As well they might, or at least to exhaustion, unless Mennarling interfered. The troop leader slunk around the edge of the firelight with sword at the ready, angling to come to the aid of his cohort. Crouching, Thistleknot aimed himself in the Dark Knight commander’s direction and poised to take off at a good clip.
Something clamped over his ankle. Dropping face first, the kender then twisted to see what caught him. A hand belonging to one of the Dark Knights held him in an iron grip. The man’s grin looked spectral in the light from the burning tree.
“Saw what you intended,” the soldier rasped. “Can’t let you sneak up on my commander.” He lifted a short sword and maneuvered to his knees without letting go of his prisoner. Firelight glinted along his blade. “I confess I’m going to enjoy this.”
“HUMAN OFFAL.”
Something huge swept down from the trees and disappeared just as quickly, swatting the Dark Knight away from the kender as if the warrior were a pesky gnat. The man went flying one direction, his sword another. His scream trailed off.
“THAT TINY BEING IS MY DESSERT!”
Thistleknot didn’t wait to see what would happen next. Risking a glance over his shoulder, he jumped up and ran directly into something warm and unyielding. It grunted. Tangletoe looked up past leather scale armor into the cold eyes of Khedriss Mennarling.
“Just who I wanted to bump into,” the troop leader said, knotting his fingers over the back of Thistleknot’s leather vest. “Your timing is perfect. I-”
“CHILDREN SHOULD ESCHEW AMUSING THEMSELVES WITH SHARP OBJECTS. THIS DANCE NO LONGER DELIGHTS ME. I WILL MAKE AN END.”
Gunnar oofed out air as an arrow buried itself in his chest. He staggered backward until he collided with the death machine, sat down hard, and sighed out his last breath.
“My friend,” choked out Mennarling, before regaining his martial composure. “I will kill you first, kender, and then the trickster and I will finish this travesty of a battle.”
“I will finish this!”
The being that dropped out of the tree and landed lightly despite his enormous frame was as big as his voice. Completely awed, an unusual emotion for a kender, Thistleknot estimated the creature’s height at somewhere around ten feet, possibly more. Thick long brown and sorrel fur covered most of his body. Shorter hair highlighted his facial features, notably dark eyes that gleamed with intelligence. His domed head was topped with two upstanding rounded ears. He carried a huge longbow made from a thick tree branch, with tremendously long arrows riding in a quiver made from bull hide. A club hung opposite the quiver, both dangling from a thick leather belt, the only clothing he wore.
“The boojum!” Thistleknot whispered loudly, as the Dark Knight closest to him turned and ran into the forest without a word, vanishing in the night.
“LET US SEE IF THIS COUNTERFEIT CAN SKIRMISH WITH THE AUTHENTIC,” the monster said, hurting everyone’s ears with his thunderous laughter.
“But you’re putting up no weapon,” protested the Solamnic Knight, trying not to breathe hard and look particularly beleaguered in his unravelling hemp disguise. Mennarling, temporarily ignored and glad for the oversight, inched away from the monster.
“ ‘TIS YOU WHO NEEDS WEAPONS, NOT I.” The monster reached out a finger and tapped the Solamnic Knight’s outstretched sword. It wavered despite the young man’s best efforts to hold it firmly in place. “COME, MAKE YOUR PLAY.”
“Very well.” The Solamnic Knight showed granite determination, making him appear much older than his years as he settled into a fighting stance. “Ready.”
“I’ve got to help him!” Thistleknot muttered to himself. His feet scrabbled forward, as a hand on his leather vest yanked him back. “Ooooofffff!”
“You’ve got to help me.” Mennarling turned and dragged the kender toward the death machine, signaling to the remaining quartet of his squad with a wave of his sword. “This is our last chance to fulfill the mission. One exploding sphere remains-and if that doesn’t work, there’s always the kender.”
“But-” Thistleknot began, before choking cut him off.
“All right, start loading.”
Thistleknot was enlisted to help as the Knights righted the machine. Mennarling stood over him with threats. The kender was distracted, especially when he heard the Solamnic Knight’s sword crunch against something, followed by a heavy grunt. He managed to spill quite a bit of the fuel before one of the Knights noticed, shoved him away, and added more, tamping the whole mess down the machine’s maw.
Mennarling exhorted the Dark Knights. Because the wheels were broken, they were going to have to hold the cart up during firing. They swung the machine around and aimed at the Solamnic Knight and the real boojum, who were still skirmishing. Thistleknot didn’t much like being forced to crouch beneath the barrel, helping to hold the metal tube aloft. The Dark Knight standing opposite him looked equally skeptical.
“I’d almost rather be inside,” said the kender. “I can imagine what it feels like hurtling out of that thing-”
“Fire!” ordered Mennarling, touching flame to the hole in the top.
Thistleknot didn’t know when he took off running or what prompted him to do so. The kender only knew that by the time the death weapon had sucked down the flame, coughed, hesitated a moment, and then exploded, he was already in full flight.
He tripped over something and sprawled, feet flying, as shrapnel whizzed by. The weave beneath his elbows looked familiar. Thistleknot turned, looked, and choked.
The Solamnic Knight lay in a pool of blood, his face shadowed by bruises and peaceful in death. Strings of hemp were clotted around a gaping wound in his chest. One hand still clutched the hilt of his precious sword, its blade now badly nicked and broken in two.
Renders don’t cry as a rule, but Thistleknot Tangletoe thought his brave dead partner deserved some tears. He looked at the still-burning tree, hoping its brightness might help his eyes water, and squeezed them half-shut tightly. “We sure had great times,” he sniffed. His friend had been a rare man, strong and gentle, with a sly sense of humor equal to his own. Considering everyone else the kender had met throughout his life had demanded his maps, taken him for granted, beaten him up, or just plain tried to ignore him, Thistleknot gave the Solamnic Knight his highest rating:
“Having adventures with you was really, really fun.”
One teardrop dampened the corner of his right eye. He looked around, saw no sign of Mennarling (probably blown to bits) or the other Knights (ditto). No sign either of the real boojum, whom he would have liked to shred slowly. Shrugging, Thistleknot did one of the things kender are best at: He put sorrow behind him.
“There’s no way I can take even a piece of that death weapon back to the Solamnic enclave,” he mused, looking at the twisted metal. “It’s too bad. I’d like to, it would be the honorable thing to do and all that. But it’s all curled back on itself, like dying flower petals. I’d have to get another cart, and have someone help me hoist it on. That’d slow me down considerably. The Knight commander might just have to do with a description.
“Hey, that’s it! I can make a drawing-just like a map. I can present the Solamnics with a map of the death machine!” He turned back to the Knight’s body, coaxing forth another sorrowful sniff. “I promise you that I’ll finish our assignment and tell everybody a wonderful story of your death. Your Lord Dulth-what’s-’is-name will really honor your memory after I’m done.” He frowned, chewing on his lip. “Come to think of it, I’d better take something of yours back so they know I’m telling the truth.”
Thistleknot stepped over to where the Knight’s out-flung fist still gripped his weapon. Grasping the cross- piece, he pulled once, then again. Even in death, the young man wouldn’t (or couldn’t) abandon his grandfather’s legacy. His fingers remained firmly locked about the hilt.
“And he called me stubborn,” the kender muttered, yanking again. “Ulp!”
Something snatched him by the back of the vest. Thistleknot found himself confronting the grinning visage of the boojum. “Uh, hello,” he managed without too much tremble in his voice. “My name’s Thistleknot Tangletoe. What’s yours?”
“Told you I’d leave you for last,” laughed the boojum in a voice that was oddly normal. “Didn’t I, friend Knight?”
