Kender, Gully Dwarves And Gnomes

Combat was their only hope. We would see if his cowardice was so great that he would pull his family down with him, for they would have suffered if he had refused combat. Such weakness can only be inherited.'

Torbin sheathed his weapon, but did not otherwise move from his place. 'This? This is combat?'

'He could have run. We gave him days to prepare or flee. The choice was his.'

'That is no choice.'

The minotaur sighed once more. 'As I said, you would not understand our way of honor. It is not your fault. Forget it and return to your kind. The scales have been balanced; honor has been returned to his family.'

'He deserves burial.'

'His honor has been vindicated. His crimes can never be. It is forbidden to bury criminals on home soil.'

One of the other minotaurs came up behind the leader and whispered something. The leader thought for a moment and nodded. 'This one would speak to you alone. He is kin to the condemned.'

The leader returned to the boat. The newcomer sniffed in the direction of Torbin, apparently finding his odor offensive. He pointed at the body. 'I have been given permission to make a request of you.'

Puzzled, the knight allowed the minotaur to continue.

'Despite his weakness, I would have my kinsman buried with some sort of ceremony. He was good before the madness overtook him.'

Torbin mentally questioned who was actually mad. Aloud, he said, 'What do you want of me?'

'You seem to be a fr — companion or acquaintance. I ask if you will give him burial. I will compensate you for your time. I know how much humans value m — »

The knight cut him off, shocked by the insinuation. 'I will bury him. I want no money.'

The minotaur blinked in confusion, then nodded slowly. 'Thank you. I must return to the boat now.'

Torbin watched while the creatures pushed the boat back into the water. Only then did he realize that the minotaur who had asked for the burial of his kin had also been the final executioner. He wondered briefly if this were another part of minotaur custom.

The leader glanced at him briefly, but made no attempt to communicate. Torbin continued to watch the vessel as it began its journey home. He did not turn away until it was no more than a tiny speck on the horizon.

The knight chose a spot near the site of the lean-to yet well hidden from the prying eyes of the locals. It was a shallow grave; the ground was too loose on top and too hard about four feet down. In addition, he was forced to use make-shift tools left behind by his friend, the minotaur.

The prayers lasted until the sun set. Torbin, his body stiff, rose and wandered over to the lean-to. He picked up the small, crude blade with which the lone man-beast had created his handiwork. After studying it, he put it into one of his pouches.

His mount greeted him energetically, inaction and the scents of the minotaurs having caused him no end of frustration. Torbin soothed the animal and then slowly climbed on. He did not look back.*****

His reappearance in the village caused a great commotion, despite the lateness of the day. Villagers pressed around him, asking if the beast was dead. The mayor and his cronies located him some five minutes later while he was packing the rest of his gear onto his horse.

'Is it true? Have you dispatched the beast?' The mayor's breath smelled of fish and beer.

'The minotaur is dead.' Torbin continued to concentrate on packing his equipment.

The group let out a rousing cheer. The mayor declared the next day a holiday. A feast would take place, each villager bringing food or drink as a contribution. The victorious Knight of Solamnia would be the guest of honor. Various members of the town council began vying for spots at the main table. Others formed committees and subcommittees designed to coordinate the feast. A few talked of bringing the body back to the village. Eventually, most of the townspeople drifted off to plan the next day's events.

His own preparations complete, Torbin steadied his horse and then remounted and moved away at a trot. Villagers smiled or bowed in his direction as he rode;

others looked at him with puzzlement. The knight kept his eyes on the path before him.

At the edge of town, a breathless mayor caught up to him. 'Sir Knight! Where are you going? Will you not join us at our feast tomorrow? We wish to do you honor.'

Torbin pulled the reins tight, bringing the trained warhorse to a dead stop. He turned the animal around and matched gazes with the round man for a full half-mmute. The mayor shifted like a small child under his stare.

Then, as abruptly as he had stopped, Torbin turned his horse back around to the path and rode off at a trot.

He did not look back.

HEARTH CAT AND WINTER WREN

Nancy Varian Berberick

The golden tabby eyed the caged squirrel with sleepy interest. The squirrel panted miserably, not certain which was worse: the grim possibilities inherent in the cat's white teeth or the aching reality of his own imprisonment. The cage, he decided wretchedly.

The cage made his bones hurt and his heart race hard in frightening fits and starts. But when he saw the fire smouldering in the cat's almond-shaped, green eyes, the squirrel thought that it might not be such a bad thing that there were bars between them.

Tell me, squirrel, the cat murmured, When do you think he'll feed us again?

Oh, soon, soon, I'm sure! the squirrel chattered. Very soon. But I can't imagine you're still hungry. You ate two mice only a little while ago… The squirrel winced, then flicked his tail and scrubbed at his whiskers with his small white paws. He didn't like to think about the mice or their helpless scurrying. And he especially did not like to think about the cool and deadly look of the cat as he licked his lips with his rough pink tongue, or the pitiful crunch of little mousy bones.

And they had been small mice. The squirrel wondered whether the cage would hold if the tabby decided to knock it from the table.

Cat, he said, trying to be as friendly and amiable as he could through his fear, I think there might be another mouse around here somewhere. Just in case you're hungry, that is. In some place far back in his mind, he felt a little ashamed that he would so readily cast another luckless creature into the cat's jaws to save his own gray hide. But he ignored that. He was, after all, a squirrel. And what are mice to squirrels but cat food?

The tabby purred gently, the softness of the sound belied by the hard glitter of his eyes. He leaped gracefully to the table. Squirrel, he sighed. To the squirrel it sounded as though the cat might be remembering with fondness a meat he hadn't tasted in some time.

Oh, cat, oh, cat, why don't you nap a while in the sun? There's a lovely bit of sunshine there on the hearth. there haven't been too many warm days like this. I should think you'd want to take advantage of it. He'll be back to feed us both soon.

And, in truth, the squirrel was hungry. He could almost taste the sweet, chewy meat of a chestnut. Oh, for a nice pile of chestnuts now! Or even a few bitter acorns.

A soft paw tapped at the bars. Chattering and scolding, the squirrel made himself as small as he could and ducked into the farthest comer of his cage. He was caught between an instinctive need to be free of the confining cage and the understanding that only the bars kept the cat at bay. Frustrated, the squirrel flashed his tail once more.

The cat only purred again, the sigh of one who had decided it best to save a tasty snack for later. He dropped to the floor and went to preen in the golden splash of late afternoon sun. Now and then he looked up at the squirrel to yawn and grin.

The grin was deadly and dark and very confident.

Though the day had been warm, almost springlike, the weather, as it often did in late winter, had changed swiftly sometime just before night. Rain poured now from a dirty gray sky, pounded angrily against the snug roof and walls of Flint's house. The smell of the vallenwood's wet bark mingled comfortably with the scent of a cozy