“Caramon went over by the doorway and waited. When the goblins came in, he grabbed them from behind, and-” he clapped his hands, the sudden sound making the card players jump “-he cracked their heads together. They were dead before they knew what hit them.”
The others laughed at this, but Riverwind raised a hand, silencing them. “That’s not the best part,” he said, smiling. “When Tanis asked what had happened, Caramon just sighed and said ‘I think I hit ‘em too hard.’ ”
The card players laughed uproariously. Riverwind’s daughters joined in, and even Tika-who had heard this tale more than any of them-chuckled at her husband’s expense. Sighing, Caramon shook his head and rose.
“Who’s for another?” he asked.
Everyone, Riverwind included, raised their tankards in the air.
Caramon walked to the keg, listening to Riverwind describe how they had deliberately smashed up Tika’s house after killing the goblins-and Tika’s half-joking declaration that they could have been less thorough about it. As he poured a new round of drinks for his friends, the door swung open. He glanced up, raising his eyebrows in surprise when he saw who walked in.
It was the pair of kender he had seen outside the Last Heroes Tomb. The female looked to be the older of the pair, as she had more wrinkles on her otherwise girlish face, but it was the male who led the way into the tavern. They were both brightly attired-she in a red blouse and white trousers, he in hunting greens and a vivid yellow sash. The woman held a hoopak in her hands, and the man had something that looked like a dubious mixture of axe and slingshot slung across his back. They both wore their hair-hers was lustrous black, his chestnut brown-in the same style: long ponytails hanging down their backs, and short, tight braids dangling at their cheeks. Caramon had a vague recollection of Tasslehoff saying once that the strange hairstyle was a sign of noble blood among the kender. Flint had had a thing or two to say about using “noble” and “kender” in the same sentence.
The laughter by the fireside faded as Riverwind and his audience watched them walk in, striding straight up to the bar.
“Caramon Majere?” asked the male.
Caramon blinked, taken aback. “Uh,” he said, “yes?” “I’m Kronn-alin Thistleknot, son of Kronin Thistleknot,” the male stated. He nodded sideways, at his companion. “This is my sister Catt. We need you to come with us to Kendermore.”
Chapter 4
It grew very quiet in the Inn of the Last Home. Everyone stared at the kender. Kronn and Catt stared back.
“Kendermore?” Riverwind asked.
Kronn nodded earnestly.
“Kendermore?” echoed Caramon, incredulous.
Catt leaned over the bar, her brow furrowing. “I don’t mean to intrude,” she said, “but is there a reason you’re pouring beer all over the floor?”
Caramon started, glancing down at his feet. He’d forgotten, in his distraction, to close the spigot on the keg, and nut-brown ale was gurgling out, forming a pool around his boots. Tika snorted in disgust as he fumbled to close the tap. In the moment he was turned away from the bar, Kronn grabbed one of the full tankards.
“Wait!” Caramon said. “That’s for-”
Kronn downed half the tankard’s contents in one deep draught. “Good stuff,” he remarked, wiping foam from his lips. “Plenty of hops-I like that. Brew it yourself?”
“Thanks. Yes. I-” Caramon shook his head vigorously. “Kendermore?”
Catt turned to her brother. “Why does he keep saying that?”
Tika strolled over, her hands on her hips. “Now see here,” she said. “Kendermore’s clear on the other side of Ansalon.”
A smile lit Kronn’s face as he came near. “You must be Tika,” he said.
Caramon looked around quickly, making sure there were no heavy, blunt objects his wife could reach.
“And you must be going,” Tika snapped back testily, “unless you have a damned good reason why my husband should cross an entire continent at his age.”
“Oh, there’s a good reason,” Kronn declared. “We need him to help us drive off an army of ogres.”
“An army of-” Tika repeated, her eyes widening.
“Plus there’s the dragon,” Catt added.
“Dragon?” Tika echoed.
“Her name’s Malystryx,” Kronn said, his face grave. “She’s been causing all sorts of problems, but she didn’t bother us, so we let her be. Then, last month-” He shut his eyes, his face pinched with pain. “She destroyed a village-Woodsedge was its name. Burned it to the ground. And she… she killed our father.”
“Kronin?” Caramon asked, his face ashen. “Kronin Thistleknot’s dead?”
Kronn nodded, then bowed his head, his cheek braids drooping. Catt stepped forward to continue the story. “Our sister, Paxina-she’s been in charge of Kendermore for about ten years now-sent us here,” she said. “We brought one of Father’s shoes to put in the Tomb of Last Heroes. I hope you don’t mind. And since we were going to be in Solace anyway, Pax asked us to bring back someone who knew a thing or two about dragon-slaying.” She looked up at Caramon, beaming. “Naturally, we thought of you.”
Caramon and Tika exchanged glances.
“I’m sorry,” the big man said, turning back to the kender. “I think there’s been a mistake. I don’t know anything about slaying dragons. I’ve never even fought one, not really.”
Kronn’s brows knitted. “But that’s not what the legends say.”
“Which legend is that?” Tika asked acidly. “The one where Tanis shot the green dragon out of the sky with his bow, and Caramon cut off its head when it hit the ground? Or the one where the two of them killed and skinned a blue and snuck into Neraka wearing its hide?”
Caramon chuckled. Kronn, however, was serious. “Both of them,” he said. “I always wondered, how did you think of that thing with the skin? That’s pretty smart. How’d you keep the other dragons from smelling you, though?”
“They didn’t-that is, we didn’t… oh, blast.” Caramon put a hand to his forehead. “Look, there are all sorts of stories about us. Bards started making them up before the War of the Lance was even over, and they’ve had another thirty years to practice. If they were all true, Tanis and I would have killed fifty dragons by ourselves.”
“Not to mention the story about Sturm and Kitiara sailing to the moon,” Tika added. “Or all the tales about them fighting dragons and draconians years before the War started.”
“We even had one idiot come in last year claiming Raistlin once had passed as a woman in disguise!” called Clemen. “The big guy showed him the quick way down from this tree.”
“Anyway, I’m afraid the stories you’ve heard are like those,” Caramon finished sympathetically. “The truth is, I’ve never killed a dragon in my life. And I’m no youngster, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
Kronn’s face fell. “You sure look big and strong to me.”
Tika stepped up to the kender, glaring. “Get this straight, Mr. Thistlebulb,” she snapped.
“Thistleknot.”
“Whatever. My husband has done a lot of boneheaded things in his life, but dragon-slaying isn’t one of them-to say nothing of thwarting ogre armies. And there’s no way I’m going to let him start up again. Listen to him.” She waved her hand at Caramon. “He’s not the man he used be, you know. He’s old, fat, and slow-and he never was very bright. I doubt he could even kill a hobgoblin these days.”
“Thanks, Tika,” Caramon muttered.
“Oh dear,” Kronn said resignedly. He glanced at Catt, who shared his crestfallen expression. “But we’ve got to bring some hero to help us.”
“I will go.”
Astonished eyes turned toward the stool beside the fire. Riverwind rose from his seat and came forward, leaving Clemen, Borlos, and Osler to gape, wide-eyed, at his back. “I will go with you,” he said to the kender.
“Father!” Moonsong exclaimed as she and Brightdawn hurried after him.
Caramon stared at the Plainsman, shocked. “You’re not serious.”
“I will go with them,” Riverwind repeated.
“You can’t defeat a dragon all by yourself, Father,” Brightdawn argued. “It’s impossible!”