Kender, Gully Dwarves, Gnomes (16 page)

“Get him! You idiots! What are you waiting for?” Toede shrieked.

At last the angry dragon, tired of the squealing, opened its great maw, rolled its pink
tongue out of the way, and released a great, thunderous discharge of flame that caught
Toede right in the middle of one of his jumps. The flames passed right over the heads of
the two hobgoblins edging their way backward. Tossing their spears in the air, they fled
in opposite directions.

The dragon's flames were so loud that they drowned out Toede's squeals.

Groag, standing several paces away from Toede, could only watch in horror, his torn robes
slowly being singed. And when at long last the flames stopped, all he could see remaining
of his master was his red-hot, glowing armor, partly melted, lying on the ground.

The dragon roared victoriously, causing pine needles to rain from the trees. Then, using a
front claw, the dragon swatted the irritating arrow from between its nostrils and slowly
crawled back into its cave, the deer-carcass bracelet disappearing with it, followed by
the dragon's own tapering, spiked tail.

In the ensuing silence, Groag, pine needles covering his head and shoulders, stood alone,
gawking at where Toede had been ranting only moments before. After a moment more, he was
finally able to move his legs a bit. About to slink back into the forest, he heard an odd
sound - a sort of high-pitched, squeaky laugh ter. He stopped and looked to see where it
was coming from.

His eyes fell upon two small beings perched on the rocky hill, just over the entrance to
the cave. So hard were they laughing that they had fallen right over onto their backs and
were holding their aching stomachs. . . .

*****

And that, more or less, was the tale that was told in the tavern and came to be retold
over and over throughout Krynn.

When the hooded stranger had finished speaking, the other patrons looked first at him,
then at Talorin, who was smiling proudly from pointy ear to pointy ear. “Kender can sneak
up on any sleeping dragon,” he added unnecessarily.

Old Pug scratched his curly hair. “Well, I'll be,” he said. “So it's true about Kronin.”

Another patron, the lanky human, patted the proud kender on the back.

“And now, kind stranger,” continued Talorin expansively, “perhaps you would like to offer
thanks for your liberation. I would be most happy to relay your gratitude to the great
Kronin himself.”

“Gratitude?” grumbled the hooded stranger. “Gratitude? For my LIBERATION?”

“Why, of course. Everyone knows Toede was a horrible tyrant, and ever since that day - ”

“Ever since that day,” broke in the stranger, “I have sure enough been free - but free to
what? To wander aimlessly? To go hungry? To find no shelter? Gratitude, you say? Look!
Look upon my gratitude!” And, with that, the stranger tossed back his hood. The once
elegant and haughty, once well-fed minion of the Highlord was now gaunt-faced and clothed
in rags.

“Groag!” yelped the kender, sitting up straight.

And before anyone knew it, the crazed hobgoblin brought forth from under the table a rusty
double-edged battle-ax, which he immediately swung overhead. Down he came with it, just as
the inebriated kender jumped away, his abandoned chair cracking in two. Everyone else
around the table jumped back, knocking over their chairs.

“Stand still!” cried the enraged hobgoblin, jumping to his feet and hefting the heavy axe
once more. “I want to show you how damned grateful I am!”

“Some other time, perhaps!” called back Talorin, springing lightly back toward the door.

Groag rushed him and swung the axe, smashing a row of clay steins on the counter.

“Oops!” cried Talorin. “I think maybe it's time I take my leave!” And, with that, he
hopped out a round window. “Farewell!” he called, his voice already distant in the

woods. “I'll give Kronin your best!” “Come back!” raged Groag, holding the axe aloft and

dashing out the tavern door. “Come back and let me thank you and all your meddling race!”

The remaining patrons pressed back to the circular tree- trunk wall for safety and looked
at each other in disbelief. Then the elf, a twinkle coming to his eye, began to chuckle.
His cheeks reddened merrily. The others slowly joined him, and soon everyone was laughing.

“Well, how do you like that?” said the elf, wiping a cheerful tear from a pale blue eye as
he returned to pick up his chair. “Some people just don't know how to say thank you.”

Everyone was now roaring heartily and shaking their heads in amusement as they resettled
themselves into their chairs to resume their drinking.

All, that is, except old Pug. He only sighed deeply as he returned to his counter to sweep
away the shards of his broken clay steins. Once again, as he knew would happen, a kender
had left without paying his tab.

Definitions of Honor Richard A. Knaak

They called the village Dragon's Point. It was a grand name for a tiny human settlement
located at the tip of a peninsula northeast of Kornen. Fishtown might have been more
appropriate. All who lived in Dragon's Point played some part in the fishing trade. Young
and old, men and women.

Visitors were rare in this part of the world: a few traders, a wandering soul, even a
minor cleric now and then. A Knight of Solamnia, then, should have been a sight rare
enough to make every villager cease his work and stare in astonishment. At least that was
what Torbin had believed. Yet, they did little more than eye him suspiciously and then
disappear into their respective homes. They seemed more frightened than surprised.

Those standing nearest to him - those that did not run or sneak away - watched him with
narrowed, covetous eyes. His personal wealth amounted to little, but it must have seemed a
king's treasure to these folk. His hand strayed to his sword just long enough to warn
potential bravados. The

message shot home with the swiftness of an arrow. Torbin soon found himself alone in the
midst of the very village he had come to protect.

A young knight, he had a tremendous desire to prove himself to the world. He wanted to
make a name for himself, something that would gain him the respect of the elders of his
order, something that would make the common folk gaze at him in wide-eyed admiration. In
short - though he would not have admitted it to himself, much less to anyone else - Torbin
wanted to be a hero.

Most of his fellows had chosen to go south toward the more populous regions. They would
fight a few bandits, stare down a few peasants, and come back boasting of their great
struggles. Torbin wanted much more than that. He wanted a real struggle, a worthy
adversary. That was why he had chosen to head toward Kornen and then up the peninsula. The
minotaurs lived near here. Savage man- beasts with their own code of honor.

A commoner, making his ways to the more hospitable lands to the southwest, had spoken of
the village held in a grip of terror by a great band of minotaurs. The man-beasts prowled
the woods and marched along the shore. Any day now they would surely overrun the helpless
settlement.

Torbin suspected the commoner of being a great embellisher, and further questioning proved
him correct in that assumption. The great band was reduced to one lone minotaur and a few
whispered but unaccountable incidents. The situation seemed ideal.

Two weeks later, Dragon's Point's new savior had reached his destination.

It stank heavily of fish.

Three slightly better-dressed men met him at the village center. By their continual
bickering over which of them was to speak - none of the three seemed to want the actual
honor - he assumed them to be members of the local governing power. As a matter of fact,
they turned out to be the mayor, the chief fisherman, and the tax collector. Torbin took
the choice out of their hands by steering his horse toward the mayor. The man looked ready
to faint, but managed to sputter out a greeting. The knight removed his helmet and
returned the greeting.

The three elders seemed a bit disappointed in his youthful appearance. Torbin was
clean-shaven and rather

handsome, though his nose hooked slightly. His eyes were a bright blue, which seemed to
accentuate his lack of experience. His brown hair contrasted greatly with the blond locks
that dominated in this village. The tax collector, a weed of a man who stared down his
prominent nose at everyone, sniffed at the newcomer with open disdain. The others shushed
him.

“My name is Torbin. I am merely seeking a place to stay for a night before I continue my
journey.” He had decided to play it dumb for the time being, the better to check the
accuracy of his own information.

The mayor, a plump, bald man with the unlikely name of Hallard Boarbreaker, looked even
more distressed. “Then you have not come to save us from the minotaurs?”

The knight stiffened. “Minotaurs? I vaguely remember hearing that the islands of the great
man-beasts were said to be somewhere near here, out beyond the Blood Sea of Istar,
correct?” He waited for them to nod. “I know nothing about your plight. How many? How
near?”

Between the three of them, he eventually discovered that there was indeed only one such
creature, though it had originally arrived in a boat with others. The rest had immediately
turned around and headed for home, to plan more war strategy, no doubt. The remaining
minotaur had situated itself somewhere on the shore, though from their inconsistent
accounts, the exact location could be anywhere within an hour's to a day's ride. The one
thing all three agreed on was that this minotaur must be an advance scout for an invading
army. Those brave enough to spy on the creature had reported that it sat in the same spot
every day, cutting sharp sticks from wood it gathered and staring out at the sea in
expectation.

A grand image was swiftly forming in the young knight's mind. He pictured himself standing
over the gutted body of the horrific minotaur, his sword bearing the severed head of the
beast on its point. A better trophy he could not have asked for. It did not occur to him
that such a scene could easily be reversed. He was, after all, a Knight of Solamnia.

Looking as stern as possible, he nodded. “Very well. Come the dawn, I will ride out to
deal with the minotaur. Before the sun sets, I will be back with its head. You have my
word on it.”

They looked rather dubious at this last statement, but

thanked him nonetheless. If he succeeded, they would be all too happy to honor him with a
feast. If he failed, they would be no worse off than if he had never come.

At Torbin's request, they found him a place to stay for the night. He was also served one
of the finest meals the inn's cook had ever made, though the knight himself had never
really been that fond of fish and thus did not realize the trouble the woman had gone
through. As it was, he was barely able to down the foul dish. Torbin was also ignorant of
the fact that she had outdone herself for the sole reason that she believed this young man
was going out to die and deserved one last fine meal.

Torbin made no attempt to converse with those who drifted in and out of this poor attempt
at a public inn. The few who stayed for very long only glanced his direction, that same
hungry look in their eyes. The knight found himself anxiously awaiting the morrow.

He bedded down for the night - it could only loosely be called a bed, being more of a
bug-ridden mattress on a piece of wood - and eventually drifted off into sleep despite his
numerous tiny companions. In his dreams he finally found pleasure, skewering his hapless
foe a thousand different ways, each one more daring and skillful than the one preceding it.

He rode quietly, hoping not to alert the minotaur. The tracks he had come across were
fresh and spoke of a large beast. Torbin's pulse quickened. Legends said the minotaurs
were crafty fighters, as skilled in their own way as the Knights of Solamnia. They also
had their own code of honor of which some of the older knights had spoken with great
respect.

For a short time, he was forced to ride around trees on a path that could be described as
maddening at best. It twisted this way and that, and the knight even found himself
momentarily facing the direction he had just come from. Abruptly, it turned toward the
coastline and led him to a gritty, open area.

Off to the north, his left, he saw the lean-to; nearby sat the feared minotaur, his great
horned head bent over some unknown task.

Using the natural curve of the land to hide him, Tor-bin readied his sword and shield and
backed the horse up in

order to give it more time to build up speed before he clashed with the minotaur. A smile
flickered on his face. He took a deep breath, quickly searched his mind for any options he
might have missed, and then spurred the horse on.

The warhorse's great speed quickly ate away at the distance between Torbin and the
minotaur. The knight saw his adversary stand at first notice of the noise and turn quickly
toward him. The minotaur was unarmed, but there were a large number of long wooden shafts
beside it. The man-beast could easily reach one of them long before Torbin came close
enough to strike.

Nevertheless, the minotaur made no move toward its weapons. Torbin's grim determination
gave way to puzzled indignation. He had never struck down an unarmed foe. It went against
everything he considered honorable, even when fighting a creature such as the minotaur.

They would close soon. The minotaur had still not reached for a weapon and, in fact,
looked ready to die. With a sudden curse, the young knight pulled sharply on the reins of
his horse, trying desperately to go around the creature rather than run into it. He did
not think even a minotaur could survive the blows of a trained warhorse if the victim had
no intention of defending itself.

The horse finally allowed itself to be turned. For several seconds, man and steed whirled
wildly around as the horse fought to rebalance itself. Torbin lost his sword in an attempt
to keep the reins from slipping from his hands. The horse snorted loudly and then slowed.
The knight was able to regain his own balance and pull the horse to a halt. It was then
that he first noticed the loss of his weapon.