Kender, Gully Dwarves And Gnomes

I

It woke in warm darkness. A musical voice, not quite deep and not quite high, spoke. "I'll get it for you."

The weight rocked.

A higher, childlike voice said almost sadly, "No. I don't want it back. You can never get rid of the smell, you know."

The weight settled. Something wet and thick was dripping around it, seeping a little at a time in through tiny pits on the blade. "Blade," it thought, half-asleep. "I have a blade."

And a moment later, more sharply, "I taste blood."

The blood was rank and bitter, laden with strange salts. The thing knew, without knowing how, that it had tasted better blood than this — better than this goblin blood.

As more dripped on the blade, it suddenly thought clearly, "I'm a dagger. I'm a dagger, stuck through a goblin's heart."

A new voice that seemed to come from everywhere laughed, each word chiming like a falling icicle.

Poor pet. You hardly know yourself. And it laughed again.

Though the voice sounded as if it could be anything — rock, corpse, wind, or weapon — the dagger thought of it as "she."

You can't see yourself, can barely feel yourself, and don't know yourself at all. Her voice showed casual contempt for weakness. You've only just fed, and it wasn't very good, was it? She purred, soon you will feed again, perhaps many times.

The dagger quivered with pleasure and fear; something about that voice… As the dagger moved, the surface of the congealing blood broke, and fresh drops fell all the way to the cross-piece. "Cross-piece," it thought uncertainly. "I must be a dagger."

The voice, colder than goblin corpse, said, I hinted that you were not. Many have mistaken you for a dagger more times than you can dream of. Fools have died for that.

The dagger strained to hear more, its slow mind uncomprehending. Movement was harder as the flesh around it stiffened.

She went on, you look like worn, half tamished silver work. You have a pommel shaped like the head of a — she hesitated — a serpent, for one thing. Your cross-piece is a pair of talons, like a falcon's or an eagle's, and your tail is a scale-carved, six-inch blade. You feed through that, not through your mouth. You also do… other things with it, pet.

She knows me, the dagger thought, and ever so slightly wagged its tail. The cooling blood stirred again. The dagger drank.

I know you well. You are not metal and were not forged by any hand, not even by my own. Long ago, your race was common. You were born to feed on those who used you, owned you, or had kinship. Blood stirred you; murder fed you; war multiplied you. In some autumn sunsets, the sky would darken early with your numbers, and the beating of your wings was like the roar of battle as you swept down on village after village.

Her tone changed.

Later there was… one who knew magic, though not as I knew it. I shall not name that name here. You and yours were put to sleep, without food, through the centuries. most died. you are one of the last.

A few years ago, a foolish peddler dug you up and carried you far south, hoping to trade you as a relic from some pre cataclysm war. That was well, and was my bidding. but he sold you to a dwarf, a lumpish, sickly brute who does not do my bidding.

In the cold body, the dagger shivered at her voice. When the lady — she must be at least that — commanded, one did her bidding and hoped to live. Its little mind could not imagine disobedience, or its consequences.

Now I bid you, pet. The dwarf must die — partly to feed you, partly for disobeying, and partly, she added indifferently, Because he aids one who would be my enemy, if he but had the power. That is reason enough for the dwarf's death, if i needed reasons.

But it was another who stabbed you into the goblin, who wielded you just now; I bid you to kill him, too — he and the dwarf — because I ask it. You need blood to do what you now must; I need all blood because I choose it. Find your owner, your user, your food; drink deep and do my bidding. Go. Now. The voice ceased.

The dagger strained to hear more. After a moment, slowly and painfully, it curled its talons on the cross-piece, grasping the flabby folds of the goblin's skin. Gradually it worked itself free and pulled itself out from under the body. Once in the open air, it crawled rapidly along the path, moving and looking as though it were an injured lizard.

Ahead it heard the high, childlike voice of the user — the dagger's next kill by right of use. The ruby eyes dimly made out curly brown hair, a fleece vest, and some sort of stick that the short creature was walking with, then spinning to make noise. The high voice was giggling. "Besides," he said, "That dagger was Flint's!"

The dagger swiveled its short stiff body, the hilt with wings, to peer at the squat figure who grunted in annoyance next. He had muscular arms and an age-lined silhouette, and he carried an axe bound to his belt.

"Flint," the dagger thought. "The dwarf who owned me. Owner and user. Both my food."

But the two, and a third one, their tall, bearded companion, turned and climbed the steps that wound up the trunk of a massive vallenwood tree. The dagger, attempting the first step, scuttled quickly aside as a great many people stepped past, going up and down.

A less simple, more wide-awake mind would have been frustrated. The dagger had slept more than a thousand years; it lay in the brush and waited patiently for the three to return.