Dragons of the Fallen Sun

Chapter Three An Unexpected Visitor

The storm disappeared. A strange storm, it had burst upon Ansalon like an invading army, striking all parts of that vast continent at the same time, attacking throughout the night, only to retreat with the coming of dawn. The sun crawled out from the dark lightning-shot cloudbank to blaze triumphantly in the blue sky. Light and warmth cheered the inhabitants of Solace, who crept out of their homes to see what destruction the tempest had wrought.

Solace did not fare as badly as some other parts of Ansalon, although the storm appeared to have targeted that hamlet with particular hatred. The mighty vallenwoods proved stubbornly resistant to the devastating lightning that struck them time and again. The tops of the trees caught fire and burned, but the fire did not spread to the branches below. The trees’ strong arms tossed in the whirling winds but held fast the homes built there, homes that were in their care. Creeks rose and fields flooded, but homes and barns were spared.

The Tomb of the Last Heroes, a beautiful structure of white and black stone that stood in a clearing on the outskirts of town, had sustained severe damage. Lightning had hit one of the spires, splitting it asunder, sending large chunks of marble crashing down to the lawn.

But the worst damage was done to the crude and makeshift homes of the refugees fleeing the lands to the west and south, lands which had been free only a year ago but which were now falling under control of the green dragon Beryl.

Three years ago, the great dragons who had fought for control of Ansalon had come to an uneasy truce. Realizing that their bloody battles were weakening them, the dragons agreed to be satisfied with the territory each had conquered, they would not wage war against each other to try to gain more. The dragons had kept this pact, until a year ago. It was then that Beryl had noticed her magical powers starting to decline. At first, she had thought she was imagining this, but as time passed, she became convinced that something was wrong.

Beryl blamed the red dragon Malys for the loss of her magic—this was some foul scheme being perpetrated by her larger and stronger cousin. Beryl also blamed the human mages, who were hiding the Tower of High Sorcery of Wayreth from her. Consequently, Beryl had begun ever so gradually to expand her control over human lands. She moved slowly, not wanting to draw Malys’s attention. Malys would not care if here and there a town was burned or a village plundered. The city of Haven was one such, recently fallen to Beryl’s might. Solace remained untouched, for the time being. But Beryl’s eye was upon Solace. She had ordered closed the main roads leading into Solace, letting them feel the pressure as she bided her time.

The refugees who had managed to escape Haven and surrounding lands before the roads were closed had swelled Solace’s population to three times its normal size. Arriving with their belongings tied up in bundles or piled on the back of carts, the refugees were being housed in what the town fathers designated “temporary housing.” The hovels were truly meant only to be temporary, but the flood of refugees arriving daily overwhelmed good intentions. The temporary shelters had become, unfortunately, permanent.

The first person to reach the refugee camps the morning after the storm was Caramon Majere, driving a wagon loaded with sacks of food, lumber for rebuilding, dry firewood, and blankets.

Caramon was over eighty—just how far over no one really knew, for he himself had lost track of the years. He was what they term in Solamnia a “grand old man.” Age had come to him as an honorable foe, facing him and saluting him, not creeping up to stab him in the back or rob him of his wits. Hale and hearty, his big frame corpulent but unbowed (“I can’t grow stooped, my gut won’t let me,” he was wont to say with a roaring laugh), Caramon was the first of his household to rise, was out every morning chopping wood for the kitchen fires or hauling the heavy ale barrels up the stairs.

His two daughters saw to the day—to-day workings of the Inn of the Last Home—this was the only concession Caramon made to his age—but he still tended the bar, still told his stories. Laura ran the Inn, while Dezra, who had a taste for adventure, traveled to markets in Haven and elsewhere, searching out the very best in hops for the Inn’s ale, honey for the Inn’s legendary mead, and even hauling dwarf spirits back from Thorbardin. The moment Caramon went outdoors he was swarmed over by the children of Solace, who one and all called him “Grampy” and who vied for rides on his broad shoulders or begged to hear him tell tales of long-ago heroes. He was a friend to the refugees who would have likely had no housing at all had not Caramon donated the wood and supervised the construction. He was currently overseeing a project to build permanent dwellings on the outskirts of Solace, pushing, cajoling, and browbeating the recalcitrant authorities into taking action. Caramon Majere never walked the streets of Solace but that he heard his name spoken and blessed.

Once the refugees were assisted, Caramon traveled about the rest of Solace, making certain that everyone was safe, raising hearts and spirits oppressed by the terrible night. This done, he went to his own breakfast, a breakfast he had come to share, of late, with a Knight of Solamnia, a man who reminded Caramon of his own two sons who had died in the Chaos War.

In the days immediately following the Chaos War, the Solamnic Knights had established a garrison in Solace. The garrison had been a small one in the early days, intended only to provide Knights to stand honor guard for the Tomb of the Last Heroes.

The garrison had been expanded to counter the threat of the great dragons, who were now the acknowledged, if hated, rulers of much of Ansalon.

So long as the humans of Solace and other cities and lands under her control continued to pay Beryl tribute, she allowed the people to continue on with their lives, allowed them to continue to generate more wealth so that they could pay even more tribute.

Unlike the evil dragons of earlier ages, who had delighted in burning and looting and killing, Beryl had discovered that burned-out cities did not generate profit. Dead people did not pay taxes.

There were many who wondered why Beryl and her cousins with their wondrous and terrible magicks should covet wealth, should demand tribute. Beryl and Malys were cunning creatures.

If they were rapaciously and wantonly cruel, indulging in wholesale slaughter of entire populations, the people of Ansalon would rise up out of desperation and march to destroy them. As it was, most humans found life under the dragon rule to be relatively comfortable. They were content to let well enough alone.

Bad things happened to some people, people who no doubt deserved their fate. If hundreds of kender were killed or driven from their homes, if rebellious Qualinesti elves were being tortured and imprisoned, what did this matter to humans? Beryl and Malys had minions and spies in every human town and village, placed there to foment discord and hatred and suspicion, as well as to make certain that no one was trying to hide so much as a cracked copper from the dragons.

Caramon Majere was one of the few outspoken in his hatred of paying tribute to the dragons and actually refused to do so.

“Not one drop of ale will I give to those fiends,” he said heatedly whenever anyone asked, which they rarely did, knowing that one of Beryl’s spies was probably taking down names.

He was staunch in his refusal, though much worried by it.

Solace was a wealthy town, now larger than Haven. The tribute demanded from Solace was quite high. Caramon’s wife Tika had pointed out that their share was being made up by the other citizens of Solace and that this was putting a hardship on the rest.

Caramon could see the wisdom of Tika’s argument. At length he came up with the novel idea of levying a special tax against himself, a tax that only the Inn paid, a tax whose monies were on no account to be sent to the dragon but that would be used to assist those who suffered unduly from having to pay what was come to be known as “the dragon tax.”

The people of Solace paid extra tax, the city fathers refunded them a portion out of Caramon’s contribution, and the tribute went to the dragon as demanded.

If they could have found a way to silence Caramon on the volatile subject, they would have done so, for he continued to be loud in his hatred of the dragons, continued to express his views that “if we just all got together we could poke out Beryl’s eye with a dragonlance.” Indeed, when the city of Haven was attacked by Beryl just a few weeks earlier—ostensibly for defaulting on its payments—the Solace town fathers actually came to Caramon and begged him on bended knee to cease his rabble-rousing remarks.

Impressed by their obvious fear and distress, Caramon agreed to tone down his rhetoric, and the town fathers left happy. Caramon did actually comply, expressing his views in a moderate tone of voice as opposed to the booming outrage he’d used previously.

He reiterated his unorthodox views that morning to his breakfast companion, the young Solamnic.

“ A terrible storm, sir,” said the Knight, seating himself opposite Caramon.

A group of his fellow Knights were breakfasting in another part of the Inn, but Gerard uth Mondar paid them scant attention.

They, in their turn, paid him no attention at all.

“It bodes dark days to come, to my mind,” Caramon agreed, settling his bulk into the high-backed wooden booth, a booth whose seat had been rubbed shiny by the old man’s backside.

“But all in all I found it exhilarating.”

“Father!” Laura was scandalized. She slapped down a plate of beefsteak and eggs for her father, a bowl of porridge for the Knight. “How can you say such things? With so many people hurt. Whole houses blown, from what I hear.”

“I didn’t mean that,” Caramon protested, contrite. “I’m sorry for the people who were hurt, of course, but, you know, it came to me in the night that this storm must be shaking Beryl’s lair about pretty good. Maybe even burned the evil old bitch out. That’s what I was thinking.” He looked worriedly at the young Knight’s bowl of porridge. “Are you certain that’s enough to eat, Gerard? I can have Laura fry you up some potatoes—”

“Thank you, sir, this is all I am accustomed to eat for breakfast,” Gerard said as he said every day in response to the same question.

Caramon sighed. Much as he had come to like this young man, Caramon could not understand anyone who did not enjoy food. A person who did not relish Otik’s famous spiced potatoes was a person who did not relish life. Only one time in his own life had Caramon ever ceased to enjoy his dinner and that was following the death several months earlier of his beloved wife Tika.

Caramon had refused to eat a mouthful for days after that, to the terrible worry and consternation of the entire town, which went on a cooking frenzy to try to come up with something that would tempt him.

He would eat nothing, do nothing, say nothing. He either roamed aimlessly about the town or sat staring dry-eyed out the stained glass windows of the Inn, the Inn where he had first met the red-haired and annoying little brat who had been his comrade in arms, his lover, his friend, his salvation. He shed no tears for her, he would not visit her grave beneath the vallenwoods. He would not sleep in their bed. He would not hear the messages of condolence that came from Laurana and Gilthas in Qualinesti, from Goldmoon in the Citadel of Light.

Caramon lost weight, his flesh sagged, his skin took on a gray hue.

“He will follow Tika soon,” said the townsfolk.

He might have, too, had not one day a child, one of ,the refugee children, happened across Caramon in his dismal roamings. The child placed his small body squarely in front of the old man and held out a hunk of bread.

“Here, sir,” said the child. “My mother says that if you don’t eat you will die, and then what will become of us?”

Caramon gazed down at the child in wonder. Then he knelt down, gathered the child into his arms, and began to sob uncontrollably. Caramon ate the bread, every crumb, and that night he slept in the bed he had shared with Tika. He placed flowers on her grave the next morning and ate a breakfast that would have fed three men. He smiled again and laughed, but there was something in his smile and in his laughter that had not been there before. Not sorrow, but a wistful impatience.

Sometimes, when the door to the Inn opened, he would look out into the sunlit blue sky beyond and he would say, very softly,

“I’m coming, my dear. Don’t fret. I won’t be long.”

Gerard uth Mondar ate his porridge with dispatch, not really tasting it. He ate his porridge plain, refusing to flavor it with brown sugar or cinnamon, did not even add salt. Food fueled his body, and that was all it was good for. He ate his porridge, washing down the congealed mass with a mug of tarbean tea, and listened to Caramon talk about the awful wonders of the storm.

The other Knights paid their bill and left, bidding Caramon a polite good-day as they passed, but saying nothing to his companion. Gerard appeared not to notice, but steadfastly spooned porridge from bowl to mouth.

Caramon watched the Knights depart and interrupted his story in mid-lightning bolt. “I appreciate the fact that you share your time with an old geezer like me, Gerard, but if you want to have breakfast with your friends—”

“They are not my friends,” said Gerard without bitterness or rancor, simply making a statement of fact. “I much prefer dining with a man of wisdom and good, common sense.” He raised his mug to Caramon in salute.

“It’s just that you seem. . .” Caramon paused, chewed steak vigorously. “Lonely,” he finished in a mumble, his mouth full. He swallowed, forked another piece. “You should have a girl friend or . . . or a wife or something.”

Gerard snorted. “What woman would look twice at a man with a face like this?” He eyed with dissatisfaction his own reflection in the highly polished pewter mug.

Gerard was ugly; there was no denying that fact. A childhood illness had left his face cragged and scarred. His nose had been broken in a fight with a neighbor when he was ten and had healed slightly askew. He had yellow hair—not blond, not fair, just plain, straw yellow. It was the consistency of straw, too, and would not lie flat, but stuck up at all sorts of odd angles if allowed. To avoid looking like a scarecrow, which had been his nickname when he was young, Gerard kept his hair cut as short as possible.

His only good feature were his eyes, which were of a startling, one might almost say, alarming blue. Because there was rarely any warmth behind these eyes and because these eyes always focused upon their objective with unblinking intensity, Gerard’s blue eyes tended to repel more people than they attracted.

“Bah!” Caramon dismissed beauty and comeliness with a Wave of his fork. “Women don’t care about a man’s looks. They want a man of honor, of courage. A young Knight your age... How old are you?”

“I have seen twenty-eight years, sir,” Gerard replied. Finishing his porridge, he shoved the bowl to one side. “Twenty-eight boring and thoroughly wasted years.”

“Boring?” Caramon was skeptical. “And you a Knight? I was in quite a few wars myself. Battles were lots of things, as I recall, but boring wasn’t one of them—”

“I have never been in battle, sir,” said Gerard and now his tone was bitter. He rose to his feet, placed a coin upon the table.

“If you will excuse me, I am on duty at the tomb this morning. This being Midyear Day, and consequently a holiday, we expect an influx of rowdy and destructive kender. I have been ordered to report to my post an hour early. I wish you joy of the day, sir, and I thank you for your company.”

He bowed stiffly, turned on his heel as if he were already performing the slow and stately march before the tomb, and walked out the door of the Inn. Caramon could hear his booted feet ringing on the long staircase that led down from the Inn, perched high in the branches of Solace’s largest vallenwood.

Caramon leaned back comfortably in the booth. The sunshine streamed in through the red and green windows, warming him.

His belly full, he was content. Outside, people were cleaning up after the storm, gathering up the branches that had fallen from the vallenwoods, airing out their damp houses, spreading straw over the muddy streets. In the afternoon, the people would dress in their best clothes, adorn their hair with flowers, and celebrate the longest day of the year with dancing and feasting. Caramon could see Gerard stalking stiff-backed and stiff-necked through the mud, paying no heed to anything going on around him, making his way to the Tomb of the Last Heroes. Caramon watched as long as he could see the Knight, before finally losing sight of him in the crowd.

“He’s a strange one,” said Laura, whipping away the empty bowl and pocketing the coin. “I wonder how you can eat alongside him, Father. His face curdles the milk.”

“He cannot help his face, Daughter,” Caramon returned sternly. “Are there any more eggs?”

“I’ll bring you some. You’ve no idea what a pleasure it is to see you eating again.” Laura paused in her work to kiss her father tenderly on his forehead. “As for that young man, it’s not his face that makes him ugly. I’ve loved far uglier in looks in my time. It’s his arrogance, his pride that drives people away. Thinks he’s better than all the rest of us, so he does. Did you know that he comes from one of the wealthiest families in all of Palanthas? His father practically funds the Knighthood, they say. And he pays well for his son to be posted here in Solace, away from the fighting in Sanction and other places. It’s small wonder the other Knights have no respect for him.”

Laura flounced off to the kitchen to refill her father’s plate.

Caramon stared after his daughter in astonishment. He’d been eating breakfast with this young man every day for the past two months, and he had no notion of any of this. They’d developed what he considered a close relationship, and here was Laura, who’d never said anything to the young Knight beyond,

“Sugar for your tea?” knowing his life’s history.

“Women,” Caramon said to himself, basking in the sunlight.

“Eighty years old and I might as well be sixteen again. I didn’t understand them then, and I don’t understand them now.”

Laura returned with a plate of eggs piled high with spiced potatoes on the side. She gave her father another kiss and went about her day.

“She’s so much like her mother, though,” Caramon said fondly and ate his second plate of eggs with relish.

Gerard uth Mondar was thinking about women, as well, as he waded through the ankle-deep mud. Gerard would have agreed with Caramon that women were creatures not to be understood by men. Caramon liked women, however. Gerard neither liked them nor trusted them. Once when he had been fourteen and newly recovered from the illness that had destroyed his looks, a neighbor girl had laughed at him and called him “pock face.”

Discovered in gulping tears by his mother, he was comforted by his mother, who said, “Pay no attention to the stupid chit, my son. Women will love you one day.” And then she had added, in a vague afterthought, “You are very rich, after all.”

Fourteen years later, he would wake in the night to hear the girl’s shrill, mocking laughter, and his soul would cringe in shame and embarrassment. He would hear his mother’s counsel and his embarrassment would bum away in anger, an anger that burned all the hotter because his mother had proved a prophetess. The “stupid chit” had thrown herself at Gerard when they were both eighteen and she had come to realize that money could make the ugliest weed beautiful as a rose. He had taken great pleasure in scornfully snubbing her. Ever since that day, he had suspected that any woman who looked at him with any interest whatsoever was secretly calculating his worth, all the while masking her disgust for him with sweet smiles and fluttering lashes.

Mindful of the precept that the best offense is a good defense, Gerard had built a most excellent fortress around himself, a fortress bristling with sharp barbs, its walls stocked with buckets of acidic comments, its high towers hidden in a cloud of dark humors, the entire fortress surrounded by a moat of sullen resentment.

His fortress proved extremely good at keeping out men, as well. Laura’s gossip was more accurate than most. Gerard uth Mondar did indeed come from one of the wealthiest families in Palanthas, probably one of the wealthiest in all of Ansalon. Prior to the Chaos War, Gerard’s father, Mondar uth Alfric, had been the owner of the most successful shipyard in Palanthas. Foreseeing the rise of the Dark Knights, Sir Mondar had wisely converted as much of his property into good solid steel as possible and moved his family to Southern Ergoth, where he started his shipbuilding and repairing business anew, a business which was now thriving.

Sir Mondar was a powerful force among the Knights of Solamnia. He contributed more money than any other Knight to the support and maintenance of the Knighthood. He had seen to it that his son became a Knight, had seen to it that his son had the very best, the safest posting available. Mondar had never asked Gerard what he wanted from life. The elder Knight took it for granted that his son wanted to be a Knight and the son had taken it for granted himself until the very night he was holding vigil before the ceremony of knighthood. In that night, a vision came to him, not a vision of glory and honor won on the battlefield, but a vision of a sword rusting away in its scabbard, a vision of running errands and posting guard detail over dust and ashes that didn’t need guarding.

Too late to back out. To do so would break a family tradition that supposedly extended back to Vinas Solamnus. His father would renounce him, hate him forever. His mother, who had sent out hundreds of invitations to a celebratory party, would take to her bed for a month. Gerard had gone through with the ceremony. He had taken his vow, a vow he considered meaningless.

He had donned the armor that had become his prison.

He had served in the Knighthood now for seven years, one of which had been spent in the “honorary” duty of guarding a bunch of corpses. Before that, he’d brewed tarbean tea and written letters for his commanding officer in Southern Ergoth. He had requested posting to Sanction and had been on the verge of leaving, when the city was attacked by the armies of the Knights of Neraka and his father had seen to it that his son was sent instead to Solace. Returning to the fortress, Gerard cleaned the mud from his boots and left to join the fellow of his watch, taking up his hated and detested position of honor before the Tomb of the Last Heroes.

The tomb was a simple structure of elegant design, built by dwarves of white marble and black obsidian. The tomb was surrounded by trees, that had been planted by the elves, and which bore fragrant flowers all year long. Inside lay the bodies of Tanis Half-elven, fallen hero of the battle of the High Clerist’s Tower, and Steel Brightblade, son of Sturm Brightblade and the hero of the final battle against Chaos. Here also were the bodies of the knights who had fought the Chaos god. Above the door of the tomb was written a single name, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, the kender hero of the Chaos war.

Kender came from allover Ansalon to pay tribute to their hero, feasting and picnicking on the lawns, singing songs of Uncle Tas and telling stories about his brave deeds. Unfortunately, some years after the tomb had been built, the kender took it into their heads to each come away with a piece of the tomb for luck. To this end, they began to attack the tomb with chisels and hammers, forcing the Solamnic knights to erect a wrought-iron fence around the tomb that was starting to have the appearance of being nibbled by mice.

The sun blazing down on him, his armor baking him slowly as Laura was slowly baking her beef roast, Gerard marched with slow and solemn step the one hundred paces that took him from the left of the tomb to the center. Here he met his fellow who had marched an equal distance. They saluted one another. Turning, they saluted the fallen heroes. Turning, they marched back, each guard’s motions mirroring exactly the motions of the guard opposite.

One hundred paces back. One hundred paces forth.

Over and over and over.

An honor to some, such as the Knight who stood watch this day with Gerard. This Knight had purchased this posting with blood, not with money. The veteran Knight walked his beat with a slight limp, but he walked it proudly. Small blame to him that every time he came face to face with Gerard, he regarded him with lip-curling enmity.

Gerard marched back and forth. As the day progressed, crowds gathered, many having traveled to Solace especially for this holiday. Kender arrived in droves, spreading lunches on the lawn, eating and drinking, dancing and playing games of goblin ball and kender-keep-away. The kender loved to watch the Knights, loved to annoy them. The kender danced around the Knights, tried to make them smile, tickled them, rapped on their armor, called them “Kettle Head” and “Canned Meat,” offered them food, thinking they might be hungry.

Gerard uth Mondar disliked humans. He distrusted elves. He hated kender. Actively hated them. Detested them. He hated all kender equally, including the so-called “afflicted” kender, whom most people now viewed with pity. These kender were survivors of an attack by the great dragon Malys on their homeland. They were said to have seen such acts of violence and cruelty that their merry, innocent natures had been forever altered, leaving them much like humans: suspicious, cautious, and vindictive. Gerard didn’t believe this “afflicted” act. To his mind, it was just another sneaky way for kender to get their grubby little hands into a man’s pockets.

Kender were like vermin. They could flatten their boneless little bodies and crawl into any structure made by man or dwarf.

Of this Gerard was firmly convinced, and so he was only a little surprised when, sometime nearing the end of his watch, drawing on late afternoon, he heard a shrill voice hallooing and hollering.

The voice came from inside the tomb.

“I say!” cried the voice. “Could someone let me out? It’s extremely dark in here, and I can’t find the door handle.”

The partner of Gerard’s watch actually missed a step. Halting, he turned to stare. “Did you hear that?” he demanded, regarding the tomb with frowning concern. “It sounded like someone was in there.”

“Hear what?” Gerard said, though he himself had heard it plainly. “You’re imagining things.”

But they weren’t. The noise grew louder. Knocking and pounding were now added to the hallooing and hollering.

“Hey, I heard a voice inside the tomb!” shouted a kender child, who had dashed forward to retrieve a ball that had bounced off Gerard’s left foot. The kender put his face to the fence, pointed inside at the tomb’s massive and sealed doors.

“There’s someone trapped in the tomb! And it wants out!” The crowd of kender and other residents of Solace who had come to pay their respects to the dead by swilling ale and munching cold chicken forgot their suppers and their games. Gasping in wonder, they crowded around the fence, nearly overrunning the Knights.

“They buried someone alive in there!” a girl screamed.

The crowd surged forward.

“Keep back!” Gerard shouted, drawing his sword. “This is holy ground! Any who desecrates it will be arrested! Randolph, go and get reinforcements! We need to clear this area.”

“I suppose it could be a ghost,” his fellow Knight speculated, his eyes glowing with awe. “A ghost of one of the fallen Heroes come back to warn us of dire peril.”

Gerard snorted. “You’ve been listening to too many bards’ tales! It’s nothing more than one of these filthy little vermin who’s got himself inside there and can’t get out. I have the key to the fence, but I have no idea how to open the tomb.”

The banging on the door was growing louder.

The Knight cast Gerard a disgusted glance. “I will go fetch the provost. He’ll know what to do.”

Randolph pelted off, holding his sword to his side to keep it from clanking against his armor.

“Get away! Move aside!” Gerard ordered in firm tones.

He drew out the key and, putting his back against the gate, keeping his face to the crowd, he fumbled around behind his back until he managed to fit the key into the lock. Hearing it click, he opened the gate, much to the delight of the crowd, several of whom endeavored to push through. Gerard walloped the boldest with the flat of his sword, drove them back a few moments, time enough for him to hastily dodge inside the fence gate and slam it shut behind him.

The crowd of humans and kender pressed in around the fence. Children poked their heads through the bars, promptly got their heads stuck, and began to wail. Some climbed the bars in a futile attempt to crawl over, while others thrust their hands and arms and legs inside for no logical reason that Gerard could see, which only went to prove what he’d long suspected—that his fellow mortals were ninnies.

The Knight made certain the gate was locked and secure and then walked over to the tomb, intending to post himself at the entrance until the Provost came with some means of breaking the seal.

He was climbing the marble and obsidian stairs when he heard the voice say cheerfully, “Oh, never mind. I’ve got it!”

A loud snick, as of a lock being tripped, and the doors to the tomb began to slowly creak open.

The crowd gasped in thrilled horror and crowded nearer the fence, each trying to get the best view possible of the Knight being ripped apart by hordes of skeletal warriors.

A figure emerged from the tomb. It was dusty, dirty, its hair windswept, its clothes in disarray and singed, its pouches rather mangled and worse for wear. But it wasn’t a skeleton. It wasn’t a blood-sucking vampire or an emaciated ghoul.

It was a kender.

The crowd groaned in disappointment.

The kender peered out into the bright sunlight and blinked, half-blinded. “Hullo,” he said. “I’m—” The kender paused to sneeze. “Sorry. It’s extremely dusty in there. Someone should really do something about that. Do you have a handkerchief? I seem to have mislaid mine. Well, it actually belonged to Tanis, but I don’t suppose he’ll be wanting it back now that he’s dead. Where am I?”

“Under arrest,” said Gerard. Laying firm hands upon the kender, the Knight hauled him down the stairs.

Understandably disappointed that they weren’t going to witness a battle between the Knight and the undead, the crowd returned to their picnics and playing goblin ball.

“I recognize this place,” said the kender, staring about instead of watching where he was going and consequently tripping himself. “I’m in Solace. Good! That’s where I meant to come. My name is Tasslehoff Burrfoot, and I’m here to speak at the funeral of Caramon Majere, so if you could just take me to the Inn quickly, I really do have to get back. You see, there’s this giant foot about to come down—blam! right on top of me, and that’s something I don’t want to miss, and now then—”

Gerard put the key into the gate lock, turned it and opened the gate. He gave the kender a shove that sent him sprawling.

“The only place you’re going is off to jail. You’ve done enough mischief already.”

The kender picked himself up cheerfully, not at all angry or disconcerted. “Awfully nice of you to find me a place to spend the night. Not that I’ll be here that long. I’ve come to speak. . .” He paused. “Did I mention that I was Tasslehoff Burrfoot?”

Gerard grunted, not interested. He took firm hold of the kender and stood waiting with him until someone came to take the little bastard off his hands.

“The Tasslehoff,” said the kender.

Gerard cast a weary glance out over the crowd and shouted,

“Everyone named Tasslehoff Burrfoot raise his hand!”

Thirty-seven hands shot up in the air and two dogs barked:

“Oh, my!” said the kender clearly taken aback.

“You can see why I’m not impressed,” said Gerard and searched hopefully for some sign that relief was on the way.

“I don’t suppose it would matter if I told you that I was the original Tasslehoff . . . No, I guess not.” The kender sighed and stood fidgeting in the hot sun. His hand, strictly out of boredom, found its way into Gerard’s money pouch, but Gerard was prepared for that and gave the kender a swift and nasty crack across the knuckles.

The kender sucked his bruised hand. “What’s all this?” He looked around at the people larking and frolicking upon the lawn. “What are these people doing here? Why aren’t they attending Caramon’s funeral? It’s the biggest event Solace has ever seen!”

“Probably because Caramon Majere is not dead yet” said Gerard caustically. “Where is that good-for-nothing provost?”

“Not dead?” The kender stared. “Are you sure?”

“I had breakfast with him myself this very morning,” Gerard replied.

“Oh, no!” The kender gave a heartbroken wail and slapped himself on the forehead. “I’ve gone and goofed it up again! And I don’t suppose that now I’ve got time to try it a third time. What with the giant foot and all.” He began to rummage about in his pouch. “Still, I guess I had better try. Now, where did I put that device—”

Gerard glowered around as he tightened his grip on the collar of the kender’s dusty jacket. The thirty-seven kender named Tasslehoff had all come over to meet number thirty-eight.

“The rest of you, clear out!” Gerard waved his hand as if he were shooing chickens.

Naturally, the kender ignored him. Though extremely disappointed that Tasslehoff hadn’t turned out to be a shambling zombie, the kender were interested to hear where he’d been, what he’d seen and what he had in his pouches.

“Want some Midyear Day’s cake?” asked a pretty female kender.

“Why, thank you. This is quite good. I—” The kender’s eyes opened wide. He tried to say something, couldn’t speak for the cake in his mouth, and ended up half choking himself. His fellow kender obligingly pounded him on the back. He bolted the cake, coughed, and gasped out, “What day is this?”

“Midyear’s Day!” cried everyone.

“Then I haven’t missed it!” the kender shouted triumphantly.

“In fact, this is better than I could have hoped! I’ll get to tell Caramon what I’m going to say at his funeral tomorrow! He’ll probably find it extremely interesting.”

The kender looked up into the sky. Spotting the position of the sun, which was about half-way down, heading for the horizon, he said, “Oh, dear. I don’t have all that much time. If you’ll just excuse me, I had best be running.”

And run he did, leaving Gerard standing flat-footed on the grassy lawn, a kender jacket in his hand.

Gerard spent one baffled moment wondering how the imp had managed to wriggle out of his jacket, yet still retain all his pouches, which were jouncing and bouncing as he ran, spilling their contents to the delight of the thirty-seven Tasslehoffs. Concluding that this was a phenomenon that, much like the departure of the gods, he would never understand, Gerard was about to run after the errant kender, when he remembered that he could not leave his post unguarded.

At this juncture, the provost came into sight, accompanied by an entire detail of Solamnic Knights solemnly arrayed in their best armor to welcome back the returning Heroes, for this is what they had understood they were going to be meeting.

“ Just a kender, sir,” Gerard explained. “Somehow he managed to get himself locked inside the tomb. He let himself out. He got away from me, but I think I know where he’s headed.”

The provost, a stout man who loved his ale, turned very red in the face. The Knights looked extremely foolish—the kender were now dancing around them in a circle—and all looked very black at Gerard, whom they clearly blamed for the entire incident.

“Let them,” Gerard muttered, and dashed off after his prisoner.

The kender had a good head start. He was quick and nimble and accustomed to fleeing pursuit. Gerard was strong and a swift runner, but he was encumbered by his heavy, ceremonial armor, which clanked and rattled and jabbed him uncomfortably in several tender areas. He would likely have never even caught sight of the felon had not the kender stopped at several junctures to look around in amazement, demanding loudly to know, “Where did this come from?” staring at a newly built garrison, and, a little farther on, “What are all these doing here?” This in reference to the refugee housing. And “Who put that there?” This to a large sign posted by the town fathers proclaiming that Solace was a town in good standing and had paid its tribute to the dragon and was therefore a safe place to visit.

The kender seemed extremely disconcerted by the sign. He stood before it, eyeing it severely. “That can’t stay there,” he said loudly. “It will block the path of the funeral procession.”

Gerard thought he had him at this point, but the kender gave a bound and a leap and dashed off again. Gerard was forced to halt to catch his breath. Running in the heavy armor in the heat caused his head to swim and sent little shooting stars bursting across his vision. He was close to the Inn, however, and he had the grim satisfaction of seeing the kender dash up the stairs and through the front door.

“Good,” Gerard thought grimly. “I have him.”

Removing his helm, he tossed it to the ground, and leaned back against the signpost until his breathing returned to normal, while he watched the stairs to make certain the kender didn’t depart. Acting completely against regulations, Gerard divested himself of the pieces of armor that were chafing him the worst, wrapped them in his cloak, and stashed the bundle in a dark corner of the Inn’s woodshed. He then walked over to the community water barrel and plunged the gourd deep into the water.

The barrel stood in a shady spot beneath one of the vallenwoods. The water was cool and sweet. Gerard kept one eye on the door of the Inn and, lifting the dipper, dumped the water over his head.

The water trickled down his neck and breast, wonderfully refreshing. He took a long drink, slicked back his hair, wiped his face, picked up his helm and, tucking it beneath his arm, made the long ascent up the stairs to the Inn. He could hear the kender’s voice quite clearly. Judging by his formal tones and unnaturally deep voice, the kender appeared to be making a speech.

“Caramon Majere was a very great hero. He fought dragons and undead and goblins and hobgoblins and ogres and draconians and lots of others I can’t remember. He traveled back in time with this very device—right here, this very device—” The kender resumed normal speech for a moment to say, “Then I show the crowd the device, Caramon. I’d show you that part, but I can’t quite seem to find it right now. Don’t worry, I won’t let anyone touch it. Now, where was I?”

A pause and the sound of paper rustling.

Gerard continued climbing the stairs. He had never truly noticed just how many stairs there were before. His legs, already aching and stiff from running, burned, his breath came short. He wished he’d taken off all his armor. He was chagrined to see how far he’d let himself go. His formerly strong athlete’s body was soft as a maiden’s. He stopped on the landing to rest and heard the kender launch back into his speech.

“Caramon Majere traveled back in time. He saved Lady Crysania from the Abyss. She’ll be here, Caramon. She’ll fly here on the back of a silver dragon. Goldmoon will be here, too, and Riverwind will come and their beautiful daughters and Silvanoshei, the king of the United Elven Nations, will be here, along with Gilthas, the new ambassador to the United Human Nations, and, of course, Laurana. Even Dalamar will be here! Think of that, Caramon! The Head of the Conclave coming to your funeral. He’ll be standing right over there next to Palin, who’s head of the White Robes, but then I guess you already know that, him being your son and all. At least, I think that’s where they were standing. The last time I was here for your funeral I came after it was all over and everyone was going home. I heard about it later from Palin, who said that they were sorry. If they’d known I was coming they would have waited. I felt a bit insulted, but Palin said that they all thought I was dead, which I am, of course, only not at the moment. And because I missed your funeral the first time, that’s why I had to try to hit it again.”

Gerard groaned. Not only did he have to deal with a kender, he had to deal with a mad kender. Probably one of those who claimed to be “afflicted.” He felt badly for Caramon, hoped the old man wasn’t too upset by this incident. Caramon would probably be understanding. For reasons passing Gerard’s comprehension, Caramon seemed to have a soft spot for the little nuisances.

“So anyway my speech goes on,” the kender said. “ ‘Caramon Majere did all these things and more. He was a great hero and a great warrior, but do you know what he did best?’ ” The kender’s voice softened. “ ‘He was a great friend. He was my friend, my very best friend in all of the world. I came back—or rather I came forward—to say this because I think it’s important, and Fizban thought it was important, too, which is why he let me come. It seems to me that being a great friend is more important than being a great hero or a great warrior. Being a good friend is the most important thing there is. Just think, if everyone in the world were great friends, then we wouldn’t be such terrible enemies. Some of you here are enemies now-’ I look at Dalamar at this point, Caramon. I look at him very sternly, for he’s done some things that haven’t been at all nice. And then I go on and say, ‘But you people are here today because you were friends with this one man and he was your friend, just like he was mine. And so maybe when we lay Caramon Majere to rest, we will each leave his grave with friendlier feelings toward everyone. And maybe that will be the beginning of peace.’ And then I bow and that’s the end. What do you think?”

Gerard arrived in the doorway in time to see the kender jump down off a table, from which vantage point he’d been delivering his speech, and run over to stand in front of Caramon. Laura was wiping her eyes on the comers of her apron. Her gully dwarf helper blubbered shamelessly in a comer, while the Inn’s patrons were applauding wildly and banging their mugs on the table, shouting “Hear, hear!”

Caramon Majere sat in one of the high-backed booths. He was smiling, a smile touched by the last golden rays of the sun, rays that seem to have slipped into the Inn on purpose just to say goodnight.

“I’m sorry this had to happen, sir,” said Gerard, walking inside. “I didn’t realize he would trouble you. I’ll take him away now.”

Caramon reached out his hand and stroked the kender’s topknot, the hair of which was standing straight up, like the fur of a startled cat.

“He’s not bothering me. I’m glad to see him again. That part about friendship was wonderful, Tas. Truly wonderful. Thank you.”

Caramon frowned, shook his head. “But I don’t understand the rest of what you said, Tas. All about the United Elven Nations and Riverwind coming to the Inn when he’s been dead these many years. Something’s peculiar here. I’ll have to think about it.” Caramon stood up from the booth and headed toward the door. “I’ll just be taking my evening walk, now, Laura.”

“Your dinner will be waiting when you come back, Father,” she said. Smoothing her apron, she shook the gully dwarf, ordered him to pull himself together and get back to work.

“Don’t think about it too long, Caramon,” Tas called out. “Because of . . . well, you know.”

He looked up at Gerard, who had laid a firm hand on the kender’s shoulder, getting a good grip on flesh and bone this time.

“It’s because he’s going to be dead pretty soon,” Tas said in a loud whisper. “I didn’t like to mention that. It would have been rude, don’t you think?”

“I think you’re going to spend the next year in prison,” said Gerard sternly.

Caramon Majere stood at the top of the stairs. “Yes, Tika, dear. I’m coming,” he said. Putting his hand over his heart, he pitched forward, headfirst.

The kender tore himself free of Gerard, flung himself to the floor, and burst into tears.

Gerard moved swiftly, but he was too late to halt Caramon’s fall. The big man tumbled and rolled down the stairs of his beloved Inn. Laura screamed. The patrons cried out in shock and alarm. People in the street, seeing Caramon falling, began to run toward the Inn.

Gerard dashed down the stairs as fast as ever he could and was the first to reach Caramon. He feared to find the big man in terrible pain, for he must have broken every bone in his body.

Caramon did not appear to be suffering however. He had already left mortal cares and pain behind, his spirit lingering only long enough to say good-bye. Laura threw herself beside him on the ground. Taking hold of his hand, she held it pressed to her lips.

“Don’t cry, my dear,” he said softly, smiling. “Your mother’s here with me. She’ll take good care of me. I’ll be fine.”

“Oh, Daddy!” Laura sobbed. “Don’t leave me yet!”

Caramon’s eyes glanced around at the townspeople who had gathered. He smiled and gave a little nod. He continued to search through the crowd and he frowned.

“But where’s Raistlin?” he asked.

Laura looked startled, but said, brokenly, “Father, your brother’s been dead a long, long time—”

“He said he would wait for me,” Caramon said, his voice beginning strong, but growing fainter. “He should be here. Tika’s here. I don’t understand. This is not right. Tas. . . What Tas said. . . A different future. . .”

His gaze came to Gerard. He beckoned the Knight to come near.

“There’s something you must. . . do,” said Caramon, his breath rasping in his chest.

Gerard knelt beside him, more touched by this man’s death than he could have imagined possible. “Yes, sir,” he said. “What is it?”

“Promise me . . .” Caramon whispered. “On your honor. . . as a Knight.”

“I promise,” said Gerard. He supposed that the old man was going to ask him to watch over his daughters or to take care of his grandchildren, one of whom was also a Solamnic Knight. “What would you have me do, sir?”

“Dalamar will know. . . . Take Tasslehoff to Dalamar,” Caramon said and his voice was suddenly strong and firm. He looked intently at Gerard. “Do you promise? Do you swear that you will do this?”

“But sir,” Gerard faltered, “what you ask of me is impossible! No one has seen Dalamar for years. Most believe that he is dead. And as for this kender who calls himself Tasslehoff . . .”

Caramon reached out his hand, a hand that was bloody from his fall. He grasped hold of Gerard’s most unwilling hand and gripped it tightly.

“I promise, sir,” said Gerard.

Caramon smiled. He let out his breath and did not draw another. His eyes fixed in death, fixed on Gerard. The hand, even in death, did not relinquish its grip. Gerard had to pry the old man’s fingers loose and was left with a smear of blood on his palm.

“I’ll be happy to go with you to see Dalamar, Sir Knight, but I can’t go tomorrow,” said the kender, snuffling and wiping his tear-grimed face with the sleeve of his shirt. “I have to speak at Caramon’s funeral.”