The Gates of Thorbardin h2-5

by Dan Parkinson

  "Are you feeling better?" Wingover got to his knees and leaned for a better look at the dwarf.

  "I feel fine." Chane looked around, careful not to disturb Jilian. "How long have we been here? I thought we had gone to… no, it was only a dream, wasn't it I"

  "Couple of days," Wingover told him. 'You were pretty sick. How does your shoulder feel?"

  Chane shifted, winced, and sat up, still holding Jilian's hand. "A little stiff, but it's all right. Are we all here?"

  "The wizard's gone off someplace again. I don't think he cares for the company around here. Chess is over there, by the ledge, rigging a pole so we can feed the gnome when he shows up again… if he shows up again."

  Chane looked at Jilian, his eyes softening. "How long has she been sitting here?" Carefully, he eased her down into a sleeping position, still holding her hand. Then he freed himself and stood.

  "She hasn't been away from your side for more than a few minutes since we got here," the man said. "But if you're ready, we need to talk about where we go from here. Those troops are ahead of us, out there on that plain. They're waiting for us."

  "Maybe it wasn't all a dream, then," Chane muttered.

  "I dreamed the soldiers were there, waiting across a ravaged plain, where the stump of a melted peak rises. A peak that looks like a giant death's-head."

  "It's called Skullcap," Wingover said. "Have you seen it?"

  "No, but now I have. We — in the dream — we came around the mountain and stopped here. This very place. The air was clear, and in the distance we could see the spire of Zhaman, about ten miles away on the steppes of

  Dergoth. It was so clear. It glittered in the sunlight, a high, fortified tower standing alone out there, beyond where our army was gathered… and theirs.

  "There were fourteen of us here on the mountainside. Derek was here, and

  Carn and Hodar, and old Callan Rockreave… old Callan." Chane's voice broke, then steadied. "He was my father's most stalwart friend, always at my side as he had pledged to the king. And the Daewar brothers, Hasp and

  Hoven Fire — " He paused again and glanced at the sleeping Jilian.

  "Firestoke. They were of her family. I wonder if she knows that my family and hers once were… no," Chane shook his head. "She couldn't have known that. Or about me, because she wasn't born then. Even her father's father wasn't born then. Odd, isn't it?"

  Wingover squatted on his heels, staring at the dwarf, astonished.

  "We were here," Chane sighed. "Then we went from here, across a stone bridge and onto the steppes of Dergoth, where our armies waited for us… and their armies, too. And we fought. Were we in the right? I didn't even wonder, then. My father had set our course, and we fought. I led my troops; I can still hear their shouts when we charged. 'On Grallen,' they shouted. 'For Thorbardin!' You see, human? In my dream I was Grallen, on the field at Zhaman. Why are you staring at me like that?"

  "The spot on your forehead," Wingover pointed. "It glows."

  "It has done that before." Chane looked up at the red moon Lunitari. "At least now I know exactly why I wear it."

  "But… it glows like red crystal. Like Spellbinder itself."

  "In the dream I wore its other self, just here," he touched the glowing circle between his brows. "But on my helm, embedded just above the noseguard. They said it glowed too, when I… when Grallen wore it. But not red. Pathfinder is green. The trace I follow is where Pathfinder went." He looked toward where Jilian slept beside the fire. "I'd like to see her safely home, you know. But home will never be safe, for her or anyone, unless I do what Grallen intended. The secret has already been sold."

  "Sold?"

  "Yes, according to the dream. A human has learned of the hidden way, and traded knowledge for power. There was a voice in the dream that told me that. It was as though Spellbinder itself spoke to me… right here, on my forehead."

  "If you've seen Grallen — " The man rubbed his whiskers thoughtfully "- then you know why he was here on Sky's End. I've wondered about that. I've heard the tale, you know, from Rogar Goldbuckle and others. But they said that Grallen and his army went north, from Northgate, and across the

  Plains of Dergoth to meet Fistandantilus in the final battle. What was he doing over here, so far west?"

  Chane nodded. "His army went north and awaited the archmage on the plains. But I… Grallen, I mean, and a small force went west first, to unite the skirmishers of Coal Delvish and the border guards under Melden

  Coppershield. Grallen had word from the king's spies that a massed army of hill dwarves was preparing to march from southern Abanasinia. They had to be stopped. Otherwise the mountain dwarf army at Dergoth would have been caught between two enemies.

  "Somehow Fistandantilus was there, at Waykeep, and joined the battle, casting spells of fire and ice. Those who came this way were all that remained from that battle."

  "And nobody in Thorbardin knew of that, since nobody came home after

  Zhaman," Wingover muttered.

  "What else did you see? In your dream, I mean?" The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Another battle. A greater one taking place across Dergoth toward the old fortress standing there. I knew, Wingover. I knew… did I know then? Did he know that it was the last battle?

  "Callan Rockreave led the main assault. I wonder if any in Thorbardin know that. And Derek Hammerthane carried the king's pennant. Others joined us, too… joined them, I mean. Some humans among them, who fought courageously alongside Grallen and the others.

  "I… Grallen, I mean. In the dream, he actually took the tower, then confronted the old wizard in his lair. He intended to exact an oath from

  Fistandantilus… or to kill him. The prince was in a hurry, though, and distracted. He wanted to finish the fight and get back to Thorbardin because of something the gem above his noseguard had revealed to him. He was worried, and he underestimated the old wizard."

  Chane paused and closed his eyes. "I saw it in the dream. The wizard was in a rage. His eyes… there is no way to describe such eyes. They were not the eyes of any living thing. They were… evil. Then the wizard smiled and set loose his final magic. And Grallen… and everyone and everything… were gone."

  Chane's voice had gone soft as he spoke, and was barely audible in the final words. As he opened his eyes a tear welled in one of them and started to trickle down his cheek. He snorted, shook his head, and brushed it away. "Everything ended there, you know. They all died."

  The dwarf sighed heavily, glancing around as though he were just awakening. The kender had come to listen and was holding one end of a long pole with leather loops on it. Chane realized this was probably the first time he had ever seen the kender speechless.

  "But you said you saw Skullcap," Wingover persisted.

  "Grallen couldn't have seen that."

  "No. It was as well that he never saw it. It was like the mountain… melted, changed into something hideous.

  Grallen didn't see it, Wingover, but I did. In the dream." He tapped his forehead. "The stone in Grallen's helm — Pathfinder — saw it, and I've seen what Pathfinder saw.

  "Grallen must have put his helm aside… or lost it in the tower or something. But I know where it is now, and why the green trace out there looks so odd, as though it doubles back on itself." He walked to the ledge and pointed, not toward distant Skullcap, but south of there.

  "Zhaman's spire," he said. "It was blown entirely away from the tower, and bits of the upper portions with it. Grallen's helm — and Pathfinder

  — are there, where the wreckage fell."

  Morning sun was on the peaks of Sky's End when the soarwagon appeared again, spiraling down from high above in a series of precipitous loops and tumbles — for all the world like a stricken bird falling away from a raptor. And as it tumbled closer, Chane and his allies squinted at it. The contrivance seemed to have added something since its last visit. Thrust upward from its top side was a slim thing like a narrow mast.

  Over the gorge, just out from the co
ve, the soarwagon leveled out and its nose-vanes shifted. It hovered on rising mists while Bobbin leaned out to shout, "Get the supplies ready! I've solved the problem!"

  "What do you mean, you've solved the problem?"

  Chess called back. "I worked all day on solving the problem."

  "Hurry!" Bobbin tugged the control lines, ignoring the kender, and eased the soarwagon toward the ledge. As it had done before, the contraption began to tilt, aligning itself to the slope of the mountain steeps above.

  Closer it came, and closer, and the slender mastlike thing began to extend from its underside, toward the cove. Chess and the others could see what it was: Bobbin's rope. But somehow it was stiff, snaking toward the ledge at an angle.

  "Hurry!" the gnome shouted. "And don't forget the cider!"

  Chess danced about the ledge, his eyes bright with excitement. "Look at that! He's made the rope stiff. It's coming right to us."

  Bobbin worked his controls and continued feeding out the rope, doing all he could to settle the soarwagon in close to the ledge.

  "How did you do that I" Chess shouted. "That's really something! Come on! The raisins and cider are right here, all lashed together. All we have to do is hook them…oops!"

  The rope had come within five feet of the ledge, almost within reach.

  Then, abruptly, it sagged and went limp. The rope dangled from the flying craft, its hook swinging fifteen feet out from the cliff.

  "Oh, breakdown!" the gnome cursed. "It melted!"

  "Melted?"

  "Right. I used up the last of my water, soaking it, then spent the night at least ten thousand feet up, freezing it. I thought that would work."

  "Well, don't worry," the kender called. "Just try to hold still."

  Strutting with pride, Chess brought out his supply pole — twenty feet of slim sapling, with loops at its ends. He attached the narrow-end loop to the raisin-and-cider pack and lifted it, then began to feed out pole toward Bobbin's dangling hook.

  Leaning over his wicker rail, the gnome watched with worried eyes. "That isn't going to work," he said. "You can't lever that much weight that far out without a counterbalance."

  Chess braced himself, struggling to feed out the pole. The weight of the supplies seemed to double with each foot of extension. "I may need some help," he admitted. The others had gathered around him, watching with a mixture of amusement and disbelief.

  "You need more than help," Wingover advised. "There isn't enough pole there."

  "This just has to work," the kender panted, beginning to stagger at the leveraged weight of the supply pole. "It's the only idea I have."

  With the last of his strength, Chess hauled the supplies back to the ledge. He carried the pack twenty feet to the left and ran back. Lifting the butt-end of the pole, the kender put his shoulder to it.

  "Don't!" Wingover started.

  "Wait!" Chane shouted.

  "Youcan'tdothat!" Bobbin called.

  But the kender already had. With a tremendous heave, Chess swung the pack off the ledge, trying to hoist it out to the soarwagon's hook. Pack, pole, and kender disappeared over the edge. Jilian screamed.

  Instantly Wingover loosed his sword, plunged its blade deep into a crack in the rock, and swung himself outward and down. Chane Feldstone jumped over him, cleared the ledge, and scrambled down the man's length. The dwarf hung from Wingover's ankle and grabbed Chess's free hand just as the kender lost his grip on a snag.

  "Got him!" Chane called. "Pull us back up!" Wingover pulled, but nothing happened. His grip on his sword held them suspended — man, dwarf, kender, pole and pack hanging over the misted gorge — but no amount of muscle-wrenching effort would lift them.

  "I thought I was the one who was crazy," Bobbin called from the hovering soarwagon.

  Just at the cliff's edge, Jilian had her feet braced and both hands on

  Wingover's forearm. Her nails bit into hi! skin as she pulled. "Let go!" he shouted at her. 'You're making it worse!"

  "Somebody get a rope!" Chane called from below.

  "I have a rope," Bobbin mentioned. "A fat lot of good it does me, now that it's melted."

  Jilian scrambled back from the ledge, then turned and ran, returning with Wingover's horse and a length of rope from his packs. Working quickly, the girl secured the rope to the saddle, carried its free end to the ledge, and leaned over to tie it around Wingover's arm. With Jilian pulling on its headstall, the horse braced itself and hauled. Wingover appeared at the ledge and was dragged to safety, snatching up his sword as he came. Then came Chane and finally the kender. Chess had one hand firmly grasped in the dwarf's fingers; the other held the pole's loop.

  "Remarkable," Bobbin sighed, watching from the limit of ground effect.

  When finally the pole and packs were safe, Chane Feldstone released his grips on the man's ankle and the kender's hand. The dwarf stood up, brushed himself off, and took the pole away from Chess. "Get out of the way," he growled.

  Angrily, the dwarf reversed the pole and thrust its butt-loop out toward the gnome's dangling hook, hand over hand.

  Chess watched for a moment, then shook his head.

  'That won't work," he said.

  "Why not?" Chane kept feeding out the pole.

  "Because then I'll lose my supply pole!"

  "What do you want it for?"

  "Well, it's for sending raisins and cider out to where Bobbin can get them."

  "And when he has the pole, he'll have the supplies, too," the dwarf rumbled. "Mercy!"

  "Oh." Chess backed off, considering the logic of it.

  "Well, there is that."

  Using the supply pack as a counterweight, Chane fed the pole out and neatly dropped its loop over Bobbin's hook. The gnome began to winch in his line, and the pack slid off the ledge and fell. The heavy bundle of supplies swung at pole's end, making the soarwagon dance in its hover. The contraption held for a moment, then sensitive vanes reacted to the shifting currents and it soared away over the gorge, circling and climbing as Bobbin's angry voice trailed away.

  "You're welcome!" Chess shouted, watching soarwagon, rope, supply pole, and raisin-and-cider pack diminish into the distance.

  "At least he has provisions," Jilian pointed out. "I'm sure he was getting hungry."

  Chapter 28

  Hiqh ox a chill slope, where whining winds drove scudding clouds below and whipped snow from peaks above, the wizard Glenshadow knelt beside a pool of ice. The hooded face looking up at him was grim.

  "Only a few days ago you were within an arrow-shot of the Dark One,

  Wanderer. Did you see him?"

  "I saw something," Glenshadow replied. "The warriorwoman lifted something from beneath her breastplate. Something small and dark, it seemed, like an amulet."

  "It was the Dark One," the face told him. "You could have killed him then… or he you." Glenshadow shook his head. "His magic would no more work for him than mine for me," he said. "Not in the presence of

  Spellbinder."

  "The dwarf still carries the stone, then," the voice muttered. "Has he seen where it directs him?"

  "He sees the trail of Pathfinder, and thus the way to Grallen's helm. He may know soon where it lies, for he is on the east face of Sky's End now.

  All of Dergoth is visible beyond the chasm."

  "All of Dergoth… and the woman, Darkmoor. The Dark One is with her.

  They are ahead of you, Wanderer. They await you."

  "Then so it must be," Glenshadow rasped, his voice as chill as the whining winds on the mountain. "Tell me, has the riddle been tested? The omen of the moons?"

  "We think it means there will be war," the ice-face said.

  "A war like none Krynn has ever known."

  "When?"

  "Soon. The preliminary games are in play even now…as you have seen."

  "But, a war of the moons? What kind of war must that be?"

  "Of the moons, Wanderer? Or of the gods? We believe the omens mean a war for dominion. Some say a co
ntest among gods, to once and for all determine which of the triad alignments shall rule on Krynn… But, of course, there are always those who speak of ultimates and finalities. Even so, those of the dark robes are gleeful these days, while those of the white are silent and anxious." The figure in the ice seemed to shrug. "We shall see what comes of it all. Most of us are not overly concerned." The ice faded, went blank. The mirror surface reflected only cold sky above — that, and the cold, thoughtful face of the wizard who knelt beside it.

  "Not overly concerned," he muttered, and his cold words were carried away by the wind. "Not concerned? It was not only the white moon that was eclipsed, but the red, as well."

  Glenshadow passed the glowing tip of his staff over the ice pool, and again it shifted. He knew from past trials that it would show him nothing of Chane Feldstone and his companions. It was, after all, only magic. It could not see within the realm of Spellbinder. But it would show him other things, in other places.

  A scene emerged: a sundered plain where goblins marched, and in the background the blind, leering death's-head of Skullcap, hideous monument to the power of magics drawn from Nuitari, the black moon.

  "Chislev!" the wizard said. The ice scene flowed, spanned across miles, and refocused on a barren hillside. There, a figure stood motionless — a curious, oddly-jointed thing that might have been a horse… or some woodcarver's interpretation of a horse. It was obviously a carven figure, wooden with pin-hinged joints like a child's toy. As the ice eye closed on the figure its carved head turned. Painted eyes looked at the wizard.

  "Which are you?" Glenshadow asked the ice.

  "I am Hobby," the carved horse told him. "What wish do you have?"

  "The helm of the dwarven prince, Grallen. Do you know where it is?"

  "I know nothing except what Chislev wills," Hobby said.

  "And I have called upon Chislev and found you.

  Therefore it is the will of Chislev. Hobby, where is Grallen's helm?"

  The carved horse turned away, seeming to look about uncertainly.