Dragonlance Tales, Vol. 3 – Love and War

such a money-hungry man.

“Here, take a candle,” offered Kyra. “You can light

one of our torches outside and use it to find your way along

the path.”

Seron led the grumbling Cheb to the door. “If you

hurry,” he said, “you’ll still find a bed at the Sea Master

Inn. Tell the owner that I sent you. He knows me.”

Cheb was already out the door, lighting his torch,

when he realized he’d left his satchel in the hut. He rushed

back in with the torch aflame and reached for the bag on

the floor by the chair.

At the same time, Kyra said, “Here, let me help you.”

They accidentally collided while both reached for the

satchel, and Cheb lost his balance. Falling over backward,

the torch went flying out of his grasp.

The burning torch landed in the comer of the hut,

right in the middle of Seron’s paints. They exploded in a

ball of bright orange flame!

Cheb quickly scrambled to his feet. “Run for your

lives!” he cried. He snatched up his satchel and ran out

the door without ever looking back.

“Get out! Save yourself!” Seron shouted to his wife,

who was trying to drag the heavy wooden crate out from

beneath the bed.

“I’m not leaving without your painting,” she cried. The

fire quickly spread far beyond the comer of the hut. Soon,

the bed and all the rest of their furniture were burning.

Two of the walls were aflame, as was part of the roof; a

heavy, deadly smoke filled their one-room home.

Seron grabbed his wife around the waist and hauled

her to her feet. Both of them were coughing, their eyes

were tearing, and their skin was beginning to blister. The

fire snapped at the edges of their clothing as he carried his

wife to the door of the hut and threw her onto the soft grass

outside the door.

But he didn’t follow her out into the safety of the night.

Instead, he rushed back into the burning hut, diving to the

floor next to the bed. The wooden crate was beginning to

char, but he knew there was still time; the painting inside

had not yet been damaged. He hauled the crate out from

beneath the bed and lifted it. The door was just a few yards

away. . . .

Though the doorway was open, the smoke and flames

were too thick for Kyra to see inside the hut. “Forget the

painting!” she screamed. “Seron! Get out of there! Hurry!”

she begged.

The roof caved in. The hut collapsed. Seron was buried in

an avalanche of fire, and Kyra gave out an anguished cry of

pain that stretched on for minutes. When there was nothing

left inside her, she crumpled to the dew-wet grass.

Kyra didn’t move. There was no reason. Much later, in

the darkest hour of the night, a voice whispered in her ear. .

. .

“Am I late?”

At first, Kyra was startled. She lifted her head and saw

Tosch. The familiar sight of the brass dragon set Kyra

crying all over again. He did his best to comfort her,

nestling her frail, shivering frame between his right wing

and his body. But he couldn’t see what was so upsetting.

As best she could, she told Tosch what had happened.

Then she wept throughout the rest of the night. Finally, just

before dawn, Kyra fell into an exhausted sleep. The dragon

sighed. The sun would be coming up soon – and he

supposed he had better take her with him. There was

nothing for Kyra here. He lifted her onto his back and then

gently took wing.

Tosch watched a female brass dragon sailing in small,

lazy circles overhead. Without thinking, he turned his good

profile in her direction.

“I don’t think I ever told you, but I do like Palanthas,”

Kyra announced from her seat on a nearby tree stump.

Tosch nodded absently, glancing down at the blue,

yellow, and orange clothes Kyra was sewing together for

him. “When will my new cape be finished?” he asked.

“I told you it would take six months,” she said. “It’s

only been four.”

“You know only humans count time,” he replied with a

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