“So, every year on Harrowing, all the boys in a village get together and go goatsucker hunting.”
Catt rolled her eyes. “Goatsucker hunting? Goatsuckers are just a Trapspringer tale.”
“This from someone who’s seen it rain boats,” Kronn countered. “I know that goatsuckers don’t exist. But all kender boys go out, sounding the goatsucker call, and after a while the adults head into the woods and chase them, like we just did. It’s good fun,” he added, pushing away from the tree. “Besides, if there’s that many children around, we must be close to Woodsedge. But we shouldn’t stay here long.”
Catt raised her eyebrows. “Why not?”
“Well, usually during goatsucker hunting, the kids try to get back at the grownups for chasing them,” Kronn said. “When they stop to rest, the kids sneak back up on them and-”
Suddenly, a small, brown object flew out of the bushes, hitting a tree just above Catt’s head with a wet crack. Something slippery dripped into her long, black hair.
“-throw eggs,” Kronn finished, then turned and bolted through the forest, whooping with laughter.
Catt’s shoes squished noisily as she and Kronn trudged along the path through the outermost fringe of the Kenderwood. She picked bits of eggshell, sticky with albumen, off her favorite yellow blouse. The shirt was ruined, as were her nice red breeches, and there seemed to be more egg in her hair than there was hair. Her lip curled in disgust as she flicked the shell away.
“I notice they left you alone,” she said grumpily, glaring at her brother.
Kronn winked at her. His bright green tunic and leggings were completely unbesmirched. “What twelve-year- old boy would chuck an egg at me when there was a girl handy?”
“Hmph,” Catt grumbled. She reached into her blouse and plucked out a yolk that had slithered down her neck during the bombardment. Without hesitating, she lobbed it at her brother.
He ducked nimbly aside. “Watch it there, Catt. They probably have some ammunition left.” He nodded ahead, where the boys they’d chased were skipping and jostling along the trail.
At last, they reached the tree line. The path led away from the forest, toward a small town perched on a clifftop overlooking the sea. Like most kender villages, Woodsedge was a mismatched jumble of buildings and towers. Surrounding it was a wooden palisade, hung with garlands of willow branches and white wildflowers for the festival. Ahead of Kronn and Catt, the children broke into a run, yelling and whirling their small hoopaks as they sprinted toward the gates. The guardsmen had to jump aside to avoid being run down.
“Hey, Giffel!” called Kronn, waving to the guards’ leader.
The guard, a tall kender with a head of short-cropped, bright yellow hair, squinted down, then smiled broadly.
Kronn ran forward, his arms flung wide, and he and the guard caught each other in a rough embrace that quickly turned into a wrestling match. Before long, Kronn found himself sprawled in the dust, Giffel’s body parked on top of him. “Ow,” he grunted. “Get off, you ox. Is this any way to treat an old friend?”
“It is if he just took your purse,” Giffel said, pushing himself to his feet. He held out his hand. “Give it over, Kronn.”
Sheepishly, Kronn handed the guard his money pouch, which he’d purloined when they’d hugged. “Can I have mine back, too?” he asked.
Giffel chuckled. He had, in turn, lifted Kronn’s purse while they wrestled. He tossed it back.
“Giffel,” Kronn said, rising fluidly from the ground. “You remember Catt, don’t you?”
“Your sister,” Giffel replied, grinning. “Of course. It, uh, looks like you found the goatsucker hunters.”
Beneath the dripping bits of egg, Catt glared a fierce shade of red. Kronn chuckled.
“You here for the festival doings?” Giffel asked.
Kronn shook his head, his cheek braids flapping. “Not as such. We’re looking for our father. Is he around?” He waved toward the town’s open gates.
Giffel folded his arms across his chest. “I’m not supposed to say,” he answered. “Kronin gave specific instructions not to let anyone know he was in Woodsedge.”
“How specific?” asked Catt.
“Well, he certainly isn’t at the hoopak-slinging contest.” Laughing, Kronn clapped Giffel on the arm. “Good fellow,” he said. “I’m glad to see my father picked the right man to be candid with.”
“Go on in,” Giffel bade.
“Thanks, Giff,” Kronn said. He and Catt started to through the gates, but he stopped and glanced back. “Will you be at the feast tonight?”
“Of course,” Giffel replied, and slapped his belly. “Do you think I’d miss a free meal?”
“I suppose not,” Kronn said. “I’ll make sure Catt saves a dance for you.”
Catt punched her brother in the arm. But as Kronn walked on, both Giffel and Catt turned quite interesting colors.
The kender, as a people, have surprisingly few heroes. It isn’t that they are a cowardly race, of course. On the contrary, fear is alien to them. If he has good reason, a kender will practically march into Dargaard Keep, walk up to Lord Soth, and poke him in the eye without balking. It is, ironically, for this reason that they don’t revere many of their own. What might seem a feat of reckless bravery to a human, a kender regards as no big deal. “I could have done that, if I wanted,” is a favorite kender saying.
That doesn’t mean the kender have no legendary figures at all. Over their history, a handful have proven sufficiently interesting to earn their fellows’ esteem. The most famous of these is Uncle Trapspringer, whom every kender claims as a relative and close personal friend. There are enough wild stories about his adventures-and, frequently, gruesome deaths-to fill an entire wing of the great Library in Palanthas. The kender would swear up and down that each and every one is the complete and untainted truth.
There are certain legends of ancient kender heroes. Balif, the warrior who had fought beside the elven king Silvanos, was purported by some to have been himself born an elf. Rithel Stubbletoe, who’d defended the kender nation of Hylo, in the west of Ansalon, from an invasion by the expanding Empire of Ergoth, once broke into the Imperial Court in Daltigoth and made off with the Emperor’s crown jewels. A young kender named Noblosha Lampwick was believed to have taken and passed the Test at the Tower of High Sorcery in Wayreth, though none of the wizards’ records listed her name.
After the Cataclysm, the kender had gone for more than three centuries without any new heroes. Recently, though, two of them had won that honor through their valorous deeds. One was Tasslehoff Burrfoot. He had broken dragon orbs, gone back in time and into the Abyss, and chatted with a number of gods-then, sealed his reputation by sacrificing his life to draw blood from the mad god, Chaos. Now, scarcely two years after his death, young kender often claimed their most prized possessions had been given to them by “Uncle Tas.”
The other, relatively new kender hero was Kronin Thistleknot. Kronin was something of a special case, as his deeds fell somewhat short of his people’s usual high standards. Sure, he had ruled Kendermore for an unprecedented twenty-five years before stepping down to let his daughter Paxina take over. And yes, he had killed the loathsome Dragon Highlord, Fewmaster Toede. There were already numerous versions of that victory. Only Kronin himself knew which was true, and he wasn’t telling. But neither of these feats was what made him stand out above his kind. No, what drew the kender’s attention to Kronin was that his deeds made him a hero among the other races of Ansalon. Elves, humans, and even dwarves revered him for his role in the Dragonarmies’ downfall. It was only after nearly everyone else had honored him that the kender, deciding they must have missed something important, made him a hero by acclamation.
Thus it was that Woodsedge’s town square was crammed with onlookers as a rare flesh-and-blood hero stepped up to the firing line of the slinging contest. Kronin was, by this time, eighty-six years old, his face a maze of wrinkles and his silvery hair almost gone. He hobbled as he walked, leaning heavily on his old, worn hoopak, and his favorite purple shoes were faded with age, but his eyes were clear, and his hand didn’t shake as he delved into his belt pouch. Silence, punctuated by murmurs of awe, fell over the crowd as he rooted through the bag and started pulling out rocks.
He examined each in turn, eyeing it closely, then tossed it on the ground. Finally, on the fourth try, he produced a round, smooth stone. The furrows of his brow deepened as he regarded it. Then he nodded and tucked it into the leather pocket on the forked end of his hoopak. He brought the weapon back, carefully poised.
“Ready,” he said loudly.
