Heroes And Fools

Reorx Steps Out
Jean Rabe

“Ah, by the bushy beard of Reorx, I certainly’ll make an impression at the festival!” The dwarf was chattering to himself, in a voice that sounded like gravel being slushed around in the bottom of a bucket, “New boots. Mmph, a mite tight for my toes. This breastplate, just like the. .”

The dwarf scowled and cocked his head, hearing a rustling in the bushes that unsettled him. The foliage on both sides of the path was thick with the new leaves of spring. He saw the branches of a lilac bush move, despite the lack of any breeze.

“Somebody there?”

“It’s nothing personal.” Silver scales glimmered like sun specks caught on the surface of a still lake as the dra-conian stepped into the open. His talons glinted like polished steel in the late afternoon sun. “You’re just convenient.”

“By the sacred breath of the Forge!” The dwarf’s thick fingers flew to the hammer at his waist, his feet scrambling backward to buy him some space.

The draconian was quicker. Corded muscles bunched as the creature crouched and sprang. Arms shot forward slamming into the dwarf’s shoulders, the impact driving the dwarf violently onto his back and knocking the breath from him in a gravelly “Whooff!”

“Stay still, dwarf, and I promise to make this quick. You won’t feel anything.”

“Cursed sivak!” the dwarf spat, as he found his breath and struggled to free his arms. “To the Abyss with you!”

“Stay still, I said!” The draconian’s jaws opened wide, acidic spittle edging over his lower lip and dripping onto the dwarf’s face. “I need your body,” the creature offered as an explanation, his voice a sibilant hiss. “I cannot pass through this country looking as I do. Even the dragons hunt my kind now.”

The dwarf screamed that the sivak ought to find another body, that his was too old, too fat. All the while he futilely struggled against the larger and stronger foe. The draconian regarded him a moment more, then dragged a razor-sharp talon across the dwarf’s throat, ending his life in a heartbeat.

“I told you it would be quick,” he said.

The sivak pushed himself to his feet and stared at the corpse. The dwarf was barrel-chested, with stubby arms and legs, fingers short and thick. The face was broad and weathered, deeply lined from the years. His beard was steel gray, streaked with white, and it was elaborately braided and decorated with metal beads.

“Definitely an old one,” the draconian grumbled. “The last was an old one, too. Still, it will have to do.”

He closed his eyes and let out a long breath, felt his heart rumbling. He urged it to beat more rapidly as he concentrated on the magic, sensing the warmth as his blood pumped faster through his veins. He felt his armorlike skin bubble, the scales flowing, muscles contracting. He felt his body fold in upon itself, wings melting together to form a cape, snout receding, talons becoming feet fleshy and thick. The draconian growled softly, the sensation of his transformation both gratifying and uncomfortable.

He flexed his new legs and opened his eyes, looking round now and perceiving the world a little differently. He stared down at the corpse that could pass for his twin.

“Your dress is too garish for my tastes, old dwarf, though there is nothing I can do about it.” The corpse and he were both attired in an ornate gold breastplate with an anvil emblazoned on it and an artfully engraved hammer poised above the anvil. The leggings were darkly red like wine and stuffed into the tops of black leather boots that smelled new and had been buffed until they practically glowed. A cape made of an expensive black material hung from the transformed sivak’s shoulders. Even though the draconian did not bother to keep track of the customs of civilization, he realized that the dwarf had spent considerable coin on his dress.

He tugged the heavy body off to the side of the road, concealing it amid a patch of broad-leafed ferns. He plucked the hammer from the dwarf’s waist, considered for a moment carrying it, as the weapon was finely crafted and quite valuable. However, shaking his head, he dropped it. “I do not need their things,” he hissed. He returned to the path, following it as it continued to wind toward the foothills.

The sivak was in the heart of dwarven country, on a well-traveled road that was twisting and at times steep. It was called Barter Trail, and it ran between dwarven towns all nestled amid the impressive, rugged mountains of Thorbardin. He’d been taking the forms of lone dwarves he killed along the road as a means to disguise himself as he cut through the Thunder Peaks and then along the lengthy Promontory Pass-a miner one time, young and filthy from the work; a wheezing, rash-ridden merchant another; and most recently a one-armed elderly dwarf with a dozen knives strapped around his waist.

Only one more village and then one small range to travel across-according to the map the merchant had been carrying. After that he’d be in the Qualinesti Forest, where, he’d heard, draconians were gathering to hide from the dragons and men.

He was nearing that last village now, not needing the sign he just passed to tell him so. He heard the gruff chatter of dwarves coming from around the curve ahead and what sounded like a drum being thumped in a peculiar rhythm.

“Neidarbard,” the sign had said in rich brown paint. “Home of the Forge’s Favored Dwarves.”

“And Kender” was scrawled in bright blue paint beneath.

The transformed draconian squared his dwarven shoulders and picked up the pace, rounded the bend- and came to an abrupt stop. The town that spread out before him was not like the others he’d passed through. Neidarbard was. . oddly colorful. It seemed a ridiculously cheerful place.

The homes closest to him were covered in pieces of gray-blue slate, looking like big turtle shells with doors and windows cut in them. The trim was red and white, with various shades of green and yellow thrown in. Beyond those were more traditional dwarven homes, made of stone with thatch roofs, some with sod that had a scattering of wild flowers growing in them. There were even a few two-story dwellings of stone and wood-all of them with brightly painted eaves and shutters, many with window boxes full of daffodils and daylilies.

Each home had long, streaming pennants, a rainbow of clashing colors to assault the eyes. Thick, twisting ribbons ran between the turtle-shaped homes, and delicate parchment lanterns, unlit at this time of day, dangled on purple twine stretched between the tallest dwellings. Out of the corner of his eye, the disguised draconian saw two dwarves precariously balanced on a ladder, alternately drinking from a big mug of ale while they tried to add to the decorations. The sivak involuntarily shuddered at the entire festive scene.

There seemed to be no pattern to the streets. They did not radiate outward from the center, like the spokes of a wheel-the last two dwarven towns the draconian passed through were like that. The streets did not form a grid or any other geometric shape that dwarves seemed to be fond of. They were random and curvy, some a mix of cobblestones and earth, some paved with the same bricks used in the stoutest dwellings, some dead-ending into the backs of buildings.

In what the draconian surmised passed for the center of the town, a fountain topped with a statue of a warrior-dwarf bubbled merrily, the water spewing from the stone fellow’s mouth. No, not water, he noticed on second glance. Ale. All around the edge of the fountain sat a mix of dwarven and kender musicians dressed in bright reds and yellows. The former were thumping long, slender drums that rested between their knees, and the latter had just begun to play flutes and curved bell horns that glimmered in the late afternoon sun. The smallest kender had tiny metal plates attached to her fingers, which she clinked together at what seemed-judging by the look of the other musicians’ faces-the most inopportune times. A young female dwarf was attempting to direct them by waving an empty mug in the air. Her other hand gripped a full mug that she frequently sipped from.

In front of the musicians strolled a most portly dwarf. He was dressed in a shiny runic, striped horizontally green and blue, which did nothing to help conceal the ample stomach that hung over his wide belt. Stroking his short black beard and staring at a piece of curling parchment he held in a meaty hand, he seemed to be practicing a speech.

“I, Gustin Stoutbeard, hie acting mayor of Neidarbard. .” He cleared his throat and started again, the words slightly slurred.

The draconian’s gaze shifted to the southern edge of town, where tables upon tables sat end to end. They were covered with red and green cloths and dozens of bouquets of spring flowers. Dwarven and kender women bustled around them setting out plates and mugs. A firepit was nearby, and a great boar was roasting over it, being turned by a dwarf with massively muscled arms. The scent of the meat hung heavy in the air and made the sivak’s belly rumble.

“I, Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting. .”

The music swelled, drowning out the acting mayor, the clinking from the kender child coming at regular intervals now, and the drummers beating out a syncopated rhythm that did not sound altogether bad.

The draconian stood on his tiptoes, a considerable feat given the body he’d adopted, craned his neck, and looked through a gap in all of the decorations. There! The mountains beckoned beyond Neidarbard, part of the Redstone Bluffs. Beyond those mountains was the blessed forest, safety, and the company of his own kind.

Ignoring the protestations of his empty stomach, he took a deep breath and strolled purposefully down the main street and toward the fountain.

“Hey!”

The sivak scowled as he felt a rugging on his cape-wings. He glanced down and over his shoulder, spotting a kender with two topknots. The kender had a large book in his hands, opened to a page with an illustration of a dwarf. The kender looked at the picture, then at the dra-conian, hiccuped, releasing a cloud of ale-breath. “Hey!” He beamed. “It’s Reorx! You are Reorx, aren’t you? Hic.”

The draconian did his best to ignore the besotted young man and took another step toward the mountains, but the kender was persistent and hurried to plant himself in the sivak’s path. “Where are you going, Reorx? Do you mind if I call you Reorx?”

The dwarf he’d slain had made some mention of Reorx, the draconian recalled. “If I say I am this Reorx, young man, will you go away?”

The kender’s eyes widened, he hiccuped again, and he nodded vigorously.

“Very well. I am Reorx.”

The kender was quick to scoot out of his path, stuffing the book under one arm, topknots bobbing as he ran toward the acting mayor-who had stopped at the fountain to fill his mug.

“Hic. I, Gustin Stoutbeard. .”

As the kender rugged on the acting mayor’s clothes the draconian continued on his way. He passed by the musicians, slowing for only the briefest of moments when the delicate strains of a flute stirred something inside him, then slipped between a trio of two-story buildings, the bottom floors of which were businesses. One had a bright yellow-orange sign out front in the shape of a beehive. “Best-Ever Honey,” it read. The next was a baker’s, and all manner of elaborately decorated cakes and cookies sat tantalizingly in the window. The draconian’s stomach growled louder, and he urged himself along. The third was a barber’s, and through the open window he spied a young dwarf receiving a beard trim.

The music swelled as he thrust all these chaotic trappings of society to the back of his mind and set his sights once again on the mountains. He renewed his pace and actually made it another few yards before his cape was tugged on again. Growling softly in his throat, he turned to meet the gaze of the fat dwarf, Gustin Stoutbeard.

“Are you really Reorx? Hic.”

The draconian scowled. “Yes, yes, I am Reorx, and I am in a hurry.” He pointed a stubby finger toward the foothills. “So if you will excuse-”

“You are really Reorx?” The fat dwarf swayed on his feet and blinked, as if trying to focus. “Hic.”

“Yes.”

“Really, really Reorx?” The fat dwarf hiccuped again.

“Yes. I am really Reorx. And you and everyone else in this town are really intoxicated. Now if you don’t mind-

“We’s s’been celebrarin’ allllll s’day,” a black-bearded dwarf cut in. One of the drummers, he had wandered over to listen in. “S’day of the s’festival, ya s’know. We’s don’ts drinks much otherwise. ‘Cept unless we’s thirsty.”

The acting mayor glanced at the kender, who’d come up behind him and handed him another mug. The kender pulled the book from under his arm, opened it, and pointed to a full-page picture of a dwarf. The acting mayor got a good look. The draconian squinted at the picture-the breastplate indeed was similar to the one he displayed, as were the cape and the boots. The leggings were not quite so bright a red, but that could be attributed to a printer’s error.

“The Forge!” the acting mayor bellowed, as he dropped the mug of ale in surprise. He waved his arms, looking like a plump bird trying hopelessly to take to the air. “Everyone! The Forge has returned! Hid”

The music immediately stopped, and the townsfolk, kender and dwarves alike, seemed to utter a collective gasp. Then instruments were hurriedly set down, plates left in a stack, decorations left dangling. All the residents appeared to be thundering the sivak’s way.

“I really must be leaving.”

“I, Gustin-” the acting mayor slurred.

“Yes, I know who you are. You are Gustin Stoutbeard, the acting mayor of Neidarbard.”

Gustin’s cherubic face displayed surprise. “You know who I am? Hic. Hic. You know that I am the acting mayor here? Well. You truly are Reorx. Hic.”

“Yes. Yes. I am Reorx. I’ve said that three times now. I am indeed Reorx, and I must be on my way.” The dra-conian was breaking into a sweat. He could only maintain a form for so many hours, and he did not want be discovered. He needed to get out of this town and into the mountains, where the shadows from the peaks would conceal his silver body. “I’ve things to attend to, someplace I must be.”

The acting mayor seemed not to hear him. “I, Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of the fine village of Neidarbard hie proclaim the opening of the Festival of the Forge in hie honor of the greatest of Krynn’s gods, Reorx!” He stuffed the parchment with the rest of the speech into his pocket and continued, his voice raising in volume and authority. “We have been hie blessed, my friends. .

Behind him, the draconian muttered to himself, “God?

Reorx is a god? Oh my. I only know of the Dark Queen“

“. . for the gods hie have been absent since the Chaos War. There were some who believed the gods were gone forever, but we Neidarbardians knew the gods would return. We continued to honor them in festivals and prayers. We knew! Hic! Now we have been rewarded for our faithfulness. Reorx has chosen to appear before us! Reorx has returned! On this very day when we traditionally celebrate the Festival of the Forge, Reorx himself hie has returned!”

A cacophonous cheer went up as the dwarves and kender pressed themselves against the draconian. Some merely stroked his breastplate, which they oohed and ahhed over and said did not feel like metal at all. Others shook his thick hand, while some kissed the ground near his feet. Mugs clanked together and were quickly drained. Someone pressed a mug into the sivak’s hand.

“S’l brewed this,” an ancient dwarf drunkenly growled. “S’not been aged s’all that long, but. .”

“To Reorx!” There was another great cheer.

The draconian stood dumbstruck. “I. . I really must be going,” he said after a few minutes. He tried to remember how long it had been since he killed the dwarf and how much more time he might have to possess this body. Perhaps another hour at best, he guessed. Maybe two if he was fortunate. The hand holding the mug was nudged, and he raised it and drank the ale. It was thick and bitter and tasted good.

“Going where?” It was another one of the musicians.

The draconian studied his polished boots while he considered his reply. Someone refilled his mug. “Why, I am going to summon the rest of the gods, so they can all return to Krynn!”

There was another cheer, wilder and louder than before. More clinking of mugs that had been refilled. One of the kender musicians had picked up his horn and was blowing it shrilly.

“So, you see,” the dracordan added, as he drained the second mug, “I must be going. I must not keep all the other gods waiting.” He tried to take a step but found himself trapped by the crowd. He guessed there were nearly a hundred dwarves and a third that many more kender.

“Wwwhich gggods wwwill yyyou ssssummon fffirst? Hic.”

The draconian stared mutely at the speaker, who wobbled only a little more than the acting mayor.

“Mmmishakal?”

“Yes, I believe I shall summon Mishakal first.”

“Oh, good!” chirped someone buried in the crowd. “I shall drink to that! To Mishakal!”

“To Mishakal!” went up a cheer. “We’ll all drink to Mishakal!”

“Then Solinari? The god of good magic?” It was a middle-aged kender who was clutching a blue crystal mug in one hand and a flute in the other.

“Well. .”

“To Solinari!” Came another wave of cheering and toasting.

“What about Haba. . Habbbaba. . Habakkuk?”

“I intend to summon Habakkuk and then Solinari.”

There was another great round of cheering and toasting and drinking.

“Stay for a meal first!” This came from a dwarven woman at the edge of the crowd. Her face was smudged with flour, and she was waving a big wooden spoon in her hand. Chocolate dripped enticingly from it. “Summon the gods after you’ve tried the roast boar.”

The draconian’s belly growled again. “I suppose I could stay for just a little while.” Someone refilled his mug.

The whoops and cries of the dwarves and kender swelled to deafening proportions.

“I, hie Gustin hie Stoutbeard, acting mayor of Neidarbard, welcome Reorx the Forge to our feast!”

“I cannot stay long, you understand. Gods are very busy.” The draconian found he must shout to be heard over the ruckus.

The acting mayor nodded and drunkenly gestured toward the tables. In response the crowd quieted a bit and backed away, like a wobbly wave receding from a beach. Gustin held out his hand, and for an instant the sivak considered bolting toward the foothills. Though he had the stubby legs of a dwarf, he had the strength of a draconian as well as the speed. There was now considerable space between he and the short townsfolk, and in their general state of inebriation, they would not be able to catch him.

However, the boar smelled very, very good.

He sighed and took the acting mayor’s hand, the portly dwarf practically swooning at the honor. Then Gustin led the sivak toward the gaily decorated tables and directed him to the center and to the largest chair. The draconian suspected the chair had been intended for the acting mayor, as it was wide enough to hold his bulk, and “His Honor” was engraved on the back.

Someone was slicing the boar, releasing more of the wondrous scents into the air. A finely carved tankard was filled to the brim with the finest dwarven ale the sivak had ever smelled. It was clomped down in front of the transformed draconian. He downed the contents of his other mug, discarded the empty container, then took a sip from the tankard and found that it oh-so-pleasantly warmed his throat. Not so bitter as the other ale, this had a hint of sweetness. He quickly drained it.

The acting mayor squeezed into a seat to the right of the god, as one of the dwarven musicians took the place to the left. Within moments, the seats were all filled, and the air was buzzing with dozens of slurred conversations, all of them centering on Reorx and the gods.

The sivak’s tankard was refilled by a primly dressed dwarven woman who tried to stuff a napkin into the lip of the god’s breastplate. “Doesn’t seem to want to go in there,” she said, finally giving up and waddling off.

“Why did you pick our village?” The speaker was a child at the far end of the table. His mug was filled with cider, and the sivak noted that only the adults were allowed the privilege of consuming the ale. “Of all the towns in Thorbardin, Mister Reorx, why’d you come here?”

The sivak scrunched his dwarven face in thought, then took another pull from the tankard. His fingers seemed to feel thicker, as did his tongue. “Well, youngling, when I looked down upon Krynn from the heavens, I glimpsed Neidarbard and felt drawn to it.”

“To Neidarbard?” The child seemed flabbergasted. “There are much bigger towns inside and outside the mountains.”

The sivak nodded and stifled a hiccup. “Ah, youngling, there certainly are, but I could sense that the people of Neidarbard were fiercely loyal to the gods-even though we’d been away since the Chaos War. I could hear your prayers as I looked down on Krynn.”

“You could hear me?”

The sivak nodded and took another pull. He couldn’t remember ever drinking anything quite so delicious.

The child gasped and clapped and jostled his table-neighbors in the ribs. “He heard me!”

A thick slice of meat was lopped onto the draconian’s plate, and he nearly forgot himself as he went to grab it with his fingers. He watched the acting mayor wield a fork and knife, copied the gesture to the best of his ability, and fell to devouring the meal. In all the dwarven towns he’d passed through, he was certain he had never eaten anything quite so delectable. Of course, he’d never gone so long without a meal and been so hungry-and he’d never drank so much. He drained his tankard again as a second thick slice of meat was placed before him. He awkwardly gestured for a refill of the ale.

“Gustin’s hie cousin hie slew hie the hie boar hie yesterday,” an old dwarven drummer explained. “The largest hie boar we’ve hie seen in these hie parts in years. It must have been hie an omen of your hie coming.”

There was warm bread topped with the sweetest honey the draconian had ever sampled. “Best-Ever Honey,” he was proudly told. He ate it almost reverently and let a dollop of the honey rest on his tongue. He finally washed it down with more ale.

“It’s harvested from the hie honeycombs of the giant bees just hie outside the village,” Gustin explained, pointing roughly to the south. “Uldred, Mesk, hie Puldar, go to the hive and gather more for our most important guest. Hic. Honey for Reorx!”

There were bowls of blueberries sprinkled with sugar, more ale, yams drowning in creamy butter, cinnamon sticks, more ale. The air continued to buzz with praise for the god who had deigned to grace the town of Neidarbard with his lofty presence.

“Where’d Chaos banish all the gods to?” This from a woman with a chocolate-covered spoon. She hadn’t been drinking as much as the others and was easier to understand. “Was it t’other side of the world? Or maybe not on this world?”

The draconian swallowed a big piece of boar meat. “I am not permitted to say, kind woman. Chaos hie bid that location be kept a secret from all mortals.”

There were murmurs of “I understand.”

“So why’d you return to Krynn? Did Chaos let you free?” The same woman.

The draconian speared a yam. “He did not let me.”

There was a chorus of oooohs punctuated by clinking mugs.

“I defied him and escaped his secret place. I was too long away from hie Krynn and the company of dwarves and kender,” he continued, puffing out his dwarven chest. The yam slid easily down his throat, followed by another swig of ale. “So I decided on my own to return. Chaos does not know I’m here. When he was not looking, I cleverly escaped. Hence, I must be going. If I am to summon the other gods, I must do so before he finds me out and tries to stop me. Hic. Perhaps, though, I shall have just one more slice of boar.”

The draconian’s gaze drifted from face to face between bites of boar and blueberries. Some of the musicians had finished their meal and were striking up a sprightly tune. The melody was pleasing to the sivak’s ears. They were all so. . happy. It was an emotion generally denied him, abhorred by him, a weak sentiment that had no place in the lives of he and his fellows. He couldn’t recall that he’d ever been happy before. He found himself grinning like everybody else.

“Maybe you can stay for the dance tonight!” This from a young dwarven woman in a red gown trimmed with embroidered daisies.

“Stay? No.” How long had it been since he killed the dwarf? An hour? Two? He needed to be leaving before he lost hold of this form and his sivak body returned. That would certainly put an end to the merriment, and possibly an end to his life, as several of the sturdiest-looking dwarves carried swords and hammers. Still, he did not feel the tingling that usually signaled he was soon to shed his form. Perhaps he was wrong about the time. Perhaps he could tarry. He felt for the cadence of his heart and found that it seemed to beat in time with the dwarven drums.

“For one dance?” She politely persisted.

“I really should be going. Gods to summon, plagues to end, hie dragons to deal with, and other important business I must attend to. . ”

Another ale was thrust into his hand and quickly found its way down his throat. It all tasted so good. There was no tingling, no hint of the coming reversion to his beloved self. Perhaps there was something in this wonderful ale that was allowing him to retain this wonderful body longer-even forever.

“I want you to have this.” An elderly dwarven woman swayed up behind him, placed a medallion around his neck. “My husband mined the gold it’s made of. Gave this to me when we were young and when all the gods walked on Krynn.”

“Hic, I want hic, you to have hic, this.” Gustin Stoutbeard was unfastening a badge from his tunic, a dark purple ribbon from which hung a gold charm hammered in the face of a dwarf. “It’s a symbol of you. Hic. Hic. It was cast years ago and given to me by the previous hic, mayor.” The acting mayor turned, his belly bumping into the dra-conian and nearly knocking him out of his seat. He thrust the pin into the draconian’s cape, where a cloak clasp would hang, not noticing the draconian cringe at being stabbed by the long sharp object.

“And this!” A small dwarven child passed her his doll. “It’s my favorite.”

“I can’t accept these,” the sivak protested. “Now I really hic, must be leaving.”

Another mug of ale was placed in front of him. The musicians were playing a slow tune now, rich with a complicated countermelody that sometimes drifted off-key. The sivak found himself humming along.

“You hic, must hic, accept our gifts!” the acting mayor returned. He looked crestfallen. “We revere you above all the hic, gods. Reorx the hic, Forge, the greatest hic, of Krynn’s gods. It was you who hic, tamed Chaos to form the world, and it was you who created the stars by hic, striking your hammer against Chaos.”

“It is true,” the sivak admitted, as he ran his thick fingers around the lip of the tankard. “I did indeed create the stars. Hie. My crowning achievement, I think. Of course, I am also rather proud of the mountains. I made them with a brush of my hand.”

“You are the father of dwarves and kender, and we owe you our lives,” said the young kender with two topknots whom he had met when he first entered the village. “You forged the Graygem. Without you, the Chaos War would have been lost. Krynn would be no more.”

Mugs were clanked together in toasts to the Forge, and dwarves slapped each other on the back and swayed in their seats.

“Well, yes,” the draconian evenly intoned. “The Chaos War would have turned out much worse had I not taken some steps to intervene and help mortals. Yes, I will happily accept your gifts.”

The acting mayor instantly brightened and cleared his throat. “The most hic, powerful of all the gods, we knew it would be you who came back to hic, Krynn first. We knew that you would show yourself to your hic, children, the dwarves and kender of Thorbardin. Hie.”

A cheer went up, and the draconian was passed another thick slice of bread with the last of the wonderful honey atop it. The boys would be back from the honeycomb soon with more, he was told.

Maybe I could linger for one dance, he thought. He’d never danced before. How long had it been since he killed the dwarf? It couldn’t have been that long ago, he told himself. The time didn’t matter anymore, did it? The ale was forestalling the transformation. He closed his eyes and savored the last few bites of the boar, felt the meal resting comfortably in his very full stomach. He listened to the band and the bubbling of the fountain, the slurred conversations of his new friends. They were much better company than his own kind, he decided. They loved him.

His expression grew wistful, and he pushed himself away from the table, tucking the doll under his arm and finding that it took a bit of concentration to stand without wobbling. He glanced over his shoulder toward the fountain, and noticed that the paper lanterns were being lit and that the sun was setting. “Yes, I believe hic, I can stay for a dance or two before I must leave to summon Mishakal and Habbakuk, Solanari and the others.”

“But not Takhisis!” cried the kender with two topknots. “Please don’t summon Takhisis!”

There were hisses and softly muttered curses at the mention of the Dark Queen’s name.

“No. Rest assured hic, that I will not be summoning Takhisis.” He grinned inwardly, as it was the first real truth he’d uttered since entering the village.

“Doyoureallyhavetoleave?” asked an elderly kender who was gripping the table to keep from falling over. “SummonthegodsfromNeidarbard!”

The acting mayor pushed away from the table and stood, wobbling from the effects of the ale. “Now, now, good folk of hic, Neidarbard. We have been hic, truly hic, blessed this day. Never before has a god, the god of Krynn, set foot in our hic, fair village. We must not be selfish, and hic, we must not-”

“Help!”

The cry was soft at first, giving Gustin Stoutbeard pause. But it was repeated, growing louder as the dwarf who was screaming it from afar barreled closer to the village. The musicians stopped playing, diners ended their conversations, forks were dropped, ale abandoned. All eyes turned to the panicked dwarf.

He was covered in honey, a gooey mess that plastered his beard and his hair close against his face. His chest was heaving, and he was holding his side from running so hard.

“Help,” he breathed. He gestured behind him and to the south.

The acting mayor quickly waddled to the dwarf’s side. “What’s wrong, hic, Puldar?”

“Uldred, Mesk,” he gasped. “They’re trapped in the giant honeycomb. The bees. You told us to get more honey for Reorx. We thought the great bees were gone from the higher chambers and we climbed in. But. .” He fell to his knees. “Gustin, the bees came, and Uldred plunged deep into the hive. Mesk followed him!”

All eyes shifted from the dwarf to the transformed dra-conian, who was backing away from the table, eyeing the mountains that rose invitingly at the far edge of the village.

“Reorx!” The kender with the twin topknots was practically standing on the table. “The Forge will save Uldred and Mesk!”

“The Forge!”

The sivak backed farther away, staggering a bit.

“You hic, can’t hic, leave now!” The acting mayor waddled toward the sivak, hands flapping and resembling the plump bird again.

“The affairs of the gods are above the affairs of mortals,” the draconian began. “If there will be no dance, I should leave now to hic, summon the other gods.”

“But, it’s Uldred!” A dwarven woman was crying, the one who had served him the delicious boar. “And Mesk! Oh, please save them, Reorx!”

“Save them, and then we’ll dance!” someone shouted.

The acting mayor took the sivak’s thick hand and tugged him toward the southern edge of the village. “Please,” he repeated, sobering a bit with the desperateness of the situation. “It can’t take so long to save hic, two young men, can it? Mishakal would understand, Solanari, too.”

“Where is the honeycomb?” The words came out too fast, a sibilant growl, but the acting mayor in his anxiety paid the tone no heed.

The rotund acting mayor tugged the god along. The entire village was stumbling after them, and murmurs of “Praise Reorx” and “Bless the Forge” filled the air.

“The bees don’t normally bother hic, anyone,” Gustin huffed as they went. “They ignore us, actually, as we don’t harvest that much honey, but Uldred and Mesk must’ve spooked the bees.”

Within moments the throng had passed beyond the last row of colorful houses, ducked under a string of merrily burning parchment lanterns, and now everyone was awkwardly racing toward a scattering of huge trees. There, stretched between two massive, ancient oaks, was a gigantic honeycomb. Even the sivak was astonished by the size of the construction. Nearly a dozen feet off the ground, each chamber was easily five feet across. The entire honeycomb was bigger than the biggest building in Neidarbard. A rope ladder dangled from one of the oaks, and the acting mayor quickly explained that the dwarves and kender climbed it to access the chambers and harvest the honey.

Three giant bees darted in and out of chambers at the top. They were bigger than draft horses, striped in stark bands of yellow and brown, their round eyes darker than a starless sky. Their legs were as wide around as healthy saplings, looking fuzzy with pollen. The buzzing that came from the constant movement of their wings practically drowned out the worried chatter of the townsfolk.

“Save them, please,” Gustin implored.

“Uldred and Mesk. They’re so young,” someone at the front of the crowd added. “You’re a god, the god, you could. .”

The draconian was no longer listening to them or to the incessant buzzing of the giant bees. He was listening to his heart, which had begun to beat louder and louder. He felt his fingers nervously tingling. It was near the time.

Or, the sivak idly wondered, was he feeling heartfelt concern for these young dwarves? They had, after all, been sent to get the honey just for him.

“Please save them, Reorx!”

“How hic, will you. .”

Acting impulsively, the sivak dropped the doll and ran toward the giant honeycomb, stumpy legs all a tingle as they churned over the grass. As he ran, he tried to shrug off the wooziness of the ale and shut out the pounding of his heart. The oak’s shadows stretched out toward him as he closed in, crouched, and, relying on his powerful leg muscles, sprang up into the air. Amid the startled ooohs and gasps of the Neidarbardians, he cleared the lower chambers and grabbed onto the honeycomb.

He thrust the sounds of his heart to the back of his mind and listened intently. Faintly he heard the young dwarves in the comb calling for help, their voices little more than echoes amid the buzzing of the bees, so loud here that it hurt his ears. The sivak clambered up quickly, just as the three giant bees darted down toward him.

The first bee closed in on him, as the sivak clung to the honeycomb, half-paralyzed by amazement. He saw his dwarven visage reflected in its mirrorlike eyes. Beautiful and horrifying and perfectly formed, its head swiveled back and forth, feelers twitching. The gust of wind created by its wings threatened to blow him off. The giant bee flew closer still, eyes fixed on him, and then he acted, slamming his dwarven fist hard against it. The great insect dropped, stunned, to the ground, and the next moved in.

The second giant bee he drove away with an impressive kick, banishing it to the highest branches of the oak, where it seemed to struggle, entangled. The third bee darted in, obviously intent on stinging the little intruder. The giant insect buffeted the sivak with his wings, then shot down and landed on his back, stinging and raking him with its barbed feet. However, the draconian, even in this form, could not be truly injured by a creature such as this. The biting and stinging mainly served to annoy him and help shake off the last dullness of the alcohol. His senses were clearing.

Below the townsfolk shouted their praise for Reorx.

“Only a god would not be hic, harmed by the giant bees!” exclaimed the acting mayor.

Finally the sivak managed to slip into a chamber, pulling the third giant bee in after him. Out of sight of the Neidarbardians, he swiftly broke the stupid creature’s neck. There were other bees in the honeycomb. He could hear them, deep in the tunnel-like chambers, buzzing around deafeningly.

He scrambled out and skittered to the top row, where the last rays of the sun painted the honeycomb orange as a dying ember. He pulled himself inside one of the topmost chambers and crawled quickly toward the soft cries of the trapped dwarves. He tunneled down, becoming terribly sticky with honey. Deeper still, and the cries were a little louder now. He moved at a frantic pace, worried for the dwarves that had risked their lives just to gain a little honey for him, practically sliding as the chamber sloped steeply down. Suddenly the tunnel dropped, and he found himself sliding down a path of honey. He landed in a large honey-filled room occupied by giant bees. They were workers tending a queen as enormous as a hatchling dragon. He marvelled at them for untold minutes, taking it all in. “Amazing,” he heard himself whisper.

The bees ignored him, as they ignored the two young dwarves wedged in the morass of honey below where the insects were toiling. Uldred and Mesk were stuck as if they’d sunk into quicksand. The two dwarves were calling to him now, shouting praises to Reorx, the god. He drew his attention away from the bees, and within moments he was at their side.

He managed to pull both of them up and out. They were so thoroughly coated with the gooey mess they could barely move. He decided it would be faster to carry them and tucked one under each arm. It took great effort to keep them from squirting out, for now he too was thoroughly coated with honey.

“Reorx!” the smaller cried. “We knew you would come save us!”

The sivak urged them to stay still as he scrabbled up into another tunnel chamber and listened for a moment to make sure no bees were in position to bar their way. He edged forward, the terrified and grateful dwarves under his powerful arms. His fingers were tingling almost painfully with the effort.

“You will be all right,” the sivak told them. “Gustin Stoutbeard, acting mayor of Neidarbard, is waiting outside and he will-” He heard something behind him and craned his thick neck around. A bee, a very large one, was laboriously making its way through the tunnel behind him. It lowered its head and buzzed its wings, the sound incredibly loud in the confined space. The boys slipped from his grasp, one managing to scramble forward and out the honeycomb, the other screaming as he slid back toward the great bee.

“Reorx!” the sliding young dwarf called. “Save me!”

Faintly, the draconian heard the townsfolk outside cheer. Obviously the one dwarf had made it to safety. As for the other. . He fixed his jaw determinedly and trundled toward the bee, which was gradually closing distance on the terrified dwarf.

“Mesk!” someone was hollering. The sivak thought he recognized the voice as belonging to the acting mayor. “Mesk! Climb down the ladder! Hurry! While the bees are still stunned.” There were other voices, but the draconian couldn’t make out what they were saying. His ears were ringing with the buzzing of the bee and the beating of his heart. His chest felt so tight.

It was long suspenseful moments after that before the other young dwarf finally clambered out of the honeycomb, coated with honey and trying hard to pull the gooey mass from his beard. Despite the sticky mess, both rescued dwarves were eagerly and noisily embraced by the relieved townspeople.

More suspenseful moments passed, as the townspeople waited.

“Reorx!” Gustin hollered. “Uldred, where’s Reorx?”

Uldred shook his head, trying again to pull the honey out of his short beard, so he could speak properly. “The god saved me-us.” He coughed up a gob of honey. “There was this ferocious bee, though, and he was wrestling with it, rolling back down into the depths. He yelled at me to go ahead. Told me he had to deal with that bee and then go summon all the other gods. That they were waiting for him. Then the bee and he just disappeared.” Uldred added solemnly, “I feel quite confident that he got out and that even now he is busy on his very important mission.”

“I’m sure you’re right,” said Gustin Stoutbeard with matching solemnity.

“Praise the Forge!” a kender cried. “He saved Uldred and Mesk. Praise Reorx!”

The shouts of gratitude continued as the crowd turned back to the village, where the band had started to strike up a nine again. Uldred paused and stared at something on the ground. A small rag doll.

He oh-so-gently picked it up and cradled it under his arm, slipped away from the crowd, and headed toward the mountains.

“It was nothing personal,” the young dwarf said as he glanced back at the honeycomb. There was a hint of regret on his ruddy face.