Margaret Weis: Heroes And Fools

“Normally, I cannot leave the area around my tree without dying slowly. Because of the state of my parent tree, I have found my boundaries to be even harsher and more limited,” she told him. If I had more strength, she reflected, I could stand over him and threaten him to get that waterskin. Now I have to use truth to get what I need, she thought.

“So that is as far as you can go,” he deduced.

She nodded. His contorted position must be causing him great pain, and his armor must be very hot, for he was sweating profusely now, she noticed. “When you first fell, I tried to come nearer, but I didn’t have the strength to approach any closer than this spot.”

The Dark Knight nodded slowly. “Then I guess I shouldn’t waste my strength talking to you, since you aren’t of any help to me. I will just stay here and wait for the others in my talon to find me.” He unscrewed the cap of the waterskin and took another sip of water. He looked sadly at the dragon that pinioned his legs. He seemed as greatly sorrowed by the creature’s death as he was frustrated by his own predicament.

“Are your friends within a day’s flight from here?” Judging by the wounds that the Knight evidenced, he might not live through the night. She knew that her tree wouldn’t.

“Why should it matter to you?” the Dark Knight returned as he screwed the cap back onto the waterskin.

“Your wounds are bad enough that I don’t think they’ll get to you soon enough,” the dryad explained.

With his left arm the Knight gestured at his legs. “My legs are crushed, not bleeding.”

“But already you roast under this sun. You’ve several more hours to go before the sun begins its descent,” the dryad noted.

“And I’ve enough water to get me through this,” the Knight said through clenched teeth. “Now enough of your incessant patter. Leave me be.”

“I can’t. My tree is dying. I desperately need the little water you have to restore it to health,” she argued.

The Knight settled onto his back. “Surely you don’t think that this bag of water will bring your dead tree back to life? Besides, I need the water more. I must survive until my talon finds me,” he replied harshly.

The dryad rested her throbbing forehead on her cradled palms. The heat was getting stronger. If she could just get the Knight to give over the waterskin, everything would be fine again. Her tree would live and she could recuperate in its shade. “The water will heal my tree,” she said defiantly. “You’re the one who is as good as dead. This talon of yours won’t ever find you amidst the ruin of this place.”

“Enough, dryad. I must rest, and your words will do me no good in that regard,” the Knight declared, sounding tired and angry at the same time.

The dryad raised her head. “From what little I know of humans, I’d think it would be rather stupid of you to sleep after the injuries you have suffered-hitting your head.”

“Really? And what makes you think that?”

She almost laughed at how he kept answering her even though he told her to stay silent. “Many seasons ago, when there were still three moons in the sky, a human dressed a little differently than you passed through my glade. He had similar metal fittings, but they didn’t form the pattern of skulls and lilies like yours. His helm still sat upon his head, though it had lost one of its metal wings and was greatly dented.” She paused to determine if he was listening. “He wandered about randomly, clearly dazed by something. I saw him sit down with his back against a tree not too far from here and then go to sleep. The next morning, when I sent a sylph over to check on him, the sylph discovered that the human had died in his sleep.”

“Was he wounded in any other way?” the Knight asked finally. The dryad was afraid that she’d lost him to sleep for a minute or two. “And what is a sylph?” he added.

She decided to answer the second question first. “Sylphs look a little like elves, except they have wings and consist of magic and air. And as for the wounds, since the human was completely covered by metal, except for his face, I don’t know,” she admitted. “Sometime during the next season a Render came by and discovered the human. By then nature had reclaimed its own, so the kender found only a skeleton and the metal. She dragged the remains farther off into the forest.”

The Knight grunted, amused. “So, even you have suffered the presence of kender, eh?”

“They came through every now and again,” the dryad admitted. “They have never tried to destroy this forest, like you humans often do.”

“I beg to disagree,” the Knight countered. He raised himself back onto his right arm in order to peer at her. “Even kender cut down trees to gain farmland and grow crops.”

The dryad shrugged. “They never did here.”

“That’s as it may be.” He stared at her for a moment. “So, if you’re as isolated as you seem, how do you know that kender are kender and not just little humans? For that matter, how do you know anything about humans?”

If I keep answering his questions, the dryad thought, maybe he’ll give me some more water for my tree. “My tree is hundreds of seasons old. Shortly after its first seeding, it bore me. Over the passage of the seasons, I’ve seen many different forms of life. Mostly forest animals, but I have encountered humans, kender, elves, and even those bearded people called dwarves. I have tried to pay attention, and learn about the world around me,” she finished. “Now, I ask again, may I have your water? You’re not going to live past nightfall, and I could certainly put it to use.”

The Knight snorted, then worked to free the cap from the waterskin again. “Okay, I’ll give you another capful, but you’d better drink it yourself this time. None of this spilling it on your dead tree.” He handed over the cap, his outstretched hand trembling.

The dryad took the cap and deliberately poured it over the root as he watched. “Don’t you understand how nature works, human? This tree bore me. If I can save it, we can help bring this forest back to its normal state.” She gave the cap back to him. This time, their fingers brushed briefly because of his shaking hand. The Dark Knight snatched the cap away and quickly closed the waterskin.

“How could your silly dead tree save what’s left of this forest?” the human asked roughly.

He didn’t like revealing his weakened state, the dryad noticed. “You should never underestimate the power of nature. Even droughts as bad as this one do come to an end. If I can make my tree last another week, or even another day, it might be enough time for rain to come.”

“I don’t think you realize what has been going on around here over the last few years,” the Knight declared, his tone ringed with amusement. “The gods have left Krynn to our care. Great dragons have come to take control of the lands. In some places, the land itself is changing to conform to the power of these dragons. You are probably sitting on some dragon’s land even now, helpless to resist what is happening.”

The dryad wanted to look away from the Knight’s imposing stare, but she couldn’t back down now. She felt a certain stirring in the back of her mind, indicating that her beloved tree had registered the small trickle of water this time. “If that’s the case, then so be it,” she began, her voice rising in volume. “Either way, I expect you will die, and your blood will water the ground upon which you lay. That alone could help my tree for a few hours. However, that’s not enough. What I really need is your water before you die. Your sacrifice could allow the land to flourish again. Think on that while the sun beats down on your reddening skin and your so-called talon heads off to another destination, not even noticing your absence. Think on that when your last breath leaves you and you realize that you could have given yourself a shaded place to rest your body for all eternity. Think on that when you understand that your selfishness has deprived the rest of the world of hope. Hope for life. Hope for the future. You humans understand hope, at least the twisted hope of acquiring land, possessions, and all else you hold dear.”