The Gates of Thorbardin

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 contest 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.

Suddenly its hinged joints came alive, and it sprang away, running at an awkward, loose-legged gallop that seemed slow — except for the blur of landscape flashing past. Hobby ran, and the ice image followed it. Hills sped past, and wild steppes where raw wind flattened scrub. The torn and savaged land was seen just in glimpses by the mage.

The carved horse ran, then slowed and halted atop another hill. "There," it said. "Hobby has found it."

The wooden horse looked away, and the ice image followed its steady gaze. At the foot of the hill was a tumble of rocks. Great boulders lay here and there in a field of smaller, broken stones, which stretched across a quartermile of barren waste. Only here and there among the rocks was there indication that they had once been part of a structure — a squared corner, a wedge-cut face of flat stone.

Hobby's gaze narrowed, and so did the scene in the ice pool. Among the stones, a point jutted up, tilted at a slight angle, its lower parts buried under sand and debris. It was a piece of what must once have been a mighty structure, now only wreckage among rubble. A wide crack ran from the covered base part way toward the upright point, and Hobby's painted eyes focused on that crack. In the shadows within the fissure, something glowed for a moment.

"The helm is there," Hobby said. "Chislev knows where everything is.

Chislev is everywhere that there are eyes to see." Slowly, the carved wooden head turned to the right, and in the ice pool the landscape slithered past: a place of broken lands; a wide, cold marsh with mountains beyond. Only a few miles away, a range of giant peaks rose above the sheer wall of a great cliff hundreds of feet high, a diff that soared upward from a misted gorge. And just at the top of the cliff, facing on a narrow ledge, was a massive, closed gate.

The great northern gate of the undermountain realm of Thorbardin, still intact though its approaches had been sheared away for centuries. Abruptly the picture vanished, and the carved wooden face of Hobby was again in the ice. "Hobby has shown what you wanted to see," the horse said. Glenshadow drew his staff across the ice, and again it was only ice. He stood, wind whipping the fringes of his bison cloak, rippling the hems of the faded red robes beneath.

Far out across the plain, tiny with distance, plumes of dust arose where armies moved. Glenshadow watched these, deep in thought. Out there, somehow joined to the woman who led the invaders, was Caliban.

Caliban, the renegade black-robed mage Glenshadow and two others had hunted down years before… Caliban, who chose to fight them rather than accept the rules of the robed orders… Caliban, whose magic destroyed two of the three before he himself died.

Glenshadow's cold eyes were as bleak as a winter storm as he remembered.

Caliban had died, but not at

Glenshadow's hand. He had killed himself, rather than accept defeat.

Glenshadow had seen the manner of it.

The black-robed mage, with his own two hands, had torn out his own heart.

Even across the miles now, he felt eyes upon him and knew that he was seen. Caliban's magic lived, and was at work.

The wizard on the mountain raised his eyes toward the skies. "Hear me

Gilean, gate of souls," he said, his voice like the mountain wind. "Hear me Sirrion Firemaster. Hear me Chislev, whose carven creatures see what is to see. World-tree Zivilyn, and Shinare by whose color the wilderness man shone, hear me. Hear me all who seek balance in a struggling world, who yearn for order in a plane whose name is chaos. Two things more do I ask in this life: to see the death of he who died before… and first, to see what Chane Feldstone sees when he holds Spellbinder and Pathfinder and looks toward Thorbardin."

Sighing, the mage looked across distances toward the place where the dust plumes blew. He knew what the thing was that Kolanda Darkmoor had raised from her breastplate — the thing he had thought was an amulet. It was what remained of Caliban. It was the wizard's heart. The Wanderer felt eyes upon him, and sensed a building of magics. He turned his eyes toward the place the wooden horse had shown him, and muttered a transport spell.

Winds whipped about him on the mountainside, and then there was only the wind.

In the final four miles of approach, with Skullcap fully and horribly visible ahead, Kolanda Darkmoor had fanned her goblin troops out in three long lines. They had swept the plains for a sign of anyone having passed as she waited for the reports to come back. Within hours, a front several miles long had been combed. It was clear that no one had passed this way recently.

Thoughtfully, then, Kolanda looked back the way she had come. Due west, the bulk of Sky's End rose somber against the sky. To the south, just visible across the miles, was the massive mountain wall of Thorbardin, the great north gate tiny above a sheer cliff of huge proportion. Northgate was almost never used now because of its nearly impossible access — even by the dwarves who lived beyond it.

Her eyes, shadowed within the grotesque horned mask that was the faceplate of her helmet, rested on Northgate for a time. Then they roved downward, seeking something she knew was there but had never seen — the thing her career with the Highlord's forces was based upon, the thing that would assure her the power she craved when the Highlords began their campaigns. That thing was the secret way into Thorbardin.

Command of Thorbardin was to be Kolanda

Darkmoor's reward — provided she remained in the good graces of the

Highlord of Neraka. She would have command of defeated and occupied

Thorbardin, and first share of the treasures of the realm.

Kolanda could not see the hidden entrance. No one could, now. But it was there, and she knew the way to it. It was that information that had gained her the interim rank of Commander.

She wished she could see the hidden gate now. It would feel good, she thought, to see the route by which she would lead forces to penetrate and conquer the kingdom of the western dwarves of Ansalon.

It's there, she thought, scanning with her eyes. Just there… and unknown to those within.

But there was one who posed a threat: a dwarf who had the means to thwart her plans. He must be destroyed. But where was he? Not here yet, certainly. Back there somewhere, she realized, but coming this way. But where? The plains were vast, with no significant feature except the ruined fortress of Zhaman… now Skullcap. He would be coming to Skullcap, wouldn't he? Where else would he seek that which he sought?

Shadowed eyes in a hideous mask roved the slopes of Sky's End. Up there?

Where?

It was time to ask Caliban. She turned away, looking for one of her hobgoblin marshals. None were near, and the only goblins within call were stupid brutes — a dozen or so greasy swamp goblins good only for carrying packs and spears, and for combing the field after combat to dispatch the wounded. A pair of ogres squatted nearby, though, two of four that had come south with her force. The other two had been missing for at least a week. She approached the pair and pointed at the nearest one. "You, go and tell the marshals to form here and await orders."

The huge creature stared at her with cruel, close-set eyes — eyes that were above her own even though the ogre was squatting on its heels. It yawned, baring great slabs of yellow teeth, and looked away. Raising her faceplate Kolanda stepped closer and barked, "You heard me? Do as I say!"

The two ogres grinned at each other, then the one she had addressed spat on the ground. "Don't feel like it," it rumbled. "Do it yourself."

With rising fury in her eyes, Kolanda Darkmoor drew her sword and swatted the ogre across the face with the flat of her blade. "Obey me!" she hissed.

The grin disappeared from the huge, leering face. The ogre stood, rubbing its cheek with a hand that was eighteen inches across. It towered over the woman. "Puny human," it rumbled. "Go too far. Maybe I squash you where you are."

Kolanda reached to her throat and drew a leather thong from beneath the lacquered metal of her breastplate. At its end dangled a black, misshapen thing that resembled a shriveled pear. "Caliban," she said.

A rush of heat sprang from the thing, a tangible force that made the air around it sizzle. Fire shot from it and struck the ogre in the chest. The creature was thrown backward a dozen yards. It tumbled, rolled, and sprawled, then lay still. Vile smoke curled upward from its midsection, and dead eyes stared at the sky.

Kolanda dropped the dark thing back into her breastplate and pointed at the second ogre. 'You heard my order," she said. "You do it."

Growling deep in its massive chest, the monster scrambled to its feet, glaring at the woman. It paused for a moment over the smoking body of its partner, shot a murderous glance back at Kolanda, then went to do her bidding. After watching the ogre move off, the Commander beckoned to some of the swamp goblins. "Bring the slaves," she ordered. "Set my pavilion here." When she was alone, she pulled the dark thing from her breastplate again, where an angry heat had developed between her breasts. She held it up, gazing at it with revulsion.

"Why did she wake me?" the thing asked, its voice a dry, husky whisper in her ear. "Does she need me to deal with ogres?"

"You didn't have to kill it," Kolanda said. "It might have proven useful."

"She criticizes me," the thing whispered. "What does she want?"

"I need you to tell me where my quarry is," she said.

"Ah? Needs me, does she? Hee-hee!" The ancient, wizened voice was a whispered cackle. "Needs Caliban, she does. Very well, Caliban is awake.

But she knows the price."

With a shudder of revulsion, Kolanda dropped to her knees and held the wrinkled thing before her face. Lowering her head the woman said, "Caliban lives forever. Caliban's power goes beyond death. Caliban will never die again. Caliban offered me his help…" Her voice trailed off in a choking whisper.

"Hee-hee!" the dark thing rasped. "She has to say it all."

"Caliban offered me his help," she continued, "and I accepted. I sealed the bargain with the blood of my own brother, and thus Caliban owns my soul."

In her ear, the wispy voice chortled and cackled. 'Very good. She always remembers… as she must. What does she ask of me now?"

"I cannot see my prey, Caliban," Kolanda said. "See them for me, and tell me where they are."

"She wants to know where people are," the voice breathed. "Kiss me,

Kolanda." With a shudder, she brought the thing to her lips and kissed it, then held it against her forehead and looked again toward Sky's End. She could see them — the dwarf and his companions — across the miles but as if they were only a few feet away. Caliban's magic magnified the scene, and she counted them there. A pair of dwarves, one male and one female; a rangy, bearded man dressed as a ranger or forester; a horse carrying packs; a kender. There was something odd about the kender, almost as though someone else walked beside him, but there was no one else there to see. They were coming down a steep trail, toward the gorge that faced the plains. A stone bridge arched across, just ahead of them.

"They are near the lost gate," she whispered. "But they aren't all there. Where is the wizard?" Kolanda raised her eyes and saw him. High on the side of Sky's End, he stood alone, a cloaked wizard of the red robes.

The heart of Caliban became hot against her skin.

"Glenshadow!" the husky voice rasped. There was a sizzling sound, a ringing in the air, a massing of powers to be unleashed. The figure on the mountain raised his staff and vanished.

Puzzled, Kolanda Darkmoor withdrew the wrinkled black thing from her brow and gazed at it. "What is it?" she asked. "Why were you so… ah.

Aha, I think I see. He was one of them, wasn't he! One of those who killed you?"

The husky voice no longer chortled. Now its whisper breathed of deadly hatred. "She must hold me aloft now. I will find him again. I will kill him."

Quickly, Kolanda lowered Caliban. She dropped the thing back beneath her breastplate and smiled, a cruel smile on a face that should have been beautiful. "I owe you no favors, sorcerer," she said. "Our accounts are square. Go back to sleep."

Caliban stirred for a moment between her breasts, and then became still.

She shuddered in revulsion as she always did. Years before, Kolanda had made her pact, a pact between herself and the withered heart of an old renegade wizard, hunted down by wizards of the various orders. Caliban was a black-robe who had set himself beyond the bounds and had paid the price.

But Caliban was also a mage who even in death had somehow torn out his own heart with his two hands, and willed his spirit into it.

This was Caliban, and this was the pact between them. As long as she lived, she would keep and use the thing that owned her.

The slaves had been brought forward to set up the Commander's pavilion.

They were mostly hill dwarves, with a few other creatures among them — a few miserable Aghar, an elf shackled and mutilated almost beyond recognition, a few humans. Kolanda Darkmoor watched the work, wrinkling her nose. So pitifully few, they were. But there would be more. One day she would have all the slaves she wanted, to use as she wished. It was a thing she had learned from Caliban, or maybe had always known. People are of value only if they are owned.

She glanced at the slaves again. Among them, the lone elf was clinging to the rails of a forage cart, staring at her. Both legs made useless by cut tendons, still he clung to stay upright and looked at her with eyes that held no expression at all. Drivers goaded him, marked him with whips, and he ignored them. I should kill him, she thought. But this was the one who had ambushed her scouting party — had cost her half her escort — and she wanted him to live and suffer for that. Among the wounds the elf carried were recent ones. His face had been battered, and one of his ears was gone. Bitten off, by the look of it. Kolanda looked around for Thog, one of her hobgoblins, and summoned him. "The elf has been beaten again."

She pointed at the slave accusingly. "I want him alive."

"Tried to 'scape," Thog growled. "Han's an' knees, an' he brained one of th' drivers wi' a rock."

"All right," she said. "Just see that he isn't killed. I'm not ready to release him yet." When the hobgoblin was gone, Kolanda once again drew the withered wizard-heart from her breast and said, "Caliban."

Instantly he was awake.

"You can tell me where that wizard is now," she ordered. "But after that we do things my way. And no more ritual grovel, do you understand? Don't forget, I'm all that keeps you alive."

"She is arrogant," the thing whispered. "But for now, I agree. For now."

She held the old heart against her forehead and looked into the distance.

Later, when the slaves had erected her pavilion, Kolanda Darkmoor called for Thog again. "Have them take it down and pack it away," she said. "And get your troops together. We're moving out."