Chapter 4
It grew very quiet in the Inn of the Last Home. Everyone stared at the kender. Kronn and Catt stared back.
“Kendermore?” Riverwind asked.
Kronn nodded earnestly.
“Kendermore?” echoed Caramon, incredulous.
Catt leaned over the bar, her brow furrowing. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she said, “but is there a reason you’re pouring beer all over the floor?”
Caramon started, glancing down at his feet. He’d forgotten, in his distraction, to close the spigot on the keg, and nut-brown ale was gurgling out, forming a pool around his boots. Tika snorted in disgust as he fumbled to close the tap. In the moment he was turned away from the bar, Kronn grabbed one of the full tankards.
“Wait!” Caramon said. “That’s for—”
Kronn downed half the tankard’s contents in one deep draught. “Good stuff,” he remarked, wiping foam from his lips. “Plenty of hops—I like that. Brew it yourself?”
“Thanks. Yes. I—” Caramon shook his head vigorously. “Kendermore?”
Catt turned to her brother. “Why does he keep saying that?”
Tika strolled over, her hands on her hips. “Now see here,” she said. “Kendermore’s clear on the other side of Ansalon.”
A smile lit Kronn’s face as he came near. “You must be Tika,” he said.
Caramon looked around quickly, making sure there were no heavy, blunt objects his wife could reach.
“And you must be going,” Tika snapped back testily, “unless you have a damned good reason why my husband should cross an entire continent at his age.”
“Oh, there’s a good reason,” Kronn declared. “We need him to help us drive off an army of ogres.”
“An army of—” Tika repeated, her eyes widening.
“Plus there’s the dragon,” Catt added.
“Dragon?” Tika echoed.
“Her name’s Malystryx,” Kronn said, his face grave. “She’s been causing all sorts of problems, but she didn’t bother us, so we let her be. Then, last month—” He shut his eyes, his face pinched with pain. “She destroyed a village—Woodsedge was its name. Burned it to the ground. And she… she killed our father.”
“Kronin?” Caramon asked, his face ashen. “Kronin Thistleknot’s dead?”
Kronn nodded, then bowed his head, his cheek braids drooping. Catt stepped forward to continue the story. “Our sister, Paxina—she’s been in charge of Kendermore for about ten years now—sent us here,” she said. “We brought one of Father’s shoes to put in the Tomb of Last Heroes. I hope you don’t mind. And since we were going to be in Solace anyway, Pax asked us to bring back someone who knew a thing or two about dragon-slaying.” She looked up at Caramon, beaming. “Naturally, we thought of you.”
Caramon and Tika exchanged glances.
“I’m sorry,” the big man said, turning back to the kender. “I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about slaying dragons. I’ve never even fought one, not really.”
Kronn’s brows knitted. “But that’s not what the legends say.”
“Which legend is that?” Tika asked acidly. “The one where Tanis shot the green dragon out of the sky with his bow, and Caramon cut off its head when it hit the ground? Or the one where the two of them killed and skinned a blue and snuck into Neraka wearing its hide?”
Caramon chuckled. Kronn, however, was serious. “Both of them,” he said. “I always wondered, how did you think of that thing with the skin? That’s pretty smart. How’d you keep the other dragons from smelling you, though?”
“They didn’t—that is, we didn’t… oh, blast.” Caramon put a hand to his forehead. “Look, there are all sorts of stories about us. Bards started making them up before the War of the Lance was even over, and they’ve had another thirty years to practice. If they were all true, Tanis and I would have killed fifty dragons by ourselves.”
“Not to mention the story about Sturm and Kitiara sailing to the moon,” Tika added. “Or all the tales about them fighting dragons and draconians years before the War started.”
“We even had one idiot come in last year claiming Raistlin once had passed as a woman in disguise!” called Clemen. “The big guy showed him the quick way down from this tree.”
“Anyway, I’m afraid the stories you’ve heard are like those,” Caramon finished sympathetically. “The truth is, I’ve never killed a dragon in my life. And I’m no youngster, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Kronn’s face fell. “You sure look big and strong to me.”
Tika stepped up to the kender, glaring. “Get this straight, Mr. Thistlebulb,” she snapped.
“Thistleknot.”
“Whatever. My husband has done a lot of boneheaded things in his life, but dragon-slaying isn’t one of them—to say nothing of thwarting ogre armies. And there’s no way I’m going to let him start up again. Listen to him.” She waved her hand at Caramon. “He’s not the man he used be, you know. He’s old, fat, and slow—and he never was very bright. I doubt he could even kill a hobgoblin these days.”
“Thanks, Tika,” Caramon muttered.
“Oh dear,” Kronn said resignedly. He glanced at Catt, who shared his crestfallen expression. “But we’ve got to bring some hero to help us.”
“I will go.”
Astonished eyes turned toward the stool beside the fire. Riverwind rose from his seat and came forward, leaving Clemen, Borlos, and Osler to gape, wide-eyed, at his back. “I will go with you,” he said to the kender.
“Father!” Moonsong exclaimed as she and Brightdawn hurried after him.
Caramon stared at the Plainsman, shocked. “You’re not serious.”
“I will go with them,” Riverwind repeated.
“You can’t defeat a dragon all by yourself, Father,” Brightdawn argued. “It’s impossible!”
“Impossible?” Riverwind asked. “Like a poor, heretic shepherd wooing a princess?” He looked at Caramon. “Like the group of us bringing back the gods? Like stopping Chaos from destroying the world?”
Caramon shook his head, scowling. He started to say something, caught Riverwind’s fierce look, and bit his tongue. Brightdawn and Moonsong stared at their father, their faces lined with worry.
“For the love of Reorx, man!” called Borlos, rising from his place beside the fire. “They’re just kender.”
Riverwind glared at Borlos even more fiercely, and Borlos sank back into his chair and looked at the floor. The Plainsman turned back to Kronn and Catt. Solemnly, he offered them his hand.
“I am Riverwind of Qué-Shu,” he said. “I don’t know much about dragons either, but I have love and admiration in my heart for the kender. I will go with you and do the best I can.”
The trees of Solace blazed red with the rising sun. Birdsong filled the air, and squirrels chased each other across the inn’s steep roof. Caramon and Riverwind stood on the balcony outside the tavern, smelling the tempting aroma of cooking fires that drifted on the wind. They cupped mugs of hot tarbean tea in their hands, taking occasional sips to keep the morning’s chill at bay.
“A good day for traveling,” Riverwind noted.
Caramon grunted, took another sip of his tea, and set it down on the balcony’s dew-dappled railing.
Neither man had slept; neither man had wanted to. Soon after Riverwind declared his desire to help the kender, Clemen, Borlos, and Osler had slipped away and the rest had gone upstairs to bed—first Moonsong and Brightdawn, then Kronn and Catt. Last of all Tika had kissed her husband good night, embraced Riverwind with tears in her eyes, and left them alone. The Plainsman had helped Caramon drag a straw pallet into the tavern and lay the drunken tinker out on it. After that, the two old men, who had been friends for more than thirty years, had sat together the whole night through.
“Kendermore,” Caramon muttered.
Riverwind glanced at him, then chuckled, gazing at the vallenwoods’ waving branches. “I know what I’m doing, Caramon.”
“Do you?” Caramon persisted. “Riverwind, you’re sixty-five years old, and you want to pick up and travel across Ansalon to fight a dragon at the behest of two kender you’ve never even met before tonight.” He scowled. “If that makes so much sense to you, could you please explain it to me?”
“They are the children of brave Kronin,” said the Plainsman.
Caramon grunted.
“I owe Tasslehoff as much,” Riverwind added.
Caramon snorted, throwing up his hands.
“You know why I must do this,” Riverwind said.
“You’ll be lucky to survive the trip, let alone kill this Malystryx or defeat an entire army of ogres.”
“Maybe so. But I believe there’s a reason those two arrived the same day I did. A reason known only to the departed gods.”
A thrush landed on the railing, not far from where the two men stood. It peered at them curiously, then twittered and was gone in a flutter of wings.
“You’re batty,” Caramon murmured.
Riverwind winked. “Not yet, old friend,” he allowed. He raised his mug to his lips, draining it in one swallow. “But dying in battle sure beats dying in bed.”
Caramon cooked breakfast, frying eggs and sausage and making a hash of last night’s uneaten potatoes. Drawn by the smell, Riverwind’s daughters came down from their rooms, as did the kender. Tika brewed a fresh pot of tarbean tea, then went into the storeroom to gather provisions for the travelers: cheese, hardtack, smoked venison and dried apples. She gave them fresh wineskins too, filled with what ale remained from Caramon’s special keg. When Riverwind reached for his purse to pay for the supplies, Caramon stubbornly waved him off.
No one spoke of dragons.
“I hear you’re betrothed, Moonsong,” Tika said.
The Chieftain’s Daughter blushed, lowering her eyes demurely. “Yes,” she said. “At the beginning of the summer, Stagheart of Qué-Teh promised himself to me.”
“He didn’t have much choice,” Brightdawn added, grinning wickedly. “Not after Father caught the two of them together in the paddocks east of town.”
“Brightdawn!” Moonsong protested, her face growing darker still.
“Father gave Stagheart a choice,” the younger twin continued, undaunted. “Either he could accept his punishment, or he could agree to a Courting Quest.”
“What was the punishment?” asked Kronn around a mouthful of sausage.
“In our tribe, a warrior who disgraces himself must dress in women’s clothing for a year,” Riverwind explained. “It is a mark of shame.”
“Actually, Father could have banished him from the village, if he wanted,” Brightdawn added. “Lucky for Stagheart, he’s Chief Nightshade’s son.”
Caramon and Tika nodded, understanding. Nightshade was Chieftain of the Qué-Teh, who were more powerful than any tribe on the Plains, save the Qué-Shu. He and Riverwind had been friends since shortly after the war, and he had been an important ally in uniting the smaller tribes. A marriage between his son and Riverwind’s daughter would only strengthen the link between the two tribes.
“I take it he’s on his Courting Quest now,” Caramon said dryly.
Moonsong, who had been enduring the conversation in embarrassed silence, raised her chin proudly. “Father sent him into the hills. A griffon has been preying on our tribe’s horses in the south fields all summer. When Stagheart returns to Qué-Shu with the griffon’s head, we will be married. Mother will conduct the ceremony.”
“And if he doesn’t,” Brightdawn added, “I’m sure Mother can spare him one of her gowns.”
Moonsong shoved her sister, nearly knocking her off the bench, then turned to their father. “Why don’t you ask her about Swiftraven?” she asked.
“There’s nothing to ask!” Brightdawn protested, seeing Riverwind’s brows lower. “I swear!”
“Who’s Swiftraven?” Catt asked.
“Nightshade’s younger son,” Riverwind said. “A mere boy.”
“He’s eighteen, Father,” Brightdawn grumbled.
“Six years younger than you. You should find someone your age.”
“I’m six years younger than Caramon, Riverwind,” Tika interrupted.
Riverwind looked at her, then at Brightdawn. Both women looked back at him defiantly.
“Take my advice, Riverwind,” Caramon said, grinning. “Run while you still can.”
The room rang with laughter, but soon lapsed into an awkward silence. Riverwind cleared his throat. “We should be going,” he said. He pushed his chair back from the dining table and rose, his leather armor creaking. “It is a long ride across the Plains. We must leave if we are to reach my village before dark.”
They walked to the door. Kronn and Catt went ahead to fetch their ponies and the Plainsfolk’s horses. Moonsong and Brightdawn each embraced both Caramon and Tika, then left as well.
Riverwind stood for a moment, framed by the doorway as he faced his friends. Tika hugged him tightly, burying her face against his fur vest. “Riverwind,” she sobbed. “You shouldn’t be going to Kendermore. Not now, especially…
Gently, he pushed her away from him, then put a finger to her lips. He reached out and stroked her silver-red hair.
She shook her head stubbornly, sniffling. He bent down and kissed her forehead.
“I will miss you, Tika,” the Plaimsman said.
She turned and left, heading into the depths of the inn so she could be alone. Caramon watched her go, then turned back to face Riverwind. The two men regarded each other, neither wanting to speak first.
“Father!” Brightdawn’s voice drifted up from the street below. “Come on!”
Caramon bowed his head. “You’ve been a good friend,” he said, his voice trembling despite his best efforts to control it.
“And you have been more than a friend,” Riverwind replied.
The two men embraced, neither needing to put further words to what he felt. Riverwind drew Caramon closer.
“Goldmoon will come to you, if anything happens to me,” Riverwind murmured. He reached into his fur vest and produced a small, silver scroll tube. “When she does, I want you to give her this.”
“Of course,” Caramon answered, his voice choked with emotion. He took the tube from his friend and slid it into his pocket.
“Goodbye, my friend,” Riverwind said, and walked out the door.
Caramon stood alone in the tavern, his head bowed, listening to the sound of the Plainsman’s boots upon the stairs.