Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Thus it was that Woodsedge’s town square was crammed with onlookers as a rare flesh-and-blood hero stepped up to the firing line of the slinging contest. Kronin was, by this time, eighty-six years old, his face a maze of wrinkles and his silvery hair almost gone. He hobbled as he walked, leaning heavily on his old, worn hoopak, and his favorite purple shoes were faded with age, but his eyes were clear, and his hand didn’t shake as he delved into his belt pouch. Silence, punctuated by murmurs of awe, fell over the crowd as he rooted through the bag and started pulling out rocks.

He examined each in turn, eyeing it closely, then tossed it on the ground. Finally, on the fourth try, he produced a round, smooth stone. The furrows of his brow deepened as he regarded it. Then he nodded and tucked it into the leather pocket on the forked end of his hoopak. He brought the weapon back, carefully poised.

“Ready,” he said loudly.

The far end of the courtyard, beyond the spectators, was flanked by several small catapults. The machines were spread out at various distances, and each was cocked and loaded with a large clay disc. Now, at Kronin’s command, the kender manning the closest one-only about thirty yards away-released the catch. The catapult’s arm sprang forward, flinging the clay disc through the air.

Kronin concentrated, marking its flight, then brought his hoopak sharply forward, sending his slingstone flashing across the courtyard. It struck the middle of the disc, shattering it with a crash. Shards of clay rattled down on the cobblestones.

“Ooooh!” said the assembled kender. “Aaah!”

Kronin nodded in satisfaction, then rifled through his pouch until he found a second suitable stone. He loaded his hoopak again. “Ready,” he declared a second time.

A second catapult, this one sixty yards away, let fly. He slung again, and broke the second disc. He did the same to the third, then the fourth.

Kronn and Catt elbowed through the crowd, making their way to the front. “How’s he doing?” Kronn asked one of the officials, a bespectacled kender in a fancy, turquoise jerkin.

The official peered at him closely. “Four for four,” he replied. Another crash, this one well over a hundred yards away, rang across the courtyard, and the official turned to see the pieces of yet another disc rain down on the ground. “Make that five for five.”

Catt, who had washed and put on a clean yellow dress, raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, for an old codger,” she mused.

“Kender never lose their aim!” Kronn said proudly. “Who’s in the lead?”

Frowning, the official looked down at the slate he was using to keep score. “That’d be Yarren Ringglimmer,” he said, nodding toward a red-haired kender at the edge of the firing line. “He hit six out of seven, but this last one’s tricky. No one’s gotten it yet.”

“Really?” Kronn remarked. “Why’s that?”

“Would someone please tell my son to kindly keep his voice down?” snapped Kronin as he prepared his hoopak for a sixth shot. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry, Father,” Kronn called.

Kronin made a sour face, then peered straight down the courtyard. Two catapults, almost directly across from each other, remained unfired. Their operators stood ready, their hands on the release catches.

The crowd was completely silent. Kronin licked his lips. “Ready,” he said.

Both catapults sprang at once, their discs arcing toward each other. Kronin watched them calmly, his eyes narrowing, then brought his hoopak sharply forward.

The slingstone tore through the air. The first disc was at the apex of its flight and the second had just begun to fall when the stone smashed through them both.

The crowd broke into laughing and cheering and clapping their hands. Kronin straightened his violet silk tunic and hobbled away from the firing line. Kronn and Catt hurried forward to meet him.

“Nice shooting, Papa,” Catt said.

Kronin wrinkled his nose. “Child’s play,” he grumbled. “Hello, Catt… Kronn.” He kissed her on the cheek, then clasped arms with his son. “Who told you I was here? That old fool Metwinger, I suppose.”

“You suppose right,” Catt said.

“Hmph.” Kronin scowled, then glanced around. The crowd was starting to break up now. His eyes fixed on a nearby cluster of market stalls. “All right, then. There’s a fellow over there selling cider. Fetch me a flask and some roasted acorns. Then you can tell me why you’re here.”

“Ah,” Kronin sighed, his knees creaking as he eased himself down on the ground. He leaned back against a blossoming cherry tree, then kicked off his purple shoes and wriggled his toes as he took a long pull from his flask of cider. Kronn and Catt had traded a pocketknife and a copper saltcellar for the drink. “So, what trouble’s your big sister in now?”

Catt blinked. “How did you guess Paxina sent us?”

“Please, girl,” Kronin grumbled, rapping his temple with a gnarled finger. “Credit me with some brains. The problem with this hero business is that people always want something from me. I’m supposed to be retired, though you’d never know it. Trapspringer ‘s ears, what is it this time?”

“Well,” Kronn began, clasping his hands together, “Pax thinks we’re going to be attacked soon.”

“Again?” Kronin rolled his eyes. “Why bother me about it? Paxina didn’t need my help keeping the Knights of Takhisis from killing us all, a couple years back.”

“That was easy,” Catt countered. “Relatively speaking, of course. All Pax had to do was get us to convince the knights we could be more useful to them alive than dead. It’s different, this time; we’re dealing with ogres.”

Kronin’s eyes flared. He plucked an acorn from the small bag his children had gotten for him, and popped it in his mouth. After a moment he spat out the cap and started chewing on the bitter nutmeat. “Well, that is different. How many?”

“Thousands,” Kronn answered. “So far all we know is that ogres have been overrunning the villages of the Dairly Plains. All sorts of human refugees have been coming through the Kenderwood. It looks as though the ogres have all banded together, and are moving steadily toward Kendermore. Pax thinks we’re in real danger.”

Kronn gave a low whistle. “I can’t argue that. What does she want from me?”

“Help, Father,” Catt pleaded. “We need help.”

“I should say so,” Kronin agreed. “You’re going to need every bit of help you can get.” He munched on an acorn.

Kronn knelt beside his father. “Well?”

“I’m thinking.” Kronin frowned, chewing noisily. “I suppose Paxina wants me to come to Kendermore with you.”

“She most certainly does,” Kronn snapped.

“Well, then.” Kronin stood with a sigh, raising his flask to his lips and drinking down the last of his cider. “I learned long ago that a hero ain’t allowed to resign. Nor a father, I might add. We’ll leave tomorrow. But for tonight, let’s enjoy the feast, eh?”

By late afternoon, the catapults and debris had been cleared out of the courtyard and the large tables wheeled in, laden with more food than the entire village could hope to eat. Laughter and sumptuous smells filled the air as the kender gorged themselves on oven-hot herb breads, roasted rabbit and spring lamb, dandelion greens and pungent cheeses. Wine and ale, mead and cider, fresh milk and strawberry juice flowed freely. The feast finished with an array of puddings and cakes that satisfied the sweetest teeth in town. As the sun hung, swollen and red, over the trees to the west, many of the villagers stumbled off to sleep or passed out where they stood.

“If I eat anything else,” Kronin declared, “I worry that the buttons might fly off my shirt and put out someone’s eye.” He patted his bulging stomach contentedly.