Chris Pierson - Spirit of the Wind

Riverwind shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible-”

“So at three thousand a day, and with roughly eighty thousand people in Kendermore, counting the refugees from the other towns and everything, we’re looking at,”-he counted on his fingers, muttering to himself-“somewhere around twenty-six days. Less than a month. We’ll be done a few days after Year-Turning.”

“If you can convince everyone to go along with it,” said Riverwind. “And if you can make things work as smoothly as you say.”

“You’re missing the point,” Kronn said. “You’re thinking about it from too high up. All you see is the problem of organizing the whole thing. Look at it from the perspective of a kender. It’s a big adventure, Riverwind-maybe the biggest in Kendermore’s history. And there’s nothing my people love more than adventure.”

“All right,” Riverwind relented. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. But I really need to go home and sleep, Kronn.”

The kender nodded happily. “That’s good enough for me. Now,” he added, looking up and down the narrow, twisting street, “if I can just figure out which way your home is….”

Riverwind groaned.

Before noon the next day, Riverwind had convinced himself Kronn’s plan might work. “We just have to spread the word,” he told Paxina when the Thistleknots and the Plainsfolk gathered at his house that afternoon. “And we have to make sure everyone doesn’t try to leave at once.”

“Well, the first part’s easy,” Paxina said. “Word spreads quickly around here, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ll call an emergency meeting of the Kender Council for tomorrow morning. With their help, every kender in town will know about it by sunset. As for the second, we’ll draw lots and make lists. Make a game of it. It could be quite an adventure.”

Kronn winked at Riverwind.

Brightdawn, who had listened to Kronn’s plan dubiously, narrowed her eyes. “Do we really have enough time?”

“Not if we sit around talking,” Catt said. “If you ask me, it’s worth a shot.”

“Good,” Paxina said, “because I’m putting you in charge.”

“Great,” Catt said. “I’m up for the challenge.”

“There it is.” Kronn said. He started toward the door. “Come on, Riverwind. Let’s go see if Giffel’s done with that ogre leader yet.”

One of the problems with Kendermore-although its people never really considered it a problem-was that it had nothing whatsoever that resembled a jail. There wasn’t much point, according to kender thinking. After all, a city only needed a jail if it had criminals, and Kendermore was happily short of crime. Murder was unheard of. The worst fights that broke out among the city’s denizens were vicious taunting contests that never resulted in physical violence-well, rarely. And theft… well, as everyone knew, the kender never stole anything.

The lack of a suitable place to keep prisoners had seldom bothered anyone in Kendermore before. When it had come to deciding what to do with Baloth, the ogre officer Riverwind had captured during the attack on the walls, however, the kender had been at a loss. They’d needed somewhere to put him immediately, and there was nowhere suitable for something as large and dangerous as an ogre. Baloth, who was relatively short for one of his kind, still towered two heads above even Riverwind. The ogre was more than twice as tail as the largest kender in the city.

It had been Giffel Birdwhistle who’d come up with the solution to the problem. “if there’s nowhere to put him up here in the city,” he’d told Riverwind and Kronn the day after the attack, “maybe we can stash him down in the tunnels. They were built by humans, so I think we can squeeze him in, and there’s a few locked vaults down there. We can put Old Hairless in one of those.”

So, with Riverwind’s agreement, the kender had dragged Baloth down into the catacombs beneath the city. It hadn’t been easy-the ogre barely fit down the narrow stairs and had struggled all the way-but at last they’d hauled him into a large, high-ceilinged chamber, shut the door, and used their picks to lock it.

“I’ll tear off your arms and legs!” Baloth’s muffled voice had shouted from within the vault. “I’ll crush your skulls like walnuts!”

Giffel had only smiled again. “Don’t worry. He may not feel like talking now, but give me a day alone with him. I’ll wear him down.”

“What?” Riverwind had asked, horrified. “You’re not going to torture him, are you?”

“Torture?” Giffel had asked. His face had contracted into an offended frown. “What kind of fiend do you take me for? I’m not a goblin, you know. When I said I needed a day alone with him, that’s just what I meant.”

“Look, Riverwind,” Kronn had explained. “The dwarves have a saying about us-well, actually they have a lot of sayings about us, and frankly I find most of them pretty offensive. But this one’s true. ‘There’s nothing worse than a bored kender.’”

Riverwind had nodded, recognizing the sentiment. He’d heard Flint Fireforge say it, years ago, on more than one occasion.

Giffel had puffed out his chest at this. “So I’m going to go in there,”-he’d jerked his thumb at the vault, where Baloth was still shouting-“and I’m not bringing anything with me. No weapons, no pouches, nothing. I figure it’ll take a few minutes before I start getting bored. Then, to pass the time, I’ll talk to Baloth. Ask him questions, tell him stories, maybe even sing some songs. Come back tomorrow-he’ll be ready to tell you anything you want by then.”

Kronn and Catt had grinned, and Riverwind had raised his eyebrows. “It could work,” he’d said.

“It will work,” Giffel had answered. “Uncle Trapspringer did the same thing with a hobgoblin once. That was just before he almost blew himself up trying to use that gnomish flying machine.”

With that, Giffel Birdwhistle had taken off his chapak and armor, removed his pouches and purses, emptied his pockets, and even kicked off his bright blue shoes. Unarmed, empty-handed, and completely bereft of any object of even the slightest interest, he’d walked to the door and waited while one of the guards picked the lock open. Catt had stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with pride at Giffel’s bravery, and kissed him on the cheek. Then the door had swung open, and Giffel had turned, waved cheerily to the furious, hairless ogre, and walked into the vault.

“Hi!” he’d begun brightly. “You must be Baloth. Pleased to meet you. My name’s Giffel Birdwhistle. I’ve had a very interesting life. Would you like to hear about it?”

With a loud thud the door had shut, and a kender guard, armed for any circumstance, had locked it again.

At around midnight, a strange sound had risen from behind the vault door-a low, strained whimpering that nearly drowned out the constant sound of Giffel’s prattling voice. The guards outside the cell had listened to it with rapt interest. They had never heard an ogre weep before.

That was yesterday. Today Giffel was tired and hungry as he emerged from the vault, but he was smiling nonetheless. “He’s ready for you,” he said to Kronn and Riverwind. “I’ll be waiting out here if you need me.”

Kronn clapped the tall kender on the back. Then he and Riverwind walked through the door. The old Plainsman stopped a few steps into the room, his eyes widening as the door swung shut behind them. “Mishakal have mercy,” he breathed. “What did he do to him?”

Baloth lay in a corner of the room, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. His face was wet with tears and drool, and there was an unpleasant vacancy in his eyes. At the sound of the Plainsman’s voice, his head snapped up and he looked around wildly. When his eyes fell upon Kronn, he shrank away, whining feebly. “No,” he moaned. “No more kender. Please! Go away!”