The Gates of Thorbardin

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.

"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 cove, 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."