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

The kender beamed, proud that news of his deed had reached another’s ears and that this stranger actually knew his name. He crossed his slender arms. “Thank you, sir,” he called to the stranger. “Perhaps you can tell these Doubting Trapspringers what you saw.”

Everyone, still gathered around the kender’s table, waited for the stranger to speak. But he didn’t seem to care to continue, and he sipped from his brew mysteriously.

“Yes, why don’t you tell us?” asked the dwarf, taking his stein and waddling over to the stranger’s table.

“What difference does it make?” growled the stranger from beneath his cowl. “Toede was a sniveling, cowardly idiot. He had no business being a Dragon Highlord.”

At this, Talorin’s pointy ears grew red again.

“Maybe so,” said the elf, also walking over. “But he caused much harm. If he’s dead, then I for one would like to know how it came about.”

From deep within his hood, the stranger seemed to be staring at the nearly empty stein sitting before him.

“Perhaps if someone were to buy me another ale—”

“Pug! Bring the gentleman another brew!” called the dwarf, settling himself on a chair at the stranger’s table, his broad, leather-clad feet dangling. Soon everyone who had been around Talorin drew closer to the stranger. But the kender, not to be left out, squeezed himself back into their midst. Pug brought the stranger another stein of ale and clunked it before him, the foamy head spilling over and onto the table.

The stranger took a sip and cleared his throat. “I once served that wretch-of-a-hobgoblin,” he said. “And, yes, I was there that day ...”

And so the stranger told a tale that, since then, has been retold many times throughout Krynn.

For many weeks Toede had been stewing in his somber manor in the decrepit port city of Flotsam, grumbling about how his subjects were not paying him the respect due to a Dragon Highlord. “They don’t pay their taxes, they desert my army, they laugh behind my back!” he growled. Then he would just sit slumped on his throne, his two pink eyes squinting out of his flat, fleshy face as if he were hatching some plot that would make everyone realize he was not to be taken so lightly.

But all he did was put himself in a worse and worse mood. If anyone crossed him during those weeks—if an attendant so much as spilled something at the table—Toede fell into a rage. More than one such fellow was tossed off the docks to be eaten by sharks.

Naturally, his attendants were getting increasingly nervous. Finally one of them, Groag—a fat hobgoblin like Toede but who liked to dress in elegant, stylish robes and wear large, bejeweled rings—tried to divert his master from his self-pity. “Perhaps Lord Toede would like to disport himself,” he said, standing by the squat, round-backed throne.

Toede glanced up and sideways at the dandified attendant. “Do you have anything in particular in mind?” he snarled. He always felt that Groag, like everyone else, showed him little genuine respect and always sounded snooty.

“There are many things,” said Groag. He counted them off on each bejeweled finger. “You could take your ship out and harpoon dolphins, you could attend a dogfight, you could go hunting—”

“Hunting,” snarled Toede, slumping even deeper into his throne. “How can I be expected to catch anything when my forest is full of poachers?” He began to stew again.

“Well,” Groag shrugged, “perhaps you can catch a poacher.”

At this, Toede’s beady eyes lit up, and his broad fleshy mouth actually spread into a twisted smile. “Hmm,” he began, drumming his stubby fingers on the throne’s broad armrest. “Wouldn’t that be fun ...”

Now, Groag hadn’t really been serious about catching a poacher, but the idea did seem to catch his master’s imagination. So he said, “Say no more, my lord.” Whereupon he hastily arranged a hunting party.

For the hunt, Toede left behind his faithful amphi dragon, Hopsloth, who was much too clumsy on land (pity the terrorized servants who had to comfort the disappointed beast!) and, instead, he rode his fastest, furry-legged pony, Galiot. He also took a large pack of black hunting hounds, each of which was held on a leash by an iron-collared slave who ran along on foot. The hounds were vicious, longfanged beasts, and sometimes, out of impatience to be let loose, they nipped at the slaves holding them. All the hapless slaves could do to defend themselves was keep the mongrels at bay with sticks found along the way.

Also for the hunt, Toede surrounded himself with half a dozen pony-backed, spear-carrying bodyguards—hobgoblins all—just in case he came upon a particularly nasty poacher. Toede himself wore his armor, which, of late, had become an especially tight fit, causing his flab to squeeze out of the chinks. Only Groag, preferring to remain in his fancy, flowing robes and rings, went unarmored. As he rode beside Toede, however, he did carry his master’s bow and arrows.

It was late morning when the hunting party paraded through the crooked, filthy streets of Flotsam. Soon they entered a large, grassy field, at the far end of which was a somber fringe of dark pine forest. Not surprisingly, no poachers were quick to reveal themselves, but Toede did spot a great big stag at the perimeter of the woods. As the party approached, the animal raised its magnificently antlered head and sniffed the air suspiciously.

“Shh,” hissed Toede as Groag handed him his bow and an arrow. “No one make a sound.”

From atop Galiot, Toede nocked the arrow and pulled back on the bowstring, his red tongue poking out the comer of his mouth as he concentrated on his aim.

But before he could release the arrow, a sudden screaming whine pierced the air, startling the stag. The creature spun around, crashed into the outlying underbrush of the woods, and disappeared. Then ensued a series of muffled, skittering noises that receded into the distance.

“Damn it!” shouted Toede, his pink eyes reddening. He spun in his saddle toward his bodyguards. “Who did that? Come on! Speak up!”

The hobgoblin guards shrugged and looked at each other stupidly.

“The noise did not come from our party,” said Groag, sounding typically haughty.

“Oh? Then who from?” asked Toede.

“A kender,” said Groag. “Perhaps more than one. The sound was made by a hoopak, of course.”

“Kender!” snapped Toede, his eyes darting about the field and woods. “I should have known! I bet they’re the ones who’ve been poaching in my forest!”

“I wouldn’t be surprised,” said Groag, though in fact he was indeed surprised to learn that their quest for poachers might have real results.

“All right, then,” said Toede, handing the bow and arrow back to the know-it-all attendant, “let’s keep our eyes open for damned kender!”

With that, Toede and his hunting party continued on, searching for kender. They saw none. Soon they were skirting the edge of the dark pine forest, whose lower, horizontal branches were dead, gray, and bare.

Of course no kender showed, but Toede did spot a second stag just within the gloomy woods, drinking at the near bank of a purling brook. “Shh,” whispered Toede, sticking out his hand for his bow and arrow;

Groag handed them over. Toede acted faster this time, quickly nocking the arrow and pulling back on the bowstring.

But, once again, before he could even take proper aim, another whining scream pierced the air.

“Damn it!” roared Toede as the stag darted off, splashing to the other side of the brook and disappearing deeper into the woods. Toede stood straight up in his saddle and scanned all around him. “Where are they? Where are these blasted kender?”