Chapter Seven

Fortunately Caramon saw the mug coming, he ducked as it flew toward him, and it hit the wall behind him with a crash. Its shards clattered down around his feet.

"She's gone!" Uka shouted. "He took her, damn you!"

"What are you talking about?" Caramon asked, raising his hands to ward off more flying tankards.

Tika looked behind her. "You tell him."

Looking past her, Caramon saw the farmboy he'd wrestled at the fair. "Uwen?"

"It—it isn't my fault," the boy stammered. His eyes were wide, his face pale. "I wanted to stop him—"

"Hold on," Caramon said. "Slow down, lad. What's the matter?"

Uwen told him, pale and terrified: He'd seen Dezra at dawn, watched her pilfer traveling gear from half a dozen different merchants, then seen her and the centaur ride west out of Solace. Caramon bowed his head, a hollow feeling in his gut.

"It's your fault!" Tika yelled, letting another mug fly. He grunted as it glanced off his elbow. "Blast it, Caramon! How could you?"

"You'd have done the same thing."

"Exactly," she said, tears on her cheeks. "That's why I asked you to deal with her. I didn't trust my temper." She gestured at the shattered mugs. "I thought you'd go easier on her. You've always been the reasonable one. Was it reasonable to throw her out?"

Caramon sighed. He walked toward her, took her hands, gazed into her eyes. "Maybe it's time she was on her own. The boys were, when they were her age."

Tika's eyes flashed. "Look where that got them."

Caramon winced as he thought of Tanin and Sturm, their graves overgrown with ferns and myrtle. "Palm was young too, the first time he left home," he murmured. "If we'd kept him here, he wouldn't have met Usha, or had children of his own." There was unspoken meaning behind his words. If they'd sheltered Palin, Krynn might no longer exist. His magic had helped stop the mad god Chaos from destroying the world.

Tika shook her head stubbornly. "We're not talking about Palin. We're talking about our little girl."

"Gods, Tika," Caramon said, throwing up his hands, "what am I supposed to do?"

"Find her, you dolt! Get her back from that centaur."

Uwen stepped forward. "I think he kidnapped her," he said. "Like in the stories."

"I don't know," Caramon said, scratching his head. "You say she was wearing a sword… ."

"Kidnapped or not, she's riding into Darken Wood," Tika argued. "She doesn't know what she's getting into."

Caramon thought she probably did, but didn't say so. He bowed his head, gesturing at himself. "Look at me, Tika," he said. "Even Lord Gunthar quit sallying forth from his keep when he was my age—and he was a Knight of Solamnia."

"Gunthar would have gone, if it had been his daughter."

Yes, Caramon thought, I guess he would, damn it.

"And I know another man who wasn't much younger than you are now when he set out on a quest," Tika pressed. "A quest much more dangerous than following a runaway daughter into Darken Wood… ."

He shut his eyes. "Don't—"

"Riverwind."

Caramon blew out a long breath. Riverwind of Qué-Shu had been sixty-five when he'd gone east to defend Kendermore. But the kender hadn't approached him first—they'd asked Caramon. He'd turned them down, so Riverwind had gone instead. And Riverwind had died. Of all the burdens Caramon had shouldered in his life, it was one of the heaviest.

He took Tika's hand, squeezed it tightly. "I guess I'd better go find my armor then, eh?"

Caramon Majere had grown up with his half-sister Kitiara, the roughest woman he'd ever known. He'd lived among mercenaries, sailors and gladiators. He'd led an army of bandits and dwarves, and had run an inn for forty years. All of this, put together, made him one of Krynn's foremost experts on cursing.

The words that erupted from his bedroom as he tried on his armor would have made a pack of ogres run for cover.

He hadn't worn his armor since the Summer of Chaos. He took it out now and then to polish it, and it shone as he laid it out on the bed—gleaming plates and glistening mail, supple straps and glinting buckles—but he hadn't donned it in ten years.

Caramon knew he was in trouble as soon as he pulled on his chainmail shirt. It had hung loose on him when he was young, but now he could barely get it down over his belly. When he did, the mail bit into his flesh, leaving a web of red marks when he dragged it off again.

That was when the swearing started.

He tried to buckle his plate greaves on his shins, but the straps wouldn't reach. He had the same problem with his vambraces. After he tried—and failed—to put on his leather thigh guards, he started throwing things. He broke the washbasin with a gauntlet and gouged a furrow in the wall with a pauldron. He grunted and groaned, yanked and winced, but in the end only two pieces of armor still fit. One was his breastplate, an ornate Solamnic piece he'd acquired during the Dwarfgate War. The other was the piece he'd owned the longest, since his youth: a battered bronze helm with a crest shaped like a winged dragon. Once he had it on, he gathered the rest of his armor and stowed it away again. He kept the greaves and vambraces—a stop at the smithy would procure some larger straps—cursed a few more times for good measure, then went to fetch the rest of his armaments.

His dented, oval shield also needed new straps. He tossed it on the bed. He found an old spear, a shortbow without a string, and a half-empty quiver of arrows. He added a trip to Tavis the fletcher's shop to his list of errands, then walked to the mantel and pulled his sword off the wall. It was a formidable weapon, with a keen, well-tempered blade. Most men would have needed both hands to wield it, but Caramon could use it one-handed easily. He slid it out of its scabbard and took a few practice swings, satisfying himself that years of hoisting kegs had kept him strong.

Then he glimpsed himself in the silver wall mirror, and his smile faltered. He didn't see the young, brawny warrior who'd once swung the sword. It was a fat old man, and it didn't change no matter how much he sucked in his paunch.

Habbakuk's bollocks, he thought. Look at yourself. If you make it a league out of town without keeling over, it'll be a bloody miracle.

Laughing ruefully, he grabbed his gear, kicked open the door, and headed back downstairs.

Tika had laid several leather pouches and a pair of waterskins on the bar. Caramon dumped his gear on a table and went to examine them.

“It's trail food," Tika said. "Hardtack, salt pork, some prunes."

"Yum," Caramon said sourly. "Seems a bit much, doesn't it? I don't think I'll be gone longer than a few days." He unstopped a waterskin and took a sniff, then looked at Tika in alarm. "This is ale! You know I can't drink this stuff."

Tika nodded. "It isn't for you."

Caramon's eyes narrowed, then he shook his head, his helm glinting. "No," he told her. "You're staying here."

"It's not for her either, sir." Uwen stepped forward. "I volunteered to go with you."

"Eh?" Caramon gave the boy a hard look; Uwen lowered his gaze, his cheeks going red. "This isn't like scaring off some goblins who've been stealing your cattle, lad. Most folk who go into Darken Wood don't come out again."

"Darling," Tika said. "A word with you?"

She led him to the kitchen, leaving Uwen flushed and silent behind them. "He insisted," she said when they were beyond the boy's hearing. "I tried to talk him out of it, but he wouldn't listen. I think he's sweet on Dez."

"Sweet Reorx," Caramon swore. "Does she even know he exists?"

"Well, he did save her from falling yesterday."

Caramon grunted, unconvinced.

"If you tell him no, he'll follow you anyway," Tika said.

Caramon studied Uwen. Solace was probably the farthest the boy ever been from his family's farm. And shouldn't he be going back there, now that the fair was over? Better that than bumbling after Dezra. He was likely to get himself killed.

Still, it didn't look like any of that mattered. Tika was right; even if he left without the boy, he'd turn around later today and see Uwen walking behind him. Better to begin the journey as friends. "All right," he said, raising his voice. "He can come."

The boy's face shone like a lantern. Caramon winced, and Tika hid a sudden grin.

"Well, then," Caramon said finally, gathering his gear again. "We'd best be off. Grab the food, Uwen, and—"

The door banged open. Caramon and Tika both looked at it, vainly hoping to see Dezra standing there. They were disappointed.

"Hey, big guy!" Borlos beamed.

He tromped into the tavern, lute slung over his shoulder. Clemen and Osier came in with him, and headed to their table by the kitchen. Clemen started shuffling cards as soon as he sat. Borlos stopped halfway across the room, however, looking at the pouches on the bar.

"Going somewhere, big guy?" he asked. "Looks like you're packed for a trip."

"We're going to Darken Wood," Uwen declared. "A centaur kidnapped Dezra. We're gonna rescue her."

"Really?" Borlos asked, nodding. The comers of his mouth twitched.

"Oh no," Caramon muttered. "Please don't smile."

The bard grinned. "A little adventure then, eh?" he asked. "To rescue the damsel fair. I know a song or three of the sort." He patted his lute.

"Bor!" called Clemen, riffling the deck. "We're setting up for a game of Blind Dwarf. Grab a seat."

"Not today, thanks," Borlos said. "Bigger things afoot. Don't want to miss an adventure, you know. I'll play when I get back."

"Get b—" Caramon started, then closed his mouth, scowling. It was the same with Borlos as with Uwen—he'd trail along, and nothing Caramon said would sway him.

The bard was even more of a problem, though. At least the farmboy was young and strong; Borlos was short and skinny, and at somewhere around forty winters he was past his prime. Still, he'd fought both the Knights of Takhisis and the hordes of Chaos ten years ago. At the least, he'd be good company.

"Fine," Caramon said at last. "You can come too."

"Great," Borlos answered, doffing his cap. "Maybe there'll even be a ballad in this, eh?"

We can only hope, Caramon thought wryly. "Dear," he said, "I think you'd better—"

Tika, however, was a step ahead. She'd already gone to the larder to pack more food. Shrugging, Caramon grabbed an empty waterskin and went to fill it with his spring brew.

They got horses from the stables, quick steeds Caramon kept to sell to travelers who needed fresh mounts. Uwen swung astride his easily, saddle creaking, but Borlos was a another story. He fumbled about with one foot in the stirrup while his horse twitched its ears in irritation. In the end, it took a boost from Caramon to get him up.

Caramon surveyed his companions and tried not to sigh. "You both might need armor," he said, gathering his horse's reins. "Boiled leather, at the least. I don't suppose either of you has a weapon?"

Uwen shook his head.

"I've got this," Borlos said. He drew a stiletto from his belt. Its narrow blade glinted in the sun.

"That won't do," Caramon said. "We'll find something simple—an axe or a hammer, or something. Can either of you pay?"

"I have some silver," Uwen declared.

Caramon turned to Borlos.

"Sorry, big guy," the bard said blithely. "I'm in debt to Clem and Osier a fair bit of steel just now. I'll have to owe you."

"Ah," Caramon declared without surprise. He eyed the both of them one last time, then trudged toward the smithy. This was going to be quite the adventure, all right.