Kender, Gully Dwarves, Gnomes (8 page)

For a moment it seemed that the horde of unearthly creatures Lodston had freed would swarm
into the chamber and engulf the wizard. Yet he faced the monstrous beings with
unflinching, intense concentration until the “gate” began to close. Then Dalamar raised
both hands and his voice, crying the same phrase as loudly as he could. The final surge of
energy was enough to dissipate the rest of the ethereal light. Silence and semidarkness
enveloped the

hermit's fading thoughts. Dalamar glanced first at the dwarf and then at the crude

table that held the open chest with his spellbooks and the remaining scrolls. The dark elf
began removing the magical writings from the chest, examining each one for signs of damage.

“H ... H ... Help me, D ... D ... Dalamar,” Lodston pleaded weakly. He crawled forward,
trailing blood from his many wounds, until he could grasp the elf's ankle in his gnarled
hand. “I n ... n ... need some w ... w ... water.”

Dalamar pulled his leg firmly away from the hermit's clutching fingers.

“You'll need nothing in a moment or two, old dwarf,” he told the hermit. “You will have
peace, but you will have paid dearly for your disobedience. Already the dweomer of your
bumbling incantations has spread northward to Qualinesti, if not farther. This quiet
village will be drawn into the Dark Queen's war, thanks to you and your meddling. But you
will have peace.”

Dalamar watched in grim silence while Lodston's grasping fingers relaxed on the floor at
his feet. Then he threw the hermit's crude cloak to one side and stooped to retrieve his
black robe from the dwarf's body.

Milo Martin could see that something was very wrong the moment he arrived at the riverside
trail leading to Lodston's gold mine. He left the sacks of provisions on the trail and
picked his way stealthily among the bushes until he could see the darkened entrance.

Fragments of the heavy door were hanging from its sill by only one hinge. Some terrible
force had blasted the thick portal inward, shattering it as if it had been an eggshell.
The nervous storekeeper crept closer to examine the ground for tracks. The sandy soil was
riddled with hundreds of footprints, tracks of boots with low heels, the kind commonly
worn by elves. He also noted pawprints of large dogs, possibly bloodhounds used to track
criminals. Satisfied that none of Lodston's visitors were still in the vicinity of the
mine, Martin crossed warily to the gaping doorway. Then he called in a low, halting voice,
as though he dreaded either an answer or no answer at all.

“Nugold! Nugold Lodston! It's Milo Martin, with your goods!”

Somehow the silence seemed more ominous than a reply might have to the cautious
shopkeeper. He entered the murky chamber, stepping over the debris from what had been the
door. The chamber had been ransacked, and the stench of rotten flesh nearly sickened him.
Packages of food from his own store were broken and scattered everywhere. A fine layer of
flour had settled throughout the antechamber, lending an eerie white cast to everything in
the room.

Martin lit a lamp he found on a small table. Its light shone through the haze of flour
which he had disturbed when he entered. At the rear of the room, he saw another shattered
door leading into a pitch-black tunnel. Whatever force had blasted the heavy timbers of
those doors was more than a mere battering ram. In fact, the inner door appeared to have
been blown completely off its hinges.

The merchant was just starting toward the tunnel when his feet stumbled over something
soft beside the table. He held the lamp closer and realized that it was the old dwarf's
tattered woolen cloak. It was draped over something much firmer, something which was the
obvious source of the stench in the small chamber. Martin lifted a corner of the filthy
rag just enough to verify what he suspected. The old hermit's rotting body was lying
inside some kind of mystical diagram with its bloated face staring vacantly at the
ceiling. The head and chest were riddled with sharp splinters from the outer door, and the
back of the scalp was badly gashed and bruised.

“What did they do to you, old friend? Where's your fine sorcerer's robe now?” Martin
mumbled sourly, a few tears moistening his blue eyes. Despite Lodston's crankiness, the
merchant knew that he'd miss the dwarfs trips to Digfel. “You were playing with fire when
you let that elven wizard teach you magic!” he scolded the silent corpse.

Martin shook his head and turned away from Lodston's body. Being a practical man, he found
an empty flour sack and began to rummage through the rubble, looking for anything of value
which he might resell in his store. He found a metal cup and spoon in a scorched comer, as
well as several half-finished golden figurines and a bit of cheap tobacco he could soak in
wine to disguise its harshness. In the lamplight, he could see footprints where the
searchers from Qualinesti had tracked flour into the mine. Just inside

the mine passage, he could see a sturdy little chest lying empty on its side.

Whatever might have been in that box, magic or otherwise, belongs to the dark elf or his
friends now, Martin thought grimly. Just as he was leaving, he noticed the light from the
doorway glinting on something under the table, something made of metal and glass.

“Aha! The famous healing spectacles, I'll wager,” Martin muttered. He wiped them free of
flour and gore from the bloody floor, then balanced them on his nose. The thick lenses
distorted his vision so badly that his head began to hurt almost instantly.

Humph! I don't know anybody in Digfel with eyesight bad enough for these glasses. What a
waste of good workmanship! he thought. Still, some traveler might have a need for them.
Martin frowned and removed the glasses, sticking them impulsively into one of his trouser
pockets. Then he turned toward the failing sunlight outside Lodston's shattered door.

The Storyteller By Barbara Siegel & Scott Siegel

Spinner Kenro, you're under arrest!" announced the dragonarmy officer, the point of his
blade at my throat.

I swallowed hard, hoping my bobbing adam's apple wouldn't be sliced by the edge of his
sword. Struggling to keep my voice from quivering, I said, “I haven't broken any laws. On
what charge are you arresting me?”

The officer, a human, his face a mottled mass of burn scars surrounding dead, gray eyes,
growled, “You were warned, Kenro, to stop telling your stories. The Highlord doesn't give
second chances.”

I was standing near the fireplace in the main room of the Paw's Mark Inn. I had just
finished telling one of my tales to the assembled audience. How strange it was to see them
all in one place; the kender, with their comically bright- colored clothes, stood out like
stars in a dark sky against the somber gray beards of the fastidious dwarves and the
earthy brown skin of the ever-so diligent gnomes.

The dragonarmy officer seemed to pay them no mind. I suppose he had little fear because
his fellow soldiers had entered the inn just behind him and had stationed

themselves at every exit. Out of the corner of my eye I saw the kender, Quinby

Cull, strut forward. His face had turned red, and his cheeks were puffed out. Though
Quinby was unarmed and half the size of the dragonarmy officer, he seemed thoroughly
unafraid. I wish I could have said the same for myself.

“Spinner is our friend, and you've no right to arrest him!” declared Quinby.

“There's room for you in the Highlord's prison, too, kender,” the dragonarmy officer said
darkly.

Quinby seemed to mull that over before he innocently asked, “How much room is there in the
Highlord's prison? I thought it was already full.”

The officer pulled the edge of his sword away from my throat and stepped forward to
threaten Quinby.

I grabbed the officer's arm. “He doesn't mean anything by it,” I quickly said. “Leave him
be.”

Quinby had become a good friend since I arrived in Flotsam just a few short weeks ago. I
had been disheveled and my spirit nearly broken until my long, meandering journey from the
outskirts of Solace ended in this dark, forbidding city. I had traveled more than half a
continent searching for an audience for my stories. And here, at last, I had found one.
But more than that, I had found friendship. . ..

“Please,” I begged, hanging onto the soldier's arm. The dragonarmy officer slowly lowered
his sword. “It's all right, Quinby,” I said. "I'll go with this soldier

and get everything straightened out. I'm sure,“ I added with more confidence than I felt,
”that I'll be free by morning."

A dwarf named Vigre Arch suddenly stepped up beside Quinby and said boldly, “I don't like
this. You'd better stay here with us, Spinner.”

The dragonarmy officer's eyebrows raised in alarm. Dwarves and kender in agreement? “The
Highlord was right,” he muttered.

“Right about what?” I asked.

“That you're a dangerous man. Enough of this talk. Let's go, Kenro, or I'll lop off your
head right now. That'd put a quick end to your storytelling, now, wouldn't it?” he sneered.

Not having any choice, I started following the officer out of the inn. Both Quinby and
Vigre Arch were shouldered

aside, but there was a growing rumble among the crowd. “Where are you taking Spinner?” one
of the kender

cried. “We want another story!” shouted a dwarf at the far side

of the room. “Let Spinner go!” “Yeah! Let Spinner go,” yelled a young gnome, taking

up the cry. Soon everyone in the room - except, of course, the

dragonarmy soldiers - began to chant, “Let Spinner go! Let Spinner go!”

The kender, dwarves, and gnomes who crammed the inn had never joined together for anything
- except to fight among themselves - and that had made it easy for the Highlord to rule.
But the dragonarmy soldiers were seeing something that opened their eyes to a new and
startling reality. The three races had united in my defense!

Frankly, it amazed me, too.

The angry crowd - they easily numbered more than two hundred - began to surge forward.

“Tell them to stop!” ordered the officer. I saw the dragonarmy soldiers raise their
crossbows. This was madness. “Listen,” I said to the officer, "let me tell them a story. It

will calm them down." The soldier looked at the ugly mob and his nervous

troops. He shrugged and then reluctantly said, “Make it a short one.”

I held up my hands for quiet.

Everyone quickly settled down into an expectant silence. I was relieved. And so was the
officer.

“I have to go with these men, but first let me tell you a simple tale to end this rather
remarkable afternoon.” I pointedly glanced at the officer who still had not sheathed his
sword. He glared back at me.

I took a deep breath and began, “This is a story as old as time but as short as man's
memory. It's a story of three orphans growing up in a city not unlike Flotsam.”

“It's a sad story,” sighed Vigre Arch. “I love it when Spinner makes me cry.”

There was a sniffle in the audience as several dwarves began to weep in anticipation of my
tale.

“Yes, it's a sad story,” I said, “but there is a lesson to be learned in it. You see,” I
continued, "the orphans were

starving, and they fought each other over every scrap of food they found. This was not a
poor city, mind you, no. This was a city rich with power, wealth, and finery. Only not for
our three little wretches. They were looked down upon, spat upon, and abused by the city
elders."

The dragonarmy officer eyed me closely. His knuckles turned white on his sword handle.

I hurried on with my story.

"One day, the three orphans were at the edge of the city. And it was there that they came
upon a Great Red Clarion, that fierce and magical bird that even some of the smaller
dragons fear. If they could catch the Clarion and hold its magic in their hands, the
orphans would never be laughed at or go hungry ever again.

"The Clarion's wing was broken, and it couldn't fly away. But its talons were sharp, and
its beak made a formidable weapon.

“Here, finally, was a chance for the three orphans to make new lives for themselves, and
all they had to do was work together to capture the magical bird.”

I swept my arm out in front of my body and pointed at my audience. “But did they work
together to capture the Clarion's magic? No!” I declared. “So hungry, so desperate, were
these poor orphans that they didn't even think of joining forces. Instead, they fought
each other over the Clarion. And while they fought, the city elders sneaked up behind them
and captured the bird - and its magic - for themselves!”

“Oh, how could those orphans be so foolish and stupid!” cried Quinby.

“It's a terrible shame!” declared Vigre, agreeing with the kender. “The three orphans
should have known better.” The dwarf saw Barsh wiping tears from his eyes. He gently
patted the leader of the gnomes on the shoulder.

The gnomes looked up to Barsh, not because he was the tallest of them, but because he was
the greatest, most inspired of their inventors. Vigre, on the other hand, thought of Barsh
as a hopelessly confused creator of useless, impossible machines. But at that moment,
Vigre and Barsh were of the same mind.

Barsh turned to look up at his new friend, Vigre, and sobbed, "They should have designed a
way to work together. Then they could have taken all the power and

riches away from those cruel city elders!" The dragonarmy officer who stood next to me
hissed in

my ear, “You're a clever one, Kenro, but I'm not deceived. I know what you're up to. End
this story now, or I'll end your life, instead.”

A storyteller is nothing if his tales don't have the ring of truth. And this story had but
one true ending. . . .

“My friends,” I said softly, making them all lean forward and strain their ears to hear,
“THE THREE ORPHANS ARE HERE IN THIS ROOM.”

The officer began to raise his sword.