The Search For Magic

Dragon’s Throat

They say the upper reaches of Gimmenthal Glacier are so beautiful it’s hard to think. Goodness knows it’s hard to breathe. Tumbling down from the airless heights of Icewall, rugged, jumbled chunks of ice pack together to inch down onto the Plains of Dust. Ice crystals sparkle as they sift into pristine drifts spanning awesomely deep cobalt fissures in the massive river of ice. In the summer, so I’ve heard, it’s so quiet you can hear the melt-off trickle down into the shadowy blue depths of the broken ice to refreeze again once out of the baleful glare of the never-setting summer sun.

‘Course nobody much goes there. Even the Ice Nomads visit the head of the glacier only sporadically, and then in the gloom of winter to start the longest and most challenging of their Ice Boat races.

Nope, for thousands of years, nobody much cared about Gimmenthal Glacier at all. And then the kender came.

It’s not like the pesky little troublemakers suddenly decided to hike up the glacier to appreciate nature. Nah. The idiots prefer to camp in the mud, scores of miles from the heights of Icewall and about twenty miles east of Ice Mountain Bay, where Gimmenthal dies in a sprawl like the flow of dirty, molten wax from a cheap candleholder. Streaked with dirt, rock, and mud in ragged stripes, pushed into its midst as tributary glaciers join the mammoth torrent of ice in its inexorable downslope progress, Gimmenthal melts. Strange as it may seem, the kender come for the melting.

Y’see, in winter, that old glacier creeps forward onto the Plains of Dust, pushing mounds of gravel and top-soil before it. Come summer, it retreats again, leaving a pockmarked landscape of mounded earth and muddy pools of water. It’s this messy melt-off that makes the glacier so popular with kender not afflicted by the destruction of Kendermore by the great dragon Malystryx.

These merry, irrepressible kender long for adventure. They want to see and “handle” baubles and gewgaws of all sorts, trade ‘em, and “find” them yet again. But with the mood of Krynn these days, they find few enough places to be happy. Their afflicted cousins are no longer any fun. Every sheriff or Knight of Neraka they run into shuffles them off to jail. Magic is getting scarcer and less interesting all the time. And travelers are few and getting fewer as the Great Dragons close roads and terrified communities close their borders.

‘Bout the only bright spot for curious kender is, of course, a visit to the Tomb of the Last Heroes in Solace, where they can celebrate the mighty feat of Tasslehoff Burrfoot in defeating Chaos. They do this by mocking the Knights solemnly guarding the Tomb, sneaking over the fence to break chunks of marble off as souvenirs, and frolicking on the picnic grounds ‘neath the giant vallenwood trees with similarly inclined and often similarly named kender.

A visit to Solace is not enough for some kender, though, and many have taken to tracing Tasslehoff s journeys during his days as a Hero of the Lance, hoping to recapture the excitement of his encounters with dragons and draconians, gully dwarves and wooly mammoths. From Pax Tharkas to the Gates of Thor-bardin, they travel. Of course, the dwarves will not actually let the kender into Thorbardin, and the kender have no way to follow Tas’s journeys into the Abyss, but they do what they can. So began the kender trips to Icewall.

Once kender began trekking to Icewall, it was only a matter of time before one wayward traveler happened upon the melting terminus of Gimmenthal Glacier. The “discovery” of Gimmenthal Glacier (the locating of huge geographic features well-known and mapped by both the Ice Nomads and the dwellers on the Plains of Dust amounts to a “discovery” to a kender) would have occasioned no great fuss if it had not been for the items found there. For, y’see, the melting glacier gives up the stuff of kender dreams: random junk. Coins, weapons, bones of all sorts, rings, pots, canteens, half-rotted hats, belt-buckles, boots, utility knives, pouches, teeth, mangled and frayed rope, and on and on and on.

Apparently, at some time long forgotten, there was a battle between two mighty armies in the heights from which Gimmenthal Glacier flows. The battle remnants were quickly covered with endless snow. The snow compacted over eons into the hard ice of the glacier, and the battlefield items slowly wound their way down to the Plains of Dust to be revealed at the melting terminus of the glacier.

Not surprisingly, Gimmenthal-quickly dubbed “Gimme Glacier” by the excited “discoverer”-became a stopping point for curious kender on the way to Ice-wall. A constant stream of kender flock over the mud-piles, dredge the ponds of melt-off, sift through the piles of mounded gravel, and even mine the irregular icy edges and smaller fissures of the glacier itself, searching for buried treasure-well, treasure to kender anyway. Though the recovered items are mostly mundane items of metal or other sturdy construction, they are from an unknown and ancient time. One can never tell what wonders might be found. Better yet, the pickings are plentiful and, at first, no pesky sheriff or angry shopkeeper kept guard over the items, shooing kender away.

Then something happened, so they say.

Once he had heard of Gimme Glacier, there was no keeping Finderkeeper Rumplton away. A thirteenth cousin, twice removed, of Tasslehoff Burrfoot himself, Finderkeeper was determined to uphold the family honor, which of course meant wandering to as many places and finding as many things as he possibly could. Following in the steps of his famous ancestor-he was constantly looking down to see if he could actually see the steps of his famous ancestor-Finderkeeper had, at first, debated whether he should take the sidetrip to Gimme Glacier before or after visiting Icewall fortress. But when he heard from passing travelers that magic had recently been discovered among the items of Gimme Glacier, he made for the site straight away. Never mind that nobody knew what the magic did or if it would still work in these days of uncertain magical effects. Never mind that flocks of kender were already swarming all over the glacier, the gravel mounds, and the mudpits. Never mind that Finder-keeper wouldn’t know what to do with a magic item if he found one. Here was an opportunity not to be missed. He whistled at his good fortune, twirled his topknot three times around in excitement, and headed for Gimme Glacier with a look of acquisitiveness so determined that it caused a passing merchant to check his pouch twice.

The scene at Gimme Glacier was chaos itself, or at least what remnants of Chaos had survived Tasslehoff s noble sacrifice at the end of the Fourth Age of Krynn. Kender plunged headfirst into muddy pools searching in the slimy muck at the bottom for artifacts. Gravel flew everywhere as mounds were enthusiastically plundered for treasure. Picks thudded regularly into the face of Gimme Glacier as impatient kender attempted to hurry the impassive ice into revealing its secrets. Tripods, pulleys, and ropes dangled over crevasses on the face of the ice sheet itself as suspended kender attempted to inspect areas that might not melt for years to come. Gaggles of kender oohed and ahhed over mud-encrusted items, trying to figure out what they were. Disappointment showed when the items turned out to be mere armor buckles or stones, but not too much disappointment.

Finderkeeper threw himself into the fray. After numerous conversations with his incredibly talkative yet refreshingly truthful cousins, and some complex calculations, he picked a spot where he judged a sensible mage would have positioned himself in relation to the main line of battle. He climbed up onto the icy surface of the glacier and made his way almost thirty feet from the soft, melting edge. No one was looking here yet. After all, so far nothing had been found near this spot. He set to exploring the crevasses-already more than ten feet deep even so close to the melting edge of the glacier.

It was dangerous. A slip into the crevasse and he would fall until it narrowed enough to pin him. Then the ice would quickly drain away heat from his body, most likely too quickly for him to be saved, even if his fellow kender were paying enough attention to hear his cries for help above the hubbub and commotion.

Late the next afternoon, however, he found his prize: an odd piece of smooth, pinkish stone with a rounded knob at one end, tapering to a flat oval at the other. No bigger than a small skipping stone, it seemed to glow from within as it lay frozen in the crevasse wall, suffusing a rosy hue to the ice-blue of the fresh chasm. An hour later, his fingers numb from digging at the frozen wall with his dagger, Finderkeeper held the object in his hands. His fingers warmed from its mere touch. This must be magic. Given the age of the other relics that had been found here, Finderkeeper Rum-plton was sure that this was lost Irda magic.

He couldn’t contain himself. Faster than a shopkeeper blocks the entrance to his store at the sight of an approaching kender, Finderkeeper leaped up from his mining crevasse and hollered, “I found Irda magic!” He might have been trampled in the excited onrush of treasure-fevered kender had not a squad of Knights of Neraka been busily rounding up the treasure-seekers for search and interrogation. Instead, the few nearest kender were the only ones to run over and marvel over Finderkeeper’s discovery.

News of magic travels fast. Finderkeeper had arrived at Gimme Glacier only a day before the Knights of Neraka. Sensing, as did the mages of Krynn, the waning power of their magic, the great dragons sought magic artifacts over all else. Their lackeys, the Knights of Neraka, did their bidding, tracking down and taking all magic that they could find. Just as Finderkeeper had been loosing the Irda magic from the glacier’s chilly grip, the Knights had arrived and taken charge of the search for magic at Gimmenthal Glacier.

Vern Hasterck, Commander of the squad of Knights, found no joy in his assignment to Gimmenthal Glacier. It was bad enough that the squad had to do a three-day forced march over the Plains of Dust to arrive quickly, but the southern reaches of the Plains would now be better called the Plains of Mud. Melt-off from the encroaching glacial fingers of Icewall had created a myriad of streams, ponds, and lakes-all unmapped and numbingly cold to cross. The swampy terrain yielded naught but swarms of accursed mosquitoes and biting flies, yet here he was to remain indefinitely, camped in the muck at the foot of a giant slab of ice, trying to corral kender into work details until something useful to his magic-craving dragonmaster could be found. Then and only then could he leave this frozen wasteland.

He could scarcely believe his good fortune when, mere hours after arrival, he heard one of the feckless kender cry out, “I found Irda magic!”

“Seize that kender!” he shouted to his troops. Find-erkeeper heard the order and, after looking quickly over his shoulder to see who the nasty-looking Knight Commander might be talking about, uttered a squeak and backed away. “Take all his goods and bring them to me!”

While being seized is an annoying bother to most kender, the words “take all his goods” are the closest that non-afflicted kender know to actually inspiring fear, or at least aggravation.

“It’s mine! I found it!” protested Finderkeeper as he continued backing away from the squad of Knights moving through the milling kender.

A tumult of protest arose from the kender. Murmurs and shouts of “He’s right!”

“Leave him alone!”

“Find your own magic!” and “Run for it, boy!” erupted from all sides. The commotion was rising, and a fullscale kender riot threatened to break out at any moment. Hasterck was not about to let his chance of getting out of this assignment be missed because of mere kender.

“Kill anyone who gets in your way-anyone who helps him.” Hasterck joined his men in rushing toward Finderkeeper.

Finderkeeper’s squeak was even louder than before, as he turned his heels on the Knights and headed south, up the flowing river of ice. Fortunately, the Knights were tired from their forced march and, though longer of stride than the scampering Finderkeeper, they were unable to gain ground on their quarry.

Hasterck cursed as the quick solution to his unhappy situation scampered upslope, out of reach of his lumbering soldiers. He could not let this opportunity slip away, but he also had to see to the kender camp. Something else, something better and more readily taken might be found. As twilight fell, Hasterck divided the squad into two segments. The majority turned back under his Second-in-Command to question, search, and organize the kender that had not taken the chance to skedaddle during their temporary reprieve from the reaches of authority.

Looking back, Finderkeeper was disappointed to see that the second segment included the two largest Knights and the Knight Commander and that they had set up camp on his trail. It seemed like a lot of fuss and bother. Sure, he had found Irda magic, but he didn’t know what it did or what it used to do. Still, it was his magic and he meant to keep it.

Finderkeeper tried to push on, but it was difficult in the dark. The solitary moon had not yet risen to guide him, and the crevasses grew deeper, wider, and more assuredly deadly as he progressed up the glacier. He angled toward the western edge in the hope that it would be less dangerous, when he was suddenly grabbed by his topknot and hoisted into the air.

“Look what I found, Thrak!” bellowed the large, sinewy Ice Nomad holding Finderkeeper aloft. “If huntin’ don’t improve, we can always take this varmint back for roasting.”

“Put him down, Bodar,” ordered a taller, lankier Ice Nomad on the rocky crags at the edge of the glacier. “That’s no way to teach Garn hospitality on his first hunting trip.” He nodded toward a nearby overhang, where a young boy sat sharpening a spear as he huddled for warmth.

Finderkeeper did his best to retain his composure and not flail about as Bodar carried him by his topknot to the edge of the glacier and set him down upon a large boulder covered with lichens. After gingerly smoothing his topknot, Finderkeeper stuck out his hand toward Thrak, obviously the native with the greatest intelligence, or at least the greatest respect for kender hair.

“Finderkeeper Rumplton, adventurer extraordinaire,” he said in as formal a tone as the gregarious kender could muster.

“Thrak D’Nar, my son Garn, and I think you have already met Bodar.”

“There’s ‘met’ and there’s ‘well met,’ “ intoned the kender. “He would do well to work on the latter.”

“Sorry, Rumpled Bum,” said Bodar gruffly. “You haven’t scared off all the game have you? Mammoth are hard enough to find these days, without the likes of you running them off.”

“Rumplton. Finderkeeper Rumplton. And, no, I didn’t see any mammoths, though I very much would like to do so. Do you think any are nearby? Is that what you eat for food?”

“During the winter we dig up hibernating lemmings and ground squirrels because it’s so hard to travel most times,” volunteered Garn.

“Arrr, boy, don’t be telling him we eat frozen rodents,” Bodar interrupted. “We’re hunters. Don’t you worry, Thrak and me, we’ll find you a mammoth. You just be ready, boy. Do what you need to do. That’s what a hunter does to feed his family.”

Thrak looked at Bodar sternly, but without anger. “And if he needs to dig up hibernating lemmings, that’s what a hunter does to feed his family, too, Bodar.”

“Bazfaz!” muttered the Ice Nomad as he turned away and sought out a good place to sit amongst the jumble of rock.

Finderkeeper fidgeted a bit in the ensuing silence. “I would be happy to share some of the provisions I have with me if, in the morning, you could point me in the direction of a good passage to Ice Mountain Bay. I understand that there might be a trail along the shore that I can take… er… away from this place.”

“Provisions or no, the knowledge is yours for the asking. We-all of us-appreciate the hospitality.”

“All the same,” gruffed Bodar, “mind your possessions Garn. Once something finds its way into a kender’s hands, ‘tis seldom seen again.”

The cold hardtack and jerky that the kender had tucked into one of his pouches long ago were surprisingly well received by the Ice Nomads. Finderkeeper found a ready listener to his tales of adventure in Garn and soon after they had eaten, all were fast asleep.

The nights are short in Icewall in the summer, however, and Finderkeeper was distraught to realize that it was fully light when he awoke. He hastily gathered up his meager belongings and was approaching Thrak for directions when he heard a cry from Bodar, high on the rocky cliff above him. “Warriors! On the ice. Three of them.”

Thrak jumped onto a nearby tumble of rocks and looked in the direction that Bodar pointed. Garn joined him. The Knights had seen the Ice Nomads and were headed toward them.

“I, perhaps, should have mentioned that my haste to leave this lovely land was motivated by the compelling circumstance that these Knights, which Bodar has so cleverly located are, erp, well, they are seeking to murder me and take my possessions, which could he interesting… heing murdered, I mean, not having my possessions taken-that’s happened hefore. Somehow, being murdered sounds exciting but vaguely unpleasant and terribly permanent, so if you don’t mind I will just be heading on my way. If you could kindly point me on my way to Ice Mountain Bay, I will thank you very kindly for your gracious hospitality. I am very sorry for any trouble I have caused.”

“Did you steal from them, little one?”

“I, Finderkeeper Rumplton, am not a crook! These… these… ruffians are seeking to seize a valuable artifact legitimately mined from the ice of this very glacier. I dug it out of the ice with these very fingers!” exclaimed the kender, holding out his bruised and scratched hands. “Hmmm. I wonder where that nail-clipper I got from that gnomish merchant is?”

Garn stepped up close to Thrak. “If you are truly on the run from bandits, whatever uniform they wear, honor demands that we protect you. Right, father?”

“You have learned well, son.” Thrak looked at the armor and weapons of the well-equipped and muscular Knights. “But, perhaps, we could negotiate a purchase of your item for your pursuers.” He stood and signaled the Knights that he wished to parley.

Commander Hasterck was even more cranky today than yesterday, if that were possible. A cold night hunkered down on a slab of ice will do that to a warrior. The fact that his armor was as frigid as the glacier beneath him did not help. The fact that he had to traverse gaping chasms in the ice and that his leather boots slipped and slid on the wet sheen of the glacier as the sun rose did not help either. Finding that the elusive kender had found refuge with the natives of this accursed iceland really set him off.

“Zeke, Dirk,” Hasterck growled, “take no prisoners.”

“And the hunters become the hunted,” mumbled Thrak. “They do not seem inclined to talk. Garn, Bodar. Over the ridge as quick as you can.”

Bodar grumbled something about meeting their foes in noble battle, but deferred to Thrak’s judgment to make a run for it. After all, Garn was too young to hold his own in a fight, and a father had to protect his son. Finderkeeper started to apologize for all the trouble he was causing them, but Thrak turned and headed up the ridge. “Hurry. Dragon’s Throat is our only chance.” Finderkeeper’s apologies died on his somewhat bluish lips. “Dragon’s Throat? Sounds interesting, but is that really the most advisable co- Yipe!” Bodar, muttering to himself about how he liked Knights of Neraka even less than kender, snatched his topknot yet again to set him on his way. Looking down the rock-strewn mountain-side at the pursuing Knights and back up at his potential saviors, Finderkeeper decided that the odds were considerably better if he kept up with the Ice Nomads’ trek over the mountain pass that they kept belittling by calling a ridge. Besides, the Ice Nomads might have something interesting in their pouches to trade. The Knights, on the other hand, did not look inclined to bargain. Yessiree, the Ice Nomads were the best bet in his current ignoble situation.

Moving westward up the steep, granite slope, Find-erkeeper could see that the ridge was the dwindling spine of a considerable upthrust of mountainous terrain to the south from which glaciers spilled to either side.

At midday, they reached the crest of the ridge. To the west was a green valley littered with boulders and clear, round pockets of water. A stream meandered along the surprisingly flat valley floor. Apparently the glacier that Finderkeeper could barely make out far to the south had once reached this far down the valley and had gouged the terrain flat between two spiny mountain ridges. Ice Mountain Bay glittered beyond the next ridge. Finderkeeper searched the sky and the rocky crags for dragons, nesting or flying, but found none. Instead hundreds of terns wheeled in the sky and roosted in holes along the cliff-face.

The way down was quicker than the way up. Following the lead of Thrak and Garn before him, Finder-keeper leaped zigzaggedly from side to side of the goat path, letting gravity do the work, while the loose shale and gravel absorbed some of the speed and allowed him to control his descent. It was tiring all the same and the spongy valley floor was a welcome relief from the sharp corners and loose shale of the descent. The kender expected a mad dash across the valley floor, then another arduous climb over the next ridge separating them from Ice Mountain Bay. Instead, Thrak turned southward, up the valley toward the distant Icewall.

Perhaps, the kender thought, reinforcements live in this lovely valley. Thrak said nothing, but trudged onward. Garn looked about with interest at the surroundings. It became clear to Finderkeeper that the boy had never been here before. So much for reinforcements.

Finderkeeper ran to catch up with Thrak and pulled on his goafs-wool tunic. “Excuse me, D’Nar, but they’ll catch us eventually on flat ground.” Already he could see the Knights of Neraka scrambling down the slope behind them-fortunately not as expertly or quickly as the Ice Nomads and the kender had done.

Thrak did not turn his gaze from the wall of ice far ahead. He looked only at it and at the stream gurgling along on the valley floor. “They won’t catch us before we reach the ice. That’s not what I am afraid of,” stated Thrak. “Garn. You be ready. If I say ‘Go’, you run as fast as you can to the near cliffs and climb as fast and as high as you can. Don’t wait for anything, you understand, boy? Not me, not Bodar, and not the kender. And don’t stop climbing, no matter what. You, Rumplton, do the same. Not that it is likely to help, not with your short legs.” With that, Thrak picked up the pace and Finder-keeper trudged along, too breathless to ask more questions. It was a peaceable valley. What was all the worry?

As they got closer to the wall of ice at the head of the valley, Finderkeeper began to hear rumbles from far ahead, like an approaching thunderstorm. But no cloud appeared in the sky. A particularly sharp crack caused Thrak to stop for a moment and stare. Bodar collided with the back of Finderkeeper as the kender also paused. “I don’t understand,” stammered the kender to his topknot tormenter. “Is it going to storm?”

“Nah, little one,” growled the hunter. “The Dragon’s just coughing a bit Now move along. No time to dawdle here.”

Zeke, Dirk, and Knight Commander Vern Hasterck also enjoyed the soft and relatively clear level ground of the valley floor. The insect pests were admittedly more of a problem here, but not as bad as on the plains approaching Gimmenthal Glacier. Here the pools of water were clear and briskly cold. Wildflowers dotted the valley floor. As the area went, Hasterck thought that this was a good place to settle. That worried him. The Ice Nomads could find reinforcements, though none of them had been able to see any settlement in the flats from their earlier high vantage point.

“Ice folk are too stupid to live in a green valley,” smirked Zeke. “They want to shiver on the ice where they are safe from animals and enemies.”

“Cowards, everyone of them,” agreed Dirk. “Look at them scamper away. When the battle comes, they’ll freeze for sure.”

Both laughed heartily at that, but Vern Hasterck wasn’t so sure. Something was going on. Something he didn’t understand.

It was almost dark as they approached the towering wall of ice filling the valley from spiny edge to edge. Thrak led them to the western cliff-face from whence the ice flowed down, and they climbed high up along the edge of the glacial spill. Finderkeeper looked longingly at the verdant green valley floor below-a better place to sleep if it hadn’t been for the Knights pursuing them. The Knights obviously agreed, as they had made a camp in the valley, complete with a roaring fire for warmth, by the time that the Ice Nomads and the kender stopped climbing.

Finderkeeper was ready to sleep, but Thrak and Bodar obviously still had plans for the evening. “The Dragon’s almost ready,” Finderkeeper overheard Thrak say.

“Aye, you’re right about that. I heard the coughing myself.”

“We need to tickle her throat a bit. That’s all there is to it. I’ll be the one.”

“No, Thrak. I’ll go. You’ve much to teach Garn yet.”

With that, Bodar picked up his axe and headed down the rocks to the top of the wall of ice.

“If you don’t mind my asking,” interjected Finder-keeper as Thrak watched Bodar depart. “What is this Dragon’s Throat you keep talking about? If I am going to die, I might as well die well informed.”

Thrak just turned away, but Garn spoke up. “The valley below is the Dragon’s Throat. I’ve heard of it before, but never seen it. You see, the glacier from the western edge here is not at the head of the valley. The valley continues far back south, where sits another glacier, providing a good bit of melt-off due to how the western winds come through the mountain passes. The glacier here advances down into the valley each winter, crossing it and grinding up against the eastern ridge. The advancing ice completely blocks the water from the melt-off up-valley and a lake forms behind the dam of ice.”

Scratching his head, Finderkeeper peered into the darkness to the south. Indeed, he could see a huge lake almost even with the top of the ice dam extending far to the south.

“As the spring and summer come, the ice dam begins to melt and the blocking glacier begins to retreat. At some point, the rising water begins to spill over the ice dam-a trickle at first, but quickly and fiercely erosive. Within minutes the water begins to cut through the ice dam. In less than an hour, the Dragon roars and the entire lake empties out down the valley. That’s why no one lives there. It’s not safe.”

“But where did Bodar go?”

Thrak, who had listened approvingly to Gam’s explanation, interrupted. “She’s not quite ready, but with Bodar’s help, she’ll go hy dawn.”

Indeed, in the distance, Finderkeeper could hear the methodical wet smack of Bodar’s ice pick on the top of the ice dam. If the Knights heard it, they paid it no mind. Thrak could see their flickering campfire below.

Hasterck was up at dawn. Today they would catch the Ice Nomads and the kender, and the Irda magic, whatever it was, would be his-or at least his master’s. He took care of his morning ablutions and then squatted at the stream to fill his canteen with the clear, cold water that flowed from the edge of the glacier. It must be warming slightly, he thought. The stream looked higher than he remembered from the evening before.

Suddenly there was a sharp crack, as if lightning had struck nearby. He turned to see a huge slab of ice break off the face of the ice wall several hundred yards up-valley. Though startling, it did not immediately frighten him. Their camp was far enough back that the slab would do it no harm.

What did frighten him severely an instant later was the cascade of water flowing rapidly over the scarred edge of the ice that had just calved. The glint of the crystal water rushing over the deep cobalt of the freshly exposed ice flank was beautiful, but he also knew it was deadly. He ran as fast as he could to the western cliff, yelling for Zeke and Dirk to awake and follow. He knew that they would not make it in time. He was unsure if he would. He climbed as if his life depended on it, because it did.

Bodar’s arms ached with a weariness he had never known. His hands no longer responded to his commands. They were fixed in a death grip on the handle of his axe. The freezing water dulled the pain that had fired through his hands for the first few hours, but he knew that the best he could hope for from his evening’s activities was that both his hands would turn black- frozen more solidly than the hibernating lemmings they dug up for food. As the early dawn approached, his efforts had grown more and more fevered. Finally, he had completed the narrow trench, and the water had begun to flow.

It all happened so fast after that. One moment, he had been hacking through still water of the makeshift trench in the top of the ice dam. The next moment, the water was moving swiftly through the trench, doubling its depth in seconds. Then the water seeped into unseen cracks with a gushing force that opened them ever wider. A rumble caused the trench to fork and he realized, too late, that he stood on the most unstable portion of the dam. A sharp crack and the huge V-shaped slab of ice on which he stood broke free of the dam and plummeted down the face of the ice cliff. A torrent of frigid water raced the berg.

He knew as he died that the Dragon had roared in time.

Thrak, Garn, and Finderkeeper had watched through the night, sleeping only fitfully. They worried as they saw the Commander of the Knights awake and begin to break camp. Then they, too, heard the crack of the glacier’s thunder. For a moment, they glimpsed Bodar, upright, before the ice sheeted off beneath him and the water started its tumultuous rampage.

A moment before, the tremendous lake behind the ice dam had been a placid mirror, reflecting the red and purple of the sun rising above the snow-capped spires of the eastern ridge of the valley. The wake of a water bird spread out over the calm surface and lapped gently at the top of the dam as a loon heralded daybreak in the distance. But Bodar’s trench was more than a mere slit in the ice dam, it gave the coursing water a way into a multitude of cracks and fissures in the melting glacier. The surface of the lake lurched downward and crashed into the valley below. Rumbles quickly became pops and huge, thunderous claps, as the disintegrating glacial dam shuddered and broke into giant, tumbling slabs of ice.

The tumultuous surge carved off tremendous, unstable bergs of ice and created a wall of rushing, foaming, angry water and house-sized chunks of ice that inundated the peaceful green valley at more than twice the speed of a galloping horse. Birds nesting in the valley grasses squawked as they wheeled upward, abandoning their eggs. Tremendous boulders littering the valley floor, perhaps from the aftermath of prior onslaughts, were picked up by the force of the water and tossed about like an angry child’s marbles. Cliff-sides collapsed into the torrent as the ice-slabs and rushing water eroded their underpinnings.

In less than a minute, the camp of the Knights was flung down the valley by rushing, freezing water. In two minutes, the water at the camp was a boiling, turbulent flow of fearsome waves and white-water spray. In five minutes, the wall of water hurtling down the valley was creating a roar so tremendous that they could not hear each other yelling in fear.

Everything on the valley floor was shattered and destroyed. In ten minutes, the valley was filled with water more than fifty feet deep. The edges of the spiny ridges that confined the flow were stripped clean of vegetation. The terns had fled, and outcroppings of rock were falling into the roiling, stampeding water below.

In less than twenty minutes, a lake seven miles long and more than one hundred and twenty feet deep had almost completely emptied. The ice dam was gone, leaving nothing but a stump of glacier flowing down from the western ridge, dangling precariously over the open space where the dam once held back the waters from up-valley. The Dragon had roared, and Finder-keeper now knew just a little bit of what his afflicted cousins had felt at the fall of Kendermore. The destruction was demoralizing in its speed and completeness.

The sight had been wondrous and frightening. It had saved life, and it had caused death. The rocks on which they sat, high above the devastation, had rumbled and complained. When it was over, they remained alive, each with their own thoughts on nature, sacrifice, knowledge, existence, and death. Thrak said a few words for Bodar. Garn’s eyes filled with tears, but he made no sound. Finderkeeper decided that his hair-tormentor was a pretty good guy, after all.

They heard the Knight Commander before they saw him. His incessant cursing gave him away. Somehow he had made it far enough up the western ridge to escape the worst, and he held on above the cauldron of freezing, roiling death, the adrenaline building a rage in him that mirrored the destruction of the Dragon’s roar itself. The remaining three companions knew that their adventure was not yet over and hastened up the ridge, for the chase was on again.

It was possible that they might defeat the Knight Commander in a battle. He was but one and they were three. But the long spears that Garn and Thrak carried for use against the mammoths were of little help in a close quarters battle, and Finderkeeper had naught but a dagger that he had been holding for his Uncle Both-eragain. The Knight was armored and well-weaponed with longsword and mace. Not to mention that he was enraged… really, really enraged.

There is little to say of the climb and descent that followed. The bright sun shone down on a narrow arm of the Ice Mountain Bay northwest of them as they reached the crest of the last ridge. The glacial fields that had spawned the ice dam lay west and south. They headed toward the bay as the tide turned and the water seeped away from their approach. By the time they had reached the shore many, many hours later, the tide was low and mud flats stretched from edge to edge across the finger of water.

“If we can make it across the flats before the tide turns,” sputtered a weak and weary kender, “maybe the water will cut off our truly dedicated but thoroughly exasperating pursuer.”

“No,” said Thrak. “We stand here.” He turned to Garn. “No matter what befalls, do not venture onto the flats.”

“I know, Father. I know.”

Finderkeeper was befuddled but too tired to want to run across several miles of open mudflats. Besides, he wasn’t sure how soon the tide would be turning anyhow. Drowning did not really sound like an interesting way to die. They said you just drifted off into unconsciousness, but he couldn’t figure out how they would really know that. Didn’t only dead people really know, one way or the other?

“Maybe if we just give him the magic thing,” he volunteered weakly, taking the small carved item out of the scroll case in which he had put it for safekeeping.

“Too late,” said Thrak, and then the Knight Commander was upon them.

Like the onslaught they had just witnessed at dawn, the Commander rushed at them without subtlety or tactics, but with amazing brute force. Both Thrak and Garn managed to stab at him as he charged at the group, but the force of his rush was so great that he struck the spear out of Garn’s hands before it had penetrated the leather joint in his armor. Thrak held on to his weapon, driving his spear into the upper arm of the Commander, but it slashed through muscle without striking bone, and tore out the side. There was no chance to regroup before the roaring maniac was atop them.

Thrak did his best to shield Garn from immediate harm, but not so much as to diminish the boy’s honor in this, his only battle. Finderkeeper drew Uncle Botheragain’s dagger, but found no opening. As quick as the hands of a kender are, he was no match for a fully armored and well-muscled human. Trying to keep his wits about him, Finderkeeper stabbed at the Knight’s boots, but the leather was sturdy and thick, and Uncle Botheragain’s blade was really not up to the task.

Suddenly, the tidal bore-a small, perhaps twelve inch inch high, wall of water that marked the turning of the tide-could be seen entering the narrow bay at its seaward end.

“Quickly!” said Gam, grabbing the kender. “Give me the scrollcase!”

Finderkeeper did as he was told. “But it doesn’t-”

Before he could say more, Garn grabbed the scroll-case and held it up. “You want the magic?” he cried hoarsely at the top of his lungs. “Then get it before the sea takes it!” He flung the scroll case out onto the mudflats, where it landed and rolled to a stop about forty feet offshore.

Perhaps Garn hoped that the Knight Commander would go after the magic and they would escape. Perhaps Garn knew only that he would be able by this maneuver to avenge his own death.

Vern Hasterck looked at the scrollcase and the approaching tidal bore. He looked at the three staggering defenders. There was enough time.

Focusing his remaining strength, the Knight Commander feinted back to gain room to swing. With a bellowing roar, he slashed in a wide, horizontal arc. He deliberately swung just over the boy’s head, overbearing Garn’s hasty effort to parry with his spearshaft, so that the boy could see his father die first. He need not have bothered, for Thrak threw himself into the slashing blade in a desperate attempt to purchase his son’s life at the cost of his own, with a final thrust of his hunting knife at the head of their berserk attacker. His blade glanced noisily off the helm of the Knight, gouging the thick metal with its force but causing little real damage.

Finderkeeper followed Thrak’s lead. Too short to reach the head or heart, he stepped into the stride of the rampaging Knight in an attempt to cripple his enemy’s mobility with a thrust into the crease of his leg-armor. But Hasterck recognized the gambit and let the force of his arcing blow against Thrak carry his left leg up and into the side of the closing kender. Finderkeeper went down, falling hard onto the smooth stone pebbles and rocks on the shore of the bay. Although, in any other situation, Finderkeeper would have taken a moment to pick out several of the best weathered rocks for his pouch, in this particular situation he grabbed the armored leg that had connected with his ribcage and held on for dear life. Even Finderkeeper’s full weight and strength did not slow the rampaging warrior.

Hasterck reversed his sword stroke and lunged at Garn, aiming lower this time. Before the boy’s body had even fallen to the blood-soaked beach, Hasterck dropped his sword and reached down for the kender. Finderkeeper spit in the Knight’s face. Uncle Bothera-gain had taught him that, when he was but a wee one back in Kendermore, but he had never had much use for spitting, until this particular instance.

Putting one hand on the kender’s chin and wrapping the other around Finderkeeper’s tangled topknot, Hasterck gave a sudden twist. Finderkeeper’s last thought was that the sound of splintering bone, combined with a sudden subsiding of all pain, was really quite interesting. Then, the kender thought no more.

Before Finderkeeper’s limp body once again hit the smooth stones he would never finger, Hasterck sprinted onto the mudflats to retrieve the scroll case.

The mud was soft and sucked at his legs during his rapid strides, but his momentum carried him out to the scrollcase. He stopped to pick it up. Immediately he sank in the soft saltwater mud to mid-thigh, the mud releasing a flood of water as he sank. It was only then he realized that as the mud released water, it gripped his legs in a viselike hold. He did not sink further, but he could not free himself. As if held by stone, his legs would not move-not an inch, not at all. He grabbed his dagger and cut at the bindings to his leg armor, feeling certain that cutting away the inflexible and weighty material would allow him to move. It was to no avail.

He tried not to panic. Grab the scrollcase so the magic does not flow away when the tidal bore hits, he thought. Remove the armor, so when the water comes, you can just float away to safety.

It was a plan. It should work. He grabbed the scroll-case, his prize, as the tidal bore broke over his waist with the stabbing feel of a thousand icy, vengeful knives. He waited as the shock subsided. Certainly the mud, infused now with water, would loosen around his legs. It would be unpleasant, even dangerous, but he could still float away.

But the mud did not loosen. It gripped him tighter. Soon he could not feel his legs, whether from the death grip of the accursed mud or the numbing coldness of the water of Ice Mountain Bay he did not know. The tide was quickly moving up his body. The cold was so great that he was unsure if his chest would refuse to take breath even before his head was covered by the water.

Perhaps the magic could save him. It was insane to think so, but he had to try. He opened up the scrollcase and found it empty. That bastard had tricked him! The magic was probably in one of the kender’s accursed pockets. The swearing that had occurred earlier on the face of the cliff while the Dragon roared was tame in comparison to what spewed forth from the Commander’s blue lips now.

The water crept higher. His breath came in ragged, shallow gasps. His body was numb. His lips quivered in the cold. His thoughts slowed and became confused. He had to do something, but what? He wanted to rest, to give in, but his training permeated through his murky thinking.

Perhaps, he thought, he could use his dagger to cut off his legs and somehow struggle to shore. The numbing effect of the water could be a blessing in disguise. He vaguely realized that there was some problem or danger or difficulty in this, but couldn’t fathom what it might be. It was a plan. It should work.

He mustered all his waning strength to the effort, to the plan, but his numbed fingers fumbled with the blade. At the last, he realized that he could not even tell if he held the knife any longer, if he might even be cutting into his own flesh.

The bard finished his tale as the tribe of Ice Nomads glanced at one another. The weeping of Thrak’s widow pierced the quiet of the night upon the ice fields. A small boy, however, tugged at the brightly colored tunic of the traveling bard. “But how,” he asked, “do you know the tale is true, if none survived?”

“Sometimes,” whispered the bard, fingering an oddly shaped, pinkish stone, “they say, the truth is not the noblest thing about a tale.”