“Yes, all ours,” Tas replied proudly.
“I’m a thief,” the dragon said, mulling this over. “I pick locks and sneak into houses—”
“You’re the second-story man,” Tas explained. “You sneak into the windows on the second story.”
“I appear be rather large to do that,” the dragon countered.
“But that’s the very reason why! I’m too short to be the second-story man, so I’m the first-story man. I pick the locks on the front door. You’re tall, so you crawl in the windows. You’re ever so stealthy.”
“I am?” The dragon was skeptical. “Stealthy?”
“The most stealthy dragon in Krynn.”
The dragon appeared to think about this, but thinking evidently caused him pain, for he winced again. He glanced about at the dead knights. “So, what happened here? Looks like some sort of battle took place.”
“Oh, it was very exciting! We were down here in our cave, taking inventory, when we were rudely set upon by these knights and their wizard,” Tas said. “We fought valiantly, especially myself. Did I tell you I was a Hero of the Lance? Anyway, the wizard cast a spell on you that caused you to be suspended from the ceiling. I wrestled with him and managed to take away his staff, and I freed you and here we are. Now, as I was just on my way out, I can go fetch something for that headache of yours.”
Tas started to edge his way toward the exit once more.
“Wait!” The dragon shifted his paw, blocking Tas’s escape route. He peered intently at the corpses. “These knights have been dead a long time. So has the wizard. A long, long time.”
Tas looked at one of the corpses holding a sword in its bony hand and was forced to concede that the dragon had a point. The dragon’s eyes narrowed. Clearly, he was starting to grow suspicious.
“Undead!” exclaimed Tas, inspired. “Skeletal warriors. Led by a skeletal wizard. It was a desperate battle against the forces of the evil god of Undeath, Chemosh, but we were victorious.”
Tas mopped his brow with his shirt sleeve. All this thinking was starting to wear on him.
“You can see where you blasted the undead with your lightning breath,” Tas pointed out, indicating scorch marks on the floor and walls. “And here’s where you back-stabbed a knight. He never knew what hit him.”
“But what would undead want with treasure?” the dragon asked.
Tas was beginning to believe being eaten would be less trouble. “Look, George, I wasn’t going to tell you this. I didn’t want to worry you. But, the truth is, the undead were sent to assassinate us. We have a rival—Ragar the Ugly.”
Admittedly the name didn’t sound all that impressive, but Tas was fast running out of inspiration.
“Ragar sent these undead to finish us off.”
“Where is this Ragar the Ugly?” the dragon demanded grimly. “We should deal with him.”
“He’s back in his hideout—Castle Ugly. It’s a really long way from here and, frankly, you’re not up to it, George. Really, you’re not. I’m going to go out to get a soothing poultice for you to put on your head. Doesn’t that sound nice? Tomorrow we’ll deal with Ragar.”
“Soothing poultice,” the dragon reflected. “Yes, that does sound good. Something cooling.”
“You just lie down and rest a bit. Take it easy. There’s a city not far from here. I’ll just pop into the apothecary, borrow… er… steal a poultice, and be right back.”
“I think I will rest,” said the dragon and he brushed aside a skeleton or two to clear a space. “Don’t be gone long… Er, forgive me, friend, but what is your name?”
“Igor,” said Tasslehoff, another of his favorite names. “Igor the Merciless.” He was actually quite pleased by his new name.
“Don’t be gone long, Igor,” said the dragon, and he closed his eyes and winced as he gingerly laid his massive head down on the treasure pile.
Tas darted over to his lantern, picked it up, and glanced back at the dragon. The creature did truly have a very nasty swelling, about the size of a house, on its head. The dragon gave a groan and burrowed down more comfortably into the treasure.
Tas waited no longer. He dashed out of the chamber and into the corridor and never stopped until he was standing, puffing, by one of the signs that said HERE BE DRAGONS.
“A truer word was never spoken,” said Tasslehoff, and he gave the sign a pat.
Being a little weary from all that hard thinking, he decided that what he really needed was a good sleep in a good bed in a good inn. He made his way beneath the starlit sky—he guessed it must be about the middle of the night—and walked back to the town of Pigeon Falls.
As good fortune would have it, he came across a small gate in the wall that he’d missed the first time around. The gate led out to the path that went to the river. His lock pick tools were never far from hand and Tasslehoff had the small gate open in seconds.
He found an inn that looked nice, went around back, jimmied open a window and let himself in (so as not wake up the owner).
Once inside, he absent-mindedly pocketed several pieces of cutlery that were lying about on a table, rummaged around in a few drawers, went through the belongings of the slumbering guests, and slipped a few interesting items into his pouches. Then, yawning, he found a bed that wasn’t being used, tucked himself in, said his prayers, and closed his eyes.
“I’d make a really great thief,” Igor the Merciless reflected as he was drifting off. “It’s a good thing for society that I’m a hero.”
The next thing Tasslehoff knew, a noise as of a ton of bricks falling down, accompanied by a terrified scream, hoisted him right out of his bed. The tumbling bricks and the scream were followed by a lot more screams and, added to that, came shouts and bellowings, the ringing of bells and blowing of horns and beating of drums.
“It can’t be a parade,” said Tas groggily. “It’s the middle of the night.”
The inhabitants of the inn were running about in their night clothes, peering out the window and demanding to know what in the Abyss was going on.
“Dragon!” someone yelled from outside. Torch lights flared. “A blue dragon is attacking the city!”
“Oops,” said Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
Of course, it could be some other blue dragon who just happened to be wandering by, but he had the sinking feeling it wasn’t. One of the guests, a mercenary warrior, was raving that he couldn’t find his sword. It had been right on the floor beside him as he lay sleeping and now it was gone.
“Here it is,” said Tasslehoff, handing it over. “You dropped it.”
The warrior glared at him, snatched up his sword—never saying thank you—and raced out of the inn. The other guests decided to remain inside the inn, mostly crawling under the beds and heavy articles of furniture. The owner, dashing off to the wine cellar to make certain the dragon didn’t get into the best wine, caught a glimpse of Tas, skidded to a halt, and came dashing back.
“What is a filth of a kender doing in my inn?” the owner roared. “What is a filth of a kender doing in my city?”
Outside, Tasslehoff could hear the shouts and the screams and bellowings growing louder and, over that, the call to arms.
Tasslehoff drew himself up straight and tall. He fixed the inn’s owner with a steely eye. “I’m dealing with the dragon,” he said.
And he walked resolutely and courageously out into the street.
Sure enough, there was George. The dragon’s blue scales showed up quite well in the light of hundreds of torches. The dragon’s legs squashed flat one section of the town wall. His front claw thrust clear through a wall on the second floor of a large house, smashing woodwork and plaster and glass. His tail knocked over a guard tower, so that the tower hung at a precarious angle, with the guards jumping for their lives.