The Gates of Thorbardin

Chapter 2

"What kind of dreams was it? I mean the one where you saw a place outside of Thorbardin, and now you want to find it?" Chestal Thicketsway scrambled to the crest of a stone ledge and squinted, peering at misty distances. Fogs and low clouds seemed to span the Valley of Waykeep, a trough of sun-dappled gray mist miles across and tens of miles in length.

He noted again how the valley seemed to just… lose itself from sight, even when one stood directly above it and looked down. Chane Feldstone hoisted himself to the ledge-top, a black-clad dwarf burdened by black packs slung from each shoulder. The dead cat had provided more than a meal. It had provided a good, black fur coat, two packs, and a supply of smoked meat. "It was just a dream," he said. "At least that's what almost everybody tells me. Maybe they're right, too. But it's my dream, and I don't think that's all it is."

"Well, what do you think it was?" The kender shaded his bright eyes, gazing at the distant, craggy mountains that rose above the mists several miles eastward, across the valley.

"I think it was a message," Chane sighed. "It's like a dream that I've had a hundred times over the years, only this time it seemed to almost make sense, and there was this face — I felt like I should know who he was, but I can't quite grasp it. He told me that I had a destiny and the fate of Thorbardin depends on me, and he showed me a place where I must go."

'Why?"

"I don't know. He didn't say, but it must have something to do with the helmet, because that's what I always dream about."

The kender glanced around at the dwarf, raising an eyebrow quizzically.

"What helmet?"

"The same one I always dream about. Ever since I was half-grown."

"A helmet," Chess breathed. "Gee, I usually just dream about butterflies and leeches and things. I don't think I ever dreamed about a helmet," He raised his forked staff, twirled it in his hngers for a moment, then tossed it into the air and caught it, still twirling, as it fell. "Dreams are important, though. My cousin dreamed he was a doormat one time, and a week later an ogre stepped on him."

Chane stared at the twirling staff. "What is that thing, anyways"

'What t" Chess blinked and stopped twirling the stick. "Oh, this? It's a hoopak. Tell me some more about your helmet dream."

"Well, it's just a dream. I've had it now and then, most of my life. I dream I'm in a place I've never seen before, and there's something there.

Sometimes it's a locked chest, sometimes a bag, sometimes a pile of stones or a wooden box. But I open it, and there is an old helmet inside. A war helm, with horns and a spire, cheekplates, noseguard… it always looks the same, and every time I start to put it on my head there is a voice that says, " 'No, not now. Not yet. When the time comes, you will know.' "

"Is that all?" the kender frowned in disappointment. 'That isn't very exciting."

"That's all of it," Chane admitted. "Or it was until a few weeks ago, when I started having that dream almost every night. But now it's different. There's a great, high bridge, and nothing at all beneath it. I cross the bridge, and then I find the helmet. I start to put it on, and there is someone there with me. A warrior, like the old Hylar warriors back in the time of the great war. He looks at me and says, 'The time approaches. Thorbardin is at risk. Chane Feldstone, you must become who you are and who you are meant to be. It is your destiny.' " Chane growled and scuffed a fur-clad foot against the stone. "Old Firestoke laughed when

I told him about it."

"Is he the one who chased you out of Thorbardin?"

"Nobody chased me out of Thorbardin!" Chane rumbled. "I went because I wanted to go. But his villains beat me up and robbed me and told me never to come back."

"Why do you suppose they did that?"

"Because Slag Firestoke is a miserable old rust-pit, and he wants Jilian to marry somebody wealthy or famous."

"I don't suppose you are either of those?"

"No, I'm not. But I'll go back when I'm ready, and I'll go on my own terms, and Slag Firestoke can go to corrosion for all I care."

"But you're going to find the helmet first."

"I intend to try. Maybe it was just a dream, but I want to find out."

"Maybe the helmet will make you rich and famous," the kender suggested.

Still seething at the recent memory of betrayal and humiliation, Chane squinted and peered at the misted valley. The kender was right about one thing, he decided. The valley seemed to try to hide itself, as though it didn't want company. But to reach the mountains east of there he would have to cross it.

They had seen no further sign of the big cats. If the beasts lived in the valley, they had obviously gone home during the night. In the distance, beyond the mists, morning sun haloed the caps of tall peaks that jutted upward like lizards' teeth. At one point, somewhat to the north, there was a gap that might be a pass.

"Does your map say what's beyond those next mountains?" he asked.

"Another valley," the kender said. "It's called the Vale of Respite. And beyond it are more mountains. Some really big ones. According to one of the maps, the northern gate of Thorbardin is over there someplace. I've never seen that. Have you?"

"Not from outside," Chane admitted. He growled again, thinking about

Firestoke's "armsmen" — actually just a gang of toughs, the sort who were all too common in some of the warrens and even parts of some of the clan cities in the undermountain domain. Firestokel The old rustbucket had made

Chane believe that he was helping him, outfitting him for a journey, providing armed companions… and had betrayed him. What must Jilian think? Thinking of Jilian he became so melancholy that he went back to thinking about her father instead.

'Yes, by the Great Anvil!" he growled. 'Yes, I will go back, and maybe

I'll shove Slag Firestoke's pretensions right down his throat."

"Being rich and famous might help," Chess allowed. He shifted his pouch to a more comfortable position at his belt, gripped his hoopak, and scuffed an impatient foot. "Look at it, will youl I never saw a valley so reluctant to be seen."

Chane picked up his packs. "Maybe it's a spell."

"I don't think so," the kender said. "I heard magicians don't like to come here because it makes them itch or something. The hill dwarf told me that." He glanced at the fur-clad dwarf, then tipped his head to study

Chane critically. Clad entirely in black cat-fur, the only parts of the dwarf that were visible were the top half of his face swept-back whiskers nearly as dark as the cat fur covered everything below his nose — his hands, and his knees between kilt and boot-tops. Chess decided he looked like a dwarf in a black bunny suit.

Chane stepped to the edge of the ridge and looked down. Rough, fissured rock fell away in a vertical drop, and through the mists he thought he saw water below.

Wings beat the air, and a dark shadow flitted across the ledge. They looked up. A large bird, as black as midnight but with iridescent flashes where sunlight caught its sleek feathers, had swooped down from somewhere above and now rested on a gnarled snag just overhead. It preened itself, shifted its footing on the snag, and cocked its head to stare at them with one golden eye. "Go away," it said.

Chane blinked. "What?"

"It said, 'go away,' " the kender repeated. "I never heard a bird say

'go away' before, have you? For that matter, I've never heard a bird say a word of any kind except once, when a messenger bird in the service of some wizard got lost in a crosswind or something and landed on the flagstaff at

Hylo Village. It talked for five or ten minutes. Nobody knew what it was talking about, but half the folks in the village were invisible for several days afterward." He paused, remembering. "Lot of things got misplaced about then. Old Ferman Wanderweed never did find his front door

— "

"Will you be quiet?" Chane snapped. "This bird just talked to us."

"I know that. It said, 'go away.' I told you."

"But birds can't talk!"

"Generally not." Curiously, the kender raised his forked staff and poked at the bird. It glared at him, first with one eye and then with the other, and shifted its position on the snag. "Go away," it said again.

"Do you suppose that's all it knows how to say?" Chess wondered aloud.

"Just, 'go away'? If I were teaching a bird to talk, I think I'd come up with something better than — "

"Go away or keep the Way," the bird said.

"That's much better," Chess nodded.

"What does it mean by that?" Chane glared at the bird, which glared back with a malicious yellow eye.

"Go away or keep the Way," the bird squawked. "Go away or keep the Way!

Go away or keep the Way!" Having had its say then, the bird glared at them one more time, relieved itself on the snag, spread wide wings, and launched itself out over the valley.

They watched it shrink to a dot in the distance, then Chane settled his packs on sturdy shoulders and stepped to the edge of the cliff again.

"You're still going?" the kender asked.

"Of course I am. Why not?"

"You heard what that bird said."

"I don't take orders from birds. Are you coming?"

"Sure, but I bet there's an easier way down than where you're heading."

Turning away from the sheer ledge, the small creature started off, down the far slope, angling away from the ledge.

Chane frowned and called after him, "That isn't the way the bird went."

Chess glanced back. "So what?"

"The bird said, 'keep the Way.' Maybe we're supposed to follow it."

"I thought you didn't take orders from birds."

"I don't, but I'm open to suggestions when they lead in the direction I want to go."

"Well, I'll meet you in the valley, then," Chess said. "This looks like a nice, easy path around this way. A person could get hurt climbing down that cliff."

"Suit yourself." The dwarf shrugged, eased himself over the sheer ledge, and found handholds and acceptable, if precarious, holds for his feet. As a mountain dwarf, climbing was second nature to him, and he had little patience for detours.

The sheer face was almost vertical, but it was rough and broken, and

Chane could find purchase. As he lowered himself below the edge, he saw the kender strolling happily away, down the easy slope to the north.

It was eighty feet to the bottom of the rock, as nearly as Chane could judge. Slow going, but he kept at it, working his way down with the stubborn dexterity of his kind. Born in Thorbardin, largest kingdom of the mountain dwarves of Krynn — and maybe the only one, for all Chane knew — swarming over rock faces was as natural to him as delving caverns and tunnels. Dug from the bedrock of a mountain range, Thorbardin was more than a city. It was an entire complex of cities, all deep within the mountains. And it had many levels. In one way or another, Chane had been climbing rock all his life.

The dwarf was nearing the bottom when he heard shouts and scuffling above. A rain of pebbles pelted Chane. He looked up to see the kender flinging himself over the ledge, seeming to fly out into thin air for a moment before he twisted around, thrust his forked staff at the face of the cliff, wedged it into a crack, and swung from it. Above Chess a great black head with feral yellow eyes looked down. A big, padded paw with ranked claws extended and swatted downward, trying to reach him. The kender pulled himself hand over hand to the rock face, clung there, released his staff, and thrust it into another crack farther down. "The bird was right," he called. "I think I'll try it your way."

Chane let himself down another set of holds, and suddenly it was raining gravel again. From above came the sound of splintering rock, and another yell. The next instant, Chane was knocked from his holds as the kender landed on him. A tangle of arms and legs, pack, pouch, and forked staff, the kender and the dwarf thumped onto the slope at the foot of the cliff and rolled downward, gathering momentum — a black-and-motley ball heading for the maze of tumblestone below, leaving a cloud of dust in its wake.

Through the fallen rock they went, threading this way and that among boulders as the rise and fall of the slope guided them. They bounded off a boulder, careened from another, shot through a hole in the base of two coupled stones, and zoomed off a lower ledge. Water glinted below, rising to meet them, then closed over them with a splash.

The kender surfaced, bobbing like a cork. He sputtered, blinked, and headed for the nearest solid surface a jutting creek bank a few feet away.

Reaching it, he pulled himself up, water sheeting from him. "Wow," he said. "Your way down is certainly faster than mine."

When there was no answer, he looked around. There was no sign of the dwarf. The surface of the stream — a deep, cold little river no more than twenty feet wide shivered with converging ripples and resumed its flow. He looked downstream, then upstream. No one was in sight. He waded out as far as he could and began thrusting about beneath the surface, poking here and there with his hoopak.

Nothing.

"Now where did that dwarf get off to?" Chess muttered. He waded in another step, fighting the current, and prodded deep into the stream, finding nothing but water.

Several yards downstream, near the bank, waters parted and a pair of black cat-ears emerged, followed by a black head-pelt and then the face of

Chane Feldstone, dripping wet. The dwarf got his whiskers above water and blew out a long-held breath, then plodded up the shallows and out of the creek.

"What are you doing over there?" Chess snapped at him. "I was getting worried. I didn't know whether you could swim."

The dwarf turned, glaring at him with hot-eyed fury. "I can't swim! I had to walk." He sat down to empty water out of his boots and his pack, then put them on again and stood, plodding toward the kender with the look of mayhem in his eyes. "Why did you jump on me up there? If you can't scale cliffs, why don't you just stay off of them?"

"I didn't jump on you," Chess said. "I fell on you. It's a different thing entirely. It…" He looked past the drenched dwarf and pointed. "Do you know that you have a following?"

Where thickets began, fifty yards downstream, four of the great black hunting cats had emerged. Ears laid back, eyes blazing with feline anticipation, they padded toward the pair, their rumbling purrs like distant thunder.

"Don't talk about it," Chane said. "Run!"

They ran up the creek bank, across a gravel bed, and onto meadowgrass where thickets converged ahead of them. The kender, in the lead, dove into the thickets, as quick and as limber as a rabbit taking cover. The dwarf, slower of foot, felt hot breath on his back as he bumbled into a viny wilderness that clawed and pulled at him from all sides. With one arm up to protect his feet, he pushed on, short, brawny legs making up in power what they lacked in speed. Directly behind him he heard cats circling, testing, slinking into the thickets by hidden ways, spreading to flank him on both sides, converging to head him off. Chane tripped and sprawled, suspended for a moment in a nest of thorny brush. He pushed on and stumbled again, and abruptly a fork of seasoned hardwood was in his hand.

He gripped it and followed as it pulled him forward another step, then two.

"Come on!" the kender shouted. "We don't have all day!"

With Chess pulling and his own legs pushing, Chane burst from the entwining thickets and rolled onto clear ground. He could see nothing except a mass of vines and thorns in front of his face. He tried to stand, tripped over vines tangled around his face, and fell again. Behind him, to the right and left, were the rumbling purrs of big cats. He braced himself for their attack, and waited.

And nothing happened.

Near at hand, the kender said, "Well, how about that! I think we've found the 'Way.' "

Pulling and cutting at Chane's cloak of vegetation, the kender cleared a viewport for him. He looked around. They were near the center of a wide, open path that led into forest. The path's surface was black gravel, its stones glinting in the spangled light like bits of coal. And alongside the path were several of the huge hunting cats, glaring and whining, padding this way and that along the verge of the gravel.

"They don't want to come onto the path," the kender said. "I guess this is what the bird was talking about." He turned his attention again to clearing thorny vines from Chane, pulling and slicing at them, discarding them by lengths and armloads. "You really are a mess," he noted cheerfully. "Given a little time, I'll bet you could grow berries."

Chane's arms were free then, and he set about untangling himself, shrugging off the kender's attempts to help.

"This works pretty well for that," Chess said, holding up the implement he had been using. Chane stared at it a dagger made from a cat's tooth.

"What are you doing with that?" he demanded. 'That's mine."

"Is it I" the kender looked at it closely. "I found it somewhere, while we were rolling down the hill. Do you suppose you lost it?"

"Give it back!"

"All right." Chess handed over the knife. "If that's how you feel about it, here. It's all right. I still have another, just like it."

Above the blackstone path an iridescent raven wheeled, circled, then flew off to the north as though showing them the direction to take.

Other eyes also watched the bird, but not directly. High on a wind-scoured crag, among the peaks east of the Valley of Waykeep, a man knelt beside an ice pool, gazing intently at its surface. A dark bison-pelt robe pulled tight around his shoulders shielded him from the cold, only here and there exposing the color of the long robe he wore beneath it — a robe that had once been vermilion, but whose hood, cape, and hems now were faded to the red of twilight. The color blended, in the shadow of his hood, with unkempt whiskers the gray of winter wind.

In the ice pool was an image: two beings on a black path where black cats prowled the edges and a black bird beckoned above. The image wavered and misted as an errant wind scattered hard, dry snow across the ice.

Without looking up, the man raised a long staff with a crystal device at its peak. Sunlight glinted in the crystal and concentrated through it to glow on the surface of the ice. The misted surface smoothed itself, melted, and refroze bright and clear. The two in the valley were on the move, following the bird. Like a deadly honor guard, great black cats plodded along both sides of the pathway, flanking them.

The image shifted then. In the ice was a great, vaulted chamber hewn from living stone. Dim and deserted, the chamber contained various structures and articles, largest of which was a great dais upon which rested a crypt. Here and there on the shadowed walls hung paintings, all done in the finest dwarven style. The view held on one painting and seemed to approach it as the vision magnified: a fighting dwarf in emblazoned armor, leading a charge of dwarven warriors across a blasted mountainscape. Again the vision grew, focusing on the face of the dwarf in the lead.

Peering closely into the ice, the man studied the features of that face

— wide, strong dwarven features of a face that had known power and had known pain; wideset, intelligent eyes that had seen much of life and had cherished most of it; a face chiseled for patience, twisted now in fury as he led his armies in final assault.

The man studied the features as he had in many viewings, then twitched his staff. The view changed again, back to the black pathway in the Valley of Waykeep. This time the vision moved close, sighting on the irritated, frowning face of a dwarf in black furs with cat ears atop his head.

Just as he had studied the face in the painting, the man at the ice pool now examined the features of the dwarf in the valley below.