Catt shrugged. “Fled to Kendermore, I guess.”
“Come on,” Kronn said, his voice firm with determination. He had already begun to walk onward, leaving the cottage behind. “It’s not much farther to the nearest hamlet-Weavewillow.”
Weavewillow was no more. The town, which had once been home to some eight hundred kender, had been blasted from the face of Krynn. Like the cottage, wood and plaster and thatch were gone, leaving nothing but empty, stone husks where homes and shops had stood. Chimneys had blown apart, and cobblestone streets had cracked from the heat. The town well was nothing more than a pool of glassy rock around a steaming hole.
“What could have done this?” Brightdawn wondered, staring at Weavewillow’s five-towered town hall. The spires had melted, then hardened again, so they looked like candles that had burned down to stubs. “I’ve never seen a fire that could do this to solid rock.”
“I have,” Riverwind said, his face dark. “In old Que-Shu, after Verminaard’s troops laid waste to it. The stones were melted there. The only thing I’ve ever seen that could make flames this hot is a red dragon.”
“It’s just like Woodsedge after Malys attacked,” Catt agreed.
“Then-are we too late?” Swiftraven asked. He held his sabre naked in his hand and was watching the woods, his body tensed.
“No,” Catt answered. “I saw tracks, leading away from town. They went to Kendermore, I’m sure.” She scratched in the soot with the butt of her hoopak. “Kronn, we’d better get moving. Pax will be waiting for us.”
A moment passed, and no one answered. Catt looked around. “Kronn?”
Her brother was gone.
Instantly alert, Riverwind and Swiftraven fanned out, combing through the rubble with their swords ready. Catt followed, calling Kronn’s name. It was Brightdawn, though, who found him, at the far edge of Weavewillow. Her horrified cry brought the others running.
Beneath the blackened arch of the ruined gatehouse, Brightdawn stood over Kronn, who was on his knees, face buried in his hands. He had found the bodies.
They were everywhere around him, dozens of them, burnt black by the conflagration. The Plainsfolk felt bile rise in their throats as they beheld the tiny corpses, frail as birds, strewn upon the earth like a child’s discarded toys.
“There was a fierce battle here,” Swiftraven noted, moving from one body to the next. Many still clutched weapons in their charred hands. “A fighting withdrawal, I’d say.”
“A withdrawal from what?” Brightdawn wondered, putting her arm around Kronn. She was close to choking on the sickly sweet smell that hung in the air. “Not the dragon, surely.”
“Here!” Riverwind called suddenly. He had wandered away from the others and was staring at something on the ground. Brightdawn remained with Kronn, but Catt and Swiftraven hurried to see what the old Plainsman had found.
There were more bodies where Riverwind stood, but they were not kender. They were too big-larger than humans, many more than eight feet tall. Swiftraven nudged one with his foot, and winced as its burnt flesh crackled. It had fallen forward, and so its face had escaped the worst of the fire. The blistered skin was brown, mottled with dark, hairy warts, and its features were ugly and brutish. Low, heavy brows surmounted a blunt, broad nose. Teeth that were almost tusks jutted from its mouth above a strong, square chin. The creature wore a leather breastplate and bracers, and near its blackened fist lay the iron head of a massive battle axe.
“Ogre,” Swiftraven said, and spat in the ashes.
Catt nodded slowly. “They must be in league with Malys now. These died fighting my people before the dragon burned the town.”
“Could there still be more around here?” Swiftraven asked, his sharp eyes flicking from shadow to shadow.
“No,” Riverwind said. “They would have left before the dragon attacked. They probably chased the kender north, toward Kendermore.”
Swiftraven’s eyes widened with sudden understanding. “They’re driving them,” he murmured. Riverwind nodded.
“Driving them?” Catt asked. “But-what does that mean? What are we going to find at Kendermore?”
The others looked at Riverwind. He thought on this, then shook his head. “I don’t know.”
Kronn trudged along like a wounded man, his head bowed in grief. Catt walked beside him, her hand on his shoulder, but she was too stricken herself to give her brother much comfort. In her other hand she held the reins of their horses, who followed nervously, eyes rolling and nostrils flaring at the strange sights and smells that surrounded them.
Swiftraven stalked ahead of the party an arrow nocked on his bowstring, alertly watching for signs of movement among the blasted trees. Riverwind brought up the rear, also ready to loose a shaft, should anything choose to loom at them from behind. It was Brightdawn, though, who first heard the sound.
It was soft, almost too quiet to discern, and for a moment she hesitated, wondering if she had heard it at all. Then it rose again and she held up a hand, hissing through clenched teeth.
The others stopped immediately, Swiftraven pulling back his bowstring as he hurried to Brightdawn’s side. “What is it?” Catt asked.
With a sharp gesture, Brightdawn waved her silent. She cocked an ear, concentrating. The sound grew momentarily louder, so everyone could hear it-a low, tired whimper.
“What is it?” Swiftraven whispered. “A wounded animal?”
“No,” Brightdawn replied. “It’s a child crying.”
“A child?” Catt asked. “Out here?”
The Plainswoman didn’t bother to answer; she started walking. Swiftraven jogged to catch up with her.
“Brightdawn!” Riverwind hissed. “Wait! It could be a trap!”
Ignoring her father’s call, Brightdawn continued to move, pausing only to listen a moment and make sure she was still headed toward the sound. They were nearly a league north of Weavewillow, and the ground here was rocky. Great boulders dotted with charred moss loomed among the blasted trees. Swiftly, Brightdawn made her way toward a cleft between two such rocks.
Swiftraven eyed the gap, which was dark, wide and deep. He trained his arrow on it. “I think maybe we should wait for your father, Brightdawn,” he whispered. “There could be anything in there.”
Stubbornly, Brightdawn shook her head. “No,” she answered, and started toward the cleft. Swiftraven quickly relaxed his pull on his bowstring and caught her arm.
“At least let me go first,” he said.
Seeing the pleading look in his eyes, Brightdawn nodded. “Watch what you shoot at,” she told him.
Moving slowly, arrow ready, Swiftraven stepped into the gap. For a moment he couldn’t see anything, but then his eyes adjusted to the shadows, and he discerned the walls of the cleft. He continued to creep forward, Brightdawn right behind him. The whimpering was much louder here, ringing weirdly off the stones.
Then, suddenly, he stopped, staring at something on the ground. Slowly, he relaxed his pull on his bow. “Merciful goddess,” he swore.
“What?” Brightdawn asked. “What is it? Let me through.” She pushed past him, following his gaze, and stopped.
There, huddled in the bottom of the cleft, weeping uncontrollably as she hugged her knees to her chest, was a little kender girl. She looked up, her eyes wide, and drew back from the Plainsfolk.
“It’s all right,” Brightdawn said. She crouched low, moving forward slowly to keep from startling the child. “Hush, now. I’m going to help you.”
The girl was tiny. She couldn’t have been more than eight years old. Brightdawn crept toward her, making soothing sounds. At last, the child stopped sobbing and stared up at the Plainsfolk, her bottom lip quivering.
“That’s better,” Brightdawn said, smiling. “What’s your name, little one?”
The girl hiccupped a few times, trying to find her voice. “B-Billee,” she stammered. “Billee Juniper.”
“Hello, Billee,” Brightdawn said, stopping in front of the child. She crouched down and held out her hand. “I’m Brightdawn. That man there is Swiftraven. Don’t worry, he’s here to protect you, not to hurt you. Where are your parents?”
