Kender, Gully Dwarves, Gnomes (11 page)

“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 multi- colored
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 Zoma 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!”

No wonder her escape troubled him so much. With her long, flowing black hair, alluring
green eyes, slim figure, and delicate features, Meadow was the loveliest female he had
ever abducted during a raid of the Que-shu tribe. Moreover, she had already lived longer
than any of the previous women he'd captured, although he had worked her endlessly and
beat her mercilessly.

In Gorath's twisted mind, Meadow had actually BETRAYED him by running away and deserved to
be punished severely. Gorath never forgave anyone for what he believed was a wrong action
against him. In the past, he had sworn revenge on dragonarmy soldiers he suspected of
talking mutiny behind his back, friends he suspected of trying to steal his women, and
even his brothers, who he suspected of plotting his death so that they could confiscate
his goods. Now all those men lay in their graves. At last, Gorath's lone companion had
been this woman he held captive. How dare Meadow desert him and leave him

completely alone! Pulling in his huge belly, his head pounding, Gorath

knelt to examine the heavy chain that had kept Meadow attached to an iron post even when
she slept. It had been severed by a sharp weapon, probably a sword. Meadow had an
accomplice, another person who had betrayed him!

Gorath reasoned that the trespasser had been Starglow, the tribesman for whom Meadow had
pined during her torturous term of captivity. The barbarian smiled slyly. It would give
him great pleasure to kill Starglow while Meadow looked on. He sheathed his sword.
“Revenge! I want revenge!” he thundered as he stormed from the tent.

The lovers' trail led north toward Solace. It was easy to follow because they were
traveling on foot and were too hurried to attempt deception. Without stopping to rest or
water his horse, Gorath rode at full gallop over rocky roads, treacherous mountain paths,
and overgrown trails where sharp spines ripped into his steed's flesh. The poor beast
finally collapsed under Gorath's great weight, unable to endure the punishing journey or
its master's whip any longer. Gorath cursed and reviled the animal, but rather than
putting it out of its misery, he left it to die in the wilderness.

He proceeded on foot, feeling meaner with every step. He thought how much he'd enjoy
strangling Starglow with his mighty hands or piercing his enemy's heart with his sword
while Meadow screamed helplessly. Maybe he would stab her as well, or make her drop to her
knees and beg him to allow her to be his slave again. How he would make her suffer! Gorath
shouted: “Revenge! I want revenge!”

As the sun sank low in the west, Gorath discovered that Meadow and Starglow had veered
east, thereby avoiding Solace and well-traveled roads on their way back to their own
village. Gorath followed blindly although he had to travel over unfamiliar terrain. He
wasn't one to worry about the possible consequences of acting so impulsively, especially
with thoughts of revenge dancing on his dizzy brain.

Soon the mighty warrior stood facing the Forest of Wayreth.

Gorath had heard eerie legends throughout Krynn about Wayreth and how it often played
tricks with the minds of

those who dared pass through. “They think I'll be too frightened to follow,” said Gorath,
attempting to laugh. “But Gorath is scared of nothing!” Nevertheless, before taking
another step, he peered through the trees on the perimeter of the strange forest. He was
relieved that it seemed peaceful inside, even inviting.

Suddenly a dozen dark-colored birds floated down from the nearest tree and circled above
him. They taunted him in song:

IS THIS THE MIGHTY GORATH, HOVERING LIKE A CHILD AT WAYRETH'S EDGE, AFRAID TO MOVE
BELITTLED, BEWITCHED, BEGUILED?

YOU HAVE KILLED WITH BRUTISH STRENGTH AND NARY

ONCE DID GRIEVE YET YOUR MIND IS NOT SO STRONG THUS EASY TO DECEIVE.

SO, DARE YOU ENTER WAYRETH, KNOWING NOT WHICH

PATHS TO TREAD

AND SEEK REVENGE YOU THINK IS SWEET? . . . BETTER TURN AROUND INSTEAD!

The warrior nervously yanked his sword from his scabbard and thrust it wildly into the
air. “Get away, you silly birds!” he demanded, his voice shaky. “Don't you know that
Gorath is scared of nothing?”

Gorath thought it very strange that the birds seemed to disappear into thin air. He was
tempted to turn around and try to find his way home, but he reminded himself why he had
come this far: “Revenge! I want revenge!” Forgetting about the birds, he stomped into the
forest, angrily using his sword to hack off branches that blocked his path. He turned and
looked behind him. He noticed that while it was bright inside the forest, night had fallen
outside. None the wiser, he shrugged and marched forward, content that he could clearly
see the trail of Meadow and Starglow.

Deeper in the forest, the trail divided in two. Gorath stopped and studied both paths.
When he saw fresh tracks

on the one that angled to the left, he rubbed his sweaty palms together and licked his
lips. “It won't be long now,” he said. He started to follow the path to the left. But
suddenly a strong gust of wind knocked him off balance and pushed him toward the other
path.

He tightened his fingers around his sword and looked about suspiciously. All seemed calm.
Was the forest playing tricks with him?

Looking in all directions, Gorath stealthily moved toward the path to the left. But he
never made it. A second, much stronger gust of wind came howling and twisting toward him.
It nearly lifted the big man off the ground. Before Gorath knew what hit him, he was being
blown at great speed down the path to the right. Because his legs were thick as tree
trunks and rubbed together whenever he moved, it was difficult for him to stay on his
feet. But each time he fell, the wind swept him up and forced him to continue.

The wind ceased as quickly as it had begun, leaving Gorath sprawled on the ground with his
boots twisted together. The dazed warrior spat dust and struggled to catch his breath.
Then he slowly rose and, still quite bleary- eyed, looked around.

He was facing a small, crumbling black shack. It had no windows, just a crooked black
door. A walkway of broken stones led from the path to the door. Tall weeds filled a garden
to the left, and strange, twisted vegetables grew on the other side. Gorath thought the
shack deserted until he noticed that thick black smoke curled upward from a crooked
chimney on the dilapidated roof. Suddenly it blew in Gorath's direction, carrying with it
a ghastly aroma. Gorath's stomach became queasy. He could have sworn someone was cooking a
stew consisting of spoiled meat and rotten vegetables.

Gorath prided himself on his bravery, but his instincts urged him to get away at once.
Without understanding why, Gorath walked briskly past the house and farther down the path.
But he didn't get very far. An angry gust of wind grabbed him, spun him around, and hurled
him through the air toward the house, causing him to crash into the door and bounce off
with a loud thud.

Again, the wind quickly subsided. The large man staggered to his feet, rubbing his bull
neck and bruised left

arm. He was only a few feet from the door. He started to back away, but it was too late.
The door creaked open.

An old woman peeked out. Gorath had never seen anyone uglier. She had a hatchet-face, with
sharp bones pushing through the skin, a needle-shaped nose, and tiny, pointed ears. Her
hair was white and wild, yet her thick eyebrows were black. Her eyes were pale yellow, her
thin lips were colorless, and her complexion was as pale as a fish's belly. It would have
taken Gorath a lifetime to have counted the deep wrinkles that lined her face.

The tiny woman looked the big man up and down. She wiggled her nose as if she were
smelling him. Her scowl gave way to a smile. Her heart, which had so long ago resigned
itself to eternal loneliness, began to pound. Her chest began to rise and fall. Her eyes
looked at the stranger hungrily. Women had always been repulsed by Gorath's appearance,
but he left this one breathless. At last she spoke.

“You're so handsome, I must hold you,” she said brazenly. As the stunned Gorath backed up,
she moved toward him out of the shadows. That's when Gorath saw how she was garbed.

“Ah, I ... I see you are a black-robed magic-user,” he said, somewhat relieved. “Then we
are both servants of the Queen of Darkness.”

The old woman stopped in her tracks upon hearing Gorath's remarks. “You are mistaken, my
darling,” she replied humbly, her teeth chattering annoyingly. “I am just Zorna, a poor
and forgotten old woman. This robe was discarded in the forest by a sorceress who was
passing through. I took it because I had nothing to wear.”

“You don't know how to perform magic?” asked Gorath skeptically.

“I swear I am no sorceress. But I have other talents, darling. I can cook the finest slug
stew you've tasted in your life. Won't you be my guest?”

Gorath didn't know what to make of this weird woman. He wanted to laugh at her invitation,
run her through with his sword, and ransack her shack for anything of value. But he kept
his distance, not fully convinced she wasn't a black- robed magic-user. “I have no time to
waste with you,” he told her coldly. “Now I must find the woman who betrayed me and slay
the scoundrel who stole her from me.”