Ник О'Донохью - Kender, Gully Dwarves, and Gnomes

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?

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!”

The kender’s face turned even redder. “I was just borrowing them,” he replied with deep embarrassment as he reached into a red pouch and retrieved a dozen multicolored candy-bubbles. The children around him checked their pockets and were startled to discover they were empty. Tas sadly returned the tasty treats, saying weakly, “I didn’t want anyone to have his appetite spoiled.”

Tas would have enjoyed playing that nifty flute, but he was cheered by the children’s willingness to share their candy-bubbles with him and by the sight of eager faces around him, anticipating his story.

“Are you going to tell another whopper?” asked a young, curly-haired boy who sat to his left.

“I ... I never tell whoppers!” Tas insisted, a bit indignant.

Everyone groaned. They knew better.

A little freckle-faced girl stood up and asked politely, “What will your first story be about, sir?”

There was a definite trace of mischievousness in the kender’s big brown eyes. “Revenge!” he barked with such force that the startled little girl plopped over backward.

Everyone else slid forward.

“Revenge! I want revenge!” Gorath’s threatening words resounded through the little shack, causing all the pots and pans to rattle and the rickety furniture to creak. His angry, blood-shot eyes doubled in size, and the veins on his temple were ready to burst. “Revenge, I want ...”

This time his words were stifled by a large wooden spoon that was being forced into his gaping mouth. The spoon carried an ugly mound of undercooked slug stew. A stream of steaming, foul-smelling gravy dribbled down his chin and drenched his long black beard. Gorath groaned.

“Oh, so sorry, darling,” said Zorna. Using her long, bony fingers, she managed to push most of the gravy back into Gorath’s mouth. The huge man nearly gagged. “There, there,” said the tiny old woman, her teeth clicking with every word. “You don’t want to lose a drop, do you, darling?” Her shrill, scratchy voice was irritating, but there was no mistaking it was full of love. She wiped her shriveled hands on her shabby black robe. “After what you’ve suffered, darling, a meal is just what you need.”

“Stop calling me darling, you old hag!” growled Gorath, spitting stew across the room. “You don’t even know me!”

“But I do love you!” Zorna protested softly, her feelings hurt. “And I’ll cook, and clean, and care for you for the rest of your life.” She brushed away a tear, wiped her dripping nose, and smiled lovingly. “We’ll have such a happy time together.”

This thought horrified Gorath. He tried to rise, but he couldn’t budge. All he could move was his head. That’s why he could offer no resistance when Zorna again stuffed slug stew into his mouth.

Gorath couldn’t believe his terrible luck. He had been the most decorated and feared human officer in the dragonarmy. In the war campaigns against the Que-shu, no one had razed more villages, slaughtered more enemies, or enslaved more women and children than the mighty Gorath! For amusement, he had broken men’s backs with his bare hands and held beautiful women prisoner in his tent, forcing them to do his bidding. But now he suddenly found himself paralyzed from the neck down and the prisoner of an old lady who kept him strapped to a chair in her gloomy, windowless shack in the Forest of Wayreth. What an indignity!

He thought back to when his bad fortune began.

Was it yesterday morning or early afternoon when he awoke from a drunken stupor to find that Meadow had fled his tent? He was so stunned by her brazen act that at first all he could do was scream, “Revenge! I want revenge!”