,” the Black-Gazer responded. “What news?”

“We captured these wretches at the riverside,” Argaad reported, his chest puffing with pride as he gestured behind him. “They tried to escape on a barge, but we stopped them.”

“Good work,” Kurthak said. He slapped the warrior on the shoulder. “You have done your clan proud.”

“Thank you, my lord.” Argaad bobbed his head, beaming with pride. “I give them to you as a gift. It is an honor to serve you. If you should need a bodyguard, or someone to lead the next attack-”