Kendermore was alive with activity, too: guards lined the battlements, peering out across the grassy meadow and gripping bows and hoopaks in their hands. Shouting, laughter, and music rose from within the walls, mingling with the sounds of hammering, digging, and other work. Somewhere, a large bell was tolling the hour-glancing across the city’s mismatched skyline, Riverwind picked out the source of the sound: a building resembling an old Istarian church but painted a garish mix of violet and turquoise. It stood near the gatehouse, where the road the companions stood upon wound toward a pair of stout oaken doors. Smoke rose lazily from a multitude of chimneys, curling on the warm, dry wind. It carried the tempting scents of cooking food, making the companions’ mouths water.
Kronn’s face, which had set into a tense scowl as they walked, relaxed into a glad smile. He reached for his sister and grasped her arm. “We made it,” he said. “We’re home.”
Catt returned her brother’s smile, and both Brightdawn and Swiftraven breathed sighs of relief. Riverwind, however, looked upon Kendermore and frowned.
The old Plainsman’s brows knitted as he studied the town. “Something isn’t right,” he said quietly.
Everyone looked at him.
“Father?” Brightdawn inquired. “What is it?”
At first, Riverwind didn’t seem to have heard. He continued to stare at Kendermore, lost in thought. At length, he shook his head in frustration. “I don’t know,” he said, “but I don’t think we should go on.”
“What are you talking about?” Catt asked. She laughed, spreading her hands. “We’ve only got another mile to go.”
“She’s right, my chief,” Swiftraven agreed. “We’ve come so far. We can’t stop now, with our goal in sight.” As he spoke, however, he pulled his bow from his saddle and slid an arrow out of his quiver.
They stood at the edge of the dying forest for several long minutes. The companions stared at Riverwind, who stared at the city. The horses whickered, stamping the ground nervously.
“Father,” Brightdawn said finally, “we can’t stay here forever. Do we turn back or go on?”
Riverwind swore under his breath, cursing his inability to find a source for his misgivings. “We go on.”
They set out across the meadow, moving briskly but warily toward Kendermore. The golden grass whispered about their boots as they walked. Then, suddenly, when they had gone five hundred paces, Riverwind stopped again, his brow furrowing fiercely. After a moment, the others realized he wasn’t with them and glanced over their shoulders.
“Father?” Brightdawn asked. Seeing the disquiet on his face, her eyes were filled with worry.
“Come on, Riverwind,” Kronn urged.
Suddenly, the old Plainsman stiffened, sucking ma sharp breath. “By the gods,” he swore. “The gates…”
“What?” Brightdawn asked.
“Closed!” Riverwind shouted. “The gates are closed!”
Everyone looked down the trail. Sure enough, Kendermore’s tall, wooden gates were tightly shut. No guardsmen stood outside. No one rode out to meet them. When the figures atop the battlements saw them at last, they began to wave their arms and shout.
Brightdawn glanced at Kronn and Catt. “What’s going on?” she demanded, her voice brittle with tension. “What are they saying?”
“Shhh!” Kronn interrupted, holding up a warning hand. His eyes pinched shut, his face creasing with concentration. The kender’s eyes flew open. “They’re telling us to go back,” he hissed, the words coming out in a rush.
“Father?” Brightdawn cried, looking back toward Riverwind. “What do we-” Then her breath caught in her throat, and she could only gape in shock.
“Brightdawn?” Swiftraven asked as the others turned to follow her horrified gaze. “What’s the-merciful goddess!”
They came out of the woods behind Riverwind, boiling across the meadow toward the companions-hundreds of ogres, running at full speed and howling with battle rage. Swords and axes, spears and clubs waved in the air as the war band charged toward the companions, a great wave of iron, muscle, and hate.
The sight of the onrushing horde paralyzed the companions, momentarily stunning them into inaction. All they could do was stand still, mouths agape, as their doom bore down upon them.
Then Riverwind was moving, running to his horse’s side. “Go!” he roared, planting a foot in the stirrup and hoisting himself up. The horse was already galloping toward Kendermore as he swung onto its back. “Ride, damn it! Ride!”
The sound of his frantic voice woke the others from their trance. They dashed for their mounts, vaulting into their saddles and spurring the beasts on, away from the thundering mass of ogres. Swiftraven twisted about, firing an arrow back at the monsters. It dropped uselessly into their midst, a raindrop in an angry sea. He turned back around, not even bothering to mark where it fell. “Head for the gates!” he cried. “We can beat them there yet!”
“No!” Riverwind bellowed in return. “The kender would never get the gates open fast enough to let us in-and they’d never get them closed again in time.”
“Well, we can’t go back!” Brightdawn shouted. “What do we do?”
“Go right!” Riverwind shouted at last. “Around the city! We’ll try and escape to the north!”
They turned away from the unyielding gates, the ogres running behind, cuffing narrow swaths through the grass of the meadow. The tall curtain wall streaked by on their left, little more than a gray blur. Atop the battlements, the town’s guards continued to yell, but the rushing of the wind in the riders’ ears made it impossible to hear what they were saying. As the ogres approached, the kender on the wall stopped yelling and started to rain arrows and stones down upon them. The war band’s front ranks fell, pierced and crushed by the bombardment; the next rank, however, was not so blinded by bloodlust. They made a wider circuit around Kendermore, outside the range of the kender’s weapons. This bought time for the riders, letting them put more ground between them and their pursuers.
After long minutes of hard riding, the companions cleared the far side of Kendermore and broke out across the open meadow toward the welcoming green line of the northern Kenderwood.
Then more ogres swarmed out of that green line, lumbering straight toward the riders. “No!” Brightdawn cried, her voice raw with despair. She leaned over, little Billee Juniper clinging to her neck, and called out to her father. “What now?”
Riverwind, who had been asking himself that very question, glanced back at the horde some distance behind them, then forward at the onrushing numbers that barred their way. “We go through!” he answered, his sabre ringing in challenge as he drew it from its scabbard.
“Through?” Swiftraven repeated, astonished. “Are you sure, my chief?”
“Do you see a choice?” Riverwind shot back angrily. He flipped his reins, digging his heels into his horse’s flanks. The animal tossed its head, galloping even faster toward the oncoming horde. “Would you rather go back?”
There was no further argument. As one, the riders guided their mounts straight toward their onrushing foes. Swiftraven drew his sword, and together he and Riverwind brandished their blades in the air. Kronn raised his chapak, and Brightdawn her mace. Unable to wield her hoopak from astride her pony, Catt drew a long dagger from her belt and held it ready.
The distance to the ogres dwindled with astonishing speed as the horses’ pounding hooves devoured the land. Seeing that their quarry didn’t mean to turn aside, the ogres raised their weapons. The companions gritted their teeth and spurred their mounts. The terrified horses ran on, flecks of lather flying from their bodies. As the last yards of open ground disappeared between the companions and their foes, Swiftraven raised his voice in a loud, ululating Que-Teh war cry. Riverwind echoed the young warrior’s shout, and Brightdawn and the kender hollered as the riders struck the horde.