The Gates of Thorbardin h2-5

by Dan Parkinson

  "A minor matter," she snapped. "It would not interest the Highlord."

  "It might," the dragon purred. "Or would you rather I just report that you didn't care to discuss it?"

  "It's nothing! There is a dwarf who has learned of the invasion gate to

  Thorbardin and thinks he can block it. I simply intend to eliminate him."

  "Interesting," the dragon said. "As I recall, you told the Highlord that no one except you and your… ah, coinhabitant… knew of the lost gate.

  You assured the Highlord that Thorbardin will stand open to him when he comes, and that he can make it his base of operations."

  "So I did, and so it will be. Do you doubt me?"

  "So many of the best-laid plans," the dragon chuckled.

  "Especially those of humans…"

  "I will not fail!"

  "I wouldn't, if I were you," the dragon whispered. "Is there anything you would like reported to the Highlord?"

  "Report what you have seen," Kolanda snarled. "I'm doing my job, so I assume you can do yours."

  The woman glared at the dragon, then turned without a word and walked away. The horned mask under her arm stared back at the lizard through hollow eyes. The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuriously. It would be time soon to spread great wings and begin the long flight back to the region of Sanction. The Highlord would be waiting for his report. The

  Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north now, amassing armies, sending out spies and patrols, plotting and securing lines of march, organizing systems… petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the Dark Queen would unleash them across Ansalon and beyond. They would then secure for her — once and for all — the world she wanted and was fit to rule. The dragon pondered for a moment whether to report the gnome in the flying thing who had seen him and somehow escaped. He thought about it, but decided that there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a gnome.

  Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting place, Chane

  Feldstone led a tired and dusty little group along a winding ledge.

  Mountain winds sang in towering crags above them, and mists hid the depths below.

  "Do you know where we are?" Wingover asked the dwarf for the second or third time in an hour.

  "Why don't you leave him alone?" Jilian Firestoke snapped. "Can't you see he's tired?"

  Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.

  Still weak from his shoulder wound, he sometimes stumbled and rarely spoke, though he pushed on with grim determination. Chane was following — the rest could only assume — the green line that marked the path where

  Grallen had gone centuries before.

  In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover kept questioning him.

  The dwarf was showing signs that to the wilderness man spelled sheer exhaustion — a flateyed stare that never seemed to blink; paleness that came and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.

  Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and for the past day or more the man had been looking for a place to do that. The problem was, except for a pair of wide places on the trail where bitter winds had chilled them and the last of their provisions had run out, there had simply been no place to rest.

  Their current trail along the mountainside was one Wingover had never explored. The human marveled at the idea that a dwarven prince had once led armies this way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves more often called the region the Plains of Death. Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the lead stumbled again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught

  Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking into the dwarf's exhausted eyes.

  "I'm all right," Chane growled. 'We have to keep going."

  "Do you know where we are?"

  "I know where I'm going. The path is clear."

  "Yes, but do you know where we are?"

  "Not exactly. Where?"

  "I didn't think so," the man said gently. "Look off across there… across the gorge, over on the face of the next peak."

  Chane looked, his eyes blank. There was a feature over there, tiny in the distance but somehow familiar.

  "What is it?"

  "I don't suppose you've ever seen it," Wingover said.

  "At least not from this side, but I thought you might want to know what you're looking at. That's Northgate."

  "North… You mean…?"

  "Exactly," the man told him. "That is the Northgate of Thorbardin."

  "But the green line doesn't go there," Chane said. "It goes east… I think that's east, anyway. Out there, across those plains. Toward that lone mountain, whatever that is."

  "Skullcap," Wingover breathed. "The ruins of what was once the most feared tower of sorcery, Zhaman, lie there."

  Chane sighed. "Then that is where Grallen went. But the line… it doesn't seem to go all the way. I can't really see what it does. We have to go on. We have to get closer."

  "We have to rest," Wingover said flatly. He shielded his eyes, peering ahead. Somewhere near, there should be a place safe to rest. He squinted, then his eyes widened and breath hissed through his teeth. On the trail ahead, just where it wound out of sight, a large, black cat stood, looking back at them. Even as Wingover saw it, the animal turned languidly and slunk out of sight.

  Chapter 26

  "Cats!"

  With a visible shudder, Wingover drew his sword, gripped his shield, and eased past the weakened dwarf. He had seen the great black cats of Waykeep only once. But once was enough. On stiff legs he started toward the bend, certain that at any moment a bounding, snarling pack of the giant creatures would appear there, coming for him. And it would be up to him to defend the others. Glenshadow's magic would not work in Spellbinder's presence. Chane Feldstone was hardly strong enough to stand off cats.

  Still, Jilian might make an accounting of herself with that sword she carried. After seeing the remains of her ogre, the man was willing to believe almost anything.

  Small feet scuffed just behind Wingover, and Chestal Thicketsway's voice said cheerfully, "What are you doing?"

  "Stay back," the man snapped. "There are cats ahead."

  "Cats? Kitty cats or the Irda's cats?"

  "Just stay back, out of the way," "Wingover shot a quick glance back, felt something brush past his legs, and turned to shout, "Come back here!"

  "I'll just take a quick look," the kender said, scampering ahead. "If they're like the Irda's cats, I've seen a lot of those."

  "Ye gods," the man swore and quickened his pace, willing the rest to stay where they were. Ahead of Wingover, the curious kender disappeared around the bend. Wingover ran, then stopped. Just past the bend, the trail widened, then widened again, and became a deep, sheltered cove in the mountainside. Clear, cold water flowed from a tiny spring and pooled before overflowing its rock tank and disappearing again into crevices in the mountain. Conifers grew in abundance, and rich, chillbleached grass was everywhere. Beside the pool were several bundles, all securely wrapped in sacking, and the kender knelt beside the nearest one, untying its straps. He glanced up, grinned, and pointed. "Look." High on a rock ridge beyond the cove, several of the big, dark cats were climbing, going away.

  Some of them turned to look back, feral eyes seeming to glow in the pale light, But they only hesitated, then went on. Within seconds, they were gone.

  "Food!" the kender chirped. "Look at this. Biscuits! And honey, and oats, and cabbage… wow!" With one pack open, he went on to the next one.

  Wingover heard the thump of a staff and turned. Glenshadow stood a few paces back, cold eyes peering from the shadows of his bison cloak. 'The

  Irda," he said. "She has provided for us. She said that would be done."

  "But those cats — "

  "Are hers. In a way, I suppose they are her."

  "Where is she, then, this Irda?"

  The wizard gazed at hi
m for a moment, then shrugged and turned away.

  "She is an Irda. I suppose she is wherever she chooses to be."

  "Irda," Wingover breathed. "Irdas are ogres, from what I've heard."

  Glenshadow shook his head. "No. The Irda is what ogres may once have been. They are not the same."

  "You'd know that if you'd seen her," the kender said.

  "Look at this! Raisins. How about that? And cider."

  The others had appeared, Jilian helping Chane and leading Wingover's horse. At the cove, they all stopped and stared. Jilian nodded. "This is more like it. Let's get a fire going, and I'll make tea. And soup. Don't you think some soup would taste good, Chane? Here, you sit down over here.

  Eat a biscuit while I'm cooking."

  "There is danger ahead of us, then," the wizard noted ominously. 'The

  Irda knows."

  "How does she know any such thing?" Wingover spun toward Glenshadow, tired and angry, confused and feeling as though everyone but himself had a hand in this situation. "Does she use magic?"

  "Only a little… of the kind I use, when I can use it at all,"

  Glenshadow said. "The kind you so despise, though it is a part' of your world and not always to your disadvantage. The Irda is a shapechanger.

  That much is magic, though natural to her kind. And she is a singer. Some have said the Irda carry magic in their voices, though I think now it is simply that they have… such voices." He paused and considered the point for a moment. "Perhaps they have another magic that is outside the magic of Krynn. I believe they do, but who can say for certain. If they do, then it is used entirely for their own purposes and not for or against any other being. It is the nature of the Irda."

  "You haven't answered my question," Wingover snorted. "How could such a creature — as you say — know that there is danger ahead for us?"

  "She listens." Glenshadow shrugged. "The world has many voices, and eyes everywhere. The world itself knows what passes upon it. It speaks of it to itself, and the Irda listens. How else could she do what she does… observe the purposes of the gods' things, the ones that the gods themselves no longer observe? Who else could inform the Irda, except the world itself'" Wingover shook his head, wondering if the mage was in fact deranged. What he said almost made sense… sometimes, but not in any way that Wingover could see. He turned away and went to start unpacking his horse. "Don't do that," Chane Feldstone shouted, getting to his feet. 'We have to go on."

  "We aren't going anywhere for a while," Wingover told him. "We are going to rest here until we're fit to travel."

  "But I see the path now," the dwarf said, his face going pale again. "I see where Grallen went, and I have to go there. Spellbinder -

  Jilian Firestoke was at Chane's side then, bracing him with strong little hands. "The man is right, Chane," she said gently. "You must rest.

  Then we can go on. Please, sit down."

  A sheen of sweat had erupted on Chane's forehead, and his eyes seemed glazed. Still, he tried to struggle free.

  "Can't you see the path? Can't any of you see it? It goes down this mountain and out onto the plain, then it doubles back… just out there.

  It turns back and stops. See? Why can't any of you see?" The dwarf slumped and let himself be eased down to a sitting position.

  "Jilian?" Chane murmured. "Jilian, I think your father was right. I don't deserve you. But he was wrong, too. He was wrong in… deciding he could decide. It is for you to decide, Jilian…"

  Chane's voice trailed off, and quickly he was asleep. Jilian covered him gently with a wrap from her own pack, and when she looked up her eyes were moist. "He's so tired," she said.

  Wingover knelt beside the dwarf and touched a palm to the sweating forehead. Then he stood, nodding. "It was the goblin dart. It has sickened him. He needs rest." To Jilian he added, "Chane will be all right. If the wound were going to kill him, it would have before now."

  Leaving Jilian hovering over the sleeping dwarf, Wingover walked to where the wizard stood, looking eastward. The mage raised his hand and pointed. Far out in the distance, where the slopes ended and a flatter land began, there was movement. Wingover and Glenshadow were too far away to be sure, but they suspected who was there. The Commander of Goblins was ahead of them, and with her was her army.

  "They know we're here," Wingover growled. "But if they didn't follow us, how did they find us"?" Maybe they don't know exactly where we are," the bison-robed wizard offered, lowering his hand. "But they know which way we were going. And they know why."

  "The mage?" Wingover muttered. "The one who died, but didn't?"

  Glenshadow only nodded.

  A flash of white in the distance flickered above the gorge where the path bent around the mountain slope. It wasn't bright, but the flash was enough to catch Wingover's eyes. He turned. "It's that gnome," he growled, pointing. 'Where has he been, anyway?" The soarwagon neared the mountainside, skimmed away, and did a wide turn. As the gnomish contraption came about for another approach, Jilian Firestoke waved and

  Chestal Thicketsway ran to the ledge to watch. "Tell him to come in and lower his line," the kender said. "Tell him we have raisins. And cider."

  The flying thing approached carefully this time, finally hovering on updrafts just above the cove. The gnome in the wicker seat leaned out and waved. "Hello!" he called. "Do you remember me? I'm Bobbin."

  "I remember you!" Wingover shouted. "What news do you have?"

  "About what?… Ah, yes! You're the one who's looking for cats. Well, I saw some, up the mountain from where you are. But they're going the other way." Wingover scowled. "We know about the cats! Anything else?"

  "Well, I saw a dragon. A big, red one. He weighs nearly three tons and had flown five hundred miles." The gnome frowned. "He wasn't very friendly."

  "A dragon?" The kender danced about in his excitement. "A real dragon?

  Where?" Wingover shook his head in disgust. There was no telling what the gnome had actually seen… if anything.

  Part IV

  Grallen's Helm

  Chapter 27

  Solinari and Lunitari had set hours ago. Beside a small fire, set far back in a mountain cove, Chane Feldstone lay in peaceful sleep for the first time in several days. For the moment, the red spot on his forehead was so dim that it was barely noticeable. Better still, the firelight reflecting on his cheeks above his beard revealed a healthy, ruddy color that Jilian attributed to two days of rest and good food, though among the others were some who suspected other cures as well.

  Glenshadow the wizard had made it clear that, in his opinion, the dwarf had been in no danger, despite his illness. The red moon, the wizard said, had set Chane a task.

  Glenshadow had been silent after that. He had gone off by himself to sit in thought. Then, after a time, he had pulled his bison cloak about him and wandered away on some path of his own.

  He had not returned, though a day had passed. But as Chane Feldstone lay now, sleeping by the little fire, Jilian hovering beside him as always, it was the kender who saw a thing that needed no reconsideration. He came with twigs to feed the fire and paused there. Then he beckoned to Wingover and pointed.

  Jilian had fallen asleep. Her head nodded forward, then rested, moving slightly with her even breathing as she slept. In the shadows between the two dwarves, their two hands lay clasped, Jilian's little hand resting in

  Chane's larger one.

  Wingover grinned. 'Yes," he whispered. "That very likely is what is curing him. Some comforts have more power than people know."

  "Not for me," something seemed to say wistfully, and Chestal Thicketsway looked up from the new task he had begun, which was trimming branches off a long, thin sapling he had found.

  "Quit complaining, Zap," the kender said testily. 'You never had it better than this. I'll bet you never expected to travel."

  "No," the disembodied non-voice seemed to mourn,

  "just to happen."

  "Well, you weren't happening where you were,
either. So what's the difference?" Wingover glanced at the kender, curious to see what the little person was doing. It was the first time he had seen Chestal

  Thicketsway concentrate on anything for more than one hour. Yet, Chess had been working on his sapling for most of the day. With all of its branches gone and most of its bark peeled away, it was a slim pole of fresh wood more than twenty feet long. With the last of the trimming done, the kender laid the sapling down near the ledge and looked around. "I need some string," he said.

  The man arched a curious brow. "Do you plan to go fishing?"

  "I don't think so," the kender said distractedly. "But I need… ah, excuse me." He trotted away, heading for the stacked packs and equipment.

  After a time he returned, heading for the ledge. "I found some thongs," he said. "They're not string, but they'll do."

  Wingover looked after Chess, then called softly,

  "What are you making over there?"

  "A supply stick," Chess called back. "Gnomes aren't the only ones who can invent good stuff, you know."

  "A supply stick," Wingover muttered, wondering what it was all about.

  Then it came to him, and he grinned. Raisins for Bobbin, of course. The gnome had shown up twice since they had been here, both times cursing in gnomic and trying desperately to bring his craft close enough to the ledge for someone to reach his lowered line. He kept jabbering about something called "ground effect," and "ninety degrees to the grade," and "the gearstripping tiltyness of mountains."

  They had raisins for him, and cider — which seemed to delight him — but so far they hadn't been able to deliver the goods to his supply line.

  At its nearest, the line had dangled fifteen feet beyond the sheer ledge.

  Bobbin was probably getting hungry up there, wherever he was.

  "Supply stick," Wingover said again. "Well, it just might work."

  "What might?"

  The deep voice, strong and quiet, startled him. Chane Feldstone hadn't moved, but he was awake. His eyes were bright in the firelight, looking from Wingover to the dozing Jilian.