Dragons of Winter Noght by Weis, Margaret

“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.

“Where?” The old man whirled around. Raising his staff, he peered fearfully into the darkness. Then something seemed to occur to him. Turning back around, he asked Tas in a loud whisper, “I say, are you sure you saw this Fizban? Isn’t he dead?”

“I know I thought so… ” Tas said miserably.

“Then he shouldn’t be wandering around, scaring people!” the old man declared angrily. “I’ll have a talk with him. Hey,you!” he began to shout.

Tas reached out a trembling hand and tugged at the old man’s robe. “I-I’m not sure, b-but I think you’re Fizban .”

“No, really?” the old man said, taken aback. “I was feeling a bit under the weather this morning, but I had no idea it was as bad as all that.” His shoulders sagged. “So I’m dead. Done for. Bought the farm. Kicked the bucket.” He staggered to a bench and plopped down. “Was it a nice funeral?” he asked. “Did lots of people come? Was there a twenty-one gun salute? I always wanted a twenty-one gun salute.”

“I-uh..” Tas stammered, wondering what a gun was. “Well, it was . . . more of a . . . memorial service you might say. You see, we-uh-couldn’t find your-how shall I put this?”

“Remains?” the old man said helpfully.

“Uh . . . remains.” Tas flushed. ‘We looked, but there were all these chicken feathers . . . and a dark elf . . . and Tanis said we were lucky to have escaped alive …”

“Chicken feathers!” said the old man indignantly. “What have chicken feathers got to do with my funeral?”

“We-uh-you and me and Sestun. Do you remember Sestun, the gully dwarf? Well, there was that great, huge chain in Pax Tharkas. And that big red dragon. We were hanging onto the chain and the dragon breathed fire on it and the chain broke and we were falling”-Tas was warming up to his story; it had become one of his favorites-“and I knew it was all over. We were going to die. There must have been a seventy-foot drop (this increased every time Tas told the tale) and you were beneath me and I heard you chanting a spell-“