“Are you sure about this, Tas?” Gerard asked, regarding the kender with quiet gravity. Tas nodded. “Too many have sacrificed too much…” that’s what Mirror said. I thought about that when I ran off the edge of the world. If I die here, I said to myself, where I’m not supposed to, everything dies with me. And then, do you know what happened, Gerard? I felt scared! I’ve never been scared before.” He shook his head. “Not like that.”
“The fall would be enough to scare anyone,” said Gerard.
“It wasn’t the fall,” Tas said. “I was scared because I knew if everything died, it would all be my fault. All the sacrifices that everybody has made down through history: Huma, Magius, Sturm Brightblade, Laurana, Raistlin . . .” He paused, then said softly, “Even Lord Soth. And countless others I’ll never know. All their suffering would be wasted. Their joys and triumphs would be forgotten.”
Tasslehoff pointed. “Do you see that red star? The one there?”
“Yes,” said Gerard. “I see it.”
“The kender tell me that people in the Fifth Age believe Flint Fireforge lives in that star. He keeps his forge blazing so that people will remember the glory of the old days and that they will have hope. Do you think that’s true?”
Gerard started to say that he thought the star was just a star and that a dwarf could never possibly live in a star, but then, seeing Tas’s face, the Knight changed his mind.
“Yes, I think it’s true.”
Tas smiled. Rising to his feet, he dusted himself off, looked himself over, twitched his clothes and his pouches into place. After all, if he was going to be stepped on by Chaos, he had to look presentable.
“That red star is the very first star I’m going to visit. Flint will be glad to see me. I expect he’s been lonely.”
“Are you going now?” Gerard asked.
“No time like the present!” Tas said cheerfully. “That’s a time-travel joke,” he added, eyeing Gerard. “All us time travelers make time-travel jokes. You’re supposed to laugh.”
“I guess I don’t feel much like laughing,” Gerard said. He rested his hand on Tas’s shoulder.
“Mirror was right. You are wise, perhaps the very wisest person I know, and certainly the most courageous. I honor you, Tasslehoff Burrfoot.”
Drawing his sword, Gerard saluted the kender, the salute one true Knight gives to another. A glorious moment.
“Goodbye,” Tasslehoff said. “May your pouches never be empty.” Reaching into his pouch, he found the Device of Time Journeying. He looked at it, admired it, ran his fingers over the jewels that sparkled more brightly than he ever remembered seeing them sparkle before. He caressed it lovingly, then, looking out at the red star, he said, “I’m ready.”
“The dragons have finally reached a decision. They’re about ready to return to Krynn,” said Odila. “And they want us to go with them.” She glanced about. “Where’s the kender? Have you lost him again?”
Gerard wiped his nose and his eyes and thought, smiling, of all the times he’d wished he could have lost Tasslehoff Burrfoot.
“He’s not lost,” Gerard said, reaching out to take hold of Odila’s hand. “Not anymore.” At that moment, a shrill voice spoke from the darkness.
“Hey, Gerard, I almost forgot! When you get back to Solace, be sure to fix the lock on my tomb. It’s broken.”
28
The Valley of Fire and Ice
The ogres did not attack immediately. They had laid their ambush well. The elves were trapped in the valley, their advance blocked, their retreat cut off. They weren’t going anywhere. The ogres could start the assault at a time of their own choosing, and they chose to wait. The elves were prepared to do battle now, the ogres reasoned. Courage pumped in their veins. Their enemy had come upon them so suddenly and unexpectedly that the elves had no time for fear. But let the day linger on, let the night come. Let them lie sleepless on their blankets and stare at the bonfires ringed around them. Let them count the numbers of their enemies, and let fear multiply those numbers, and by next day’s dawning, elf stomachs would shrivel and elf hands shake, and they would puke up their courage on the ground.
The elves moved immediately to repel the enemy attack, moved with discipline, without panic, taking cover in stands of pine trees and brush, behind boulders. Elven archers sought higher ground, picked out their targets, took careful aim and waited for the order to fire. Each archer had an adequate store of arrows, but those would soon be spent, and there would be no more. They had to make every shot count, although the archers could see for themselves that they might spend every arrow they possessed and still not make a dent in the numbers of the enemy. The elves were ready. The ogres did not attack. Understanding their strategy, Samar ordered the elves to stand down. The elves tried to eat and sleep, but without much success. The stench of the ogres, that was like rotting meat, tainted their food. The light of their fires crept beneath closed eyelids. Alhana walked among them, speaking to them, telling them stories of old to banish their fears and lift their hearts. Gilthas did the same thing, talking to his people, bolstering their spirits, speaking words of hope that he did not himself believe, that no rational person could believe. Yet, it seemed to bring comfort to the people and, oddly, to Gilthas himself. He couldn’t understand it, for he had only to look all around to see the fires of his enemies outnumbering the stars. He supposed, cynically, that hope was always the last man standing. The person Gilthas most sought to comfort refused to be comforted. The Lioness disappeared shortly after bringing the elven runner into camp. She galloped away on her horse, ignoring Gilthas’s shout. He searched the camp for her, but no one who had seen her, not even among her own people. He found her at last, long after darkness. She sat on a boulder, far from the main camp. She stared out into the night, and although Gilthas knew that she must have heard him approach, for she could hear a sparrow moving in the woods twenty feet away, she did not turn to look at him.
No need to tell her that she was placing herself in danger of being picked off by some ogre raider. She knew that better than he.
“How many of your scouts are missing?” he asked.
“My fault!” she said bitterly. “My failure! I should have seen something, heard something to keep us from this peril!” She gestured toward the mountain peaks. “Look at that. Thousands of them! Ogres, who shake the ground with their feet and splinter trees and stink like warm cow dung. And I did not see them or hear them! I might as well be blind, deaf, and dumb with my nose cut off for all the good I am!”
After a pause, she added harshly. “Twenty are missing. All of them friends, loyal and dear to me.”
“No one blames you,” said Gilthas.
“I blame myself!” the Lioness said, her voice choked.
“Samar says that the some of the ogres have grown powerful in magic. Whatever force blocks our magic and causes it to go awry works in the ogres’ favor. Their movements were cloaked by sorcery. You could not possibly be faulted for failing to detect that.” The Lioness turned to face him. Her hair was wild and disheveled, hung ragged about her face. The tracks of her tears left streaks of dirt on her cheeks. Her eyes burned.
“I thank you for trying to comfort me, my husband, but my only comfort is the knowledge that my failure will die with me.”
His heart broke. He had no words to say. He held out his arms to her, and she lunged into them, kissed him fiercely.
“I love you!” she whispered brokenly. “I love you so much!”
“And I love you,” he said. “You are my life, and if that life ends this moment, I count it blessed for having you in it.”