Margaret Weis - Heroes And Fools

There seemed to be no pattern to the streets. They did not radiate outward from the center, like the spokes of a wheel-the last two dwarven towns the draconian passed through were like that. The streets did not form a grid or any other geometric shape that dwarves seemed to be fond of. They were random and curvy, some a mix of cobblestones and earth, some paved with the same bricks used in the stoutest dwellings, some dead-ending into the backs of buildings.

In what the draconian surmised passed for the center of the town, a fountain topped with a statue of a warrior-dwarf bubbled merrily, the water spewing from the stone fellow’s mouth. No, not water, he noticed on second glance. Ale. All around the edge of the fountain sat a mix of dwarven and kender musicians dressed in bright reds and yellows. The former were thumping long, slender drums that rested between their knees, and the latter had just begun to play flutes and curved bell horns that glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The smallest kender had tiny metal plates attached to her fingers, which she clinked together at what seemed-judging by the look of the other musicians’ faces-the most inopportune times. A young female dwarf was attempting to direct them by waving an empty mug in the air. Her other hand gripped a full mug that she frequently sipped from.

In front of the musicians strolled a most portly dwarf. He was dressed in a shiny runic, striped horizontally green and blue, which did nothing to help conceal the ample stomach that hung over his wide belt. Stroking his short black beard and staring at a piece of curling parchment he held in a meaty hand, he seemed to be practicing a speech.

“I, Gustin Stoutbeard, hie acting mayor of Neidarbard. .” He cleared his throat and started again, the words slightly slurred.

The draconian’s gaze shifted to the southern edge of town, where tables upon tables sat end to end. They were covered with red and green cloths and dozens of bouquets of spring flowers. Dwarven and kender women bustled around them setting out plates and mugs. A firepit was nearby, and a great boar was roasting over it, being turned by a dwarf with massively muscled arms. The scent of the meat hung heavy in the air and made the sivak’s belly rumble.

“I, Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting. .”

The music swelled, drowning out the acting mayor, the clinking from the kender child coming at regular intervals now, and the drummers beating out a syncopated rhythm that did not sound altogether bad.

The draconian stood on his tiptoes, a considerable feat given the body he’d adopted, craned his neck, and looked through a gap in all of the decorations. There! The mountains beckoned beyond Neidarbard, part of the Redstone Bluffs. Beyond those mountains was the blessed forest, safety, and the company of his own kind.

Ignoring the protestations of his empty stomach, he took a deep breath and strolled purposefully down the main street and toward the fountain.

“Hey!”

The sivak scowled as he felt a rugging on his cape-wings. He glanced down and over his shoulder, spotting a kender with two topknots. The kender had a large book in his hands, opened to a page with an illustration of a dwarf. The kender looked at the picture, then at the dra-conian, hiccuped, releasing a cloud of ale-breath. “Hey!” He beamed. “It’s Reorx! You are Reorx, aren’t you? Hic .”

The draconian did his best to ignore the besotted young man and took another step toward the mountains, but the kender was persistent and hurried to plant himself in the sivak’s path. “Where are you going, Reorx? Do you mind if I call you Reorx?”

The dwarf he’d slain had made some mention of Reorx, the draconian recalled. “If I say I am this Reorx, young man, will you go away?”

The kender’s eyes widened, he hiccuped again, and he nodded vigorously.

“Very well. I am Reorx.”

The kender was quick to scoot out of his path, stuffing the book under one arm, topknots bobbing as he ran toward the acting mayor-who had stopped at the fountain to fill his mug.

“ Hic . I, Gustin Stoutbeard. .”

As the kender rugged on the acting mayor’s clothes the draconian continued on his way. He passed by the musicians, slowing for only the briefest of moments when the delicate strains of a flute stirred something inside him, then slipped between a trio of two-story buildings, the bottom floors of which were businesses. One had a bright yellow-orange sign out front in the shape of a beehive. “Best-Ever Honey,” it read. The next was a baker’s, and all manner of elaborately decorated cakes and cookies sat tantalizingly in the window. The draconian’s stomach growled louder, and he urged himself along. The third was a barber’s, and through the open window he spied a young dwarf receiving a beard trim.

The music swelled as he thrust all these chaotic trappings of society to the back of his mind and set his sights once again on the mountains. He renewed his pace and actually made it another few yards before his cape was tugged on again. Growling softly in his throat, he turned to meet the gaze of the fat dwarf, Gustin Stoutbeard.

“Are you really Reorx? Hic .”

The draconian scowled. “Yes, yes, I am Reorx, and I am in a hurry.” He pointed a stubby finger toward the foothills. “So if you will excuse-”

“You are really Reorx?” The fat dwarf swayed on his feet and blinked, as if trying to focus. “ Hic .”

“Yes.”

“ Really, really Reorx?” The fat dwarf hiccuped again.

“Yes. I am really Reorx. And you and everyone else in this town are really intoxicated. Now if you don’t mind-

“We’s s’been celebrarin’ allllll s’day,” a black-bearded dwarf cut in. One of the drummers, he had wandered over to listen in. “S’day of the s’festival, ya s’know. We’s don’ts drinks much otherwise. ‘Cept unless we’s thirsty.”

The acting mayor glanced at the kender, who’d come up behind him and handed him another mug. The kender pulled the book from under his arm, opened it, and pointed to a full-page picture of a dwarf. The acting mayor got a good look. The draconian squinted at the picture-the breastplate indeed was similar to the one he displayed, as were the cape and the boots. The leggings were not quite so bright a red, but that could be attributed to a printer’s error.

“The Forge!” the acting mayor bellowed, as he dropped the mug of ale in surprise. He waved his arms, looking like a plump bird trying hopelessly to take to the air. “Everyone! The Forge has returned! Hid”

The music immediately stopped, and the townsfolk, kender and dwarves alike, seemed to utter a collective gasp. Then instruments were hurriedly set down, plates left in a stack, decorations left dangling. All the residents appeared to be thundering the sivak’s way.

“I really must be leaving.”

“I, Gustin-” the acting mayor slurred.

“Yes, I know who you are. You are Gustin Stoutbeard, the acting mayor of Neidarbard.”

Gustin’s cherubic face displayed surprise. “You know who I am? Hic. Hic . You know that I am the acting mayor here? Well. You truly are Reorx. Hic .”

“Yes. Yes. I am Reorx. I’ve said that three times now. I am indeed Reorx, and I must be on my way.” The dra-conian was breaking into a sweat. He could only maintain a form for so many hours, and he did not want be discovered. He needed to get out of this town and into the mountains, where the shadows from the peaks would conceal his silver body. “I’ve things to attend to, someplace I must be.”

The acting mayor seemed not to hear him. “I, Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of the fine village of Neidarbard hie proclaim the opening of the Festival of the Forge in hie honor of the greatest of Krynn’s gods, Reorx!” He stuffed the parchment with the rest of the speech into his pocket and continued, his voice raising in volume and authority. “We have been hie blessed, my friends. .