Raistlin eyed the kender coldly. “I am exhausted, and I would like to return to my bed, but I don’t suppose I will be able to get rid of you, will I?”
“I did fetch the hot water for you,” Tas reminded him. He suddenly looked worried. “My feather’s not here.”
Raistlin sighed deeply as he watched the kender continue to rummage through his pockets decorated with gold braiding “borrowed” from a ceremonial cloak the kender had come across somewhere. Not finding what he sought, Tas rummaged through the pockets of his loose-fitting trousers and then started in on his boots. Raistlin lacked the strength, or he would have thrown the kender out bodily.
“It’s this new jacket,” Tas complained. “I never know where to find things.” He had discarded the clothes he had been wearing for an entirely new set, collected over the past few weeks from the leavings and cast-offs of the refugees from Pax Tharkas in whose company they were now traveling.
The refugees had been slaves, forced to work in the iron mines for the Dragon Highlord Verminaard. The Highlord had been killed in an uprising led by Raistlin and his friends. They had freed the slaves and fled with them into the mountainous region south of the city of Pax Tharkas. Though it was hard to believe, this annoying kender, Tasslehoff Burrfoot, had been one of the heroes of that uprising. He and the elderly and befuddled wizard, who called himself by the grandiose name of Fizban the Fabulous, had inadvertently triggered a mechanism that sent hundreds of tons of boulders dropping down into a mountain pass, blocking the draconian army on the other side of the pass from entering Pax Tharkas to put down the uprising. Verminaard had died at the hands of Tanis and Sturm Brightblade. The magical sword of the legendary elven king, Kith-Kanan, and the hereditary sword of the Solamnic knight, Sturm Brightblade, pierced the Highlord’s armor and stabbed deep into the man’s body. Up above them, two red dragons fought and two red dragons died, their blood falling like horrible rain upon the terrified observers.
Tanis and the others had acted quickly to take charge of the chaotic situation. Some of the slaves had wanted to take out their revenge against the monstrous draconians who had been their masters. Knowing their only hope for survival lay in flight, Tanis, Sturm, and Elistan had persuaded the men and women that they had a god-given opportunity to escape, taking their families to safety.
Tanis had organized work parties. The women and children had gathered what supplies they could find. They loaded up wagons used to carry ore from the mines with food, blankets, tools—whatever they thought would be needed on their trek to freedom.
The dwarf, Flint Fireforge, had been born and raised in these mountains, and he led Plainsmen scouts, who had been among the slaves, on a expedition south to find a safe haven for the refugees. They had discovered a valley nestled between the Kharolis peaks. The tops of the mountains were already white with snow, but the valley far below was still lush and green, the leaves barely touched by the reds and golds of autumn. There was game in abundance. The valley was crisscrossed with clear streams, and the foothills were honey-combed with caves that could be used for dwellings, food storage, and refuge in case of attack.
In those early days, the refugees expected at any moment to be set upon by dragons, pursued by the foul dragon-men known as draconians, and they might well have been pursued, for the draconian army was quite capable of scaling the pass leading into the valley. It had been (astonishingly) Raistlin’s twin, Caramon, who had come up with the idea of blocking the pass by causing an avalanche.
It had been Raistlin’s magic—a devastating lightning spell he had learned from a night-blue spellbook he had acquired in the sunken city of Xak Tsaroth—that had produced the thunder clap that had shaken loose mounds of snow and sent heavy boulders cascading into the pass. More snow had fallen on top of that, fallen for days and nights, so that the pass was soon choked with it. No creature—not even the winged and claw-footed lizard-men—could now enter the valley. Days for the refugees had passed in peaceful tranquility, and the people relaxed. The red and gold leaves fell to the ground and turned brown. The memory of the dragons and the terror of their captivity receded. Safe, snug, and secure, the refugees talked about spending the winter here, planning to continue their journey south in the spring. They spoke of building permanent shelters. They talked of dismantling the wagons and using the wood for crude huts, or building dwellings out of rock and sod to keep them warm when the chill rain and snows of winter would eventually come to the valley.
Raistlin’s lip curled in a sneer of contempt.
“I’m going to bed,” he said.
“Found it!” cried Tasslehoff, remembering at the last moment that he’d stuck the feather in a safe place—his brown topknot of hair.
Tasslehoff plucked the feather from his topknot and held it out in the palm of his hand. He held it carefully, as if it were a precious jewel, and regarded it with awe.
Raistlin regarded the feather with disdain. “It’s a chicken feather,” he stated. He rose to his feet, gathered his long red robes around his wasted body, and returned to his straw pallet spread out on the dirt floor.
“Ah, I thought so,” said Tasslehoff, softly.
“Close the door on your way out,” Raistlin ordered. Lying down on the pallet, he wrapped himself in his blanket and closed his eyes. He was sinking into slumber when a hand, shaking his shoulder, brought him back awake.
“What?” Raistlin snapped.
“This is very important,” Tas said solemnly, bending over Raistlin and breathing garlic from dinner into the mage’s face. “Can chickens fly?”
Raistlin shut his eyes. Maybe this was a bad dream.
“I know they have wings,” Tas continued, “and I know roosters can flap to the top of the chicken coop so they can crow when the sun comes up, but what I’m wondering is if can chickens fly way up high, like eagles? Because, you see, this feather floated down from the sky and I looked up, but I didn’t see any passing chickens, and then I realized that I’d never seen chickens fly—”
“Get out!” Raistlin snarled, and he reached for the Staff of Magius that lay near his bed. “Or so help me I will—”
“—turn me into a hop toad and feed me to a snake. Yes, I know.” Tas sighed and stood up.
“About the chickens—”
Raistlin knew the kender would never leave him alone, not even with the threat of being turned into a toad, which Raistlin lacked the strength to do anyway.
“Chickens are not eagles. They cannot fly,” said Raistlin.
“Thank you!” said Tasslehoff joyously. “I knew it! Chickens aren’t eagles!” He flung aside the screen, leaving it wide open, and forgetting his lantern, which shone right in Raistlin’s eyes. Raistlin was just starting to drift off, when Tas’s shrill voice jolted him again to wakefulness.
“Caramon! There you are!” Tas shouted. “Guess what? Chickens aren’t eagles. They can’t fly! Raistlin said so. There’s hope, Caramon! Your brother is wrong. Not about the chickens, but about the hope. This feather is a sign! Fizban cast a magic spell he called featherfall to save us when we were falling off the chain and we were supposed to fall like feathers, but instead the only thing that fell were feathers—chicken feathers. The feathers saved me, though not Fizban.” Tas’s voice trailed off into a snuffle as he thought of his sadly deceased friend.
“Have you been pestering Raist?” Caramon demanded.
“No, I’ve been helping him!” Tas said proudly. “Raistlin was choking to death, like he does, you know. He was coughing up blood! I saved him. I ran to get the water that he uses to make that horrible smelling stuff he drinks. He’s better now, so you don’t have to fret. Hey, Caramon, don’t you want to hear about the chickens—”
Caramon didn’t. Raistlin heard his twin’s large boots clomp hastily over the ground, running toward the hut.