Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

“I can never figure out where you find room for it all, Giffel,” Kronn told the tall guardsman, who had joined them for the meal.

Giffel, who had exchanged his fighting leathers for a long red shirt and maroon trousers, was chewing contentedly on a lamb haunch. “The key is to pace yourself,” he mumbled around a mouthful of meat.

“And have a belly the size of a kurpa melon,” Catt added, laughing. Giffel blushed in embarrassment.

“Looks like the band’s setting up for the dance,” Kronn noted. He pointed at a raised platform across the courtyard. A group of musicians were milling about, holding an unlikely array of instruments: triple-necked lutes, bagpipes, xylophones, a great brass horn that was bigger than the kender who played it, and a contraption that appeared to be part dulcimer, part musical saw. They started to tune up, but there seemed to be some disagreement as to which key they should play in.

“Let’s go someplace and talk,” Kronn suggested. “Giffel, take care of Catt. You promised her the first dance earlier.”

“Sure, Kronn,” the guard said. He offered his arm to Catt.

She took it. “Just don’t spin me around too fast,” she said. “All that mead’s made me a bit dizzy.”

Kronin and Kronn watched the two of them walk off toward the musicians. “Remember when you were young, how he used to put salamanders in her boots?” Kronin observed wistfully.

“Of course I do.” Kronn grinned wryly. “It was my idea.”

Kronin returned his smile. “Come on, lad,” he bade. “You’re right. We need to talk.”

It being a festival day, the palisade was largely abandoned. A few guards remained on duty overlooking the town gates, but for the most part Woodsedge’s walls remained still and silent. Kronin hobbled up the ladder to the catwalk, then sat down and leaned heavily against the battlements. Kronn came up after, and glanced up and down the palisade. There was no one close enough to hear. He turned to follow his father’s gaze, north across the Blood Sea. There was a light chop on the water, whipped up by a wind that seemed surprisingly warm for so early in the year. The sky dimmed from sunset-red to twilight-purple, and stars began to glimmer beyond the clouds.

“Father, I’m sorry to be the one dragging you off to Kendermore.” Kronn murmured. He reached in his pouch and pulled out a pebble that had caught his fancy when he’d spotted it in a streambed a few days ago. It had been splendid then, shining with bright colors, but now that it was dry it was just another gray, uninteresting rock. Kronn threw it, watching it sail over the cliff, into the surf. “I hate to interrupt your retirement.”

“Bah,” Kronin said. “Retirement’s boring, and I’m looking forward to a good fight.” He reached over and patted his son’s foot. “Actually, I’m glad you and your sister were the ones who came for me.”

“Catt was the one who offered to look for you, truth be told,” Kronn said. “Pax sent me along for protection.”

Kronin scoffed. “You’re the one needs protecting!” He looked across the village, toward the town square. “Thousands of ogres,” he remarked. “That should be interesting. Still, we’ve faced worse.”

Kronn grunted noncommittally. In his father’s lifetime, the kender had stood against the dragonarmies, the Knights of Takhisis, and the legions of Chaos. Still, something about this situation made him uneasy.

The sound of laughter and clapping hands rose from the town below, echoing weirdly off the walls of the town’s randomly scattered houses.

“How’s Paxina doing?” Kronin asked.

“Not badly,” Kronn answered. “You must have rubbed off on her-she’s a pretty good Lord Mayor. Better than I’d ever be, anyway, even if I did want-” He stopped suddenly, a deep frown darkening his face.

“Kronn?” Kronin asked. “What’s wrong?”

It was a moment before the younger kender answered. His eyes focused on something far off, a flash of movement against the darkening sky. “Uh,” he said, “have you noticed, there’s an absolutely enormous dragon out there?”

“Really?” Kronin asked, glancing up at his son with genuine interest. “What color?”

Kronn squinted. “Red.”

“Oh,” Kronin said, nodding sagely. “That’s just Malystryx-or Malys, as folks around here call her. Don’t worry about her. She turned up about a year ago-has a lair at Blood Watch, apparently. Caused an awful row among the humans, but she leaves us alone. Usually she just circles, but every now and then she puts on a show out over the water, too. A few weeks ago she picked a whole sailing ship up out of the sea.”

“She did?” Kronn asked, looking at his father sharply.

“Yup. It wasn’t a small boat, either. Just plucked it from the sea, flew over and past us, and dropped the thing somewhere in the forest. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“But you say she’s harmless?”

“Oh no, she’s harmful,” Kronin said. “But like I said, she doesn’t seem terribly interested in us.”

“Then why’s she heading straight this way?” Kronn asked.

“Eh?” With some difficult Kronin pushed himself to his feet. He looked north through the gathering gloom. The great, red dragon was indeed coming toward them, moving with dizzying speed. “Well, that’s unusual. I wonder what she’s up to.’

“I don’t like dragons,” said Kronn.

“Me neither,” said Kronin. He shrugged. “But what can you do? Don’t worry. Maybe she’s chasing something in the water-sharks, sea elves, that sort of thing. If she really meant to attack us, she’d come from above, not straight on like th-”

Before he could finish speaking, Malystryx pulled up sharply, climbing high into the sky. The two kender watched her rise, until at last she disappeared into a cloudbank.

“Hmm,” said Kronin.

A deafening screech descended from the clouds, a furious sound that made Kronn clap his hands over his pointed ears. In the town below, the music and laughter came to a sudden stop.

Kronn looked at his father, who was still staring up.

“Definitely unusual.” Kronin’s face darkened as he stared. “Go!” he said all of a sudden, through clenched teeth.

“What?” Kronn asked.

“Go! Find your sister, and that fellow of hers,” Kronin ordered. “Get the villagers into the woods.”

“But,” Kronn sputtered.

Kronin shook his head stubbornly, raising his hoopak. “I’ll only slow you down. Don’t wait for me.”

“Father-”

“Quickly, boy!” Kronin snapped. “Move!”

Kronn ran, leaping onto the ladder and sliding down to the ground. He bolted toward the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder. Kronin still stood atop the palisade, gripping his hoopak tightly. Then Kronn rounded a corner, and the village’s thatched rooftops blocked his father from view. He sprinted even faster, bursting at last into the center of town.

The courtyard was filled with kender who stood in clusters, watching the dragon’s long, sinuous form slip from cloud to cloud. They felt no fear, of course; just rapt fascination. A second shriek rang down upon them, loud enough to rattle windows.

“Catt!” Kronn shouted, pushing through the astonished crowd.

“Kronn!” answered a voice. Catt shoved several kender aside as she hurried to her brother’s side. Giffel jogged along behind her. “Where’s Papa? What’s going on?”

“We’ve got to get these people out of here,” Kronn said tersely. “Giffel, can you round up the other off-duty guards?”

“Sure, Kronn.”

“Then do it,” Kronn ordered. “Get to the town gates, and wait for us there.”

“Right.” Giffel dashed off.

Kronn grabbed Catt’s arm. “Try to get everyone’s attention.”