Dragons of Spring Dawning - Margaret Weis [135]
But there was death here, Tas knew; death and suffering. He’d seen too many die, too many suffer. His thoughts went to Flint, to Sturm, to Laurana.… Something had changed inside Tas. He would never again be like other kender. Through grief, he had come to know fear; fear not for himself but for others. He decided right now that he would rather die himself than lose anyone else he loved.
You have chosen the dark path, but you have the courage to walk it, Fizban had said.
Did he? Tas wondered. Sighing, he hid his face in his hands.
“No, Tas!” Tika said, shaking him. “Don’t do this to us! We need you!”
Painfully Tas raised his head. “I’m all right,” he said dully. “Where’s Caramon and Berem?”
“Over there,” Tika gestured toward the far end of the cell. “The guards are holding all of us together until they can find someone to decide what to do with us. Caramon’s being splendid,” she added with a proud smile and a fond glance at the big man, who was slouched, apparently sulking, in a far corner, as far from his ‘prisoners’ as he could get. Then Tika’s face grew fearful. She drew Tas nearer. “But I’m worried about Berem! I think he’s going crazy!”
Tasslehoff looked up quickly at Berem. The man was sitting on the cold, filthy stone floor of the cell, his gaze abstracted, his head cocked as though listening. The fake white beard Tika had made out of goat hair was torn and bedraggled. It wouldn’t take much for it to fall off completely, Tas realized in alarm, glancing quickly out the cell door.
The dungeons were a maze of corridors tunneled out of the solid rock beneath the Temple. They appeared to branch off in all directions from a central guardroom, a small, round, open-ended room at the bottom of a narrow winding staircase that bored straight down from the ground floor of the Temple. In the guardroom, a large hobgoblin sat at a battered table beneath a torch, calmly munching on bread and swilling it down with a jug of something. A ring of keys hanging on a nail above his head proclaimed him the head jailor. He ignored the companions; he probably couldn’t see them clearly in the dim light anyway, Tas realized, since the cell they were in was about a hundred paces away, down a dark and dismal corridor.
Creeping over to the cell door, Tas peered down the corridor in the opposite direction. Wetting a finger, he held it up in the air. That way was north, he determined. Smoking, foul-smelling torches flickered in the dank air. A large cell farther down was filled with draconians and goblins sleeping off drunken revels. At the far end of the corridor beyond their cell stood a massive iron door, slightly ajar. Listening carefully, Tas thought he could hear sounds from beyond the door: voices, low moaning. That’s another section of the dungeon, Tas decided, basing his decision on past experience. The jailor probably left the door ajar so he could make his rounds and listen for disturbances.
“You’re right, Tika,” Tas whispered. “We’re locked in some kind of holding cell, probably awaiting orders.” Tika nodded. Caramon’s act, if not completely fooling the guards, was at least forcing them to think twice before doing anything rash.
“I’m going over to talk to Berem,” Tas said.
“No, Tas”—Tika glanced at the man uneasily—“I don’t think—”
But Tas didn’t listen. Taking one last look at the jailor, Tas ignored Tika’s soft remonstrations and crawled toward Berem with the idea of sticking the man’s false beard back on his face. He had just neared him and was reaching out his small hand when suddenly the Everman roared and leaped straight at the kender.
Startled, Tas fell backward with a shriek. But Berem didn’t even see him. Yelling incoherently, he sprang over Tasslehoff and flung himself bodily against the cell door.
Caramon was on his feet now—as was the hobgoblin.
Trying to appear irritated at having his rest disturbed, Caramon darted a stern glance at Tasslehoff on the floor.
“What did you do to him?” the big man growled out of the side of his mouth.
“N-nothing, Caramon,