threatening movement by those who dwelt beneath the sun and the moons, and could act accordingly, preventing surprise and possible ambush.17
Excited by his developing project (which he lovingly entitled "Star Wires"), Armavir decided to put his findings to the test before submitting them to the Mechanical Engineers Guild. Making his way to the upper world bearing a helmet, 100 feet of wire, an augur, and a detailed map of the undercity, he began by drilling into the earth beneath several of the more prominent vallenwoods on the slopes of the mountain — a task that, of course, took him several years, especially since, as both poet and engineer, his auguries occasionally misfired. But enough of the trial and error: it is not the dark night of labor that we wish to see in a work of genius, but the flawless and seamless fruit (or stars) of that work.
And so, when the elaborate connection was made — the first helmet safely in the upper branches of a large vallenwood, the second at the ear of our hero in a secluded library alcove (not the one mentioned before), the two connected by a copper wire stretched almost to the point of breaking — young Armavir knelt silently and listened to the world outside.
Where it was raining, the birdsong stilled and the clamor of thunder in the distance growing nearer as Armavir listened to the spatter of rain against the leaves, the gentle rustle of the branches in a rising wind. Lulling sounds,tranquil sounds, and soon the budding engineer, the proto cellist, the youthful poet slept the sleep of the just and the absent-minded, until
17. Such an idea is scarcely more fanciful than others proposed by advocates of strong military defense. See, for instance, Theros Ironfeld, "Arms for Hostages," WAR OF THE LANCE VETERAN, IV, pp. 42–57. louder claps of thunder awakened him, and he found that his head had become lodged rather tightly in the experimental helmet, entangled in copper wire that was itself uncomfortably tight beneath his chin, so that he thought of the ill-fated chickens and shuddered.
It was then that the lightning struck the laboratory of the vallenwood, and our lyrical hero discovered that not only did copper wire conduct heat and sound, but also the considerable energies of lightning itself — energies so violent that he could not remember the seven ensuing years except for fleeting images of sunlight and leaves, the brilliant amber bottoms of three half-filled ale glasses, something about a dwarf and a kender, and when the memory settled, himself seated at the Inn of the Last Home, having aimlessly wandered (as he would say in his immortal but flawed "Song of the Ten Heroes")18 "into the heart of the story"
And the rest, my friends, was the story itself. From Solace to Sancrist to Palanthas and further, our hero recording, enshrining the Companions in numbers and song, himself the one who embodied most fully the Gnomish ideal of BALANCE — of balance between action and thought, movement and reflection (in the words of his dear departed sister, "teeter and totter"). Owing to modesty, of course, many of Armavir's more heroic exploits never found their way into his poetry; but some — lines and stanzas and staves (sometimes entire passages) in which Armavir appeared as a Companion in his own right — began to findtheir way OUT of the story.19 For strangely, unac
18. Printed shamelessly as "Song of the Nine Heroes" in both CHRONICLES, II, and in LEAVES FROM THE INN OF THE LAST HOME. See comments in Section III of this essay.
19. Indeed, the text of Armavir's poetry was twice the length of the prose account that makes up the greater part of the
CHRONICLES as they currently stand. It was the elves — the elves and the humans — who saw fit to disregard much of the compelling verse (never, alas, to be printed, for water damage from last month's flood has destroyed the ONE remaining copy of the poetry in its original splendor. Here lies one whose name was writ underwater!) countably, the Heroes grew distant as the War turned in their favor,20 and even at this late time, though I have sent appropriate letters and pleas to several of the original Companions, I "have yet to hear their answer" (as Armavir concludes in the "Canticle of the Dragon").
How easily they forget, these Heroes, but in their theft of the poetry to ornament their edited and self-serving story (the water is rising even higher in the chamber: my brother's old water wings, scarcely damaged by the fall, should hold me up until I have finished writing), in their theft of the poetry they have stolen the clues to their own discovery, their own embarrassment, as a famous fragment shows, as I shall show in other publications — given time, given an audience,21 given a purchase of dry ground in this rapidly drowning tunnel. As for now, my readers: here is the "Song of the Ten Heroes" with accompanying notes — the first true chronicle of the Dragonlance.
20. Oh, they have claimed several reasons for these slights. Claimed that Armavir was overly fond of wine (which is Caramon Majere on his high horse [or on the wagon] I am certain!) and overly fond of young girls, who kept getting younger and younger, larger and larger, as the War continued (this clearly an accusation made by Tanis, who made an incredible fuss over some harmless keyhole observations [see commentary on lines 46–50, "Song of the Ten Heroes," in Section III of this essay. I wish that only once, someone would ask him who ghosted his "Dear Kitiara" letter, but he's elf enough — just barely — to get by without questioning]).