Anthology - Kender, gully Dwarves, and Gnomes

"But there aren't enough of you," Quinby declared. "You're going to need help. I'll take some kender and go with you."

"And I'll come, too," volunteered Barsh. "I'll bring a small troop of gnomes along."

Vigre couldn't refuse. He knew they were right. There was no telling how many of the Dragon Highlord's soldiers were waiting for them inside the prison's labyrinth of cells.

"Come on," he said. "Spinner must be wondering what all the noise is about."

I was, indeed, wondering what all the noise was about. The night had nearly passed, and I waited for the dawning, resigned to my fate. My cellmate, Davin, had listened to me throughout the night, offering not a word of his own.

Then I heard shouts and screams filtering down to the depths of the filthy dungeon where I had been left to languish until my death.

"What's going on?" I called out to a dragonarmy guard who raced past the cell.

He ignored me.

"What do you think is happening?" I asked Davin. He shook his head.

The noise grew louder. It sounded like battle. There was the clash of steel on steel. There were howls of pain, boots running on stone, and shouts of… MY NAME!

"Here!" I cried. "I'm here! This way!"

I couldn't believe my own senses. But yes, it was the voice of Quinby Cull calling out to me! Then I heard Vigre Arch. My mind was reeling when even that clever gnome, Barsh, made his presence known.

"It's impossible!" I exclaimed. And then I turned to Davin. "Do you hear them, or have I gone mad? Are my friends really here to save me?"

My cellmate was about to answer, but then, instead, he shouted, "Look out!"

Too late. A prison guard had suddenly appeared at my cell and grabbed me through the bars. "I'll see you dead before they free you," he vowed. And then he lifted his dagger and plunged it toward my chest.

Davin was faster than I was. He lunged forward and grabbed the guard's wrist just before the knife could strike me. He twisted the man's arm against the iron bars until there was an audible crack. The guard screamed as the knife clattered to the floor. He ran in terror as Quinby, Vigre, and Barsh led a legion of their people toward my cell.

"Keys!" crowed Barsh, dangling them happily in the air.

"We took them from an officer at the landing," explained Vigre. "You're going to be free."

"We're glad to see you," said Quinby, standing back from the door with tears of joy in his eyes.

"YOU'RE glad to see me?" I cried in disbelief. "To be sure, it's the other way around!"

The cell door flew open.

"Come with us," said Quinby. "We came to save you. Now you and your stories can live forever!"

Spinner Kenro ended the long tale about himself with a flourish, his voice rising in a dramatic crescendo. His timing was impeccable. No sooner had he finished than a prison guard unlocked the cell door. "It's dawn," said the Highlord's emissary. Spinner took a deep breath and rose to his feet. "Sometimes," he said softly, "I half believe my own stories. There was a part of me that really thought my friends would come and save me. Do you think I'm foolish, Davin?"

I couldn't answer. I was crying.

Spinner had not slept. He had sat up against a wall, weaving his final story during the last hours of his life. And I was his only audience.

They hanged Spinner Kenro at daybreak.

Spinner died a great many years ago, but his memory lives on. For that night in the prison he opened the window of my soul. And though his voice was stilled, his gift was somehow passed to me. I've told many stories throughout the years as I've traveled across Krynn. But I never fail to tell this, the one, great, final story exactly as Spinner told it to me that night in the prison.

Oh, I know what really happened. Quinby, Vigre, and Barsh did try to save Spinner. But once they made their plans, Quinby forgot all about them — he was true to his kender soul; out of sight, out of mind. Vigre, ever distrustful of humans, had second thoughts about the entire enterprise. Meanwhile, Barsh and his gnomes did set about creating a huge wall-scaling device. The problem was that it was so big that they couldn't get it out of the building in which they had constructed it. It's still there to this day.

Now, you might say that the truth doesn't make a good tale. But that's not the point. There is a higher truth than the facts. And that truth reveals itself every time I tell Spinner's story. For as the years went by, the kender, dwarves, and gnomes of Flotsam grew to BELIEVE that they had saved Spinner. They have convinced themselves that on one cold, windswept night they joined together to make history, to reach greatness, to become heroes. And if they did it once, might they not do it again?

A Shaggy Dog's Tail

by Danny Peary

poem by Suzanne Rafer

Word spread like wildfire that Tasslehoff Burrfoot was in Spritzbriar. "I'm just passing through," he told the villagers as they rushed home to lock up their valuables. "But if anyone wants to hear some stories, I might just hang around a bit." Of course, everyone knew that as long as anyone would listen to the kender's improbable tales, he wasn't going anywhere. That's what worried the men and women of Spritzbriar. They knew that while they were safeguarding those belongings they feared might wind up in the kender's pouches, their children would slip out doors and wriggle out windows in order to see the illustrious visitor.

As the boys and girls raced across the grassy field toward Prine Lake at the edge of the forest, they looked nervously over their shoulders, hoping their absences wouldn't be discovered until AFTER Tas had spun a few yams. Most had promised their parents to never again listen to his stories after even the bravest had had nightmares in the wake of his last visit. But they'd grown tired of those cheery tales told by their mothers and grandmothers. Because kender weren't frightened of anything, Tas thought nothing of telling the children about bloody battles in war-torn areas of Krynn, vicious dragons, hobgoblins, or black-robed magic-users. The children found such stories well worth risking a night without supper.

The children who gathered at Prine Lake sat on the ground and formed a tight circle around Tas, with the oldest by his small, wriggling feet. Tas sat proudly under a mammoth vallenwood, propped like a king on a wooden stool so everyone could see him. He stroked his hoopak staff and grinned broadly, delighted his audience was so large. If only Flint could see him now.

While everyone waited impatiently, Tas took a meticulously carved flute from an elegant, woven-rope, yellow pouch that was strapped around his neck. As he brought it toward his lips, a young boy named Jespato intercepted his hand.

"My, that looks like my father's flute!" the boy exclaimed without suspicion.

"Your father's flute?" asked Tas innocently.

"It's been missing since the last time you were in Spritzbriar!"

The kender's childlike face flushed red. He examined the instrument. "Great Uncle Trapspringer! It IS your father's flute! Good eye, boy! Now I remember: I took it for safekeeping. It was sticking out of his pouch, where any thief might have snatched it."

"His pouch disappeared at the same time as the flute," said the boy. "It was YELLOW, just like the one you've got around your neck!"

Tas grinned sheepishly. "Of course, THIS pouch is older and more worn than the one your father carried," he said, failing to remind Jespato that it had been some time since he'd been to Spritzbriar. "But please give MY pouch to him to replace his missing one." Tas pulled the strap over his head and handed the pouch and the flute to the young boy. He forced a big smile.

Jespato looked at Tas with great respect. "My father will surely change his opinion of you when I give him your present. Imagine: he said you're the type who'd snatch candy-bubbles from children!"