Chapter 21

It had been a long, woeful day but now it was evening at last. Kronn and an exhausted Riverwind walked together through the maze of Kendermore’s streets, bound for the Plainsman’s house.

“Well, the answer seems pretty obvious to me,” Kronn was saying. “My father used to say, ‘The best solution to a problem’s usually the one right under your nose.’ Only this one’s a bit farther down. It’s under our feet.”

Riverwind bowed his head, pinching the bridge of his nose as his head throbbed. “The tunnels?” he asked, skeptically.

“Of course!” Kronn declared proudly. He stopped for a moment and stomped his foot on the cobblestone street. “Right down there! We’ve got a ready-made escape—and the tunnels lead all the way to Flotsam, if we want to go that far.”

The old Plainsman shuffled wearily to a halt, his face clouding with thought. “True,” he mused. “But there are thousands of your people in Kendermore, Kronn. It would take days, maybe weeks. Don’t you think the ogres would notice?”

“So we don’t do it all at once,” the kender answered. “We can send a bunch at a time. With all the entrances to the tunnels there are in town, I figure we can get about two hundred people out every hour. Which means maybe five thousand a day, give or take.”

“If we keep it up all day and night,” Riverwind argued.

“And it means abandoning Kendermore.”

“Yes,” said Kronn. “I hate to do that, just handing it over to the ogres. But you were right earlier: we can’t keep the ogres from taking the city. That doesn’t leave us much choice but to evacuate. Let’s say three thousand people a day. Sound better to you?”

Riverwind shrugged. “I suppose it’s possible—”

“So at three thousand a day, and with roughly eighty thousand people in Kendermore, counting the refugees from the other towns and everything, we’re looking at,”—he counted on his fingers, muttering to himself—“somewhere around twenty-six days. Less than a month. We’ll be done a few days after Year-Turning.”

“If you can convince everyone to go along with it,” said Riverwind. “And if you can make things work as smoothly as you say.”

“You’re missing the point,” Kronn said. “You’re thinking about it from too high up. All you see is the problem of organizing the whole thing. Look at it from the perspective of a kender. It’s a big adventure, Riverwind—maybe the biggest in Kendermore’s history. And there’s nothing my people love more than adventure.”

“All right,” Riverwind relented. “I’ll think about it tomorrow. But I really need to go home and sleep, Kronn.”

The kender nodded happily. “That’s good enough for me. Now,” he added, looking up and down the narrow, twisting street, “if I can just figure out which way your home is….”

Riverwind groaned.

Before noon the next day, Riverwind had convinced himself Kronn’s plan might work. “We just have to spread the word,” he told Paxina when the Thistleknots and the Plainsfolk gathered at his house that afternoon. “And we have to make sure everyone doesn’t try to leave at once.”

“Well, the first part’s easy,” Paxina said. “Word spreads quickly around here, in case you haven’t noticed. I’ll call an emergency meeting of the Kender Council for tomorrow morning. With their help, every kender in town will know about it by sunset. As for the second, we’ll draw lots and make lists. Make a game of it. It could be quite an adventure.”

Kronn winked at Riverwind.

Brightdawn, who had listened to Kronn’s plan dubiously, narrowed her eyes. “Do we really have enough time?”

“Not if we sit around talking,” Catt said. “If you ask me, it’s worth a shot.”

“Good,” Paxina said, “because I’m putting you in charge.”

“Great,” Catt said. “I’m up for the challenge.”

“There it is.” Kronn said. He started toward the door. “Come on, Riverwind. Let’s go see if Giffel’s done with that ogre leader yet.”

One of the problems with Kendermore—although its people never really considered it a problem—was that it had nothing whatsoever that resembled a jail. There wasn’t much point, according to kender thinking. After all, a city only needed a jail if it had criminals, and Kendermore was happily short of crime. Murder was unheard of. The worst fights that broke out among the city’s denizens were vicious taunting contests that never resulted in physical violence—well, rarely. And theft… well, as everyone knew, the kender never stole anything.

The lack of a suitable place to keep prisoners had seldom bothered anyone in Kendermore before. When it had come to deciding what to do with Baloth, the ogre officer Riverwind had captured during the attack on the walls, however, the kender had been at a loss. They’d needed somewhere to put him immediately, and there was nowhere suitable for something as large and dangerous as an ogre. Baloth, who was relatively short for one of his kind, still towered two heads above even Riverwind. The ogre was more than twice as tail as the largest kender in the city.

It had been Giffel Birdwhistle who’d come up with the solution to the problem. “if there’s nowhere to put him up here in the city,” he’d told Riverwind and Kronn the day after the attack, “maybe we can stash him down in the tunnels. They were built by humans, so I think we can squeeze him in, and there’s a few locked vaults down there. We can put Old Hairless in one of those.”

So, with Riverwind’s agreement, the kender had dragged Baloth down into the catacombs beneath the city. It hadn’t been easy—the ogre barely fit down the narrow stairs and had struggled all the way—but at last they’d hauled him into a large, high-ceilinged chamber, shut the door, and used their picks to lock it.

“I’ll tear off your arms and legs!” Baloth’s muffled voice had shouted from within the vault. “I’ll crush your skulls like walnuts!”

Giffel had only smiled again. “Don’t worry. He may not feel like talking now, but give me a day alone with him. I’ll wear him down.”

“What?” Riverwind had asked, horrified. “You’re not going to torture him, are you?”

“Torture?” Giffel had asked. His face had contracted into an offended frown. “What kind of fiend do you take me for? I’m not a goblin, you know. When I said I needed a day alone with him, that’s just what I meant.”

“Look, Riverwind,” Kronn had explained. “The dwarves have a saying about us—well, actually they have a lot of sayings about us, and frankly I find most of them pretty offensive. But this one’s true. ‘There’s nothing worse than a bored kender.’”

Riverwind had nodded, recognizing the sentiment. He’d heard Flint Fireforge say it, years ago, on more than one occasion.

Giffel had puffed out his chest at this. “So I’m going to go in there,”—he’d jerked his thumb at the vault, where Baloth was still shouting—“and I’m not bringing anything with me. No weapons, no pouches, nothing. I figure it’ll take a few minutes before I start getting bored. Then, to pass the time, I’ll talk to Baloth. Ask him questions, tell him stories, maybe even sing some songs. Come back tomorrow—he’ll be ready to tell you anything you want by then.”

Kronn and Catt had grinned, and Riverwind had raised his eyebrows. “It could work,” he’d said.

“It will work,” Giffel had answered. “Uncle Trapspringer did the same thing with a hobgoblin once. That was just before he almost blew himself up trying to use that gnomish flying machine.”

With that, Giffel Birdwhistle had taken off his chapak and armor, removed his pouches and purses, emptied his pockets, and even kicked off his bright blue shoes. Unarmed, empty-handed, and completely bereft of any object of even the slightest interest, he’d walked to the door and waited while one of the guards picked the lock open. Catt had stepped forward, her eyes gleaming with pride at Giffel’s bravery, and kissed him on the cheek. Then the door had swung open, and Giffel had turned, waved cheerily to the furious, hairless ogre, and walked into the vault.

“Hi!” he’d begun brightly. “You must be Baloth. Pleased to meet you. My name’s Giffel Birdwhistle. I’ve had a very interesting life. Would you like to hear about it?”

With a loud thud the door had shut, and a kender guard, armed for any circumstance, had locked it again.

At around midnight, a strange sound had risen from behind the vault door—a low, strained whimpering that nearly drowned out the constant sound of Giffel’s prattling voice. The guards outside the cell had listened to it with rapt interest. They had never heard an ogre weep before.

That was yesterday. Today Giffel was tired and hungry as he emerged from the vault, but he was smiling nonetheless. “He’s ready for you,” he said to Kronn and Riverwind. “I’ll be waiting out here if you need me.”

Kronn clapped the tall kender on the back. Then he and Riverwind walked through the door. The old Plainsman stopped a few steps into the room, his eyes widening as the door swung shut behind them. “Mishakal have mercy,” he breathed. “What did he do to him?”

Baloth lay in a corner of the room, hugging his knees to his chest and rocking back and forth. His face was wet with tears and drool, and there was an unpleasant vacancy in his eyes. At the sound of the Plainsman’s voice, his head snapped up and he looked around wildly. When his eyes fell upon Kronn, he shrank away, whining feebly. “No,” he moaned. “No more kender. Please! Go away!”

“Only,” Kronn said firmly, “after you’ve answered a few questions for us. Does that sound fair to you?”

“Yes!” Baloth cried. “I’ll do whatever you want—just don’t bring him back.”

“All right, then,” Kronn said happily. “Let’s get started. Riverwind?”

Riverwind stepped forward, his face grave. “What is your position in the army outside our walls?”

Baloth’s eyes flared with recognition when he saw the old Plainsman. “I am one of the Black-Gazer’s warlords, and his favorite,” he said proudly. “I slew Lord Ruog and in return he made me his third-in-command. I answer only to the Black-Gazer.”

“The Black-Gazer?” Riverwind asked.

“Kurthak.” The ogre’s lip curled derisively. “The one who will destroy this city and take its survivors back to our homeland as slaves.”

Riverwind leaned forward. “Slaves? Why do you need so many slaves all of a sudden, and why pick on the kender?”

Baloth sneered. “We stick ‘em in the mines. Ogres are too big. Besides, it’s hard work that doesn’t befit warriors.”

Kronn let that pass.

“What is this Black-Gazer’s plan?” Riverwind continued.

“Batter your walls and burn your homes. Drag the kender away in chains—and you, Hero of the Lance… yes, he knows of you. He’ll take your head—and those of the other humans you have brought with you.”

The old Plainsman paled, his scalp prickling. It was not an empty threat, he knew. The thought of the ogres bearing his daughters’ heads back to their homeland as trophies made him furious—and worried.

Kronn glanced at Riverwind. “And when is all this supposed to happen?” the kender demanded.

“Soon,” Baloth answered with a snarl. “The day after Year-Turning.”

Kronn fell back a pace, his mouth dropping open. He looked back at Riverwind, whose grave expression showed that they shared the same thought. Year-Turning was three weeks away. It was a gift of time, even if they didn’t have time to evacuate Kendermore completely.

“But you have us trapped,” Riverwind reasoned. “A smart leader would wait and starve us out. Why attack at all?”

“Because Malystryx wills it.”

Riverwind swallowed. “The dragon commands your leader?”

Baloth nodded. “She has given us Kendermore … as a gift. When we have destroyed it, she will fly to the Kenderwood and burn it to ashes. Then this land will belong to her. She will raise a new lair here, and the Desolation will continue to spread west into the human lands.”

“You seem to know a great deal about her,” Kronn observed.

“I have seen her,” Baloth declared proudly. “I was there when she told the Black-Gazer how and when to attack.”

Riverwind stepped forward. “You attacked today. I realize you were merely testing us. Why wait so long before attacking again?”

The hairless ogre opened his mouth to answer, then stopped and shut it again. His eyes, which had been dull and dim until now, flared like torches of hate. “No,” he said. “I will not tell you.”

Kronn hesitated, then glanced over at Riverwind.

The old Plainsman nodded. “Go get Giffel,” he said.

“No!” Baloth yelped. He cringed, the hate in his eyes giving way to dread. “Not him!”

“Then tell us why Malys is delaying the final attack,” Kronn said. “If you don’t… well, I’m sure Giff’s got a lot of stories he hasn’t told you yet. Maybe a whole week’s worth.”

The hairless ogre broke down and began to sob. He shook his head stubbornly. “No.”

“Tell us!” Riverwind snapped.

Baloth slumped, defeated. “Kurthak asked her why,” he blubbered. “Why we must wait to destroy you. She said she couldn’t leave her lair, not yet.”

Riverwind tensed. “Why?” he pressed.

“Because,” Baloth moaned, “she needs to save her strength… until she lays her egg.”

Riverwind climbed the stairs out of the tunnels, his face gray. Once he was out in Kendermore’s streets, he bent over, hands on his knees, and gasped for air.

After a while, he heard Kronn approach from behind. “Riverwind,” the kender asked quietly, “are you all right?”

The old Plainsman took a deep breath, wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, and forced himself to stand up straight. He swayed on his feet as he turned toward Kronn. “Just getting old,” he breathed. “That… and the egg.”

“Yup,” Kronn agreed. “But that’s not what’s troubling me most. You heard what Baloth said about the attack, when it’s happening. We’ve only got three weeks.”

“I know,” Riverwind said. “We can’t get everyone out of Kendermore before then.”

“We might get about three-quarters of the population out,” Kronn said. “Maybe more, if Catt can hurry things up. I’ll talk to her about that. But there’ll still be ten, maybe fifteen thousand of us left when the ogres attack.”

For an instant, Riverwind’s shoulders slumped with defeat, but then he recovered, forcing stoicism back onto his face. “Do you know where Malystryx lives?”

Kronn frowned. “Yes,” he said. “Father told me her lair was at Blood Watch. Why do you ask?”

Riverwind didn’t answer; he pursed his lips and stroked his chin, deep in thought. He knew of Blood Watch: Elistan had told him the story, many years ago. The old cleric, who had been a leader of the Seeker order before Goldmoon turned him to the true gods, had known many such tales from his studies, and had related them to Riverwind and his companions. Now, Riverwind strove to remember his words.

“Blood Watch,” Elistan had said, “was once a monastery devoted to an ancient god of thought—Majere, the Disks of Mishakal call him. Of course, it wasn’t called Blood Watch then. That would come after.”

“After what?” Tasslehoff had asked. It was rare that Elistan would get through an entire story without Tas interrupting at least once.

“Hush, Tas,” Tanis had said.

Elistan, however, had smiled patiently. “I will tell you,” he said. “When the Kingpriest grew corrupt in his own goodness, and the persecutions grew worse all over Istar—inquisitions, burnings, stonings—the people went to the monastery and begged the monks for help. But the monks turned them away. ‘Our duty to our god,’ they told the people, ‘is to watch the world unfold, and to think on it. It is not our place to act.’

“In truth, however, the monks could have acted… and should have,” the old cleric had said. “Who knows what might have been different if they had?”

“Nothing,” Raistlin had hissed. “Nothing would have been different. Larger rocks have been thrown into the river of time before, without changing its course. No group of monks could have changed the Kingpriest’s mind—the Cataclysm would have happened, whatever they did.”

Riverwind had glared at the cynical mage, but Raistlin had only sneered, his disturbing, hourglass eyes glittering as his lip curled in derision.

“The monks thought as you do, Raistlin Majere,” Elistan had continued, his rich voice breaking the brittle silence. There had been no sign of reproach in his kind face. “They believed it was better to contemplate life than to live it, so they ignored the people’s pleas, no matter how loud they became. Instead they remained in their cloisters, meditating. Whether they saw what lay ahead I cannot say, but if they did, they did nothing to stop it, even when the gods sent their Thirteen Signs to thwart the Kingpriest. Perhaps they thought they were being humble, but too much humility can be just as bad as too much pride—as they learned one day, not long after Yule, when the sky began to rain fire.

“The monks gathered in the courtyard of their abbey and watched as destruction fell upon the land. Even then, with the end at hand, they ignored the cries of the people, who pounded upon the doors of the monastery, begging for succor. Then, with a roar, the Cataclysm struck. The burning mountain streaked down from the sky, far to the north, and the ground erupted. The earth dropped away, and the sea poured in, drowning the empire of Istar—but not all of it. The destruction stopped at the edge of the monastery, cleaving the hill on which it stood in two. The northern slope dropped away into the newborn Blood Sea, but the rest remained, leaving the abbey perched upon a clifftop above the surf, on the north shore of what is now the Goodlund peninsula.

“How the monks perished is uncertain,” Elistan had concluded. “In some tellings of this tale, they choked to death on the smoke and ash of Istar’s doom. In others, the desperate peasants broke in at last, murdered the monks, and looted the monastery. And in still others, they took their own lives when they saw the despair their inaction had wrought. In any case, however, they died soon after the Cataclysm, and the ruins of the abbey became known as Blood Watch—both because it overlooks the Blood Sea, and also because of the monks’ belief that it was better to contemplate the suffering of the people than to do anything about it. Some legends even say the monks’ spirits still haunt Blood Watch, doomed forever to look upon the red waters below and never know if they could have done anything to stop the devastation of the world.”

Riverwind became aware that someone was tugging on his arm. He looked down, his gaze still slightly abstracted, and saw Kronn holding his wrist, gazing up at him with concern.

“Riverwind?” the kender asked. “Are you all right?”

The old Plainsman blinked, caught for a moment between memory and reality then nodded. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I was thinking.”

“I figured that was it,” Kronn said. “Either that or you were having some kind of fit. What’s the matter?”

Riverwind put a hand to his forehead, feeling tired. “Kronn,” he asked, “do you know the way to Blood Watch?”

The kender nodded, understanding. “I had a feeling you might ask that,” he said. He patted his map pouch. “The tunnels go out that way. I’ve been there once, a while back, to look for the monks’ ghosts. Didn’t find any, which was a pity—and Paxina tells me the ruins are gone now, thanks to Malys. She’s changed the land out there, kind of like she’s doing to the Kenderwood. Built herself a volcano for a lair, from what I hear… hey, where are you going?”

While Kronn was expounding, Riverwind had started to walk, moving down the street with purpose. The kender had to run to catch up.

“Come on,” Riverwind said. “We need to talk to Paxina.”

Riverwind and Kronn were hurrying down Milkweed Avenue, a crooked, tree-lined road that periodically grew so narrow that the Plainsman had to turn sideways to keep from getting stuck between the buildings on either side. All of a sudden it bent sharply to the right, and Kronn and Riverwind came to a sudden stop. Ahead of them, right in the middle of the road, stood a house. It filled the whole street. There wasn’t even enough room between it and the adjacent buildings for Kronn to squeeze through. The kender and the Plainsman stared at it in astonishment.

“Whoa,” Kronn remarked. “That wasn’t here last time I went this way…

“Kronn,” Riverwind rumbled, his voice straining with frustration.

Kronn waved at the house. “This was a perfectly good route until someone put that thing in the way!”

“Damn it!” the old Plainsman exploded. “Kronn, this is important! We can’t be wasting time on this idiocy!”

“I know that!” Kronn snapped back angrily. “But it’s not my fault. Just when I’m starting to know my way around, someone moves a fountain or builds a fence or puts up a whole blessed house. I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I got so lost I never found my way out.” He put a hand on his head. “All right, look. It’s only about six blocks back to Shrubbery Road. We can follow that to Straight Street, and that’ll take us to City Hall. All right?” He turned and started back the way they had gone.

“Wait,” Riverwind said.

Kronn stopped, looking back. The Plainsman’s brow was furrowing as he tried to capture an elusive thought.

“Shhh!” Riverwind hissed. “Say that again.”

“It’s only about six blocks back to Shrubbery Road,” the kender repeated. “We can follow—”

“Not that,” Riverwind interrupted. “Before.”

Kronn frowned. “I was just saying I wouldn’t be surprised if one day I got so lost I never found my way out.”

The old Plainsman nodded, thinking hard. Then suddenly he began to laugh.

Kronn looked at him nervously. “Uh,” he said, “are you feeling all right, Riverwind?”

“By the gods! That’s it!” Riverwind whooped joyfully. “Kronn! I know how to beat the ogres.”

Not long after Riverwind and Kronn left, the door to Baloth’s cell opened again and Giffel Birdwhistle strode in. Seeing him, the hairless ogre cried out. “No!” he shouted. “I told you everything, I swear! No more!”

Giffel looked the ogre up and down, then nodded to someone outside the door. “All right, let’s get him out of here.”

“Out?” Baloth blurted. “You’re letting me go?”

Giffel nodded. “Kronn’s orders. We’re not going to feed you and take care of you, and my people don’t execute their prisoners. You told us what we needed to know, so we’re setting you free.”

Baloth gawked in amazement as the guards came in. There were more than a dozen of them, armed with polpaks—saw-bladed pole arms that they held at his throat as two of their number untied the strong ropes that bound his ankles. Then they used the weapons to prod and herd the ogre out of his cell. With Giffel in the lead, they led him down the tunnel, away from the vault. Baloth stumbled along in a haze, too tired and bewildered to resist.

They followed the passage for what seemed miles and miles, finally stopping at a flight of stairs. Giffel dashed up the steps and opened the secret door at their top. A low, grassy hummock swung aside to let in a shaft of ruddy, evening light.

“Bring him up,” he called.

It took some doing, but the kender guards managed to shove the hulking ogre up the narrow staircase. The earthen walls shuddered and crumbled as he wormed his way out of the tunnel. Then he was out, gazing around in bafflement. He was far from Kendermore. The dead trees of the Kenderwood surrounded him.

The guards encircled him, polpaks ready, as Giffel drew a knife from his belt and came forward. The tall kender went behind Baloth and began to saw at the cords around the ogre’s wrists. “Just so you know,” he said, “your army’s about a league north of here. You can go back to them if you want… but I don’t think you’d better.”

The ropes fell away, and Baloth groaned as blood flowed back into his numb hands. “Why not?” he asked.

“Because,” Giffel said, “you told us when they plan to march—and that bit about Malys, too. I’m no expert on ogres, of course, but from what I gather, if Kurthak figures we let you go, he’ll also figure out you betrayed him. So he’ll kill you—and painfully, too. I can’t even imagine what’ll happen if Malys finds out.

“Anyway, it’s your choice. You can go north and hope they don’t kill you, or you can head south and try to get away.” The tall kender sheathed his dagger and stepped back toward the concealed staircase. The guards fell back with him, polpaks still pointed at the ogre.

“Goodbye, Baloth,” Giffel said as he stepped onto the stairs. He grinned. “It was nice talking to you.”

He headed down the steps, the guards with him. Baloth watched dumbly as the grassy hummock swung back into place, covering the entrance to the tunnels. The ogre glanced around furtively, making sure he was alone. He went over to the hummock and tried to find the button or lever that made it work. After a while, he gave up.

Then he turned and began to lope away through the forest to the south.