The Gates of Thorbardin

Chapter 31

Out on the plains, Thog had gathered the separate segments of Kolanda's command, and was marching toward the breaks. From the bridge-trail gap,

Kolanda saw the troops funneling between the distant hills, and knew there would be little for them to do. It would all be over before they arrived.

Already, she could hear the hoofbeats of the approaching horse. Edging back into the shadows of a stone slab, the Commander waved her six guards farther back into their hiding places across the trail. In moments, the riders would be between them.

"You can have the wizard, Caliban," she muttered. "The goblins and I will deal with the barbarian."

"Glenshadow," the withered thing at her breast whispered. "Caliban has waited a very long time. Glenshadow will die many times now, before he is released to death."

Kolanda felt the tingling of magic being amassed, and was satisfied.

Caliban would have no time to think of other things until he was through taking his revenge on the red-robed mage. By then, she would have the thing the wilderness man carried, the thing that would make Caliban truly her slave.

The horse's hooves clopped on stone, only yards from the ambushers, and the Commander gripped her blade and held her breath, counting the seconds.

Closer and closer the sounds came. There was motion beyond the stone, and a horse's head appeared. Kolanda raised her sword… and stopped. There were no riders, only a horse with an empty saddle. Looking straight ahead, the creature trotted on, seeing none of them… though its ears swiveled toward the goblin guards in hiding as it passed.

Kolanda stepped out from her hiding place and peered back the way the horse had come. Nothing. She turned and stared after the horse. It trotted on up the trail and disappeared around a turn, its hoofbeats fading.

"They've tricked me," Kolanda breathed. "Well, we'll see who gets the last trick." She waved at her guards. "Come out! Follow me, on the double!"

They fell in behind her, glancing at one another in confusion, and headed up the trail. At a dark cleft in the broken stone, the rearmost goblin saw the others pass by ahead of him, then paused as something seemed to move in the cleft. Slowing, he approached and stepped close to the darkness. It was the last thing he ever did. Hard hooves lashed out, with great haunches driving them. One caught the goblin in the face, the other in the chest.

Geekay stepped out of his hidey-hole, pawed at the dead thing on the trail, twitched his ears in revulsion, and looked up the trail where the others had gone. At an easy trot, he followed.

"It's a thing a man picks up, traveling wilderness," Wingover explained, helping Glenshadow over a fissure. "Never backtrack yourself without a diversion of some kind. You don't know what might be waiting for you."

"And you might lose your horse," the wizard rasped.

"Better him than me." Wingover shrugged. "But it's not likely. We've been around a while. He knows what to do." The wilderness man paused and sniffed. "I smell goblins."

"And I sense evil," Glenshadow said. "Magic and evil. I wish I could see."

The man looked at him, peering into his eyes. 'You mean you can't see?"

"I don't mean just with my eyes. There are better ways, you know." He sighed. "It seems I've been blind forever. The cursed Spellbinder."

Wingover turned the helmet, indicating the green gem inside. "What about this one? Pathfinder. What does it do to you?"

"Nothing… unless I touch it. You saw what it does then."

"Is that because you're a wizard?"

Glenshadow nodded. "The two gems react to magic. Pathfinder holds it in place; Spellbinder confuses it, turns it upon itself. It is how Gargath trapped the graystone. At least, such is the legend. I believe it now."

Abruptly Wingover turned away, holding up his hand. "Hush," he whispered. "Listen!"

Ahead of them, not far away, there was a clamor of voices. Goblins cheered and cackled.

"They're at the bridge," Wingover said. "Let's go." With a bound he hurried on, leaving Glenshadow to follow as best he could. Running, sprinting, leaping from stone to stone atop the broken zone, Wingover rounded a shoulder and saw the bridge ahead. Goblins in force pressed forward at the foot of it, and a huge ogre with a club stood halfway up its slope, facing down. Between were the two dwarves and the kender.

Even at this distance, Wingover saw Chane Feldstone brace himself for battle… a tiny creature, not half as tall as the monster he faced, and armed only with a hammer. Above it all, the crazy gnome circled in the air on the wings of a sailcloth kite.

Wingover slung the dwarven helmet at his back, tightened the straps on his shield, and raised his sword. By the time he hit the lower trail, he was moving at a run. His war cry was a howl of fury as he burst upon the goblin platoon.

Loam advanced slowly toward the waiting dwarf, enjoying the moment, drawing out the sweet satisfaction of destroying the small creature who had humiliated him. For long days and long miles, the ridicule Cleft had heaped upon him after digging him out from the fallen stone, had rung in his ears. His fury had fermented into a deep hatred for the dwarf with the cat-fur garments. Cleft was dead now, and Loam felt no regret, but still the harsh glee of his fellow's taunts lingered to haunt the ogre.

Many times in his life, Loam had killed dwarves — as well as humans and other lesser creatures. He had even killed two elves, purely for the sport of it. But this kill would be the sweetest of all. He wanted to make it last.

Just within reach of the smaller being, he feinted suddenly, thrusting his club forward. The dwarf's frenzied dodge delighted him, and he chuckled, a deep rumble like distant thunder. Again Loam jabbed, prodding with the huge club, this time grazing Chane's head as the dwarf backpedaled. Was that panic in the little creature's eyes? Loam's pleasure deepened. He held the club out, waving it lazily from side to side, taunting, and beckoned with his other hand. "Little fighter," he chuckled.

"See how brave! Can't even make his knees behave. Think your hammer worries me? Come and try it, then you'll see."

From the corner of his eye Loam saw the little kender sidling along the bridge rail, trying to flank him. With his empty hand he reached out, swatted casually, and sent the small thing tumbling. "Friends can't help the fighting one," he rumbled. "Dwarf must deal with Loam alone."

He raised his club higher, threatening, and suddenly the dwarf darted under it. Loam roared as the creature's hammer cracked against his kneecap.

Chane ducked between the ogre's legs, whirled around, and went between again as the monster turned, getting in another blow at the same kneecap.

The ogre's roar was deafening. Chess darted past, swatting the ogre across the knuckles with the heavy end of his hoopak and chattering at the top of his lungs, hurling taunts and insults that fairly summarized the misbegotten nature of ogredom.

A tide of goblins had started to flow up the bridge, but they now hesitated. Beyond the bridge spires a bloodchilling howl sounded, and goblins scattered in panic as Wingover charged among them, shield pummeling, sword flashing. A few goblins at the foot of the bridge turned and tried to form a defense, but were cut down by Jilian in full spin.

At the ogre's feet, Chane managed one more solid blow with his hammer, this time at Loam's midriff. The dwarf was then knocked flat by the massive club. He lay stunned, trying to breathe, and Loam stepped to him.

Ignoring the kender's prodding hoopak, the ogre raised his club to crush the dwarf.

Chess flailed at the ogre's back, then blinked as something fell across his arm… a metal hook, attached to a rope. He dropped his hoopak and grabbed the rope. After throwing it around the ogre's massive ankle, the kender set the hook to the rope in one motion. Finally, Chess straightened and pulled down on the rope as hard as he could.

Overhead, the soarwagon's sensitive vanes reacted to the tug. They instantly realigned themselves, and the craft nosed up, seeking the sky.

Loam's club descended as his feet went out from under him. The blow rang against stone a foot from Chane's head, and the dwarf looked up, trying to see clearly. Just above the bridge, a flailing ogre dangled upside down from Bobbin's supply line, while overhead the soarwagon shivered and trembled, fighting for altitude. The gnome's voice was a screech: "Get that creature off my line! He's too heavy!"

Chestal Thicketsway picked up his hoopak and dug into his pouch desperately. The only thing that came to hand was a small glass ball, something he had picked up on the old, frozen battlefield in the Valley of

Waykeep.

He set it in the hoopak's sling-pocket and sighted at the hook holding the rope to the ogre's ankle. "Maybe I can shoot him loose," he called reassuringly.

The glass ball flew, ricocheted off Loam's foot, and zoomed upward to imbed itself in the wicker of Bobbin's cab. In the air above Chess, something voiceless seemed to say, "Ah. Much better."

The kender stared up and around. "Zap? Was that you?

Enraged and frothing, Loam dropped his club, curled his body upward, and began clawing at the rope that held him. The ogre's huge hand grasped it, then hand over hand, he pulled himself upright and began to climb.

Chess cupped his hands and shouted, "Watch out, Bobbin! The ogre's coming up your rope! I missed my shot!"

"Drat and threadbind," the gnome's irritated voice answered. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, I suppose. Now where did I put that wrench? Ah, here it is."

The struggling, bucking soarwagon had edged away from the bridge and was beginning, little by little, to fall toward the gorge. Bobbin worked feverishly, loosing first one lug and then the next, then drew back as his winch mount broke loose, taking a piece of the soarwagon with it. Ogre, supply line, and winch plummeted away, into the mists of the great gorge.

The soarwagon, suddenly free of the creature's weight, shot upward like a winged arrow. High above it did a tight barrel roll, looped about, and headed out over the breaks, toward the plains.

Chess danced on tiptoes, shouting, "Come back! You've got Zap!" But it was far too late for his words to be heard.

Wingover cut and slashed his way through a gaggle of panicked goblins at the foot of the bridge, the stench of goblin blood a miasma around him.

His battle howl still echoing from the stone walls of the breaks, he clove through them, wading in dark gore. Stab, slash, and cut, his blade was a dancing tongue of death, his shield a dark battering ram. Goblins fell, and goblins fled. A pain like searing fire lanced through Wingover's shoulder and down his shield arm. He lunged forward and spun around.

An armored hobgoblin faced Wingover, its sword red with blood and poised to strike again. The human tried to raise his shield, but couldn't. He dodged aside instead, barely escaping the thrust. The hobgoblin hissed, feinted, and thrust again. Wingover felt the cut on his thigh as his own blade descended, leaving a deep dent in the creature's helmet.

A random thought teased Wingover: the hobgoblin was hiding. It waited and got behind me.

Again the hobgoblin struck. Wingover managed to deflect the cut with his shield, and lunged forward, blade extended. The point ground against metal breastplate and slid away, and Wingover felt blood dripping down his cheek. He realized dimly that he wasn't standing any more. He sat spread-legged and dazed, and the hobgoblin's wide mouth split in a sharp-toothed leer. Raising its sword above its head, the creature charged, then stiffened and gurgled as Wingover's blade slid between its breastplate and its buckler.

Slowly, shaking his head to clear the mists, the man got to his feet and pulled his sword free. Someone was beside him, helping him. It was Jilian, her eyes wide and excited. Wingover staggered, then stood. All around was stench and carnage… and silence. Nothing moved, and the only sound was an odd, distant singing as of great winds building aloft.

The air felt still and heavy. Where is the sunlight, the wilderness man wondered vaguely. Why is it so dark?

Feeling dizzy from shock, Wingover raised his head. Heavy clouds were forming above — dense, swirling clouds to the east, above the Plains of

Dergoth; dark ropes of cloud sweeping outward from the slopes of Sky's

End. Odd, he thought. Odd weather. But his wounds put thoughts of the clouds aside. He was hurt, he knew. But how hurt? Jilian tugged at him and pointed.

Beyond the bridge, someone was coming. Shadows from the swirling clouds interefered, then Wingover saw clearly. Kolanda Darkmoor. The Commander.

Barebreasted, her woman's body contrasted strangely with the hideous helmet and the weapons she carried. Goblins ran beside her. Five of them that he could see, betterarmed than the ones he had fought on the bridge.

More disciplined. Crack troops.

Partway up the bridge, Chane met them. Wingover had to lay down his sword to remove the dwarven helm from its sling at his back. It was smeared with blood — his own, he knew.

He handed it to Chane Feldstone. "Here's your ancestor's hat," he said gruffly. "Jewel and all. I hope it's worth it."

Chane turned the helm in his hands, studying it.

"Well, don't just stand there," Wingover gritted. "Use it."

"You're hurt," the dwarf said.

"It's nothing much. I'll be all right. But we don't have time to discuss it. Use the helmet!"

Chane pushed back the cat-eared hood of his black cloak, and Chess gaped at him. Somehow, he hadn't noticed how much the dwarf had changed. The dwarf's swept-back beard, his intense, wide-set eyes were the same, but

Chane was different now. Somehow the kender couldn't see him now as an amusing dwarf in a bunny suit. He might almost have been someone else entirely. Chess wondered if the old warrior, Grallen, had looked like this.

The dwarf set the helm on his head. It fit as though it had been made for him, and seemed as though none other had ever been intended to wear it. Grallen's helm settled over Chane's head, and the green stone above the noseguard began to glow.

Chane seemed to stiffen. His eyes closed, and when he spoke his voice had changed.

"I, Grallen," he said, "son of King Duncan, rode forth on the morning of the last battle in the great charge of the Hylar dwarves. From the

Northgate of Thorbardin we had come, then westward to where the roving companies encamped, then across Sky's End to the Plains of Dergoth, to join the main force of Hylar. My troop assaulted the mountain home of the wizard there. My brothers fought with courage and valor; many fell with honor at my side."

They stared at him in wonder. Even Jilian had backed away, her eyes wide.

"Yet when the tide of battle turned in our favor," Chane recited, "and I confronted the wizard in his lair, he smiled, and a great magic rushed from his being: a flame of power and horror that broke through stone and steel.

"Thus in his rage and despair, he destroyed both his allies and his enemies.

"Thus did I die, and thus now I am doomed to live in the remains of the fortress, now known as Skullcap Mountain, until the day when someone will take my helm and return it to the land of my fathers so that I may find rest."

Clouds seethed and churned overhead, darkening the land. Whining winds aloft echoed in the chasm below. Chane stood a moment longer as one entranced, then shuddered and opened his eyes. "Grallen," he said.

He turned to stare at the massive face of Sky's End across the bridge, and a green light glowed there among the fallen stone. It looked to the dwarf like light coming from an open door.

"Go," Wingover said. "I'll hold them here as long as I can. Go and do what we came for… whatever that is."

Chane hesitated, then nodded. "It is what we came for," he said.

Abruptly he held out his hand. "Good luck, human."

Wingover took the hand in his good one. "Good journey, dwarf."

Chane turned toward the crown of the bridge and the mystery beyond,

Jilian following. Chess looked after them, started to tag along, but changed his mind.

"He's probably about to become rich and famous," the kender muttered.

"And probably insufferable. I think I'll stay."

Just beyond the foot of the bridge, Kolanda Darkmoor stood, looking up at them. Her stance was a warrior's stance. A victor's stance. Her eyes behind her steel mask glittered with anticipation, and something between her breasts glowed darkly. A faint, sizzling sound lingered in the air.

And then there was no more time. Out past the breaks, goblin troops raced toward Chane and his companions, and just beyond the foot of the bridge Kolanda Darkmoor signaled her guard to advance. Wingover picked up his sword and braced himself, estimating how long it would take for the dwarves to reach safety under the mountain.