Chapter 1

"I am not making up stories,” said Catt Thistleknot. The little kender’s eyebrows knitted in vexation. “I did too see a boat fall from the sky last month.”

“Of course you did,” answered her brother Kronn, in a tone of voice that made him sound like the older sibling, rather than the younger. “It happens all the time around here. In fact, I hear it’s supposed to hail dinghies tonight.”

“Don’t be sarcastic,” Catt huffed. She pushed aside a low-hanging branch as she trudged through the undergrowth of the Kenderwood. “Are you sure you know where we’re going?”

Kronn glanced at the tall trees surrounding them. “Of course I do. Father’s map says Woodsedge shouldn’t be too far from where we are right now.” He examined a scrap of vellum and scratched his head, turning the map this way and that. “Of course, it’d help if it said which way’s supposed to be north…

“Oh, good,” Catt declared. “So we’re less than an hour’s walk from either Woodsedge or… Neraka, maybe?”

“Don’t be snotty.” Kronn studied the map a moment longer, then shrugged and tucked it into his belt. “Anyway, anyone can see that there’s too many trees around here for it to be Neraka.”

“Too many for a town called Woodsedge, too.”

Glowering, Kronn started pushing through the brush again. Shaking her head, Catt followed. “We don’t even know for sure that Father’s going to be there,” she complained.

“Merldon Metwinger said he was,” Kronn retorted.

“Merldon Metwinger says his daughter married Uncle Trapspringer.”

“It’s distinctly possible,” Kronn said. “Uncle Trapspringer is quite the catch, and I know for a fact that he’s been married seven or nine times.”

He stopped suddenly. Catt nearly piled into the back of him. “What—” she began.

Kronn pressed a finger against her lips. “Listen.”

Catt cocked a pointed ear, her forehead furrowing. It was a moment before she heard anything but birdsong and whispering leaves. Then she discerned a new sound. A chorus of odd cries wafted through the wood, equal parts cackle and screech, accompanied by the rustle of something passing through the scrub. It was getting louder, moving toward them.

“What is it?” she whispered.

Kronn didn’t reply. He crept forward, moving swiftly through the bushes. After about twenty paces, he looked back at Catt. “Come on,” he urged.

Catt hurried to catch up with her brother. More and more voices joined the strange chorus. Kronn drew to a halt, holding up a hand to stay his sister. They hunkered down behind a lichen-dappled boulder. Catt started to reach into her belt pouch, looking for a stone to load into her hoopak, but stopped with her hand on the bag’s clasp. Kronn hadn’t yet reached for the chapak—a kender weapon that is part axe, part sling, and part many other things—that he wore across his back. Trusting her brother’s instincts for danger, she hunched beside him, listening. The sound was almost upon them now.

“This is going to be good,” Kronn murmured, now grinning mischievously.

“Blast it, Kronn,” Catt urged. “What’s going—”

Without warning, Kronn leapt up from where he crouched, yelling at the top of his voice and gesticulating wildly. Suddenly the squawk-screeches gave way to startled shouts, then laughter. Following Kronn’s lead, Catt jumped up beside him, waving her arms and shouting even louder than he did. Shapes rose from the undergrowth around them—a score or more of kender children, all of them boys. They turned and ran away, shrieking with laughter.

Kronn gave chase without hesitation. Catt shrugged and followed, hollering all the while. They raced through the woods, but the children eluded them, vanishing among the ferns and shrubs. Kronn came to a halt and slumped back against a papery birch tree, holding his sides as he shook with silent mirth.

“What was that about?” Catt asked.

Kronn gave her an odd look, as if he weren’t sure she was serious. Then understanding dawned on his face. “Ah,” he said. “I guess you wouldn’t know, being a girl and all.”

“Know what?” Catt asked, frowning.

Kronn stroked his chin. “Well,” he said, “today’s the first day of the Harrowing festival, right?”

“Right…”

“So, every year on Harrowing, all the boys in a village get together and go goatsucker hunting.”

Catt rolled her eyes. “Goatsucker hunting? Goatsuckers are just a Trapspringer tale.”

“This from someone who’s seen it rain boats,” Kronn countered. “I know that goatsuckers don’t exist. But all kender boys go out, sounding the goatsucker call, and after a while the adults head into the woods and chase them, like we just did. It’s good fun,” he added, pushing away from the tree. “Besides, if there’s that many children around, we must be close to Woodsedge. But we shouldn’t stay here long.”

Catt raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”

“Well, usually during goatsucker hunting, the kids try to get back at the grownups for chasing them,” Kronn said. “When they stop to rest, the kids sneak back up on them and—”

Suddenly, a small, brown object flew out of the bushes, hitting a tree just above Catt’s head with a wet crack. Something slippery dripped into her long, black hair.

“—throw eggs,” Kronn finished, then turned and bolted through the forest, whooping with laughter.

Catt’s shoes squished noisily as she and Kronn trudged along the path through the outermost fringe of the Kenderwood. She picked bits of eggshell, sticky with albumen, off her favorite yellow blouse. The shirt was ruined, as were her nice red breeches, and there seemed to be more egg in her hair than there was hair. Her lip curled in disgust as she flicked the shell away.

“I notice they left you alone,” she said grumpily, glaring at her brother.

Kronn winked at her. His bright green tunic and leggings were completely unbesmirched. “What twelve-year-old boy would chuck an egg at me when there was a girl handy?”

“Hmph,” Catt grumbled. She reached into her blouse and plucked out a yolk that had slithered down her neck during the bombardment. Without hesitating, she lobbed it at her brother.

He ducked nimbly aside. “Watch it there, Catt. They probably have some ammunition left.” He nodded ahead, where the boys they’d chased were skipping and jostling along the trail.

At last, they reached the tree line. The path led away from the forest, toward a small town perched on a clifftop overlooking the sea. Like most kender villages, Woodsedge was a mismatched jumble of buildings and towers. Surrounding it was a wooden palisade, hung with garlands of willow branches and white wildflowers for the festival. Ahead of Kronn and Catt, the children broke into a run, yelling and whirling their small hoopaks as they sprinted toward the gates. The guardsmen had to jump aside to avoid being run down.

“Hey, Giffel!” called Kronn, waving to the guards’ leader.

The guard, a tall kender with a head of short-cropped, bright yellow hair, squinted down, then smiled broadly.

Kronn ran forward, his arms flung wide, and he and the guard caught each other in a rough embrace that quickly turned into a wrestling match. Before long, Kronn found himself sprawled in the dust, Giffel’s body parked on top of him. “Ow,” he grunted. “Get off, you ox. Is this any way to treat an old friend?”

“It is if he just took your purse,” Giffel said, pushing himself to his feet. He held out his hand. “Give it over, Kronn.”

Sheepishly, Kronn handed the guard his money pouch, which he’d purloined when they’d hugged. “Can I have mine back, too?” he asked.

Giffel chuckled. He had, in turn, lifted Kronn’s purse while they wrestled. He tossed it back.

“Giffel,” Kronn said, rising fluidly from the ground. “You remember Catt, don’t you?”

“Your sister,” Giffel replied, grinning. “Of course. It, uh, looks like you found the goatsucker hunters.”

Beneath the dripping bits of egg, Catt glared a fierce shade of red. Kronn chuckled.

“You here for the festival doings?” Giffel asked.

Kronn shook his head, his cheek braids flapping. “Not as such. We’re looking for our father. Is he around?” He waved toward the town’s open gates.

Giffel folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not supposed to say,” he answered. “Kronin gave specific instructions not to let anyone know he was in Woodsedge.”

“How specific?” asked Catt.

“Well, he certainly isn’t at the hoopak-slinging contest.”

Laughing, Kronn clapped Giffel on the arm. “Good fellow,” he said. “I’m glad to see my father picked the right man to be candid with.”

“Go on in,” Giffel bade.

“Thanks, Giff,” Kronn said. He and Catt started to through the gates, but he stopped and glanced back. “Will you be at the feast tonight?”

“Of course,” Giffel replied, and slapped his belly. “Do you think I’d miss a free meal?”

“I suppose not,” Kronn said. “I’ll make sure Catt saves a dance for you.”

Catt punched her brother in the arm. But as Kronn walked on, both Giffel and Catt turned quite interesting colors.

The kender, as a people, have surprisingly few heroes. It isn’t that they are a cowardly race, of course. On the contrary, fear is alien to them. If he has good reason, a kender will practically march into Dargaard Keep, walk up to Lord Soth, and poke him in the eye without balking. It is, ironically, for this reason that they don’t revere many of their own. What might seem a feat of reckless bravery to a human, a kender regards as no big deal. “I could have done that, if I wanted,” is a favorite kender saying.

That doesn’t mean the kender have no legendary figures at all. Over their history, a handful have proven sufficiently interesting to earn their fellows’ esteem. The most famous of these is Uncle Trapspringer, whom every kender claims as a relative and close personal friend. There are enough wild stories about his adventures—and, frequently, gruesome deaths—to fill an entire wing of the great Library in Palanthas. The kender would swear up and down that each and every one is the complete and untainted truth.

There are certain legends of ancient kender heroes. Balif, the warrior who had fought beside the elven king Silvanos, was purported by some to have been himself born an elf. Rithel Stubbletoe, who’d defended the kender nation of Hylo, in the west of Ansalon, from an invasion by the expanding Empire of Ergoth, once broke into the Imperial Court in Daltigoth and made off with the Emperor’s crown jewels. A young kender named Noblosha Lampwick was believed to have taken and passed the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, though none of the wizards’ records listed her name.

After the Cataclysm, the kender had gone for more than three centuries without any new heroes. Recently, though, two of them had won that honor through their valorous deeds. One was Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He had broken dragon orbs, gone back in time and into the Abyss, and chatted with a number of gods—then, sealed his reputation by sacrificing his life to draw blood from the mad god, Chaos. Now, scarcely two years after his death, young kender often claimed their most prized possessions had been given to them by “Uncle Tas.”

The other, relatively new kender hero was Kronin Thistleknot. Kronin was something of a special case, as his deeds fell somewhat short of his people’s usual high standards. Sure, he had ruled Kendermore for an unprecedented twenty-five years before stepping down to let his daughter Paxina take over. And yes, he had killed the loathsome Dragon Highlord, Fewmaster Toede. There were already numerous versions of that victory. Only Kronin himself knew which was true, and he wasn’t telling. But neither of these feats was what made him stand out above his kind. No, what drew the kender’s attention to Kronin was that his deeds made him a hero among the other races of Ansalon. Elves, humans, and even dwarves revered him for his role in the Dragonarmies’ downfall. It was only after nearly everyone else had honored him that the kender, deciding they must have missed something important, made him a hero by acclamation.

Thus it was that Woodsedge’s town square was crammed with onlookers as a rare flesh-and-blood hero stepped up to the firing line of the slinging contest. Kronin was, by this time, eighty-six years old, his face a maze of wrinkles and his silvery hair almost gone. He hobbled as he walked, leaning heavily on his old, worn hoopak, and his favorite purple shoes were faded with age, but his eyes were clear, and his hand didn’t shake as he delved into his belt pouch. Silence, punctuated by murmurs of awe, fell over the crowd as he rooted through the bag and started pulling out rocks.

He examined each in turn, eyeing it closely, then tossed it on the ground. Finally, on the fourth try, he produced a round, smooth stone. The furrows of his brow deepened as he regarded it. Then he nodded and tucked it into the leather pocket on the forked end of his hoopak. He brought the weapon back, carefully poised.

“Ready,” he said loudly.

The far end of the courtyard, beyond the spectators, was flanked by several small catapults. The machines were spread out at various distances, and each was cocked and loaded with a large clay disc. Now, at Kronin’s command, the kender manning the closest one—only about thirty yards away—released the catch. The catapult’s arm sprang forward, flinging the clay disc through the air.

Kronin concentrated, marking its flight, then brought his hoopak sharply forward, sending his slingstone flashing across the courtyard. It struck the middle of the disc, shattering it with a crash. Shards of clay rattled down on the cobblestones.

“Ooooh!” said the assembled kender. “Aaah!”

Kronin nodded in satisfaction, then rifled through his pouch until he found a second suitable stone. He loaded his hoopak again. “Ready,” he declared a second time.

A second catapult, this one sixty yards away, let fly. He slung again, and broke the second disc. He did the same to the third, then the fourth.

Kronn and Catt elbowed through the crowd, making their way to the front. “How’s he doing?” Kronn asked one of the officials, a bespectacled kender in a fancy, turquoise jerkin.

The official peered at him closely. “Four for four,” he replied. Another crash, this one well over a hundred yards away, rang across the courtyard, and the official turned to see the pieces of yet another disc rain down on the ground. “Make that five for five.”

Catt, who had washed and put on a clean yellow dress, raised an eyebrow. “Not bad, for an old codger,” she mused.

“Kender never lose their aim!” Kronn said proudly. “Who’s in the lead?”

Frowning, the official looked down at the slate he was using to keep score. “That’d be Yarren Ringglimmer,” he said, nodding toward a red-haired kender at the edge of the firing line. “He hit six out of seven, but this last one’s tricky. No one’s gotten it yet.”

“Really?” Kronn remarked. “Why’s that?”

“Would someone please tell my son to kindly keep his voice down?” snapped Kronin as he prepared his hoopak for a sixth shot. “I’m trying to concentrate.”

“Sorry, Father,” Kronn called.

Kronin made a sour face, then peered straight down the courtyard. Two catapults, almost directly across from each other, remained unfired. Their operators stood ready, their hands on the release catches.

The crowd was completely silent. Kronin licked his lips. “Ready,” he said.

Both catapults sprang at once, their discs arcing toward each other. Kronin watched them calmly, his eyes narrowing, then brought his hoopak sharply forward.

The slingstone tore through the air. The first disc was at the apex of its flight and the second had just begun to fall when the stone smashed through them both.

The crowd broke into laughing and cheering and clapping their hands. Kronin straightened his violet silk tunic and hobbled away from the firing line. Kronn and Catt hurried forward to meet him.

“Nice shooting, Papa,” Catt said.

Kronin wrinkled his nose. “Child’s play,” he grumbled. “Hello, Catt… Kronn.” He kissed her on the cheek, then clasped arms with his son. “Who told you I was here? That old fool Metwinger, I suppose.”

“You suppose right,” Catt said.

“Hmph.” Kronin scowled, then glanced around. The crowd was starting to break up now. His eyes fixed on a nearby cluster of market stalls. “All right, then. There’s a fellow over there selling cider. Fetch me a flask and some roasted acorns. Then you can tell me why you’re here.”

“Ah,” Kronin sighed, his knees creaking as he eased himself down on the ground. He leaned back against a blossoming cherry tree, then kicked off his purple shoes and wriggled his toes as he took a long pull from his flask of cider. Kronn and Catt had traded a pocketknife and a copper saltcellar for the drink. “So, what trouble’s your big sister in now?”

Catt blinked. “How did you guess Paxina sent us?”

“Please, girl,” Kronin grumbled, rapping his temple with a gnarled finger. “Credit me with some brains. The problem with this hero business is that people always want something from me. I’m supposed to be retired, though you’d never know it. Trapspringer ‘s ears, what is it this time?”

“Well,” Kronn began, clasping his hands together, “Pax thinks we’re going to be attacked soon.”

“Again?” Kronin rolled his eyes. “Why bother me about it? Paxina didn’t need my help keeping the Knights of Takhisis from killing us all, a couple years back.”

“That was easy,” Catt countered. “Relatively speaking, of course. All Pax had to do was get us to convince the knights we could be more useful to them alive than dead. It’s different, this time; we’re dealing with ogres.”

Kronin’s eyes flared. He plucked an acorn from the small bag his children had gotten for him, and popped it in his mouth. After a moment he spat out the cap and started chewing on the bitter nutmeat. “Well, that is different. How many?”

“Thousands,” Kronn answered. “So far all we know is that ogres have been overrunning the villages of the Dairly Plains. All sorts of human refugees have been coming through the Kenderwood. It looks as though the ogres have all banded together, and are moving steadily toward Kendermore. Pax thinks we’re in real danger.”

Kronn gave a low whistle. “I can’t argue that. What does she want from me?”

“Help, Father,” Catt pleaded. “We need help.”

“I should say so,” Kronin agreed. “You’re going to need every bit of help you can get.” He munched on an acorn.

Kronn knelt beside his father. “Well?”

“I’m thinking.” Kronin frowned, chewing noisily. “I suppose Paxina wants me to come to Kendermore with you.”

“She most certainly does,” Kronn snapped.

“Well, then.” Kronin stood with a sigh, raising his flask to his lips and drinking down the last of his cider. “I learned long ago that a hero ain’t allowed to resign. Nor a father, I might add. We’ll leave tomorrow. But for tonight, let’s enjoy the feast, eh?”

By late afternoon, the catapults and debris had been cleared out of the courtyard and the large tables wheeled in, laden with more food than the entire village could hope to eat. Laughter and sumptuous smells filled the air as the kender gorged themselves on oven-hot herb breads, roasted rabbit and spring lamb, dandelion greens and pungent cheeses. Wine and ale, mead and cider, fresh milk and strawberry juice flowed freely. The feast finished with an array of puddings and cakes that satisfied the sweetest teeth in town. As the sun hung, swollen and red, over the trees to the west, many of the villagers stumbled off to sleep or passed out where they stood.

“If I eat anything else,” Kronin declared, “I worry that the buttons might fly off my shirt and put out someone’s eye.” He patted his bulging stomach contentedly.

“I can never figure out where you find room for it all, Giffel,” Kronn told the tall guardsman, who had joined them for the meal.

Giffel, who had exchanged his fighting leathers for a long red shirt and maroon trousers, was chewing contentedly on a lamb haunch. “The key is to pace yourself,” he mumbled around a mouthful of meat.

“And have a belly the size of a kurpa melon,” Catt added, laughing. Giffel blushed in embarrassment.

“Looks like the band’s setting up for the dance,” Kronn noted. He pointed at a raised platform across the courtyard. A group of musicians were milling about, holding an unlikely array of instruments: triple-necked lutes, bagpipes, xylophones, a great brass horn that was bigger than the kender who played it, and a contraption that appeared to be part dulcimer, part musical saw. They started to tune up, but there seemed to be some disagreement as to which key they should play in.

“Let’s go someplace and talk,” Kronn suggested. “Giffel, take care of Catt. You promised her the first dance earlier.”

“Sure, Kronn,” the guard said. He offered his arm to Catt.

She took it. “Just don’t spin me around too fast,” she said. “All that mead’s made me a bit dizzy.”

Kronin and Kronn watched the two of them walk off toward the musicians. “Remember when you were young, how he used to put salamanders in her boots?” Kronin observed wistfully.

“Of course I do.” Kronn grinned wryly. “It was my idea.”

Kronin returned his smile. “Come on, lad,” he bade. “You’re right. We need to talk.”

It being a festival day, the palisade was largely abandoned. A few guards remained on duty overlooking the town gates, but for the most part Woodsedge’s walls remained still and silent. Kronin hobbled up the ladder to the catwalk, then sat down and leaned heavily against the battlements. Kronn came up after, and glanced up and down the palisade. There was no one close enough to hear. He turned to follow his father’s gaze, north across the Blood Sea. There was a light chop on the water, whipped up by a wind that seemed surprisingly warm for so early in the year. The sky dimmed from sunset-red to twilight-purple, and stars began to glimmer beyond the clouds.

“Father, I’m sorry to be the one dragging you off to Kendermore.” Kronn murmured. He reached in his pouch and pulled out a pebble that had caught his fancy when he’d spotted it in a streambed a few days ago. It had been splendid then, shining with bright colors, but now that it was dry it was just another gray, uninteresting rock. Kronn threw it, watching it sail over the cliff, into the surf. “I hate to interrupt your retirement.”

“Bah,” Kronin said. “Retirement’s boring, and I’m looking forward to a good fight.” He reached over and patted his son’s foot. “Actually, I’m glad you and your sister were the ones who came for me.”

“Catt was the one who offered to look for you, truth be told,” Kronn said. “Pax sent me along for protection.”

Kronin scoffed. “You’re the one needs protecting!” He looked across the village, toward the town square. “Thousands of ogres,” he remarked. “That should be interesting. Still, we’ve faced worse.”

Kronn grunted noncommittally. In his father’s lifetime, the kender had stood against the dragonarmies, the Knights of Takhisis, and the legions of Chaos. Still, something about this situation made him uneasy.

The sound of laughter and clapping hands rose from the town below, echoing weirdly off the walls of the town’s randomly scattered houses.

“How’s Paxina doing?” Kronin asked.

“Not badly,” Kronn answered. “You must have rubbed off on her—she’s a pretty good Lord Mayor. Better than I’d ever be, anyway, even if I did want—” He stopped suddenly, a deep frown darkening his face.

“Kronn?” Kronin asked. “What’s wrong?”

It was a moment before the younger kender answered. His eyes focused on something far off, a flash of movement against the darkening sky. “Uh,” he said, “have you noticed, there’s an absolutely enormous dragon out there?”

“Really?” Kronin asked, glancing up at his son with genuine interest. “What color?”

Kronn squinted. “Red.”

“Oh,” Kronin said, nodding sagely. “That’s just Malystryx—or Malys, as folks around here call her. Don’t worry about her. She turned up about a year ago—has a lair at Blood Watch, apparently. Caused an awful row among the humans, but she leaves us alone. Usually she just circles, but every now and then she puts on a show out over the water, too. A few weeks ago she picked a whole sailing ship up out of the sea.”

“She did?” Kronn asked, looking at his father sharply.

“Yup. It wasn’t a small boat, either. Just plucked it from the sea, flew over and past us, and dropped the thing somewhere in the forest. Saw it with my own eyes.”

“But you say she’s harmless?”

“Oh no, she’s harmful,” Kronin said. “But like I said, she doesn’t seem terribly interested in us.”

“Then why’s she heading straight this way?” Kronn asked.

“Eh?” With some difficult Kronin pushed himself to his feet. He looked north through the gathering gloom. The great, red dragon was indeed coming toward them, moving with dizzying speed. “Well, that’s unusual. I wonder what she’s up to.”

“I don’t like dragons,” said Kronn.

“Me neither,” said Kronin. He shrugged. “But what can you do? Don’t worry. Maybe she’s chasing something in the water—sharks, sea elves, that sort of thing. If she really meant to attack us, she’d come from above, not straight on like th—”

Before he could finish speaking, Malystryx pulled up sharply, climbing high into the sky. The two kender watched her rise, until at last she disappeared into a cloudbank.

“Hmm,” said Kronin.

A deafening screech descended from the clouds, a furious sound that made Kronn clap his hands over his pointed ears. In the town below, the music and laughter came to a sudden stop.

Kronn looked at his father, who was still staring up.

“Definitely unusual.” Kronin’s face darkened as he stared. “Go!” he said all of a sudden, through clenched teeth.

“What?” Kronn asked.

“Go! Find your sister, and that fellow of hers,” Kronin ordered. “Get the villagers into the woods.”

“But,” Kronn sputtered.

Kronin shook his head stubbornly, raising his hoopak. “I’ll only slow you down. Don’t wait for me.”

“Father—”

“Quickly, boy!” Kronin snapped. “Move!”

Kronn ran, leaping onto the ladder and sliding down to the ground. He bolted toward the courtyard, glancing over his shoulder. Kronin still stood atop the palisade, gripping his hoopak tightly. Then Kronn rounded a corner, and the village’s thatched rooftops blocked his father from view. He sprinted even faster, bursting at last into the center of town.

The courtyard was filled with kender who stood in clusters, watching the dragon’s long, sinuous form slip from cloud to cloud. They felt no fear, of course; just rapt fascination. A second shriek rang down upon them, loud enough to rattle windows.

“Catt!” Kronn shouted, pushing through the astonished crowd.

“Kronn!” answered a voice. Catt shoved several kender aside as she hurried to her brother’s side. Giffel jogged along behind her. “Where’s Papa? What’s going on?”

“We’ve got to get these people out of here,” Kronn said tersely. “Giffel, can you round up the other off-duty guards?”

“Sure, Kronn.”

“Then do it,” Kronn ordered. “Get to the town gates, and wait for us there.”

“Right.” Giffel dashed off.

Kronn grabbed Catt’s arm. “Try to get everyone’s attention.”

“Oh,” she murmured, looking up worriedly. “All right.” She took a deep breath, then cupped her hands around her mouth. “Excuse me!” she bellowed in an exceptionally loud voice. All around her, kender jumped, startled by the sound. “Hey! Everyone, listen up!”

Hundreds of eyes turned toward them. Kronn pursed his lips, impressed, then went over to a nearby tree stump and hopped up on it. “Folks,” he said, raising his voice so everyone could hear him, “I’m afraid I have to break up the party. Can everyone please start heading for the gates?”

They listened up well and moved in surprisingly orderly fashion. Kronn and Catt jogged along at the rear of the throng, as Giffel and his fellow guards ushered the villagers through the gates and down the path toward the Kenderwood. Once they were free of the town, the kender broke into a run, glancing up and behind as they sought some sign of the dragon. They moved with eerie silence, their puffing breaths and the whisper of their feet through the grass the only sounds of their passage.

Kronin watched them go from atop the palisade. Grunting with satisfaction, he reached into his belt pouch, pulled out a slingstone, and loaded it into his hoopak.

A third screech descended upon Woodsedge. Kronin glanced up and saw the dragon drop through the clouds. Her wings were folded back against her, her fang-lined mouth gaping wide as she came down like a falling star. The sound of her descent was the howl of a hurricane.

“Wow,” Kronin said, duly impressed.

He brought his hoopak back, watching, waiting, then slung it forward in a quick, practised motion. The slingstone shot far upward, straight toward Malys, and struck her square between the eyes. It bounced off her scaly hide and fell out of sight without even slowing her flight. She drew a great breath into her cavernous breast.

“Oh, drat,” Kronin muttered.

The fleeing kender were almost to the sheltering forest when the roar of flames caught their attention. They turned in their tracks, to see a column of fire streak down from the dragon’s gaping jaws and strike Woodsedge like a burning fist. Looking to the palisade, Kronn and Catt saw a figure silhouetted against the bright orange glow, clutching a hoopak in his hands.

“What does he think he’s doing?” cried Catt.

“Hero stuff,” murmured Kronn.

As they watched in horror, the figure flared and vanished amid the flames.

“No!” Catt cried. She started back toward the village. Kronn caught her arm.

“Catt!” he shouted. “We’re not done here! We’ve got to get these people to safety!”

She looked at him blankly for a moment, then blinked. The thunder of the firestorm was growing steadily louder, and a hot wind blew outward from Woodsedge, carrying ashes and embers. “You’re right,” she said. “Into the woods, everyone! Quickly, while she isn’t looking!”

It took some doing—Catt wasn’t the only kender who tried to turn back toward the town—but with the help of Giffel and the other guardsmen they managed to herd the villagers into the forest. Behind them, Malystryx continued to blast Woodsedge with her fiery breath. Houses and shops blew apart. The protective palisade became a curtain of flame. Kronn and Catt crouched at the edge of the Kenderwood, watching the whole town become a raging inferno.

At last, Malys’s jaws snapped shut, her breath expended. She wheeled above the town for an hour after that, fanning the flames with her wings. Then she turned, her golden eyes gleaming in the moonlight, and stared straight at the Kenderwood. It seemed to Kronn and Catt that her gaze bored right through them.

She laughed, a cruel, mocking sound. “Run now, little kender!” she taunted. “Much good it will do you! When I am done, there will be nowhere left for you to flee!”

With that, she wheeled majestically and flapped away over the Blood Sea. It was some time before any of the hiding kender emerged from the forest.

For the whole day after the attack, and the night after that, Woodsedge continued to burn. The kender who had escaped the blaze could do little but watch as their homes and all their possessions, went up in flames.

Houses and trinkets were not all that were lost, though. While Kronn and Catt’s swift action had gotten many of the villagers to safety, some had not been saved. Those who had passed out from food and drink, the few guards left on duty atop the palisade, and anyone who was otherwise too slow to run—the sick, the crippled, young children, old people—had perished in the conflagration. Of the thousand or so kender who had dwelt in Woodsedge, more than two hundred did not survive.

Including the great kender hero, Kronin Thistleknot.

At last, on the second morning after the attack, the flames died down enough for the kender to start sifting through the rubble. They waded ankle-deep in ashes, trying to find something—anything—to salvage.

Late that afternoon, Catt—her yellow dress and pale face smudged with soot—found her brother on his knees at what had been the north edge of town. Stubs of charcoal, which once had been the palisade, smoldered before him. He rocked slowly back and forth, cradling something in his arms.

“Kronn?” Catt whispered.

He shook his head, moaning angrily. She hesitated, then stepped forward, leaning in to see what he clutched to his breast.

It was almost unrecognizable, scorched and blackened by dragonfire. Part of it, however, had been untouched by the flames, and her eyes clouded when she realized what Kronn held.

It was a shoe, purple and faded with age.