Dragons of Winter Night - Margaret Weis [113]
Tas studied the painting, trying to remember. On the wall directly across from him was pictured a horrible scene of dragons of every color and description descending upon the land. Towns blazed in flames—like Tarsis—buildings crumbled, people were fleeing. It was a terrible sight, and the kender hurried past it.
He continued walking along the balcony, his eyes on the painting. He had just reached the central portion of the mural when he gasped.
“The Dragon Mountain! That’s it—there, on the wall!” he whispered to himself and was startled to hear his whisper come echoing back to him. Glancing around hastily, he crept closer to the other edge of the balcony. Leaning over the rail, he stared closely at the painting. It indeed showed the Dragon Mountain, where he was now. Only this showed a view of the mountain as if some giant sword had chopped it completely in half vertically!
“How wonderful!” The map-loving kender sighed. “Of course,” he said. “It is a map! And that’s where I am! I’ve gone up into the mountain.” He looked around the room in sudden realization. “I’m in the throat of the dragon. That’s why this room is such a funny shape.” He turned back to the map. “There’s the painting on the wall and there’s the balcony I’m standing on. And the pillars …” He turned completely around. “Yes, there’s the grand staircase.” He turned back. “It leads up into the head! And there’s how I came up. Some sort of wind chamber. But who built this … and why?”
Tasslehoff continued on around the balcony, hoping to find a clue in the painting. On the right-hand side of the gallery, another battle was portrayed. But this one didn’t fill him with horror. There were red dragons, and black, and blue, and white—breathing fire and ice—but fighting them were other dragons, dragons of silver and of gold.…
“I remember!” shouted Tasslehoff.
The kender begin jumping up and down, yelling like a wild thing. “I remember! I remember! It was in Pax Tharkas. Fizban showed me. There are good dragons in the world. They’ll help us fight the evil ones! We just have to find them. And there are the dragonlances!”
“Confound it!” snarled a voice below the kender. “Can’t a person get some sleep? What is all this racket? You’re making noise enough to wake the dead!”
Tasslehoff whirled around in alarm, his knife in his hand. He could have sworn he was alone up here. But no. Rising up off a stone bench that stood in a shadowy area out of the torchlight was a dark, robed figure. It shook itself, stretched, then got up and began to climb the stairs, moving swiftly toward the kender. Tas could not have gotten away, even if he had wanted to, and the kender found himself intensely curious about who was up here. He opened his mouth to ask this strange creature what it was and why it had chosen the throat of a Dragon Mountain to nap in, when the figure emerged into the light. It was an old man. It was—
Tasslehoff’s knife clattered to the floor. The kender sagged back against the railing. For the first, last, and only time in his life, Tasslehoff Burrfoot was struck speechless.
“F-F-F …” Nothing came out of his throat, only a croak.
“Well, what is it? Speak up!” snapped the old man, looming over him. “You were making enough noise a minute ago. What’s the matter? Something go down the wrong way?”
“F-F-F …” stuttered Tas weakly.
“Ah, poor boy. Afflicted, eh? Speech impediment. Sad, sad. Here—”The old man fumbled in his robes, opening numerous pouches while Tasslehoff stood trembling before him.
“There,” the figure said. Drawing forth a coin, he put it in the kender’s numb palm and closed his small, lifeless fingers over it. “Now, run along. Find a cleric …”
“Fizban!” Tasslehoff was finally able to gasp.