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

“You know very well it happened when I last confronted you at this clearing.”

Meadow and Starglow looked at each other as if they were dealing with a madman.

“But, Gorath,” said Meadow slowly, “this is the first time we’ve seen you since we fled your tent ... The Forest of Wayreth must be playing tricks with your mind.”

Gorath snarled. He didn’t know what to think. Was this indeed the first and only time he’d found Meadow and Starglow in this clearing? While standing here facing them, had he blanked out and imagined that horrible red dog? And falling into the deep, deep ravine? And being paralyzed? And returning to Zorna’s shack? Had the Forest of Wayreth indeed played tricks with his mind?

Suddenly Gorath heard growling. He turned toward the ravine. The red dog sat by the ledge, wagging its shaggy tail and whipping the snow-white tip into the ground as if it were issuing a challenge. “Ah, ha! There’s the dog!” howled Gorath, thrilled to have proof that his story was true.

Meadow and Starglow looked at each other, then at Gorath. “What dog?” they both wondered aloud.

But Gorath wasn’t listening. He was slowly stepping toward the ravine, hoping to exact the most satisfying revenge of his entire life. He did not even notice that Meadow and Starglow had seized the opportunity to escape in the opposite direction. They would not halt their anxious flight until they were out of the Forest of Wayreth and safely back in their Que-shu village.

Hiding his unsheathed sword behind him, Gorath approached the shaggy dog. He attempted a friendly, toothy grin. The shaggy dog responded by growling and baring its teeth. This time it was not in a playful mood.

Gorath stopped smiling. He lifted his sword high in the air. He charged and took a mighty swing at the dog. Amazingly, the dog slipped out of the way. Gorath turned around, the heels of his boots touching the edge of the cliff. “Oh, no!” cried Gorath as the dog jumped at him, striking him a mighty blow in the chest with its entire body.

Again Gorath found himself somersaulting backward through the air and helplessly falling into the ravine. This time it seemed even deeper.

When Gorath regained consciousness, he was not surprised to find himself paralyzed from the neck down and strapped to the chair in Zorna’s shack. And there was Zorna, busily preparing slug stew. He yelled: “Revenge! I want revenge!”

Zorna turned toward him, her eyes blazing with anger. “I’ve heard enough about your revenge! After you deceived and deserted me, it’s me who wants revenge!”

Gorath’s eyes showed fear. “But I ... I ... I love you, dear,” he stammered.

Zorna pointed a finger at Gorath and wiggled her nose. Instantly, he lost his ability to talk. “That will teach you never to betray a black-robed sorceress!” she sneered, causing sweat to pour down Gorath’s unhappy face. “I hope a few years without speech will help you learn your lesson.”

She pointed toward her terrified guest, and his chair slid toward her. She waved her hand slightly, and the chair rose into the air so their noses nearly touched. “I’ll never forgive you or let you forget your cruelty toward me!” she shouted. Then, as she looked into his eyes, she calmed down and even smiled slightly. “But I do love you, darling,” she said thoughtfully. “And I’ll cook, and clean, and care for you for the rest of your life. You’ll see. We’ll have such a happy time together.”

Leaving Gorath in midair, Zorna turned back to the kettle. The black-robed magic-user caused the fire to rise underneath just by raising her finger. She then leaned over the kettle to stir the stew, putting her hand directly into the boiling water without feeling any discomfort. The folds at the back of her black robe separated slightly.

Gorath’s frightened eyes bulged from their sockets. Even if he still had the ability to talk, he couldn’t have uttered a sound. He stared in disbelief at what was sticking out from Zorna’s black robe.

It was a shaggy red tail with a snow-white tip.

The Pilgrim’s Rest was a pretty old tavern, having been started by the great grandfather of its owner, a gnarly old dwarf by the name of Pug. But the place looked even older than it was because it was built into the hollow of a huge and truly ancient oak tree near the Darken Wood.

Following the shape of the trunk, the room was basically round and soared up into the dark heights of the tree’s interior. Up there, unseen, were woodpeckers, bats, a few squirrels, and various other critters. Occasionally one of them would fly or creep down along the wall to steal food from the round, rough-hewn tables, and old Pug was constantly chasing them back up again with a broom. “Don’t feed the animals!” he kept telling his patrons. “It only encourages them!”

Business at the Pilgrim’s Rest was usually good, thanks to the forest paths that crisscrossed all around it. On any given day, there was likely to be an assortment of many peoples—elves, dwarves, humans, and such—all traveling to and from the four comers of Krynn.

On one particular evening, this crowd was joined by a kender. Old Pug kept an eye on the little, slight-boned fellow, for he knew a kender was likely to slip away without paying his tab. True to form, the kender, dressed in red leggings and tunic, sat at a table near the door.

But this kender, apparently a bit inebriated, was talking loudly, and this reassured Pug, who could at least turn his back and hear him.

“ ... I tell you,” the kender was saying, “Kronin and I did kill him!”

“You expect us to believe,” said a squat, black-bearded dwarf sitting at the kender’s table, “that two puny kender killed Toede, a Dragon Highlord?”

“Why, Kronin isn’t just any kender! He’s our leader!”

“Even so,” said another patron, a lanky human who was walking over with his beer stein, “kender are no match for a hobgoblin lord.”

The kender’s pointy ears turned red. “Do you think I’m lying?” he shouted.

“Yes!” came back all the patrons as they gathered around the boaster’s table.

“And how did you two kill Toede?” asked a tall, willowy elf, a fair eyebrow arched incredulously. “With that silly what-do-you-call-it you kender carry?”

“The hoopak,” said the dwarf, picking up the pronged stick from under the table for everyone to see.

“Leave that alone!” shouted the kender, snatching the weapon back.

“What’s this?” said the human. “A kender getting angry? Where’s your usual sense of humor?”

“He’s had too much ale,” suggested the dwarf with a smirk.

“Yes, that explains his ridiculous claims,” agreed the elf, waving the story away with his long, slender hand.

“Phooey on you all!” shouted the kender. “Kronin and I are heroes whether you believe it or not!”

“Tell me,” called old Pug from behind the counter, “did anyone actually see you do this deed?”

There was a brief silence.

“That’s right,” said the lanky human, resting his stein on the table. “Can anyone back you on this?”

The kender started to sputter in frustration, when, from across the room, someone shouted:

“I can!”

Everyone turned in surprise to see who had spoken. Sitting at a table near the wooden wall was a hooded figure slouched over a stein. It was unclear what sort of being he was, but his robes were all in tatters. “And who, pray tell, are you that you should know?” asked Pug, his thick eyebrows rising inquisitively.

“I was there,” said the hooded stranger. “I saw it all. This kender’s name must be Talorin.”