Kender, Gully Dwarves, Gnomes (13 page)

Meadow and Starglow seemed to be completely baffled.

“When did you fall into that ravine?” asked Starglow incredulously.

“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 Zoma'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.

Zoma 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, Zoma 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 Zoma's black robe.

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

Lord Toede's Disastrous Hunt by Harold Bakst

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.”

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, long-
fanged 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.