Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“Are you sure?” Swiftraven asked, dubiously regarding the road Kronn had been pointing at.

Kronn shrugged. “Pretty much.”

As it turned out, he was right. They followed Straight Street-which, of course, curved and wended about worse than a drunken sailor at low tide-until they reached Tornado Alley, a wide road that shot straight through the south side of town.

“This really was made by an honest-to-goodness tornado, you know,” Paxina announced as they pushed their way down through the street, through the milling throng. “Happened about forty years ago-the thing just tore through town. Sucked poor Uncle Trapspringer up and spat him out its top.” She shook her head. “Luckily, he came down again.”

As Kronn had promised, the road led almost directly to the gates, ending suddenly only a hundred paces from the city wall. The company snaked its way around several narrower, twisting streets-including one that doubled back on itself unexpectedly-until finally they arrived at a cobblestone-paved courtyard.

“Almighty goddess,” Riverwind swore, staring.

The tall, stout gates stood at the plaza’s far side, closed, barred, and blocked by a strong but somewhat rusty portcullis. That wasn’t what held the Plainsfolk’s attention, however. In front of the gates was a heap of refuse. Lumber, paving stones, and old, broken furniture had been piled two-thirds of the way to the tops of the great doors. Even as they watched, kender carried random bits of junk-one brought an old, cast-iron weather vane, and two others hauled a broken wheelbarrow-and threw them on the mound.

“As you figured out,” Paxina proclaimed, gesturing at the barricade, “we weren’t going to open the gates in any hurry yesterday.”

“It certainly doesn’t look like anyone’s going to get through there now,” Brightdawn declared, staring.

“Paxina!” shouted a voice from the barbican above the gates.

The company looked up and saw a grizzled kender waving down at them. Unlike most of the other kender they had seen, he was clad in a chain mail hauberk and metal greaves. A bright red headband held back his long, gray hair, keeping it out of his eyes as the hot wind whipped it about his head.

“That’s Brimble Redfeather,” Kronn told the others. “He’s a bit-something of a war dog, you could say.”

“That’s one way of putting it,” Paxina agreed, grinning. “Blood and thunder, Paxina!” Brimble shouted down at them, glowering fiercely. “Where in the Abyss have you been? I’ve got half my runners out looking for you!”

“I was looking in on my injured sister, if you must know!” Paxina shouted back. “What’s so important?”

Brimble scowled down from the gatehouse. “Better if you just come up here,” he answered. “Bring the barbarians if you want.” He turned away, looking out over the battlements at the field below.

There were stairs near the edge of the barricade. Riverwind and Swiftraven helped Kronn clear the refuse away from them; then the party climbed up to the catwalk that ran along the top of the wall. The battlements were lined with kender-archers and slingers, mostly. Some of them stared curiously at the Plainsfolk as they climbed the stairs, but most didn’t even turn, their attention directed south across the meadow.

“All right,” Paxina said, striding to the battlements. “What’s so all-fired important-”

Her voice broke off suddenly, and she could only stare, speechless, at what the other kender were looking at. Riverwind and the others paused, taken aback by the amazement on the Lord Mayor’s face, then gasped in astonishment when they beheld what Brimble had wanted them to see.

There were ogres everywhere-thousands upon thousands of them, camped at the edge of the Kenderwood. For every monster who had chased Kronn and the Plainsfolk yesterday, there were five or ten now. Plumes of smoke drifted skyward from hundreds of campfires, and the sounds of shouting, cursing and bestial laughter rang out across the meadow.

“It’s a real, no-fooling siege now, Your Honor,” Brimble declared as he stumped over to join them. He spat licorice juice down into the courtyard below. “They showed up last night, most of them-and they’ve been arriving all morning long, too.”

“There’s so many,” Brightdawn breathed.

Riverwind frowned at the camps, which stretched to the left and right as far as they could see. “Is it like this all around the city?” he asked.

“More or less,” Brimble affirmed. He peered up at the old Plainsman, then grinned. “Branchala bite me, you’re a big one.”

“This is Riverwind of Que-Shu, Brimble,” Kronn said, swiftly stepping in. “He’s a Hero of the Lance.”

“No kidding,” Brimble said. He extended his hand, and Riverwind saw he was missing his little finger. “Glad to meet you. I fought in the war myself, way back when. Always good to meet another veteran-we’re getting scarcer and scarcer these days.”

Riverwind took Brimble’s hand and shook it firmly. The old kender’s grip was surprisingly strong.

“Know a thing or two about siege craft, then, do you?” Riverwind nodded, the corners of his mouth rising into the ghost of a smile. “I do,” he declared. “I was at Kalaman, at the end of the war.”

“Really?” Brimble’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I am impressed.”

“What happened at Kalaman?” Kronn asked.

Brimble glared at him. “What happened at-Fizban’s britches, Thistleknot, didn’t your old dad teach you anything? Kalaman was only one of the biggest sieges since Balif’s day!”

“The dragonarmies tried to take the city back from the Golden General’s armies in the last days of the war,” Brightdawn proudly explained to Kronn. “Father led the defense.”

“I wasn’t alone,” Riverwind added modestly. “I had help from Gilthanas of Qualinesti, and Lord Michael Jeofrey, of the Knights of Solamnia.”

“For two weeks solid, the draconians threw themselves at the walls,” Brimble said. His tone was almost reverent as he regarded the old Plainsman. “And for two weeks the knights and elves and the rest threw them back. Reorx’s beard, I’d have given my other nine fingers to be there.” He reached up and slapped Riverwind on the shoulder.

“You’re welcome to lend a hand, friend. We could use more like you.”

Riverwind returned the old kender’s smile, then turned back to the battlements and gazed out across the meadow again toward the enemy camp.

Kurthak stood at the edge of the camp, his good eye fixed on Kendermore’s walls. After a while, he snorted and shook his head. “The fools,” he growled.

“My lord?” Tragor asked. As always, the Black-Gazer’s champion stood nearby. He leaned against his great sword, which was planted point-down in the parched, dusty earth.

“They fortify their walls,” the hetman answered. “They post archers and slingers. They arm themselves for battle. Don’t they realize what they face? We could topple their walls today if I gave the order to march. Kendermore would be ashes by nightfall. They’ll draw breath tomorrow only because I wish it-I and Malystryx. Surely they must know this, and yet they carry on as if they had a hope of surviving.”

“They’re kender,” Tragor grunted. “What did you expect-surrender? They don’t know fear.”

“They don’t, do they?” Kurthak snarled. He folded his arms, tilting his head back arrogantly. “There’s a first time for everything, Tragor. By the time this siege is done, Twill have their Lord Mayor on her knees before me.” He patted his massive, spiked club, which hung from his belt. Beside it dangled the severed heads of three kender, bound in place by their topknots. Flies buzzed around the grisly trophies, moving in and out of their wide-gaping mouths. He gazed down at the heads fondly for a moment, then reached down and cupped one in his hand. It lolled sideways as he stared at it, its rolled-back eyes showing little but whites. The stump of its neck smeared his palm with sticky, half-dried blood.