The War of the Lance

CHAPTER SEVEN

Well, at that moment, a whole lot of things happened at once. I'll try to keep them straight for you, but it was all pretty confusing and I may put some things not in quite the right order.

Owen Glendower stared at me and said, "What?"

Fizban glared at me and snapped, "You fool kender! Keep your mouth shut!"

The draconian probably would have stared at me if it could have seen me through the wall of snow and it said, "I heard that!"

The dragon shifted its big body around (we could hear it scraping against the walls) and said, "So did I! And I smell warm blood! Spies! You, draco! Go warn the others! I'll deal with these!"

Wham!

That was the dragon's head, butting the ice wall that separated us. (Apparently, the wall was much thicker and stronger than I'd first supposed. For which we were all grateful.) The mountain shook and more snow fell down on top of us. The hole at the top grew larger — not that this was much help at the moment, since we couldn't get up there.

Owen Glendower was holding the dragonlance and staring at me. "What do you mean — the lances don't work!"

I looked helplessly at Fizban, who scowled at me so fiercely that I was afraid his eyebrows would slide right off his face and down his nose.

Wham!

That was the dragon's head again.

"I have to tell him, Fizban!" I wailed. And I spoke as quickly as I could because I could see that I wasn't going to have time to go into a lot of detail. "We overheard Theros Ironfeld say to Flint that the lances aren't special or magical or anything — they're plain ordinary steel and when Theros threw one against the wall it broke — I saw it!"

I stopped to suck in a big breath, having used up the one I'd taken to get all that out.

And then I used the next breath to shout, "Fizban! There's your hat!"

The dragon's head-whamming had knocked over a snow bank and there lay Fizban's hat, looking sort of dirty and crumpled and nibbled on and not at all magical. I made a dive for it, brought it up and waved it at him.

"Here it is! Now we can escape! C'mon, Owen!" And I tugged on the knight's arm.

Wham! Wham! That was the dragon's head twice.

Owen looked from the shaking wall (We could hear the dragon shrieking "Spies!" on the other side.) to me, to the lance, to Fizban.

"What do you know about this, Wizard?" he asked, and he was pale and breathing kind of funny.

"Maybe the lance is ordinary. Maybe it is blessed. Maybe it is flawed. Maybe you are the one with the flaw!" Fizban jabbed a finger at Owen.

The knight flushed deeply, and put his hand to his shaven moustaches.

Wham! A crack shivered up the wall and part of a huge dragon snout that was white as bleached bone shoved through the crack. But the dragon couldn't get its whole mouth through and so it left off and started butting the ice again. (That ice was much, much stronger than I'd first thought. Very odd.)

Owen stood holding the dragonlance and staring at it, hard, as if he was trying to find cracks in it. Well, I could have told him there wouldn't be any, because Theros was a master blacksmith, even if he was working with ordinary steel, but there wasn't time. I shoved Fizban's hat into the wizard's hand.

"Quick!" I cried. "Let's go! C'mon, Owen! Please!"

"Well, Sir Knight?" said Fizban, taking his hat. "Are you coming with us?"

Owen dropped the dragonlance. He drew his sword. "You go," he said. "Take the kender. I will stay."

"You, ninny!" Fizban snorted. "You can't fight a dragon with a sword!"

"Run, Wizard!" Owen snarled. "Leave while you still can!" He looked at me and his eyes shimmered. "You have the painting," he said softly. "Take it to them. Tell them — "

Well, I never found out what I was supposed to tell them because at that moment the dragon's head punched right smack through the ice wall.

The cave we were trapped in was smallish compared to the dragon, and the wyrm could only get its head inside. Its chin scraped along the floor and its snaky eyes glared at us horribly. It was so huge and awful and wonderful that I'm afraid I forgot all about its not being conducive to long life and mine would have ended then and there except Fizban grabbed hold of me by the collar and dragged me against the far wall.

Owen staggered backward, sword in hand, leaving the dragonlances in the snow. I could tell that the knight was fairly well floored at the immensity and sheer terribleness of the dragon. It must have been obvious to him right then that what Fizban said was right. You can't fight a dragon with a sword.

"Work some magic, Wizard!" Owen shouted. "Distract it!"

"Distract it! Right!" Fizban muttered and, with a great deal of courage, I thought, the old wizard leaned out from around me (I was in front of him again) and waved his hat in the dragon's general direction.

"Shoo!" he said.

I don't know if you're aware of this or not, but dragons don't shoo. In fact, being shooed seems to have an irritating effect on them. This one's eyes blazed until the snow started melting around my shoes. It began to suck in a deep, deep, deep breath and I knew that when it let that breath out we'd all be permanently frozen statues down here beneath the mountain forever and ever.

The wind whistled and snow whirled around us from the dragon's sucking up all the air. And then, suddenly, the dragon went "Ulp!" and got an extremely startled and amazed look in it eyes.

It had sucked up Fizban's hat.

Fizban had been waving his hat at the dragon, you see, and when the dragon started sucking up air it sucked the hat right out of Fizban's hand. The hat whipped through the air and in between the dragon's fangs and the "Ulp!" was the hat getting stuck in the dragon's throat.

"My hat!" wailed Fizban, and he swelled up until I thought he was going to burst.

The dragon was tossing its head around, choking and wheezing and coughing and trying to dislodge the hat. Owen dashed forward, not bothering to take the time to give the knight's salute to an enemy, which I thought was sensible of him, and stuck his sword (or tried to stick it) in the dragon's throat.

The sword's blade shivered and then shattered. The dragon lashed out at Owen, but it couldn't do much except try to thump him on the head since it was still trying to breathe around the hat. Owen stumbled away and slipped and fell in the snow. His hand landed on the dragonlance.

It was the only weapon we had except for my hoopak, and I would have offered him the hoopak at the time only I forgot I had it. This was all so thrilling.

"Save my hat!" Fizban was shrieking and hopping up and down. "Save my hat!"

Phuey!

The dragon spit out the hat. It flew across the cave and hit Fizban in the face and flattened him but good. Owen leapt to his feet. He was shaking all over, his armor rattled, but he lifted the dragonlance and threw with all his might.

The dragonlance struck the dragon's scaly hide and broke into about a million pieces.

The dragon was sucking in its breath again. Owen slumped. He looked all defeated and hurting. He knew he was going to die, but I could tell that didn't matter to him. It was the thought that his wife and little boy and maybe all those villagers too were going to die that was like a spear in his heart.

And then it seemed to me that I heard a voice. It was Flint's voice, and it sounded so close that I looked all around, more than half-expecting to see him come dashing at me, all red in the face and bellowing.

"You doorknob of a kender 1 Didn't you hear anything I said? Tell him what I told Theros!"

I tried to remember it and then I did remember it and I began to babble, "When you throw the lance, it will be the strength of your faith and the power of your arm and the vision of your eye that will guide the lances into the evil dragon's dark heart. That's what Flint said, sort of, Owen, except I changed it a little. Maybe I was wrong!" I shouted. "Try the other lance!"

I don't know whether he heard me or not. The dragon was making a lot of noise and snow was falling and swirling around us. Either Owen did hear me and took my advice (and Flint's) or else he could see as plain as the hat on Fizban's face that the lance was our last and only hope. He picked it up and this time he didn't throw it. This time he ran with it, straight at the dragon, and with all his strength and might and muscle he drove the lance right into the dragon's throat.

Blood spurted out, staining the white snow red. The dragon gave a horrible yell and flung its head from side to side, screaming in pain and fury. Owen hung onto the lance, stabbing it deeper and deeper into the dragon. The lance didn't break, but held straight and true.

Blood was all over the place and all over Owen and the dragon's shrieks were deafening. Then it made a terrible kind of gurgling sound. The head sank down onto the bloody snow, shuddered, and lay still.

None of us moved — Fizban because he was unconscious and Owen because he'd been battered about quite a bit by the dragon's thrashing, and me because I just didn't feel quite like moving at the time. The dragon didn't move, either, and it was then I realized it was dead.

Owen crouched on his hands and knees, breathing heavily and wiping blood out of his face and eyes. Fizban was stirring and groaning and mumbling something about his hat, so I knew he was all right. I hurried over to help Owen.

"Are you hurt?" I cried anxiously.

"No," he managed and, leaning on me, he staggered to his feet. He took a stumbling step backward, like he didn't mean to, and then caught himself, and stood gasping and staring at the dragon.

Fizban woke up and peered around dazedly. When he saw the dragon's nose lying about a foot from him, he let out a cry, jumped to his feet in a panic, and tried to climb backward through a solid wall.

"Fizban," I told him. "The dragon's dead."

Fizban stared at it hard, eyes narrowed. Then, when it didn't move and its eyes didn't blink, he walked over and kicked it on the snout.

"So there!" he said.

Owen could walk some better now, without using me for a crutch. Going over to the dragon, he took hold of the dragonlance and jerked it out of the dragon's hide. That took some doing. The lance had bit deep and he'd buried it almost to the hilt. He wiped the lance in the snow, and we could all see that the tip was sharp and finely honed as ever, not a notch or crack anywhere. Owen looked from the good dragonlance to the broken dragonlance, lying in pieces underneath the dragon's chin.

"One broke and one did what no ordinary lance could do. What is the truth?" Owen looked all puzzled and confused.

"That you killed the dragon," said Fizban.

Owen looked back at the lances and shook his head. "But I don't understand…"

"And whoever said you would. Or were entitled to!" Fizban snorted. He picked up his hat and sighed. The hat didn't even look like a hat anymore. It was all scrunched and mushed and slimy.

"Dragon slobber," he said sadly. "And who'll pay for the dry cleaning?" He glared round at us.

I would have offered to pay for it, whatever it was, except I never seem to have much money. Besides neither Owen nor I were paying attention to Fizban right then. Owen was polishing up the good dragonlance and when he was done with that, he gathered up the pieces of the flawed dragonlance and studied them real carefully. Then he shook his head again and did something that didn't make much sense to me. He very reverently and gently put the pieces of the broken dragonlance all in a heap together, and then wrapped them up in a bundle and tied it with a bit of leather that I found for him in one of my pouches.

I gathered together all my stuff, that had gotten sort of spread out during the running and jumping and hat-waving and dragon-fighting. By that time Owen was ready to go and I was ready to go and Fizban was ready to go and it was then I realized we were all still stuck down in the cave.

"Oh, bother," muttered Fizban, and walking over to the back part of the cave, he kicked at it a couple times with his foot, and the wall tumbled right down.

We were staring out into bright sunshine and blue sky and when we quit blinking we saw that what we'd thought was a wall wasn't. It had only been a snow bank, and I guess we could have walked out anytime at all if only we'd known it was there.

Well, Owen gave Fizban a really odd look.

Fizban didn't see it. He stuck his maltreated hat in a pocket of his robes, picked up his staff, which had been lying in the snow waiting for him, I guess, and walked out into the sun. Owen and I followed; Owen carrying the dragonlances and me carrying my most precious possessions.

"Now," said Fizban, "the kender and I have to travel to Lord Gunthar's, and you, Owen Glendower, have to return to your village and prepare to face the draconian raiding party. No, no, don't mind us. I'm a great and powerful wizard, you know. I'll just magic us to Lord Gunthar's. You haven't got much time. The draconian ran off to alert its troops. They'll move swiftly now. If you go back into the dragon's lair, you'll find that the cave extends all the way through to the other side of the mountain. Cut your distance in half and it will be safe traveling, now that the dragon's dead.

"No, no, we'll be fine on our own. I know where Lord Gunthar's house is. Known all along. We make a left at the pass instead of a right," he said.

I was about to say that's what I'd said all along, only Owen was obviously real anxious to get on his way.

He said good-bye and shook hands with me very formally and politely. And I gave him back the painting and told him — rather sternly — that if he thought so much of it he should take better care of it. And he smiled and promised he would. And then he shook hands with Fizban, all the time looking at him in that odd way.

"May your moustaches grow long," said Fizban, clapping Owen on both shoulders. "And don't worry about my hat. Though, of course, it will never be the same." He heaved a sad sigh.

Owen stood back and gave us both the knight's salute. I would have given it back, only a snuffle took hold of me right then, and I was looking for a handkerchief. When I found it (in Fizban's pouch) Owen was gone. The snuffle got bigger and it probably would have turned into a sob if Fizban hadn't taken hold of me and given me a restorative shake. Then he raised a finger in the air.

"Tasslehoff Burrfoot," he said, and he looked very solemn and wizardly and so I paid strict attention, which I must admit sometimes I don't when he's talking, "you must promise me that you will never, ever, ever, tell anyone else about the dragonlances."

"What about them?" I asked, interested.

His eyebrows nearly flew up off his head and into the sky, which is probably where my eyebrows were at the moment.

"You mean… um… about them not working?" I suggested.

"They work!" he roared.

"Yes, of course," I said hurriedly. I knew why he was yelling. He was upset about his hat. "What about Theros? What if he says something? He's a very honest person."

"That is Theros's decision," said Fizban. "He'll take the lances to the Council of Whitestone and we'll see what he does when he gets there."

Well, of course, when Theros got to the Council of Whitestone, which — in case you've forgotten — was a big meeting of the Knights of Solamnia and the elves and some other people that I can't remember. And they were all ready to kill each other, when they should have been ready to kill the evil dragons, and I was only trying to prove a point when I broke the dragon orb (That's ORB not HERB!) and I guess they would have all been ready to kill me, except Theros came with the dragonlances and he threw a lance at the Whitestone and shattered it — the stone, not the lance — so I guess he had decided the lances worked, after all.

Fizban took his slobbered-on hat out of his pocket and perched it gingerly on his head. He began to hum and wave his hands in the air so I knew a spell was coming on. I covered my face and took hold of his sleeve.

"And what about Owen?" I asked. "What if he tells the other knights about the lances?"

"Don't interrupt me. Very difficult, this spell," he muttered.

I kept quiet or at least I meant to keep quiet, but the words came out before I could stop them, in the same sort of way a hiccup comes out, whether you want it to or not.

"Owen Glendower's a knight," I said, "and you know how knights are about telling the truth all the time. He's bound by whatever it is that knights are bound by to tell the other knights about the lances, isn't he?"

"If he does, he does. It's his decision," said Fizban. And he was suddenly holding a flapping black bat in his hand. "Wing of bat!" he shouted at nobody that I could see. "Not the whole damn…" Muttering, he let the bat loose, glared at me, and sighed. "Now I'll have to start over."

"It doesn't seem to me very fair," I commented, watching the bat fly into the cave. "If it's Theros's decision to tell or not to tell and Owen's decision — then it should be my decision, too. I mean whether or not to say anything about the lances. Working," I added.

Fizban stopped his spell casting and stared at me. Then his eyebrows smoothed out. "By gosh. I believe you've caught on at last. You are absolutely right, Tasslehoff Burr-foot. The decision will be yours. What do you say?"

Well, I thought and I thought and I thought.

"Maybe the lances aren't magical," I said, after thinking so hard that my hair hurt. "Maybe the magic's inside us. But, if that's true, then some people might not have found the magic inside themselves yet, so if they use the lances and think that the magic is outside themselves and inside the lances, then the magic that isn't inside the lances will really be inside them. And after a while they'll come to understand — just like Owen did, though he doesn't — and they'll look for the magic inside and not for the magic outside."

Fizban had the sort of expression that you get on your face when you're sitting in a rope swing and someone winds the rope up real tight, then lets it loose and you spin round and round and throw up, if you're lucky.

"I think I better sit down," he said, and he sat down in the snow.

I sat down in the snow and we talked some more and eventually he knew what I was trying to say. Which was that I would never, ever, ever say anything to anybody about the dragonlances not working. And, just to make certain that the words didn't accidentally slip out, like a hiccup, I swore the most solemn and reverent oath a kender can take.

I swore on my topknot.

And I want to say right here and now, for Astinus and history, that I kept my oath.

I just wouldn't be me without a topknot.