Anthology: Kender, gully Dwarves, and Gnomes

First came a greater sense of smell — no advantage just now, but a world of sensation. The ruby eyes glowed dimly, then grew brighter. Finally the entire dagger rippled with new life and knowledge.

"I am not a dagger," it thought. "She spoke the truth. I am a feeder."

Crawling out from under the body was easier, but a greater surprise waited as the feeder scuttled to the door. As it stumbled on the sill, its wings began to unfurl from the hilt, beating once, then lifting the creature off the wood.

The dagger flew tentatively back to the goblin body and dropped onto the neck with its full weight. After a moment it withdrew and flew strongly into the night, scanning and smelling for the dwarf, Flint, its owner, and — the kender, wasn't it? — its user.

The night was full of hurrying bodies; the feeder could smell their warmth, and its appetite was growing. Though it did not know why, the feeder knew it urgently needed blood, and afterward there was something it must do, something important. As it circled between the village and the lakeshore, suddenly a very old, familiar scent came to it: the smell of ownership. It flapped strongly toward the source.

But when the feeder reached the source, it wasn't the dwarf or the kender after all.

Parris the trader shouldered his duffel wearily, brooding over a bad night. First he had been abused and robbed by goblin guards. When he finally came to the inn, it was in chaos — something about a dwarf, a mixed-race company, and magic had the place upset. Then he was told to leave; the goblin guards had closed the inn to strangers. Solace had never been good luck for him; years ago he'd made a very bad bargain with a sharp-eyed dwarf here.

He rambled toward the lake, looking for a sheltered spot to spend the night. Suddenly, silhouetted against the water, he saw a strange group: slender man or elf, barbarian, knight, more humans, kender, dwarf. The dwarf was closest, hanging back from the water.

He squinted at the figure, who was arguing about a boat. The gruff voice was familiar; he squinted, trying to think where he had heard it before. He could almost hear it again, wheedling, grunting, bargaining over a dagger…

"By all the gods the Theocrats sell," he breathed. "It's himself. It's Flint. What's he doing here, and that crew he's got with him?"

In a quick mental leap, he connected the grumpy dwarf and his party to the incident that had closed the Inn of the Last Home, and realized that the goblins were looking for Flint.

Parris smiled, not nicely. Surely he could talk Dragon Highlord Fewmaster Toede into giving him some reward. Solace might bring him luck after all.

Parris stretched his skinny neck, opening his mouth to call to the hobgoblin guards.

But something hit the back of his neck with an audible thud. A second mouth opened in Parris's neck, just below his chin. As it widened, a pointed silver tongue protruded from it. It looked as though the second mouth were screaming.

Above it, the real mouth was screaming. No sound came out. Parris dropped to his knees, then sprawled forward in the road. He just had time to grab at the back of his neck and feel a strangely carved hilt he thought he recognized…

Hotter, thinner blood than the goblin's burst over the blade and was absorbed. The ruby eyes burned brighter, and the feeder thought suddenly, clearly, "I know why I must do this. I am more than a feeder. I'm a mother."

And it remembered: the long-ago mating flight, once for a lifetime; the search for food, and for hosts;

the red-filled nights of circling, seeking, diving into a host body, drinking deep, and laying its young in the corpse. It remembered, dimly, its own long weeks in rotting flesh, eating and absorbing, growing until one day it and its brothers and sisters crawled out of the hollowed body and into the night, looking for fresher and more lively food. There had been many brothers and sisters…

The feeder felt a rush of warmth from hilt to blade. There would be many again. It was time to seek a host. Soon the race of feeders would darken the sky.

Suddenly from the shoreline came cries and the twang of bows. The feeder rose, its eyes blood-bright, and flew straight for the noise, gaining height for another dive.

On the shore were goblins, shouting and shooting arrows. The feeder ignored them, moving over the boat and its occupants. The kender, crouched at the oars, was too well covered by the others, and Flint was struggling in the water. The feeder hovered, waiting for a sure target.

"That does it!" The large one, the deep voice the feeder had heard before, pulled the dwarf halfway into the boat. Flint hung onto a seat, but his lower half was sticking out over the edge of the boat, unprotected.

A vague memory surfaced in the feeder: inside the biped's legs was a large, rich artery that could empty a body in moments. The feeder, not hesitating as a human might have for an enemy in such a vulnerable position, zeroed in, plummeted, blade flashing in the starlight.

At the last moment the one dressed as a knight grabbed the dwarf by the belt and dragged him aboard as the boat rocked wildly. The feeder, unable to stop, imbedded itself firmly in the seat of the vessel.

The one with the deep voice noticed the feeder, stuck and helpless. He grunted with surprise, then pulled it free. Before the feeder could move, the stranger had slid it into a thonged leather sheath, firmly binding the thongs around cross-piece, pommel, and hilt. He did it one-handed, as though from long practice; his other hand was embracing a cloaked man with strange, hourglass eyes. That one, who had been casting a spell as the feeder dove in, pulled away.

The feeder could see, bound as it was, that the one with the hourglass eyes was looking at it. The feeder struggled against its bonds, in vain. A skinny finger poked at the feeder, traced its outline in the sheath. The cloaked man made a small surprised noise in his throat, and coughed rackingly.

A moment before, this man had been casting spells, strenuous ones from the look of him; now, although he was exhausted, his eyes were lit with recognition. The feeder tensed. Any moment, the mage would tell the others…

Just then there was a gasp of alarm from the only woman in the boat; the feeder heard her but could not see her. The big man, who now owned the dagger, poked the mage. "Raist, what is it? I don't see anything."

The mage stood up, out of the feeder's line of sight. A moment later he said, stricken, "Tanis… the constellations

.."

The musical voice said, "What? What about the constellations?" So that was Tanis, the feeder noted. The one who had shaken the feeder awake.

"Gone." The mage was racked with coughs, spasm after spasm shaking the boat slightly. The feeder relaxed; for whatever reason, the mage had forgotten about it for the present.

Then Raistlin said shakily, "The constellation known as the Queen of Darkness and the one called Valiant Warrior. Both gone. She has come to Krynn, Tanis, and he has come to fight her. All the evil rumors we have heard are true. War, death, destruction…"

The mage and the others said more, but the feeder did not hear. "The Queen of Darkness," it thought with certainty. "The voice I heard. The Lady who ordered me."

Then it thought as certainly, "These are the ones she bade me kill."

For now, however, there was nothing to be done until the boat reached shore and the company found shelter. All but those on watch slept. The feeder nestled patiently in its thong-bound sheath, dreaming of the blood and of its children while it waited for release.

Ill

The mage said nothing about the feeder, having forgotten it among more important things. In the mom-ing the company of beings journeyed again through woods to a road. On the way they called each other by name, and the feeder linked names and voices: River-wind, Goldmoon, Tasslehoff or Tas, Raistlin, Caramon, Sturm, Tanis, Flint. The way before them was hard, and the feeder smelled their sweat and, beneath it, their blood.