The Gates of Thorbardin

Chapter 18

"This is Chane's," Jilian stated, turning the rough hammer over in her hands. "I'm positive it is." It was a crude tool, obviously wrought by someone who had almost nothing to work with. Wingover crouched beside the primitive stone forge and brushed his hand across the cold ashes in its firepit, then turned his attention to a mudstone thing beside it, puzzling over what it might be. A piece of rock — tough, flaky mudstone that had been shaped into a rough oval with a flat top — its sides were bound with sapling withes. Wingover glanced at the firepit forge again, then realized that the mudstone thing, bound as it was atop a fallen log, had served as an anvil. A contrivance beside the forge might have served as a bellows.

Flakes of stone fallen around the makeshift anvil indicated that someone had done something here recently.

"Interesting," the man muttered. "Whoever was here certainly made do with what was at hand. But how can you be sure it was Chane?"

"He made this hammer," Jilian said cheerfully. "See, it has his mark on it. CF. Just like on his nickeliron dagger."

She handed the tool back to Wingover, and he studied it. "I thought it might be a hammer," he said. "So we can suppose that Chane Feldstone did stop here and make himself a hammer. Why would he have gone off and left it?"

"Oh, Chane wouldn't have wanted anything as crude as that," the girl explained, wondering again at the vagaries of the human mind. This human seemed quite intelligent in many ways, but there were some things he just didn't seem to grasp. Things any dwarf would understand immediately.

The man stood and frowned at her. "Well, if he made it and didn't want to keep it, what did he do with it?"

"He used it to make another hammer, of course."

Wingover sighed and shook his head. Jilian was probably right, he decided. It sounded like good dwarven logic.

"The inscription is right there." She pointed. "Right on top. Here…"

Opening her small pack, Jilian brought out a beautiful dagger with a mirror-bright blade and a grip of ebony and brass. "Here, see the inscription on this blade? It's the same as the one on that hammer. I imagine we'll find him just any time now. Don't you think so?"

Wingover didn't answer. He was walking slowly around the forge site, looking at the ground. He circled it twice, stopped, and squatted for a closer look at something. Then he circled it again and stopped to look again, in a different place. "There's no clear trail," he said finally.

"He might have gone anywhere from here. But he wasn't alone. There were others with him — at least one, maybe more. One was a human, about my size."

She blinked up at him. "How do you know that?"

"The same way you know this thing is Chane's hammer, I guess. I know what to look for. It's called reading signs."

"Outside certainly is different from Thorbardin," Jilian observed. "In

Thorbardin, signs are written on planks or linen and hung on walls for people to see. They say things like, 'Trespassers Will Be Mutilated,' or

'Gorlum's Friendly Furs,' or 'No Aghar Allowed.' "

"Those are signs," the man said. "This is a sign… in this case, footprints. But they've been here a while, so I can't tell where the trail leads from here."

"Then let's keep going the way we were going and see what else we can find," Jilian decided.

He shrugged and stepped toward the horse. "Come on, then. 111 help you up onto Geekay," Wingover said. "I'll walk and lead for a while. Maybe I can pick up a trail."

"I'll walk, too," the dwarf said, backing away a step.

"I've had enough riding for a while."

"Geekay doesn't mind," he told her. "Ride if you like."

"He may not, but I do. I hurt."

"You hurt?" He glanced around at her. "Where?"

"That's none of your business," the dwarven girl snapped, her cheeks turning pink.

"Oh, I see," he grinned. "Saddle sores, huh? It won't last long. I'll bet this is the first horse you ever rode."

"I never even saw a horse until I left Thorbardin," she admitted. "I don't mean the people there don't have horses, of course. A lot do, but they don't bring them into Thorbardin. They keep them outside, in the pastures beyond Southgate."

"I know that," he said a little testily. He took up Geekay's reins and led off, heading north. Jilian followed, grateful to have her feet on solid ground again instead of bouncing along on her bottom, behind

Wingover in his hard saddle. Riding a horse was just one of thousands of interesting new experiences she would have to tell Silicia about when she returned to Thorbardin.

They had gone nearly two miles and had come into open, rolling land when

Wingover glanced westward, shaded his eyes, and then pointed. Above distant treetops, wide wings tilted in a descending turn. Bobbin was back.

Jilian squinted, shading her eyes as Wingover had done. "I think he has someone with him," she said.

The flying thing closed until it was directly overhead, sixty feet above. Two heads appeared at the wicker rail, silhouettes against bright sky. The one farthest aft cupped his hands and called, "Do you have any raisins yet?"

"Sorry!" Wingover shouted. "Still no raisins, but we have some other food." He beckoned to Jilian. "Can you get something together to send up to him?"

She nodded and began opening packs. "Right away."

Wingover shouted aloft, "What do you have to report?"

There was hesitation above, then the gnome replied, "Chane Feldstone is a famous warrior!" More dimly, they heard him ask his passenger, "How was that?"

"Perfect," another voice said aloft. "Tell enough people that, and he'll be really famous in no time at all. Then all he has to worry about is how to get rich."

"That's a kender," Wingover noted. 'Where in Krynn did that gnome get a kender?" he asked, not really expecting an answer. "And what kind of report is that?"

He started to repeat his question, but Jilian Firestoke had jumped to her feet, dancing with excitement. "Have you seen Chane Feldstone?" she shouted. "That's who we're looking for!"

"All I know is, he's famous." Bobbin responded. "Oh, yes, and we saw danger. If that food is ready, I'll try to let down a line." Without warning the soarwagon lurched, nosed upward, and shot away, straight up into the bright sky. In a moment it was a tiny dot, circling wildly, this way and that.

An hour passed, and part of another, before the flying thing approached

Wingover and Jilian again. This time, as it completed its final pass, a rope descended from beneath it and a small figure slid down to the end of the rope and clung there. He touched down on nimble feet as the soarwagon again hovered just overhead.

Jilian ran to meet the newcomer, took the rope from him, and attached a parcel of food to it. A winch creaked over their heads, and the rope rose as it was reeled in. Jilian gaped at the newcomer. She had never seen a kender before. He was no taller than herself and slight of build. His clothing was strangely colored, and he had a forked stick slung at his back. He grinned at her — a friendly, open grin on a childlike face that was neither human nor elf and certainly not dwarf — but was not so very different from any of them. What she had first thought was a beard, she now realized was a great mane of hair coiled and looped around his neck, resembling a fur collar.

"I'll bet you're Jilian," the kender said. "That dwarf ah, I mean Chane

— has mentioned you several times." He executed a slight, courtly bow.

"I'm Chestal Thicketsway. I've been helping Chane become rich and famous so he can go back to Thorbardin and do unpleasant things to your father."

"Where is he?" she managed to say.

"Your father? I don't know. I haven't seen him. Oh, you mean Chane? He's out there a few miles… kind of that direction… camping with a bunch of refugees from the Vale of Respite. I'll bet you won't even recognize him in his new suit. Does he know you're coming? He didn't mention that to me."

Wingover hurried to them and glanced at Chess. "A kender," he muttered.

Throwing back his head, he shouted at the gnome above. "What was that about danger? What kind of danger?"

"Ask him!" Bobbin shouted back. "He knows more about it than I do. I don't suppose you have a number eleven sprocket on you, do you? I think

I'll try to modify the trim-bracing to see if that will — oh, gearslip!

Here it goes again!"

With a shudder, the soarwagon edged off to one side, dropped its nose, and ran straight at those on the ground. As one, Wingover, Jilian, and

Chess sprawled face-down. The soarwagon's wire wheels whisked over them.

It leveled out just above the ground and sped toward the base of a tall tree a hundred yards away. At the last moment it nosed up and climbed, clipping twigs as it shaved the treetop and headed for distant skies. A stream of angry words drifted back on the breeze.

Those on the ground got to their feet and stared after the contrivance.

'What was that he was shouting?" Jilian asked. "What kind of words were those?"

"Gnomenclature," the human sighed. He turned to the enthralled kender.

"My name is Wingover," he said. "I'm in charge of this expedition… or at least I keep telling myself that. And I guess if we're to learn anything, it will have to be from you."

The refugees from the Vale of Respite had moved farther west, deeper into Waykeep Valley. Pens were being built for livestock, and a few huts had been erected for the sick and injured. Exploring parties were ranging outward, followed by gatherers gleaning field and forest for supplies to help last out the winter. And a strong guard perimeter was maintained to the east, though there had been no evidence of any further pursuit.

Though he was anxious to be on his way, Chane Feldstone had put off his quest long enough to build a sturdy pit-forge and begin the making of tools that the refugees would need. Scavengers from both the human and dwarven camps were sifting through the ruins of nearby ancient gnomish artifacts, recovering metal to be fired and beaten into tools and weapons to replace things they had left behind when the goblin force attacked.

Chane was shaping a serviceable anvil and showing some of the younger hill dwarves how to cut blade-stock when the hum of conversation around him died, and he looked up. And gawked.

Jilian Firestoke stood before him, staring in profound disbelief. Jilian

Firestoke, who was supposed to be safely home in the Daewar district of

Thorbardin. She stood just yards away, here in the wilderness, dressed in rugged trail garb and sturdy boots, with a broadsword slung at her back.

Still, beyond all doubt she was the same Jilian Firestoke who so often filled his dreams. Morning sun danced in her hair and gleamed in her bright eyes, and Chane simply stared at her.

"What on Krynn are you doing?" she asked. "Those clothes… I never saw anything like those. And your cheeks are ruddier than before. You look older, too. What is that?" She pointed at his face.

Chane groped for words and found none.

"That spot on his head?" the grinning kender beside Jilian asked. "The red moon gave him that. It has something to do with the crystal he has.

The Spellbinder."

Chane tried again. "J — Jilian?"

"I told you he'd be surprised," the kender chatted.

"Surprised?" A tall man with sword and flinthide shield came into

Chane's shocked and narrowed view. "I'd say he's speechless."

"Wh — What are you… ah… Jilian?"

"Of course I'm Jilian." The dwarven girl shook her head. "Chane, you look so strange. Where did you get that clothing?"

"He hollowed out a kitty cat." The kender giggled. "It was his first step toward becoming rich and famous."

The words crowding and jostling each other at Chanc's lips finally sorted themselves out. In a roar that stunned those facing him and set them back a step, he said, "Jilian, what are you doing here?"

"Why…" She blinked large, startled eyes. "Why, I came to find you. I found out what my father did, and I thought you might be in trouble."

Chane's mouth hung open for a long moment, then he closed it with a snap. His eyes blazing, Chane came around the forge. He strode to Jilian and pointed a shaking finger at her nose. "That is the stupidest thing I ever heard! Of all the… Don't you know it's dangerous out here? You could be hurt! You could be… Jilian, for Reorx's sake! You have no business outside, much less out here in the wilderness!"

Her voice shook and her eyes blinked rapidly as she pointed out, "You're here."

"That's different! I can take care of myself!"

Jilian was silent for a moment, the set of her face changing from bewilderment to a smoldering anger. She threw back her shoulders and planted her hands on her hips. "Well, by all that's rustproof, so can I."

Chane glanced at the kender. "Where did you find her?"

Chess indicated the man with the flinthide shield. "She was with him."

Chane pivoted toward the man and raised his hammer. "You brought her here? By what right — "

"Don't shake that thing at me," Wingover warned. His hand was at the hilt of his sword.

"I'm here by my own doing, Chane Feldstone," Jilian snapped. "I thought you'd be glad to see me."

Chane turned from the human. "I am glad to see you," he admitted. "But,

Jilian, you don't belong here. You belong in Thorbardin, where you're safe."

"I'm safe here," she said. "You're here. Besides, I brought you something. I thought you might need it."

"What?"

"This." She drew a dagger from her tunic and handed it to him, hilt-first.

Chane held the dagger, turning it in his hands, barely seeing it as a sudden, embarrassing moisture clouded his eyes. It was his nickeliron knife — the very one he had cherished for so long, then had lost to the toughs who routed him from the realm of Thorbardin. 'You… came all this way to bring me this?"

"Well, yes. You always said it was important to you."

Chestal Thicketsway stepped close to look at the ornate dagger. "That's pretty," he said.

Chane glared at him. 'You keep your hands off of it. It's mine."

"I wouldn't doubt it for a minute," the kender said innocently.

"Besides, I don't need it. I have a matched pair of nice cat-tooth daggers. Why would I need another dagger?"

Quite a crowd seemed to have gathered, Chane noticed. Fleece Ironhill and Camber Meld were nearby, with a number of their people from the refugee camps. Also, there was a horse.

"Speaking of daggers," the kender chattered, "I hope you took care of my pouch while I was gone, because I think that's what Zap is attached to."

"That thing has been hanging around ever since you left," Chane noted absently. "So maybe it is your pouch it's attached to."

"Well, I plan to get rid of that pouch," Chess said.

Near at hand, something silent seemed to say, "Yes, do. Please."

Several of those present jumped, and some turned full circle, searching.

"What was that?" Jilian Firestoke asked.

"That was Zap." Chess shrugged. "Spooky, isn't he?"

"It's an unexploded spell," Chane told the girl. "Chess accumulated it somewhere."

"He wants to happen," Chess explained, "but he can't because he's too close to Chane, and Chane has the Spellbinder."

"Well, when we come to someplace harmless, you can throw away your pouch and that should put an end to that," the dwarf said.

"Soon, please," Zap's soundless voice sounded.

"All right," the kender agreed. "But you'll have to wait until I make a new pouch to keep all my things in. I've got some pretty good stuff in that pouch, and I don't want to lose any of it."

For a moment there was silence, then the silence seemed to weep a thin, bitter wail of frustration.

"Look, I don't know what all this is about," Wingover said, "but I'd sure like to have a serious talk with somebody."

"You will." A new voice spoke — a voice as cold as winter's frost. "Tis time you knew where you're going, man of the far places. Not that you've a choice, any more than anyone else."

No one, apparently, had seen him arrive. But he stood among them now, tall and thin, leaning on his staff. Beneath his bison cloak, the hem of his faded red robe identified him.

"A wizard," Wingover muttered.

"There you are," the kender grinned.

"Glenshadow," Chane Feldstone growled.

By reflex, Wingover's flinthide shield drew across his breast, and the wilderness man glared at the wizard across its notched edge. "What's that about having no choice? I make my choices, wizard."

"The moons have made an omen," Glenshadow breathed. "One here has a mission, stamped upon him by Lunitari. Others are chosen to accompany him, and a magic beyond magic binds the bargain." He looked around, his eyes falling upon the kender, then on Jilian, and again on Wingover. Finally the wizard raised his eyes and gazed into the high distances. Far off, against the face of a mountain peak, Bobbin the gnome's soarwagon glided in great circles.

"An odd assortment," the wizard muttered. "Very odd, indeed."

Through waning day and into evening, there were councils. News was exchanged, stories told and plans discussed. Camber Meld and Fleece

Ironhill recounted again what had happened in the Vale of Respite, beyond the Eastwall peaks. An army of goblins, they said. And ogres among them.

Camber Meld's eyes were moist as he described the sudden, all-out attack on the human village of Harvest — the slaughter, the rout of survivors unprepared for battle, the blood and the burning. Old Fleece Ironhill's voice was a cold growl as he told of the similar struggle at the hill dwarf village of Herdlinger. The dwarves had been slightly better prepared. They had seen the smoke above Harvest. But except for the fighting lasting a bit longer, the story of Herdlinger's fall was the same.

Chane Feldstone recounted the pursuit of the refugees by ogres, as he had seen it, and Chestal Thicketsway told with glee of the mountain dwarf's defeat of the ogre beneath. The kender also told of what he had seen from aloft, in the Vale of Respite. Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill glanced at each other, their faces stricken. Nothing was left of the places they and their people had called home. There was nothing to go back to.

"How many were there?" Wingover asked. 'You say an army. How much of an army was it?"

Camber Meld shrugged. "Two hundred. Five hundred. We couldn't tell."

"Nearly eight hundred," a cold voice from outside the circle put in.

Everyone turned. "I saw it from the mountain," Glenshadow added. "Possibly eight hundred goblins, at least a dozen ogres among them… and a human leader."

"Where were you, to see all that?" Chane Feldstone frowned.

The wizard lifted his staff. 'When I am away from you — and that accursed stone you carry — I have eyes far better than my own."

"Chane has the Spellbinder," Chess told Jilian. "Magic doesn't work when it's around."

"A human leader?" Wingover was leaning toward the wizard, frowning.

'What can you tell me of him?"

"Darkmoor," the wizard spoke almost in a whisper. "Commander of goblins."

"What can you tell us of him, wizard?" Wingover asked again.

"Not him," Glenshadow said slowly. "Her. Kolanda Darkmoor. This much the mirror of the ice could tell me. This much, and one thing more, the thing the moons in omen told. It is the intent of someone — who, I do not know — that the wilderness between Thorbardin and Pax Tharkas be occupied and held."

"They will come here, then? The goblins?" Fleece Ironhill looked at

Camber Meld, then at the rest. "My people — our people — will flee no more. But how can we fight them when they come? We have so few weapons…"

Chane Feldstone stood, looking like one who had come to a difficult decision. "There are weapons here," he said. "I will show you where… or he can." He nodded at Chestal Thicketsway. 'You will have to break them out of ice, but they will serve." He indicated the old sword slung to his back. "This is one of them. There are many more. But I demand a thing of you, on your honor."

"And that this?" Camber Meld asked.

Those you find here, with the weapons, are to be treated gently and with respect. They hve had enough of fighting."