across the meadow.
“It’s a real, no-fooling siege now, Your Honor,” Brimble declared as he stumped over to join them. He spat licorice juice down into the courtyard below. “They showed up last night, most of them-and they’ve been arriving all morning long, too.”
“There’s so many,” Brightdawn breathed.
Riverwind frowned at the camps, which stretched to the left and right as far as they could see. “Is it like this all around the city?” he asked.
“More or less,” Brimble affirmed. He peered up at the old Plainsman, then grinned. “Branchala bite me, you’re a big one.”
“This is Riverwind of Que-Shu, Brimble,” Kronn said, swiftly stepping in. “He’s a Hero of the Lance.”
“No kidding,” Brimble said. He extended his hand, and Riverwind saw he was missing his little finger. “Glad to meet you. I fought in the war myself, way back when. Always good to meet another veteran-we’re getting scarcer and scarcer these days.”
Riverwind took Brimble’s hand and shook it firmly. The old kender’s grip was surprisingly strong.
“Know a thing or two about siege craft, then, do you?” Riverwind nodded, the corners of his mouth rising into the ghost of a smile. “I do,” he declared. “I was at Kalaman, at the end of the war.”
“Really?” Brimble’s eyebrows shot up. “Well, I am impressed.”
“What happened at Kalaman?” Kronn asked.
Brimble glared at him. “What happened at-Fizban’s britches, Thistleknot, didn’t your old dad teach you anything? Kalaman was only one of the biggest sieges since Balif’s day!”
“The dragonarmies tried to take the city back from the Golden General’s armies in the last days of the war,” Brightdawn proudly explained to Kronn. “Father led the defense.”
“I wasn’t alone,” Riverwind added modestly. “I had help from Gilthanas of Qualinesti, and Lord Michael Jeofrey, of the Knights of Solamnia.”
“For two weeks solid, the draconians threw themselves at the walls,” Brimble said. His tone was almost reverent as he regarded the old Plainsman. “And for two weeks the knights and elves and the rest threw them back. Reorx’s beard, I’d have given my other nine fingers to be there.” He reached up and slapped Riverwind on the shoulder.
“You’re welcome to lend a hand, friend. We could use more like you.”
Riverwind returned the old kender’s smile, then turned back to the battlements and gazed out across the meadow again toward the enemy camp.
Kurthak stood at the edge of the camp, his good eye fixed on Kendermore’s walls. After a while, he snorted and shook his head. “The fools,” he growled.
“My lord?” Tragor asked. As always, the Black-Gazer’s champion stood nearby. He leaned against his great sword, which was planted point-down in the parched, dusty earth.
“They fortify their walls,” the hetman answered. “They post archers and slingers. They arm themselves for battle. Don’t they realize what they face? We could topple their walls today if I gave the order to march. Kendermore would be ashes by nightfall. They’ll draw breath tomorrow only because I wish it-I and Malystryx. Surely they must know this, and yet they carry on as if they had a hope of surviving.”
“They’re kender,” Tragor grunted. “What did you expect-surrender? They don’t know fear.”
“They don’t, do they?” Kurthak snarled. He folded his arms, tilting his head back arrogantly. “There’s a first time for everything, Tragor. By the time this siege is done, Twill have their Lord Mayor on her knees before me.” He patted his massive, spiked club, which hung from his belt. Beside it dangled the severed heads of three kender, bound in place by their topknots. Flies buzzed around the grisly trophies, moving in and out of their wide-gaping mouths. He gazed down at the heads fondly for a moment, then reached down and cupped one in his hand. It lolled sideways as he stared at it, its rolled-back eyes showing little but whites. The stump of its neck smeared his palm with sticky, half-dried blood.
“She’ll beg me for mercy,” the Black-Gazer continued.
He closed his hand around the head and squeezed until he felt the kender ‘s skull crack. “I will show her none, though-not even that of a quick end. First, I think, I’ll cut out her tongue.” He tore the shattered head from his belt and tossed it away into the bushes like a piece of rotten fruit.
“Why do we wait, then?” Tragor asked hungrily. His black eyes flashed as he looked toward the city. “Why not attack now, as you say, instead of waiting here, watching them watch us?”
“Because,” Kurthak replied evenly, “the time is not yet right. Malys wants us to let them be while she works her magic.”
At the mention of the dragon, Tragor shuddered. “Relying on magic,” he said, his voice thick with disgust. He glanced around him, scowling furiously. “Skulking in the forest. Such things might be proper for elves, but not our people.”
“What would you do, champion?” Kurthak sneered. “Throw yourself at the walls? Charge across that meadow this instant and impulsively batter down the gates?”
“Better than wait here.”
The Black-Gazer laughed roughly. “And the kender within? What would you do with them, when they faced you without fear?”
Tragor’s scowl deepened, and his eyes vanished into the shadows of his massive, lowering brows. “Kill them,” he snapped. “Cut them down, one and all.”
“And probably get cut down yourself, too. You were there at Weavewillow, champion. You saw how they fought to hold us off while many of their fellows escaped. Kender are many things, but cautious isn’t one of them.”
Tragor shook his head darkly. Kurthak was right. At Weavewillow, and at every village before, the kender had fought like badgers. Many ogres had fallen to their slingstones and arrows, hoopaks and chapaks. The kender had refused to relent. It was all part of their nature, their maddening refusal to fear their foes. Now the badgers were in their den-thousands of them-and completely surrounded by the camps of the Black-Gazer’s horde. They would fight even harder, for they had nowhere else to run.
A slow smile lit Kurthak’s face as he regarded his champion. “We have the upper hand, Tragor,” he said. “If we ended this now, it would be too soon. Our advantage over them can only grow. They’re trapped, and that city holds more kender than it can support. In time their supply of rood will run low. The dragon’s magic will cause their wells to run dry. They will grow weak, while we remain strong. How much of a fight will they be able to put up if they’re too feeble from hunger to lift their weapons and draw their bows?
“Besides, if we attacked now, we’d have no choice but to kill them all, as you said,” he continued. “What good would that do us? You forget, we aren’t here to slaughter them-not only, anyway. We began this conquest because we desire slaves. We’ll capture more of them when they’re weak-and they’ll kill fewer of our people as well. That is why we wait.”
“Patience,” Tragor said, and grimaced. “It isn’t an easy thing. My blood runs hot for war.” He pulled his sword out of the ground and began to jab the earth repeatedly with its blade. As he did so, he fixed his eyes on the distant walls.
“But why are there humans among them now?”
Kurthak’s head snapped up. He squinted across the meadow. “Humans? Where?”
“There. Above the gates,” Tragor replied, pointing.
For a moment, Kurthak didn’t see anything. Then his good eye widened with surprise. There were humans- three of them, two men and a woman. There was little more either ogre could tell from so far away.
“Blood of my ancestors,” the Black-Gazer swore in astonishment. “Baloth! Come here!”
The hairless ogre loped to Kurthak’s side, carrying a massive war axe. He was clad in leather armor covered with metal studs, and about his neck he wore an elaborate necklace of bone, claws, and teeth. The necklace was an unmistakable sign of his new place the horde. Since killing Lord Ruog, Baloth had risen to the rank of warlord, answering only to Kurthak himself.
“My lord?” he rasped. “What is your wish? Should we signal the attack?”
“No,” Kurthak said. “Send a scouting party. There are humans on the city wall. I want them described to me.”
