Chapter 12

"You never mentioned you played the flute,” Kronn said as the five travelers walked down the dock, leaving behind the ship that had borne them across the Bay of Balifor. The inns and rowhouses of Port Balifor stretched before them, hearth glow and candlelight shining from their windows as twilight stole across the city. Down the wharf, roaming fishmongers were calling, trying to sell the last of their wares before darkness fell.

Riverwind glanced at the kender, who trotted beside him, ponytail and cheek braids bouncing with each step. Brightdawn and Swiftraven came behind, whispering to each other and laughing softly. The young warrior still favored his healthy leg, but the wounds he’d suffered during the pirate attack had almost completely healed during their long trek across the sands of Khur. Catt came last, whistling a jaunty sea chantey as her hoopak rapped against the wooden planks of the dock.

Kronn looked up at the old Plainsman, his eyebrows raised.

“Yes,” Riverwind answered, his voice thick with memory. “Wanderer, my grandfather, taught me to play many years ago. Many years…” His voice trailed off, his gaze sliding away into the past. “Tending his flock under the stars, a man needs music,’ he said. I was to be a shepherd, you see. He carved my first flute from the branch of a bonewood tree, and showed me how to play. It was one of many things he taught me.” He paused again, a complicated mix of emotions playing across his face. “Sometimes, when I was older, I would play with Goldmoon. We seldom make music together any more, I’m afraid, except on festival days. But sometimes…”

He stopped suddenly, his brow furrowing. “Wait a moment,” he said slowly. “How did you find out I can play the flute?”

Kronn frowned, thinking it over. “I’m not sure,” he said. “I might have guessed. I’m a good guesser.”

Riverwind, however, had already shrugged off his pack, and was rooting through its contents. After a while, he looked up from the pouch, leveling a hard stare at the kender.

“Or-rrr,” Kronn amended slowly, “maybe it was because you dropped your flute this morning, back in Ak-Khurman.”

He reached into his pouch, his arm disappearing up to his elbow into the bag, then pulled a simple flute, hand-carved from white wood and worn from years of use. Riverwind snatched it from his hands and examined it closely for cracks. It seemed intact. Making sure, he blew softly into the mouth hole. It answered with a sweet, warm note. A look of relief smoothed the lines of his face—then he looked at Kronn, his brow darkening once more.

“All my life, through darkness and light,” he said, “I have kept this flute. I took it with me on my Courting Quest and carried it to war. I played it that night in Solace, when I met Tanis and Caramon and the others. And—it is the only thing I have left to remind me of my grandfather. Even his face is no longer clear in my memory but I can still see his hands as he guided my fingers over its holes.”

The kender nodded solemnly. “I’m surprised you’re so careless with it, if it’s so important. You’re lucky I’m around to pick up after you. I play too, you know.” He twisted sideways, displaying the chapak slung across his back. “Have a look at the handle.”

Riverwind looked. The axe’s ironwood haft was dotted with dark finger holes.

“Neat, huh?” the kender asked. “I had it specially made. It’s a pain unscrewing the axe head and taking out all the rope, but, ‘It’s not a proper weapon unless it can play a tune,’ as my father used to say. Of course,” he added sadly, “poor Father couldn’t carry a tune in a wheelbarrow. He was a great hero, but unlike myself, completely tone deaf. So’s Catt, you know.”

“I am not,” Catt snapped.

Kronn glanced back at her, a mischievous grin on his face. “Give us a song, then.”

Catt glowered at him, her lips pursing. “I don’t feel like it.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Kronn said. He leaned toward Riverwind, whispering conspiratorially. “Good thing, too. Her voice can curdle milk.”

Behind them, his sister harrumphed loudly.

“Hey,” he went on, “we’re both so musical, we should play a duet together sometime.”

They stopped at the boardwalk, facing the row of inns and taverns that overlooked the docks. Riverwind looked up and down the wharf, then his eyes fixed on a low building with walls of mortared flagstones and a slate-shingled roof. Gaily colored awnings hung above its stained-glass windows, and a pair of brass lanterns flickered on either side of its open front door. A smile of recognition curled his lips.

“Yes,” he said. “I would like to play with you, Kronn. How about tonight?” With that, he started toward the inn.

Blinking in surprise, the kender hurried to catch up.

The wind picked up as nighttime settled over Port Balifor, and the front windows of the Pig and Whistle tavern began to moan. Slowly, the noise grew louder, rising to a shrill keening that rattled the glasses above the bar.

William Sweetwater glanced at the windows, his fat face puckering with disgust. “I really ought to fix them damn things,” he grumbled.

“Bah,” scoffed old Erewan the Shaggy, who sat on his usual stool at the bar, nursing a tankard of foaming black ale. His long, yellow-gray beard quivered as he scowled. “Ye’ve said the same bleedin’ thing every night for the past forty years, Pig Face.”

“I mean it this time,” William shot back sourly. “Put an end to that bloody racket, once and for all.”

“Talk, talk,” crowed Nine-Finger Pete, hunching over a mug of foul-smelling grog.

William Sweetwater grunted, a porcine sound that matched his countenance perfectly He had been born with the mark of a pig on his face: small, squinting eyes, full cheeks, and a sharply upturned nose. Now that he was well over eighty years of age, his sagging jowls, bristling gray whiskers and enormous girth—the Pig and Whistle’s regulars often expressed their amazement that he could even fit behind the bar—gave him the appearance of a stout and grizzled old boar.

The lamplight that streamed in through the tavern’s open doors flickered as a group of travelers came in. The regulars looked up, squinting, then stared with red and rheumy eyes as the five strangers made their way to a booth near the back. Strange visitors were far from rare at the Pig and Whistle—Port Balifor was a wayfarer’s town, after all—but this party held their attention.

“Barbarians and kender,” Nine-Finger Pete muttered, and took a swig from his mug. “Bloody bones. Good thing this dump’s got nothin’ worth stealin’, eh Pig Face?”

William Sweetwater wasn’t paying attention, though. His low brow furrowed as he watched the travelers—three Plainsfolk from Abanasinia and two kender—settle into their seats. His gaze fixed on the oldest of the barbarians in particular—a tall, stern man with white hair. “I know that one,” he muttered, thinking fiercely. “I’ve seen him before somewhere…

One of the kender—a male with an axe on his back and odd chestnut braids hanging over his cheeks, looked William’s way and snapped his fingers, breaking the old innkeeper’s concentration. “Ale here!” he called. “In clean cups, if you please. And some of whatever’s on the spit.”

Erewan grinned, his eyes narrowing to crinkly slits. “You heard the little squeaker,” he snickered. “Step lively, Pig Face.”

With a withering look at the bristle-bearded old salt, William grabbed a handful of mugs and waddled to the keg of Arnsley Black he’d tapped earlier that day. He bellowed into the kitchen as he poured the newcomers’ drinks, and by the time he was on the fourth beer, a wench brought a tray of bread, cheese, and roast mutton to the table. William filled the last mug, blew nut-brown foam onto his well-stained floor, and waved the wench away when she came to collect the mugs. “Get back to yer work,” he grumbled. “I’ll take these to them myself.”

With some effort, he squeezed out from behind the bar, grabbed up the tray of drinks, and puffed over to the table. His gaze was fixed on the old Plainsman the whole way, and when he drew near to the table, his eyes widened and he started so violently that he nearly dropped the tray. “Great holy Habbakuk,” he cursed, amazed. “It is you, at that.”

Riverwind of Qué-Shu looked at up him and smiled. “Hello, William,” he said. “It’s been a long time.”

The other travelers looked at the old barbarian, confused. “Father?” asked one of the other Plainsfolk, a young, golden-haired lass. “Do you know this man?”

Riverwind nodded. “We met a long time ago, Brightdawn, during the war. William was good enough to give us a place to rest, even though we didn’t have the steel to pay him.”

“Bah,” William snorted as he passed out the drinks. He clapped Riverwind on the back. “It were the least I could do. Your father, lass, was part o’ the finest travelin’ circus ever to pass through these parts.”

Riverwind’s companions looked at him in surprise. “Circus?” Brightdawn asked. “You, Father?”

The Plainsman cleared his throat, his cheeks slowly turning red. “Well, I would hardly call it a circus…”

William interrupted him with a laugh. “You mean yer da here never told ye, lass?” he asked. “He and his mates were the Red Wizard and His Wonderful Illusions.”

“The Red Wizard and His—” the male kender gasped, his mouth dropping open. “That was you, Riverwind?”

“Sure it was!” William declared, beaming proudly. “They got their start right here, in this very room.”

“So,” he said warmly, “what brings you away from the Plains this time? Where ye bound?”

“Kendermore,” the male kender answered.

The Pig and Whistle’s patrons stared at them, dumbfounded, then began to laugh. William slapped his broad belly, snorting with mirth. Riverwind and his companions looked back, the Plainsfolk frowning and the kender wide-eyed with confusion.

“What’s so funny?” the female kender asked.

Suddenly, William stopped laughing. “Zeboim’s twenty teats,” he blurted, staring at Riverwind. “Ye’re serious?”

The old Plainsman nodded slowly, his lips pressed firmly together.

“Kendermore?” asked Nine-Finger Pete, his voice rising with disbelief. “Why in the Abyss would you want to go there?”

Riverwind leveled a piercing glare at the ancient seaman. “Because,” he said simply, “they need our help.”

The old sailor snorted derisively, turning back to his grog. “Bloody idiot,” he muttered softly—but not soft enough.

“Shut yer hole, you mangy cur!” William barked toward the bar. “Talk that way about my friends again, and ye’re barred from my place. I mean it.” He turned to Riverwind and smiled. “I’m sorry. Pete’s been pickling in that slop he drinks for so long, he ain’t got half a brain left. Eat. Drink. There’s more where that came from, too. It’s on the house! Ye’re my guests, all o’ ye.”

That said, William bowed—a valiant feat, given his girth—and waddled back to the bar. Neither the Plainsman nor his companions missed the look in his eyes, however, as he turned away from the table. Though he would never say so, William clearly thought little more of Riverwind’s quest than did Nine-Finger Pete.

The candles on the Pig and Whistle’s bar had melted to misshapen stumps when Riverwind rose from his chair. He wobbled slightly as he did so—Arnsley Black was a potent brew, and the companions had put away a healthy dose of it—but he quickly steadied himself and waved to William.

The innkeeper leaned on the bar, which creaked ominously beneath his weight. “What can I get for ye?” he asked.

“Nothing, thanks,” the Plainsman answered. He reached into his pouch, producing an old, worn flute. “For old time’s sake?”

William grinned. “I’d be a damn fool to say no.” He raised his voice to a bellow that made Erewan and Pete wince and cover their ears. “Quiet, the lot o’ ye!”

The tavern’s patrons swiftly fell still. Riverwind walked to a corner by the hearth—the same corner where, more than thirty years before, he and Goldmoon had once played. With quiet dignity he sat cross-legged upon the sawdust-covered floor, then looked back at the table where his companions sat. “Will you join me, Kronn?” he asked.

The kender jumped up from his chair and hurried over to join the old Plainsman. He busily dismantled his chapak, setting its various pieces in a pile at his feet, then set his mouth to the end of the haft. “Ready,” he said.

Nodding, Riverwind looked out over his audience. “I played this song for the first time in this very tavern,” he said, his sonorous voice filling the room. “It tells of the ancient gods… and how they wait to return to the world.”

A murmur rippled through the room. No one was sure what to make of this. Didn’t the doddering Plainsman know the gods had left again, this time for good? What was the meaning of playing such a song now, when the pale moon shone above Balifor Bay?

Riverwind didn’t bother to answer those muttered questions. Instead, he raised his flute to his lips, and its plaintive sound filled the room. He played alone for a moment, then Kronn picked up the simple tune, weaving his own melody in harmony with Riverwind’s.

As the Plainsman and the kender played, the patrons of the Pig and Whistle discovered something remarkable. Even now, after so much change had visited the world, the song still spoke to them of hope.

Three days later, as the companions rode past the farmlands and windmills of Balifor, the low, green line of the Kenderwood at last appeared upon the horizon. It was still a long way off—three leagues, maybe four—but Kronn and Catt leaned forward in their saddles, eagerness on their faces. Seeing this, Brightdawn couldn’t help but smile.

“It must be exciting,” she remarked. “Coming home, I mean, after being so long away.”

“Sure is,” Catt agreed enthusiastically.

“I thought you people were born wanderers,” Swiftraven said. “I’ve seen enough of you on the Plains, anyway, always on your way somewhere.”

Kronn shook his head at the young warrior. “Just because I love the road, that doesn’t mean I’m not happy to see my homeland,” he replied. “Besides, my wanderlust ended years ago.”

“It’s not just that,” Catt said. “We’re worried about the ogres… and the dragon. Sometimes, when we were far from home, I worried that when we finally got back, there’d be nothing left. Kendermore would be gone, and Paxina…

“Not to mention Giff,” Kronn added, grinning slyly. Catt glared at him, flushing with embarrassment.

“Who’s Giff?” Brightdawn asked.

“Giffel Birdwhistle,” Kronn answered before Catt could intervene. “A friend of ours, from when we were children. He’s a warrior now—he came to Kendermore after Woodsedge burned, and Pax put him in charge of part of the town guard. He and Catt are sweet on each other.”

“Kronn!” Catt objected, but he only laughed.

“Father, have you ever been to Kendermore?” Brightdawn asked. “Is there anyone you’re returning to?”

The old Plainsman sat astride his horse, a faraway look in his eyes. His face was drawn, his skin sallow. To the others, he seemed to have aged ten years or more since they’d broken camp. They all looked at him worriedly now as he continued to stare down the road, not even glancing at Brightdawn in reply.

“My chief… ?” Swiftraven asked.

“Father?” Brightdawn said at the same time, her voice low with concern. “Are you well?”

He started, blinking, then looked at the others as if seeing them for the first time. “I-I’m sorry.” he said, spots of color blossoming in his cheeks. “I wasn’t listening.”

“You’ve been quiet all day,” Kronn noted solemnly.

Riverwind looked away, momentarily unable to meet the others’ questioning looks. “It’s nothing,” he said. “Only a feeling I haven’t had… since I set out on my Courting Quest, I suppose. I’m leaving everything behind—every place I’ve ever seen, everyone I’ve ever met—except the four of you, of course. Back then, though, it was exciting. Now…“ He pursed his lips, shrugging. “I guess I’m older now.”

“Well,” Catt said, “what about Brightdawn’s question? You’ve never been to Kendermore, Riverwind?”

The old Plainsman shook his head, his gaze still abstracted.

“You’re in for a treat, then,” Catt promised. “Just wait till we’re in the Kenderwood. The bloodberries should be ripe about now, for one thing… or maybe not. It’s a bit warm for this time of year, to be sure.”

“I was thinking that myself,” Kronn agreed. “We’re well into fall. Last year we’d had our first frost by this time, but now it feels like summer just plain forgot to leave.” He pondered this thought grimly. “You don’t think it has anything to do with Malys, do you?”

An uncomfortable silence fell over the party. Brightdawn and Swiftraven exchanged troubled glances, then looked away, toward the still-distant Kenderwood. Catt and Kronn swallowed, their brows furrowed. Only Riverwind dared to speak, and only softly, as if he feared being overheard. “No,” he told the kender. “I’m sure it’s just a warm spell.”

The others could tell, from the tone of his voice, that he didn’t fully believe the words either.

Unlike the sylvan homes of the elves, the Kenderwood was not an ancient forest. In fact, as the lives of woodlands are measured, it was quite young. Before the Cataclysm, the lands surrounding what was now Kendermore had been part of the empire of Istar, a place of fertile farmlands, isolated abbeys, and a few human towns. They had even been home to one of the fabled Towers of High Sorcery, although the wizards themselves had destroyed that august edifice during the Lost Battles rather than let it fall into the Kingpriest’s hands.

When the fiery mountain sundered Istar, however, the humans had fled, leaving their monasteries and cities to ruin. Some had gone west to found such cities as Flotsam and Port Balifor; others traveled east to the Dairly Plains and became barbarians. By the time the kender arrived, traveling north from the ruins of their ancient land of Balifor, central Goodlund was abandoned—a place of ghosts, if the rumors were to be believed.

The kender, however, didn’t let anything as paltry as ghosts stop them from making the land their new home. Indeed, they explored the supposedly haunted ruins with glee, “borrowing” anything the humans had left behind to help them erect their own villages and towns. Kendermore, built only a few leagues from a fallen city the kender pragmatically called “The Ruins,” had quickly risen as the hub of the new kender nation.

Shortly after the kender’s arrival, the land had begun to change. The farmlands the humans had tended grew wild, and trees began to appear. According to legend, the new forest was the work of a kender lass named Oletta Maplekeys, who had traveled from one end of the land to the other, spreading seeds in the fallow fields the humans had left behind. Of course, this was a kender legend, so Krynn’s other races didn’t believe it for a moment—but regardless of the reason, the forest continued to grow, slowly spreading to engulf the kender’s new homeland.

Being a new forest, the Kenderwood was not as dark and dense as Ansalon’s older woodlands. Instead of the huge, looming trees of Silvanesti, it was a place of papery birches and golden willows, maples and poplars, apple orchards and berry bushes. Unlike Darken Wood, which came by its name honestly, the Kenderwood was bright and airy, the canopy of its leaves sparse enough to let plenty of sunlight through. Ferns and wildflowers grew among the tree trunks, a lush carpet that provided homes for badgers, skunks and other small animals. Larger beasts dwelt within the Kenderwood, too—deer, boars, wildcats, and even a few black bears. Birds of all kinds flitted from branch to branch, filling the air with music, and bees hummed contentedly from blossom to blossom. When all was said, the Kenderwood was one of the most idyllic places in Krynn: a tranquil woodland stretching nearly fifty leagues from east to west, and another twenty north to south, unbroken except for the occasional clearing where a kender farm, vineyard, or town stood.

Now, however, there was something wrong.

The day wore on, and the weather grew warmer with each passing mile. The sun hung fat and red behind Riverwind and his companions when they finally reached the edge of the forest. It curved ahead of them, its slender trees hissing as the summery breeze brushed through their leaves. None of the companions missed the fact that those leaves were still green; by all rights, they should have been ablaze with color at this time of year—or even already fallen brown and dead upon the ground. Somehow, the beauty of the foliage seemed more sinister than soothing.

They could do little but ride on, though; spurring their mounts, they continued, their long shadows sliding into the dappled shade of the woods.

“The bloodberries aren’t ripe yet after all,” Catt noted as they passed a tall, leafy bush. Bright red blossoms still bloomed upon its branches, instead of the fruit the kender had hoped to find. She nodded toward a thorny thicket, where bees hummed lazily around fat blackberries.

“It’s like it’s still midsummer,” Kronn murmured. He pointed at a nearby tree, where an azure-breasted songbird perched, whistling a tune to welcome the oncoming dusk. “Branchala bite me, Catt—is that a bluetwitter?”

“Kronn,” Brightdawn said suddenly, her voice very soft.

“I’ve never seen one this far south past Summer’s End, and that was more than a month ago!” Kronn went on, his eyes fast on the bird.

“Kronn.” The Plainswoman’s voice was stronger this time, and louder.

He looked at her sharply. “What is it?”

Brightdawn hesitated, then raised her hand, pointing down the trail before them. “That light,” she said. “Do you recognize it?”

Kronn followed her outstretched finger. In the distance, dimly visible through the trees, a dull, red glow was rising into the twilight sky. His eyes widened when he saw it. Beside him Catt gasped in amazement.

“It’s a fire,” Riverwind said, a sudden tension in his voice. “A great fire.”

“Trapspringer save me,” Kronn murmured. “The Kenderwood’s burning.”