
                    DragonLance Heroes II Trilogy
                              Volume II

                       The Gates of Thorbardin
                              written by
                            Dan Parkinson

  Dedication

    Stories grow from stories told,
    So no tale's ever ended
    While there's yet new among the old.
    It's thus that lore's extended.

  The Gates of  Thorbardin  is  dedicated  to  whomever  finds  the  gnomish
  island-vessel, or solves the mystery of Garon Wendesthalas, or  tells  the
  whole tale of Caliban and Kolanda, or can chronicle the entire  Battle  of
  Waykeep.

  Part 1

  The Dream Chaser

  Chapter 1

    Even here, in this cold crevasse  split  deep  and  narrow  into  living
  mountain stone... even here, where he  could  go  no  farther,  where  his
  aching body squeezed so tightly between serrated walls  of  cutting  stone
  that his back was raw and bleeding... even here, where no roads  came  and
  the only trails were paths of small things passing....
    Even here, he knew they would find him.
    At least one of them would come, drawn by the scent of his blood - would
  come up through the riven rock and find him cornered. There were too  many
  of them on the slopes below, too well spread as they  hunted  upward,  for
  all of them to miss him where he hid. One would come. One  would  come  to
  kill him.
    He had watched them coursing the field like  a  hunter's  pack.  From  a
  ledge where the tumbled stone lay grotesque in the shadows of  the  sheers
  above, he had seen them lose his scent.  They  had  spread  wide,  casting
  about almost as wolves might, seeking movement, great blunt noses  dipping
  to sweep the ground and  rising  to  test  the  air,  thick,  sleek  tails
  swishing graceful arcs as they wound and curved  through  the  diminishing
  brush of the mountain slope. Long and lithe,  immensely  powerful  and  as
  graceful as dark zephyrs on the wind, they moved upward in silent  unison,
  missing nothing as they came. Sunlight on  the  black  fur  rippling  over
  mighty muscles was a tapestry of iridescence.
    How many were there? He hadn't been able to tell. They were never all in
  sight at once. He'd judged that there were thirty down there, seeking him.
  But it didn't matter. Of the hunting cats he had seen, one would be
  enough.
    Hunger had knotted his stomach as he  turned  upward  again,  seeking  a
  place to go to ground. Or a weapon. His hands craved the touch of a weapon
  - any kind of weapon. He had then found a palm-sized rock with  a  cutting
  edge and balanced it in his hand. It was no proper weapon,  only  a  sharp
  stone. But to hands longcomforted by the tools they held,  it  was  better
  than nothing at all.
    Clambering into tumblestone mazes, he'd used his rock  to  cut  a  strip
  from the leather kilt he wore, and concentrated on binding the strip about
  the rock to make a grip that would fit his hand. He stumbled, fell against
  a spur of stone, and felt it gash his shoulder. Warm blood  ran  down  his
  arm, bright droplets spattering the rock beneath his feet. He  paused  for
  only a moment, looking at the blood, and  raised  one  eyebrow  in  ironic
  salute. Then he had moved on.
    Above the tumblestone rose the sheer faces of rock cliffs, and among the
  cliffs he had found the crevasse, and now he waited  there.  He  had  seen
  them coursing up through the mazes, had  seen  the  one  that  paused  and
  sniffed where it found the droplets of his blood.  One,  at  least,  would
  find him here. That one had the scent and would not lose it again.
    The crevasse was a great slit, deep into the standing cliff.  Far  above
  was open sky, but the walls were sheer, with no place to climb. For a time
  the cut had run on, inward and upward, even widening at one point, where a
  tiny cold spring dripped from a sandstone cleft to pool in the sand  below
  then disappear into the rising ground. He had stopped there for a  moment,
  trying to quench a thirst that tortured him. Then  he  had  gone  on,  and
  could almost feel the hot breath of the hunting cat closing in behind him.
  From the spring, the crevasse wound back into sheer stone, narrowing as it
  went. Finally he could go no farther. He had pushed himself into the final
  rift as tightly as he could, holding his breath, and he felt the cold rock
  scraping at his flesh.
    He tilted his head to peer upward. Far above was sky, and its  path  was
  wider than the cleft that swallowed him front and  back.  Using  the  rock
  walls as pressing surfaces, he raised himself a few inches,  bracing  with
  his elbows at the rock before him, with his feet at the rock  behind.  His
  breath was a cloud of steam, hanging in the cold, still  air  around  him,
  condensing on chill stone as he worked.
    By inches he crept upward, levering  himself  between  two  surfaces.  A
  foot, then three, then seven he climbed, using his forearms  thrust  ahead
  of him - then his hands as the chimney widened above.  When  he  could  no
  longer climb, when his outthrust arms would not  reach  farther  and  give
  purchase, he looked down. He was fifteen feet  above  the  bottom  of  the
  crevasse and could go no higher.
    He was still within reach of a hunting cat, he  knew.  Any  one  of  the
  great beasts, as tall at the shoulder as he was at the  ears,  could  leap
  this high. His chest heaving, his breath a cloud in the  shadows  of  dark
  stone, he clung and waited. He could go no farther.
    "Come on, then, pouncer," he muttered. "You have my scent and  you  know
  where I am, so you are the chosen one. Come along, now, and let's  get  it
  done. I'm tired."
    Tiny clickings echoed up the split, needle tips of great  claws  tapping
  at stone as the beast padded nearer. Now he could  hear  its  breath,  the
  deep-chested, rumbling purr of a huge cat closing on its prey.
    Shadows shifted in the cleft, and he looked upward.  High  above,  where
  the walls opened upon sky, something moved. A face  was  there,  tiny  and
  distant, looking down at him. It was there, then it withdrew. Someone  was
  atop the escarpment, above the rended cliffs, someone  curious  enough  to
  look down and see what was happening below. But whoever it was,  it  meant
  nothing to him, here. All that mattered in this moment  was  that  he  was
  here, the cat was coming... and in a place far away Jilian waited for him.
  He had promised her he would return.
    In the cold mist of his breath, he now saw her face. Of  them  all,  she
  was the only one who had truly believed him. The only one  with  faith  in
  him. He had told her about the dreams. He  had  told  several  others,  as
  well, but of them all, Jilian believed.
    Rogar Goldbuckle might have believed about the  dreams,  but  not  about
  their portent. Goldbuckle had listened, stood for a time in thought,  then
  shook his head. "Who's to know what a dream means?" he had  sighed.  "I've
  had dreams, too, Chane. But that's all they were. Just dreams."
    It had been worse when he told Slag Firestoke what he wanted to do.  Old
  Firestoke was  not  fond  of  him  anyway  and  was  not  happy  about  an
  empty-pursed orphan spending time with his daughter. It had been  Jilian's
  idea to tell her father about  Chanc's  premonitions,  in  the  hope  that
  Firestoke might outfit him for his quest. He didn't need much.  Just  warm
  clothing, arms and provisions, and  a  few  of  Firestoke's  hirelings  to
  accompany him.
    "Thorbardin is in jeopardy," Chane had told him.  "I  know  it,  and  in
  dreams I've been told that I must find the key to save it."
    "Dreams!" Firestoke had rumbled, glaring at him. 'You're daft as a
  warren-bat."
    "I know I'm right," Chane had insisted. "I don't know exactly  what  I'm
  to find, but I'll know when I find it."
    Firestoke had laughed at that, a cruel, victorious laugh, "So  you  come
  to me for money? Well, you can wait until your whiskers  rust.  You  won't
  see a brass coin from me, Chane Feldstone. Now get out of my house  ...and
  stay away from my daughter! She'll have better than the likes of you."
    Then, it seemed that old Firestoke had changed his mind.  At  the  time,
  Chane believed that Jilian had persuaded him... and  Jilian  had  believed
  it, too.
    The cat sounds were closer now, momentarily hesitant while the big beast
  tasted the air. Chanc clung to his braced position and felt chill beads of
  sweat among his whiskers.
    She probably still believes it, he thought. How would she know that  her
  father's villains accompanied me to  the  edge  of  the  wilderness,  then
  waylaid me?
    They had beaten and pummeled him, enjoying the sport. They had taken his
  weapons,  his  coins,  his  boots,  his  warm  clothing.  Everything  that
  Firestoke had provided, they took - and everything else he had, as well.
    "Don't come back to Thorbardin," they'd told him. "Our  sponsor  doesn't
  want to ever see you again."
    And they had harried his trail, to make sure he didn't  turn  back.  Day
  after miserable, hungry day they had followed him, until  he  had  crossed
  beyond Thorbardin's realm into the wild lands.
    Hunger weakened him, and he felt his braced arms trembling. The  purring
  rumble of the great cat was very near, just beyond the final bend  in  the
  chasm. He took a deep breath. "Come  on,  you  blasted  cat,"  Chanc  said
  aloud. "Come kitty-kitty-kitty, you tarnish-pitted carnivore. Come on  and
  get it over with!"
    Then it was there, thirty feet  away,  a  sleek,  stalking  predator  of
  midnight black. Gold eyes spotted him, and it paused, ears flattening back
  atop an ebony head as wide as his body.
    Its mouth opened wide to clear front fangs the size of daggers. Its purr
  became a low roar, and it bunched its massive body, long  tail  twitching.
  Then it charged... two long bounds and a leap, front paws reaching for its
  prey.
    In the last instant, he released his hold and dropped. A heavy  paw  the
  span of his own hand brushed his  head.  Needle-sharp  claws  cut  shallow
  furrows from his hair to his brow. Then he was below it, and he heard  the
  heavy thump as the cat wedged itself into the slanting cut where he had
  been.
    He fell, rolled away, scrambled upright, and caught its writhing tail in
  both hands, pulling himself upward. Feet braced against stone, he  climbed
  and swung himself to its rump, dodging its  thrashing  hind  claws.  Hands
  full of black fur, he pulled himself forward. The cat's roar became a howl
  of rage. Its head came up and turned, great teeth glinting as  he  grabbed
  the cat's head and threw himself over its shoulder, clinging for life. The
  cat shrieked. He heard the snapping of bone.
    For an instant he dangled between clawed paws that had ceased  to  move,
  and felt the hot breath of the beast on his  face  as  its  lungs  emptied
  themselves. It did not breathe again. Its neck was broken.
    Feeling weak with hunger and exertion, he pulled himself atop the  beast
  once more, sat there long enough to let his muscles stop  trembling,  then
  raised himself above it, feet braced against rock faces on either side. He
  began prying the cat loose from the grip of the stone.  When  finally  the
  huge body was free, he dragged it back to where there was a little  space,
  rolled it onto its back, got out the wrapped shard of rock and  set  about
  dressing and skinning the body.
    He had almost completed the task when a voice behind him said, "Take the
  tenderloin. Best part of a cat."
    He turned, crouching. The person who stood there, a few yards away,  was
  nearly his own height, but slighter of build. He was beardless, though the
  great mane of his hair had been caught up in leather wraps at one side and
  was looped around his neck like a fur collar.  He  leaned  casually  on  a
  staff with a fork at its end, and gazed sardonically at the skinned  beast
  on the ground. "I don't believe I ever saw a body go to  so  much  trouble
  for his supper," he said. "You are a mess.  Blood  all  over  you,  and  I
  expect some of it's yours."
    The newcomer was looking him over unabashedly, and Chane glared back. "A
  kender," he growled. 'You're a blasted kender."
    "So I am," the newcomer said, feigning  surprise.  "But  then  you're  a
  dwarf. I guess everybody is something. Chestal Thicketsway's the name. You
  can call me 'Chess' if you want to. Why did you lead that cat in here,
  anyway?"
    "Because I couldn't think of any better way to kill it, and I'm hungry."
    "So am I," the kender grinned. "Did you notice the  little  canyon  back
  there, with the spring in it? I'll get a fire  started  there,  if  you'll
  bring the meat. And don't forget the  tenderloins...  and  the  backstrap.
  Those are the best meat, you know."

  * * * * *

    By evening firelight, the little  spring  canyon  in  the  cleft  seemed
  almost a homey place. His belly full of roast hunting cat, sage tea, and a
  bit of hard cheese that the kender had produced from his pouch -  he  said
  he had found it somewhere - the dwarf pegged down the catskin and began to
  work the flesh from it, using his edged stone  as  a  scraper,  while  the
  kender watched curiously.  All  through  supper  the  kender  had  chatted
  sociably, not seeming to care that his companion  rarely  answered  except
  for an occasional grunt or growl. Chestal Thicketsway was not bothered  by
  that, it seemed, He enjoyed the sound of his own voice, and rarely ran out
  of new ideas and opinions with which to amuse and amaze himself.
    But as the dwarf worked steadily over  the  stakeddown  hide,  scraping,
  rubbing, and dressing it, Chess gradually went silent... or nearly so.  He
  sat by the fire and watched in lively curiosity, now and then muttering to
  himself. "Not that," he said. "Wrong color." Then, "No, I don't think  so.
  It is far too big." And, "Well, possibly for formal occasions, but  hardly
  for every day."
    Finally the dwarf turned to glare at him. "What are you muttering
  about?"
    "I'm trying to decide what you plan to do with that pelt,"  the  smaller
  person explained. "So far I have pretty well eliminated  any  ideas  of  a
  tent or a rug, and I can't see a dwarf flying a black fur flag...  unless,
  of course, he plans to take up taxidermy, which is an  unusual  occupation
  for dwarves as far as I have seen. If you were a gnome, now -"
    "I need a coat," the dwarf said gruffly, returning to his scraping.
    "- You might have some notion of lacing poles into it to make  a  flying
  machine, or punching holes in it to sift gravel for a -"
    "Shut up," the dwarf said.
    "- sliding stairway. What?"
    "I wish you would be quiet. I'm trying to work here."
    "I can see that. Why don't you make yourself a coat? You could certainly
  use one, I'd say. Maybe some boots, too.  Most  dwarves  I've  met  prefer
  bullhide boots with iron soles, but just some simple fur  boots  would  be
  better than those rags you have bound around your feet. I don't think I've
  ever seen a worse-dressed dwarf than you. I've seen  goblins  with  better
  attire. Did you lose your clothes somewhere ?"
    "They were stolen...."
    "And aren't you supposed to carry a hammer or an axe or something?  Most
  dwarves are pretty tight-fisted about tools and weapons. I'd say you  have
  a story to tell. How about your name?"
    "What about my name?"
    "Do you remember it?"
    "Well, of course I remember it!"
    "What is it?"
    "Chane Feldstone."
    Chane turned back to his pelt, growling. When  it  was  cleaned  to  his
  satisfaction, he put more wood on the fire and went to  retrieve  the  two
  longest teeth from the carcass of the cat. They were the  center  incisors
  of the upper jaw, and like incisors  they  were  sharp  along  the  edges.
  Unlike incisors, though, they tapered to keen points at  the  ends...  and
  unlike the teeth of most creatures even creatures as large as the  hunting
  cat - they were nearly ten inches long.
    He worked at them for a time, wrenching them  this  way  and  that  with
  strong hands, until finally they were loose enough for him  to  pull  them
  out of the jaw. Chane carried them back to the fire and  laid  their  root
  ends in the flame to clean them  while  he  cut  hardwood  for  grips  and
  lengths of thong for binding.
    "Most dwarves prefer metal  daggers,"  the  kender  pointed  out.  "Most
  dwarves don't care for ivory."
    "This is the best that's available right now," Chane snapped.  "It  will
  do until I can find something better."
    "Things aren't hard to find," Chess agreed. "People are  always  leaving
  things just lying around -"
    "Don't you have somewhere to go?" Chane asked.
    The kender leaned back against a rock,  cupping  his  hands  behind  his
  head. "I thought I'd have a look around that valley down there... the  one
  the cats chased you out of. It's called Waykeep, or some such thing."
    "The valley?"
    "Or some part of it. No one seems to know very  much  about  it.  Hardly
  anyone goes there."
    Chane looked at the great pelt,  pegged  out  for  curing,  and  at  the
  daggerlike fang he was fitting with a handle. "I can see why," he said.
    "Actually, I was on my way to Pax Tharkas, but I got  sidetracked,"  the
  kender admitted. "There's a lot to see in these mountains. And a  lot  not
  to see. Did you notice that valley the cats came from, how it just sort of
  fades out of sight when you try to see it? Pretty mysterious if you ask
  me."
    Even if you don't ask, Chane was thinking.
    "I had a nice talk with a hill dwarf a few  months  ago.  He'd  lost  an
  amulet and I helped him find it, and when I showed him my map he said  the
  blank space between the west ranges and the Vale of Respite  must  be  the
  Valley of Waykeep. He doesn't know anything about it,  except  it  doesn't
  show on maps and nobody goes there. Especially wizards. So that's why  I'm
  sidetracked and not on my way to Pax Tharkas. You don't look like  a  hill
  dwarf. You look a little different. Are you a mountain dwarf?"
    "I'm from  Thorbardin,"  Chane  said,  paying  scant  attention  to  the
  chattering kender. The more the creature talked, the more  glassy-eyed  he
  felt. It was like trying to listen to twenty or thirty anvils, all at
  once.
    "Is that why your beard grows back that way?" Chess  stared  at  him  in
  bright-eyed curiosity. "Do all Thorbardin dwarves have swept-back
  whiskers?"
    "No, but I do. It's just the way they grow." He looked up from his work,
  thoughtfully. 'What kind of maps do you have?"
    "Oh, all kinds," the kender spread his hands. "Big ones and little ones,
  some drawn on linen, some on parchment - I even have one drawn on a... no,
  I used to have that, but I don't now. I ate it." He glanced at the remains
  of their meal.
    "Maps of what?" Chane growled.
    The kender blinked at  him.  "Places.  That's  what  maps  are.  They're
  pictures of places. I make a lot of maps. Of places. When  I  go  home  to
  Hylo someday... that's where I'm from, did I tell you that?"
    "I don't know." The dwarf's scowl was becoming fierce. "What places?"
    "- I'll be able to show everybody where I've been." The  kender  blinked
  again. "What places would you like?"
    "I don't know, exactly," Chane sighed. "I've never seen it... except  in
  dreams. But it's outside of Thorbardin ...someplace beyond Northgate."
    The kender shifted his voluminous belt-pouch around so that it rested on
  his lap, and began rummaging inside it. The pouch seemed to  have  endless
  capacity, and the dwarf stared at the horde of treasure the kender's  busy
  hands brought to light. Bright baubles of countless kinds,  small  stones,
  bits of twine, an old turtle shell, various metal objects, a wooden  cube,
  an old and battered bird's nest - this the kender stared at for a  moment,
  then tossed aside - a broken spoon, a scrap  of  cloth....  The  treasures
  went on and on.
    Then Chess drew forth a fat sheath of drawings and his eyes  brightened.
  "Ah," he said. "Maps." He thumbed through them. "If the place you want  to
  see is north of Northgate, that means it's east of  here,"  he  explained,
  then looked up, glanced at Chane and pointed. "East is that way."
    "What do the maps show to the east?" Chane squinted, trying to see  what
  the drawings said.
    Chess looked up, surprised. "Nothing," he said. "I thought  I  told  you
  about that. The first thing east of here is the Valley of Waykeep, and  it
  isn't on maps. Maybe I can draw one on the way."
    "I don't want to go to the Valley of Waykeep," the dwarf snorted.
    "If you want to go east, you do," Chess said amicably, then reached into
  his pouch and drew out another shiny bauble. "How about that?" He held  it
  up and gazed at it in surprise.
    "How about what? What is that?"
    "It's that hill dwarf's amulet. The one I helped him find. He must  have
  lost it again. That's where I found it the first time, too. Right in here,
  under the troll's sandal. What do you know!"

  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.

  Chapter 3

    The blackstone path wound and curved as  it  wandered  deeper  into  the
  Valley of Waykeep. It twisted and turned  oddly,  often  for  no  apparent
  reason. Sometimes it nearly doubled back on itself, so that the  travelers
  found themselves walking southward within  easy  reach  -  sometimes  even
  within sight - of where they had just passed going northward. Then  again,
  it would straighten for a time, only to abruptly veer off to the  east  or
  west, as though circling around some obstacle that neither the  dwarf  nor
  the kender could see. At times the path narrowed,  becoming  only  six  or
  eight feet wide. In these places the big cats gathered along its  edges  -
  sometimes a dozen or more, rumbling and purring in  feral  anticipation  -
  and the two were forced to go  in  single  file,  running  a  gauntlet  of
  swatting, searching claws as the animals balanced just at the  borders  of
  the path and strained forward, trying to reach them.
    "These creatures are most decidedly unfriendly," Chess mentioned  as  he
  dodged a huge, needle-clawed paw. As it whipped past  him,  he  rapped  it
  sharply with his hoopak. "Bad kitty!" he  snapped.  The  cat's  responding
  growl was thunderous.
    Just behind him, Chane ducked as a cat swatted at  him.  "Stop  stirring
  them up," he ordered the kender. "You're just making matters worse."
    "I don't know why they have to be so surly." The kender shrugged. "Maybe
  they don't get fed regularly. I wonder why this path twists and  turns  so
  much. Doesn't it seem odd to you that a path should go to so much  trouble
  to go aroun'd things, if there aren't any things to go  around?  I'll  bet
  we've walked ten miles so far, and haven't gained more than a mile or two.
  You see, there it goes again." He pointed  with  his  hoopak.  Ahead,  the
  black road turned abruptly to the left and disappeared  into  forest.  "Do
  you see any reason why we shouldn't just go straight ahead?"
    "I see about a dozen very good reasons," Chane snapped, counting cats.
    "I mean besides them. What do you suppose is ahead there, that this path
  doesn't want us to see?"
    Chane felt an extended claw graze his boot-top and skipped away from it,
  then ducked as a cat on the other side tried to knock  off  his  head.  He
  spun, lost his balance, and sprawled, pellets  of  black  gravel  sheeting
  ahead of him. The cats there dodged aside, retreating. Chane  got  to  his
  knees and scraped at the gravel with  his  hand.  The  gravel  was  spread
  evenly over a smooth surface, as though it had been  swept.  It  was  only
  inches deep, with bare dirt below. He gathered a  handful  of  gravel  and
  tossed it toward a cat. The cat veered aside, as though panicked.
    "They don't like this stuff," Chane muttered. "I think they're afraid of
  it."
    Chess had come back to watch. "Well, then, that's easy," he  said.  "All
  we need to do is move the road."
    "Move it how?" Chanc's brows lowered in disgust.
    "I don't know," Chess shrugged. "You're a dwarf. You're supposed to know
  about things like moving gravel. How would you do it?"
    "If I wanted to, I'd use a skid. Something flat and  heavy  to  drag  it
  from one place to another. But we don't have a skid."
    "Then maybe you could build one," Chess suggested. "There are all  sorts
  of things around here to use."
    Chane sighed, looking off into the forest beyond the  path.  Yes,  there
  were plenty of materials, readily available. There  also  were  plenty  of
  giant black cats just itching for one of them to step  off  the  path  and
  within reach. "Sure," he said. "That deadfall log over there  could  be  a
  dragsled, with vines attached. But it's over there, not here."
    "Then go get it," the kender said. "Just a minute, though. I'll see if I
  can give you a little space." Without hesitating, he stepped to  the  edge
  of the path, lifted his staff and brought it down between the  ears  of  a
  cat. While that one still was recoiling, Chess thumped two more  of  them,
  prodded a fourth one in the ribs, then moved away along the path, his feet
  flying, swerving on and off of the carpet of black gravel. All of the cats
  on that side bounded after him, snarling and spitting. "Hurry'" he
  shouted.
    For a moment, Chane stood stunned, staring after  the  departing  chase.
  "Rust and tarnish!" he muttered. "That kender is crazy." Then  he  hurried
  off the path to gather materials for a dragsled skid. "I  don't  know  why
  I'm doing this," he grumped as he  dragged  things  back  to  safety.  "It
  wasn't my idea to change the road. It was his."
    Still, when the kender reappeared at the curve in  the  path,  strolling
  along with a pack of angry cats pacing  him,  Chane  was  already  binding
  vines to a log and weighting it with stones. Chess came to watch him work,
  peering over his shoulder. "Do you think it will work?" he asked.
    "Of course not," Chane snapped. "I'm just doing this for practice."
    "What's wrong with it?"
    "To start with, in order for a skid to move gravel, somebody has to  get
  out in front of it and pull it. And whoever does that is going to be eight
  feet past the edge of the path before the gravel load gets there."
    "That could be a little chancy," Chess admitted, looking around  at  the
  patrolling cats. "But if you don't pull too fast, I can come along  behind
  you and..."
    "Me pull?"
    "It's your skid," the kender pointed out. "Besides, you're  bigger  than
  me. Anyway, I can follow along and throw gravel out ahead of  you,  enough
  to keep the cats back while you reroute the road."
    "I don't see anything wrong with just leaving the blasted road where it
  is!"
    "We've already been over that," the kender said.
    Considering the circumstances  of  its  construction,  the  skid  worked
  fairly well. The black gravel on the path was only a few inches deep, with
  ordinary clay below, and when Chane put his shoulders to the tow-vines and
  dragged the sled, it plowed up a growing mound of black pebbles in  front,
  and left bare clay behind.
    'That's perfect," Chess grinned. "Just head  for  the  curve,  and  keep
  going straight ahead when you get there. I'm right behind you."
    "That's comforting to know," the dwarf growled.
    When he came to the curve, Chane was barely moving. The load  of  gravel
  ahead of the skid had grown so that it took all his strength to  move  it.
  He hesitated at the edge of the path, confronted by cats. Then showers  of
  black gravel began to fly over his shoulders, some of it pelting him  from
  behind as the kender flung enthusiastic handfuls as fast as he could.  The
  cats snarled and snapped, but backed  away.  "Take  the  weights  off  the
  skid," the dwarf called.
    "Why?" Another handful of gravel flew, one  fair-sized  pebble  catching
  Chane on the cheek as he turned.
    "So it will spread the gravel instead of scooping it! Don't argue, just
  do it!"
    Chess removed the weights, then resumed showering gravel as  Chane  took
  up his harness again.
    By the time the skid was exhausted, the pathway south of the curve had a
  bare clay stripe angling from its center to the turning edge,  and  a  new
  black path the width of the strip extended fifty  feet  into  the  forest.
  Chess scampered back and forth along the new path, peering  off  into  the
  forest. "Nothing interesting yet," he said, finally. "We'd better go  back
  for another load."
    The second stripe taken from the main path extended the new road another
  fifty feet, and the third stripe put them well into the forest, almost out
  of sight of the road where they had been. Poised at the very  end  of  the
  gravel, the kender peered and squinted, looking ahead. "There is something
  over there," he pointed. "But I can't see what it is. It's something  big,
  though. Another load, and we should be there."
    "Another load and we'll have wiped out the original  path  back  there,"
  Chane pointed out.
    "Oh, come on. Where's your spirit of adventure? Just one more haul."
    They started back, and Chane was almost at the clearing when he stopped.
  "Now see what we've done," he grunted. Ahead, black cats were crossing the
  main road freely. Whatever the black gravel did to stop them, there wasn't
  enough left on the skidded section to work.
    The kender studied the problem solemnly, pursing his lips as his pointed
  ears twitched slightly in thought. Then he shrugged. "It's all  right.  We
  weren't going that way, anyway."
    "We can't go back, either," the dwarf pointed out. "We  might  want  to,
  you know. We...." He paused, then caught the kender by the shoulder.."That
  business you did before, leading the cats off... can you do that again?"
    "I suppose so. Won't be as much fun the second time, though. Things like
  that get to be routine after a while."
    "I don't care," the dwarf said. "Just do it."
    The kender shrugged. "I guess one more  time  won't  hurt.  Come  along,
  kitties. Time for another run." Poking and prodding at snarling predators,
  Chess circled the stump of the road, gathering more than a dozen  cats  on
  the far side. With a final swat of his  staff,  he  took  off  around  the
  curve, great cats bounding  after  him.  Left  alone,  Chane  wrapped  his
  harness over his shoulders and set about  replacing  gravel  on  the  main
  road. Some time  passed  before  the  kender  returned,  a  long  line  of
  irritated cats slinking along abreast of him. When he saw what  the  dwarf
  was doing, Chess shouted and ran toward him.  "What  are  you  doing?"  he
  demanded. "We need that gravel. Why are you putting it back?"
    Panting, Chane slipped out of his vine harness and inspected  his  work.
  The road here was not as neatly graded as it had been, but  it  was  black
  again and hemmed in the cats. "Because we don't need it any  longer,"  the
  dwarf said. Picking up his pack, he strode to the east verge of  the  road
  and walked off into the forest. Behind him, across the road, the cat  pack
  snarled and rumbled, unable to cross.
    "Well, come on," Chane glanced back. "Let's see what  it  was  that  you
  wanted to look at."
    It might once have been a machine, in some incredibly ancient  time.  Or
  it might have been a building. Perhaps even both. Now it was a great  heap
  of rubble and broken metal things, slowly surrendering to  the  landscape.
  Trees hundreds of years old grew from its crest, vines and brush  obscured
  its slopes, and a carpeting of forest leaves  and  grassy  loam  was  well
  along toward burying it.
    Chane and Chess wandered over and around it, peering, poking, and
  prying.
    "This looks like part of a wheel," the kender chattered. "But why  would
  anybody make a wheel fifteen  feet  across?  Wow!  Look  at  those  things
  sticking out of the mess. What are they, drills? They're as big around  as
  and here's some old, rusty chain. Must have weighed a ton per link when it
  was still good iron. I wonder what this was, over here. A furnace of  some
  kind? Did you notice that all these stones scattered over here are square?
  They might have been paving blocks. What do you  suppose  this  thing  was
  when it was something?"
    "I haven't the vaguest idea." Chane was digging through a  reddish  heap
  of vaguely-shaped rust tumbles, raising a cloud  of  thin  red  dust  that
  settled on his black furs like rust-colored snow. After several minutes he
  straightened, holding up a long, slim object to have a better look at  it.
  It was a rod, nearly six feet long, gnarly and misshapen from centuries of
  rust. He knew by its heft, though, that there was good metal within it. He
  set it aside and began digging again.
    For some time the kender explored the  ancient  heap,  his  bright  eyes
  shining in wonder at each new mystery. He moved things here and there,  on
  the thought that whatever all this was the outside of might also  have  an
  inside, and somewhere  there  might  be  an  entrance.  Finding  none,  he
  scampered here and there over  the  surface  of  the  thing,  tugging  and
  pushing at everything that protruded, seeing  what  would  move.  Where  a
  broken shaft of heavily corroded metal  angled  upward,  he  cleared  away
  broken stone, then braced his feet and pulled at the  stub.  Deep  beneath
  him, something groaned and large parts  of  the  mound  shifted  slightly.
  Beyond the crest, the dwarf shouted, then appeared at the top.
    "Sorry about that." Chess waved at him. "I guess whatever this  was,  it
  doesn't work any more."
    With a warning scowl, the dwarf went back to what he  was  doing.  Chess
  continued his exploration. Near one edge of  the  mound,  tugging  away  a
  rock, he found a thick, ragged sheet of green-black stuff that might  once
  have been bronze. Wiping it with his tunic, he saw letters on its  surface
  and sat down to read them aloud. Most were  corroded  beyond  recognition,
  but here and there a few words could be partially deciphered:
    "... velous Wallbreacher, equipped with  secondary  ar  ...  iple-geared
  self-propel ... ba ... not included..."
    And elsewhere, "... Model one of -"
    "Gnomes," Chess said, nodding at the revelation. He climbed to  the  top
  of the mound. Beyond, Chane was moving stones around, arranging them in  a
  circle. Chess cupped his hands and shouted, "Gnomes!"
    The dwarf raised his head. "What?"
    "Gnomes!" the kender repeated. "This was a gnomish machine of some kind.
  I found its label."
    "What was it supposed to do?"
    "I don't know. But gnomes built it, so it probably didn't do anything
  right."
    Chane turned away and resumed the moving of stones.
    For a bit longer, Chess explored the ancient wreckage, then  he  brushed
  down his tunic, shouldered his pouch, picked up his  staff,  and  went  to
  find the dwarf. "This was interesting," he said. "Now let's go on, and see
  what else there is to find."
    "I'm busy," Chess grunted, setting a block of stone atop another.
    "What are you doing?"
    "I found some usable metal. I'm setting up a forge to work it."
    "Oh." The kender  walked  all  the  way  around  the  circle  of  stone,
  wide-eyed. "What do you want to make?"
    "A hammer, of course. The only thing I know of that can be made  without
  a hammer is a hammer, though it won't be a very good one, without a hammer
  to work with."
    "A hammer," Chess nodded, taken with the logic of it.
    "Then what?"
    "What?"
    "What are you going to make once you've made your hammer?"
    "Another hammer. Once I have a  rough  hammer  to  use,  I  can  make  a
  perfectly good hammer with it. Then, if that rod there will stew  out  and
  take a temper, I'll make a sword."
    "Is this part of your plan for becoming rich and famous?"
    "I don't have any such plan," the dwarf growled. "I don't have a  hammer
  or sword, either, so first things first."
    "I have a feeling this is going to take a while."
    "It will take as long as it takes."
    For the rest of the day, Chestal Thicketsway  prowled  about,  exploring
  the silent forest, becoming more  and  more  impatient.  At  nightfall  he
  returned to the wreckage heap, took fire from Chane's now-operating  forge
  and made a meal of cured cat meat and bark tea, then went to sleep to  the
  sound of dwarven craft echoing in the night.
    At first light of morning, the kender awakened, stretched, and  strolled
  over to watch the dwarf again. Chane now had a serviceable -  if  crude  -
  hammer, and was using it to make a better hammer from a chunk of  iron  he
  had found.
    Finally the kender had seen enough. "I'm going on ahead,"  he  said.  "I
  want to see what else is interesting around here."
    "Have a nice trip," Chane said without looking up.
    "Yourself, as well," Chess replied.  He  started  off,  northward,  then
  turned back and made several trips back and forth between  the  mound  and
  the black road where great cats prowled the far border.
    Chane was thoroughly engrossed in what he was doing. The good hammer was
  taking shape nicely, and he had scraped away enough age from the long  rod
  to see the metal beneath, and to taste it. It was  good  steel.  It  would
  make a blade... maybe more than one.
    The kender paused once more beside the forge. "Luck with your quest," he
  said.
    "You, too," Chane glanced up. "See you."
    "Sure," Chess waved and headed north. Long after he had gone, the  dwarf
  looked up from his work and his eyes went thoughtful. Entirely ringing him
  and his forge was a circle of black gravel scattered on  the  ground.  The
  kender had left a shield for him, in case any of the hunting cats found  a
  way to cross the road or to go around it.

  Chapter 4

    Through that day and most of the next, Chane worked at his forge in  the
  forest. In a buried firepit he coaled bits of hardwood for the bed of  his
  flame, and a foot-bellows of sapling lengths  and  catskin  fed  it  to  a
  pulsing glow. His first hammer was no more than a lump of  iron  remelted,
  skimmed clean and shaped in a clay mold. But with its help  he  crafted  a
  second one - a hammer that even a Hylar prince or Daewar merchant  in  the
  finest halls of Thorbardin might have envied. For though Chane Feldstone -
  orphaned and without a known lineage - had been  relegated  to  the  lowly
  ranks of common delver and sometimes outsman in the teeming  realm  within
  the Kharolis Mountains, still the high crafts came to him easily  when  he
  turned his hand to them.
    Often through the years of childhood he had watched others of his age go
  off to apprentice at the trades of metalsmithy,  stonecutting,  and  other
  such high callings. Sometimes he had been envious that those so chosen had
  someone of note to sponsor them. His hands had longed for the feel of good
  tools, and his heart had yearned for the chance to do such works as  those
  more fortunate would one day do. Still, he  had  not  been  alone  in  his
  circumstances. Among the seven cities of the undermountain  kingdom  there
  always were thousands of children without access  to  great  name  or  the
  comfort of wealth. Children of the warrens and the ways, the offspring  of
  warriors who didn't come home or traders lost to the outlands, orphans and
  waifs of all sorts. It was the way of the dwarves of Thorbardin that these
  children be cared for and receive at least some basic  education  so  they
  would never lack for work or the basic needs.
    Chane had grown up like the rest, and  had  learned  a  host  of  lesser
  skills that served him well. Only,  there  had  been  times  -  times  all
  through the years when some secret part within him raged  and  strove  for
  recognition. Times there had been....
    When he was yet a youngster, inches short of his  full  growth  of  four
  feet six, Chane had been employed to clean  the  smithing  stalls  of  the
  ironworker, Barak Chiselcut. A piece of nickeliron had  been  cast  aside,
  and Chane retrieved it, put a high polish on it and returned it to the
  master.
    "A nice bauble," old  Chiselcut  had  said,  approving.  "So  you  enjoy
  metals, youngster?"
    "Yes, sir. I like the feel of good metals, and the sound and taste."
    "Then keep this," the old dwarf told him. "Play with it at the forge and
  anvil, if you like. But mind you get your work done first."
    For weeks, Chane had shaped the bit of nickeliron, late in the  sleeping
  hours when no one else was about, and the small dagger he crafted from  it
  had so pleased Barak Chiselcut that the shopmaster  gave  the  youth  some
  brass and ebony with which to make a handle for it.
    "You have skill at making weapons, Chane," Chiselcut  told  him.  "Maybe
  some ancestor of yours was a craftsman. It's too  bad  you  don't  have  a
  known lineage. But then, most orphans don't. Keep  the  dagger,  and  keep
  learning. Having craft is more important than knowing who you are."
    For fifteen years  Chane  had  carried  and  cherished  the  knife,  and
  sometimes at odd moments it seemed to whisper to him, "Look at  me,  Chane
  Feldstone. I am no ordinary dagger, and you are  no  ordinary  dwarf.  See
  your reflection in my steel. Perhaps someday your reflection will tell you
  who you really are."
    He had looked at his reflection and wondered. Even then,  in  the  years
  before his shoulders broadened and his whiskers grew, he  had  been  aware
  that he looked subtly different from most of those around him... not quite
  typical of the ordinary day-to-day Daewar he met in the trade centers.  In
  some respects, he even resembled the Hylar dwarves - not that it made  any
  difference, since there was no more  likelihood  of  his  tracing  lineage
  among the Hylar than  among  the  Daewar.  A  foundling  is  a  foundling,
  anywhere in Thorbardin.
    It was in those years, too, that the dreams began.  The  same  insistent
  dream, over and over, sometimes no more than a week apart. The  mysterious
  place, the mysterious container, and the old, horned battle helmet that he
  held in his hands but somehow never managed to place upon his head.
    The years had passed, and he had come of age and found work  with  Rogar
  Goldbuckle, the trader. He had served as a  packer  and  sometimes  as  an
  outsman, going beyond Southgate to help with the gear and goods of trading
  parties bound for Barter or some other gathering place of merchants. Chane
  had made the journey to Barter himself once. He had met elves and  humans,
  gnomes and kender. He had seen the rising and setting of the sun, had seen
  the moons in the night sky, had felt the vastness of outside, a world  not
  contained beneath mountains.
    Back in Thorbardin, full of worldliness and wonder, Chane had walked  as
  tall as any dwarf for the first time in his life. And  it  had  been  then
  that  he'd  met  Jilian.  Jilian  Firestoke.  His  eyes  grew  moist  now,
  remembering how she had made his heart melt... and how he  had  worked  to
  win her affections. He had known from the first that her  father  despised
  him, but that hadn't seemed important. Jilian knew her own mind, and  what
  Slag Firestoke thought about anything didn't seem to matter....
    Until the dream had come again, this time with urgency.  This  time  the
  dream had spoken to him of destiny, and he couldn't help but believe it.
    And old Firestoke had used the opportunity to teach Chane who  he  truly
  was - a lowly foundling who had reached beyond his grasp.
    The nickeliron dagger was gone now.  It  was  one  of  the  things  Slag
  Firestoke's thugs had robbed  from  him  when  they  drove  him  into  the
  wilderness. Maybe Jilian was gone as well. Chane  was  certain  that  Slag
  Firestoke wouldn't tell his daughter what he had done, so all Jilian could
  know was that Chane had gone away  and  not  come  back.  Maybe  she  even
  thought he was  dead.  He  was  still  tempted  to  head  right  back  for
  Southgate, to give those toughs a taste of honest iron, and to shake  Slag
  Firestoke until his teeth rattled. The devious old rust-bucket.
    But the dream called. There was something he was supposed to do, and  he
  knew deep inside that he could not return to Thorbardin until he had  done
  it... or at least tried his best.
    "Become rich and  famous,"  the  kender  had  said.  Chane  rumbled  his
  irritation at the thought. What could a kender know about anything?
    The new hammer shaped itself on his makeshift anvil. Four  pounds  would
  be its weight. His hands told him that, and he knew there was no  mistake.
  A head that was a shaping maul at one end with a tapered  balancing  spike
  at the other. A hammer that could bend the strongest drawbar or shape  the
  daintiest filigree... and could serve as a formidable  weapon  should  the
  need arise. He put the final touches to it,  tempered  its  face  and  its
  spike, and set it on a shaft of sturdy darkwood, with rawhide lashing  for
  the hand to grip. Then he fashioned a thong  to  carry  it,  took  a  deep
  breath, and looked around for the metal that would make a sword.
    A man stood a few feet away, leaning casually on a staff,  watching  the
  dwarf. Chane had no idea how long the man had been there. He had not heard
  him approach. But the faded red robe beneath the bison-pelt cape told  him
  what the man was, and the dwarf felt a twinge of distaste... distaste  and
  more than a bit of caution. A wizard.
    "I see nothing wrong with becoming rich and  famous,  Chane  Feldstone,"
  the wizard said in a voice as thin and as cold as winter wind.  "It  is  a
  proper approach to some worthwhile goals."
    The dwarf frowned at him, backing off a step. "Have you  been  listening
  to my thoughts? If you have, you know it wasn't me who said that,  it  was
  some kender."
    "There'd be no need to read the thoughts  of  one  who  speaks  them  to
  himself while he is working, Chane Feldstone."
    "How do you know who I am? I didn't tell myself my name."
    "Oh, I know of you, Chane Feldstone," the wizard  said.  "I  might  even
  know more of who you are than you do."
    "Who are you, that you know about me?"
    The man sighed, bowing his head, and whiskers of sleet gray bobbed as he
  nodded. "I have been  called  many  things,  young  dwarf.  Some  call  me
  Glenshadow the Wanderer. If you want a name for  me,  that  will  do."  He
  stepped doser to the still-glowing forge and spread his hands as though to
  warm himself. He glanced at the new hammer. "Have you set  a  crest  or  a
  device upon that? Have you named it or made it yours?"
    Again the dwarf edged away, but he took the hammer  from  his  belt  and
  turned it in the light. "I've only initialed it. See  for  yourself.  What
  device would I use?"
    The wizard squinted at  the  hammer.  "Ah,  yes.  I  see.  C.  F.  Chane
  Feldstone. It is truly your hammer, then."
    "What do you want of me?"
    "Why, I am going with you. I thought you would know that."
    "Why would I have known any such thing?"
    "You're right, of course," the man admitted. "Well, first we must go see
  the Irda."
    "The who?"
    "The Irda."
    "Why?"
    "We will know more about that when we get there. Come along, now."
    "Come along nothing!" Chane's whiskers twitched  with  exasperation.  "I
  have a sword to make."
    The wizard looked at the ancient, rusted metal bar.
    "That isn't the stuff of your sword,  Chane  Feldstone.  There's  better
  along the way. Come on, now. This valley is not a happy place for me,  and
  I don't want to spend more time here than I have to."
    Chane shook his head violently, clenching his teeth in  frustration.  "I
  don't know what you're talking about, and I don't want to go!"
    "I think you had better," the wizard said quietly.
    "Why?"
    "Because of them." The wizard tilted his head to one side, gesturing."
    Chane looked where the man indicated, then sucked in a whistling breath,
  grabbed his pack, and ran, barely aware that the robed man was pacing  him
  alongside. Behind them came a leaping, bounding, slinking  flood  of  huge
  black cats. The wizard was half again as tall as Chane, and when he lifted
  his hems and sprinted, he left the dwarf  in  his  wake.  "This  way!"  he
  called. "The road curves back, just ahead!"
    Chane ran for all he was worth, but with each step the cats were  closer
  behind him, their deep, rumbling purrs mounting like the roll of  charging
  drums. When he felt their breath warming his back he clasped his hammer in
  one hand, his cat-tooth dagger in the other, skidded to a stop,  and  spun
  around. The dwarf crouched and roared a battle cry. As he faced them,  the
  cats hesitated. Other cats coming up behind collided with the leaders.  In
  an instant the glade was atumble with clawing, spitting cats, swatting  at
  one another, sidling and rearing, grappling and rolling. Chane raised  his
  hammer and started forward, set to wade in among them, but a  hand  caught
  him by the nape, turned him, and shoved.
    "Run!" the wizard snapped. "This is no time for games!"
    The logic of that statement was inescapable. Chane ran. Beyond the glade
  was forest, and beyond the forest the blackstone path. They arrived  there
  with cats pounding at their heels, and the dwarf  strode  back  and  forth
  along the edge of  safety,  growling  as  ferociously  as  the  frustrated
  predators that strained toward him. Finally Chane  got  his  temper  under
  control, slung his hammer at his belt, and turned to the wizard.  "How  do
  you suppose those cats got across the road? They were supposed to  all  be
  on the other side."
    The man shrugged disinterestedly. "An ancient question, that. Why does a
  cat cross the road?"
    "Rust and corruption!" Chane glared at him. "That's chickens, not  cats!
  And don't change the subject. What I asked was how they got across."
    "Oh, that. You left your log skid back there. Someone simply  moved  the
  gravel again."
    "But who would -" the dwarf's face went dark with fury.  "You!  You  did
  that! Why?"
    "Would you have come along with me otherwise?"
    Chane tried to say something, could think of  nothing  appropriate,  and
  merely sputtered.
    "No need to apologize," the wizard said. "Any dwarf worth his salt would
  rather cook iron than travel. It's your nature.  You  might  have  dawdled
  there for weeks, when you should be seeking the Irda. You do want  answers
  to your questions, don't you?"
    "I don't have any questions!"
    "Of course you do." The wizard drew himself up to his full  height,  and
  the gray eyes above his gray beard seemed to focus on something far  away.
  "Everyone has questions." At first, Chane had thought the man looked  old.
  Now he realized it was not old he looked, but... ageless. 'You  can  learn
  to be what you've always been," the wizard said, "if you've  the  gift  of
  knowing. But you can't learn from whence you came  'til  you  learn  where
  you're going."
    Chane felt a chill creep up his spine. "Are you working a spell,
  wizard?"
    "Oh, mercy, no," the man said, turning away. "Didn't your little  friend
  tell you? Spells are dangerous and unreliable here. This is the Valley  of
  Waykeep."

  * * * * *

    For days Jilian Firestoke had watched the ways of the Daewar city, going
  often to the market centers at the tenth and thirteenth roads and  finding
  excuses even to visit the bustling ware-room district  near  the  eleventh
  road gate, where goods from other clan cities in Thorbardin were  gathered
  and traded. She had ridden a cabletrain to the east warrens,  where  Chane
  Feldstone worked the fields sometimes when  neither  Barak  Chiselcut  nor
  Rogar Goldbuckle had employment for him.
    Wherever she went, she had asked about Chane, but no one  had  seen  him
  lately. Maybe, some suggested, he had gone to carry dispatches  for  Rogar
  Goldbuckle to his commodity  camp  west  of  Thorbardin  in  the  Kharolis
  Mountains. But, no, one of Goldbuckle's guardsmen had  said  that  he  was
  sure there had  been  no  dispatches  lately,  and  since  Goldbuckle  was
  preparing for a pack-trip to Barter, he would carry any such messages
  himself.
    She had become more worried by the day. It was not like  Chane  to  just
  disappear without telling her where he was going, Yet, since the  day  she
  had taken him to see her father - she had been sure her father would  help
  him, but he had flatly refused - Chane had been absent. Someone said  they
  thought Chane might have  gone  back  again,  alone,  to  talk  with  Slag
  Firestoke. But her father  said  he  hadn't  seen  the  whelp  again  and,
  furthermore, didn't want to.
    Jilian had only recently - as they said in the polite sectors - "come of
  age," and had no shortage of admirers among  the  young  male  dwarves  of
  Thorbardin. A petite and sturdy four feet three,  with  the  wide,  subtly
  chiseled face of a dwarven angel and a curvaceous shape that even the most
  modest of clothing could not hide, it was natural  that  she  should  have
  suitors. And she did. They came by the dozens, and Slag  Firestoke  busied
  himself investigating the family lineage and financial means of each  one.
  But he was wasting his time. Jilian had already decided. Even  when  young
  males of the noble-blooded Hylar clans stared after  her  in  the  market,
  with open mouths and enchanted eyes, she was no more than amused. In Chane
  Feldstone she saw something that no one  else  seemed  to  see,  but  that
  didn't matter. She saw it, and had no intention of letting him get away.
    And she had  told  her  father  so,  in  no  uncertain  terms.  In  that
  straightforward way of hers that always seemed to  infuriate  him,  Jilian
  had made it clear that she would, by Reorx, decide for herself  what  male
  she wanted. And she had, by Reorx, decided it was Chane Feldstone.
    It wasn't that Chane was the most handsome young dwarf she  had  seen  -
  although his broad shoulders, his somber, wide-set dark eyes, and the  way
  his near-black whiskers swept back in feral lines along each sloping cheek
  reminded her of old pictures she had seen, paintings of the  fierce  Hylar
  warriors of ancient times. It wasn't that he was the most entertaining; at
  times, when the mood was on him, Chane was nearly impossible to  talk  to,
  and seemed to lose himself in dark, hidden thoughts that he wouldn't -  or
  couldn't - express.
    He was, in fact, a waif.
    Orphaned in some manner that left no clear record of his lineage,  Chane
  was a bit of an enigma to those whose duty it was, or whose inclination it
  was, to keep track of people in the dwarven realm. Clearly  a  citizen  of
  Thorbardin, he yet had no definable  status  except  that  of  orphan  and
  common worker.
    But now Jilian was worried. He had simply disappeared, and  no  one  had
  seen him. And when she  had  asked  her  father  to  make  inquiries,  old
  Firestoke just sneered and said,  "Good  riddance.  He's  nothing  but  an
  upstart who's never learned his place."
    She would have argued with her father, except for the  arrival  of  that
  bunch of rough-looking armsmen who were waiting to see him on some sort of
  business and wouldn't go away until they had. By the time they were  gone,
  Jilian's anger at her father had jelled. She didn't  want  to  argue  with
  him. She didn't want to talk to him at all. In fact, she had  hardly  seen
  him since the incident, having gone about her own business and staying out
  of his sight when he was at home.
    Until today.
    With communication at a  minimum  in  the  Firestoke  quarters,  certain
  necessities such as paying the tap fees and keeping the larder  stocked  -
  things Jilian normally did - had piled up so that she had to do  something
  about it or face such problems as late penalties on water and  oil  bills.
  So she had gone to her father's chamber for  the  money  she  needed,  and
  found that he was away on business.
    For the first time in months Jilian had opened the old dwarf's private
  locker.
    Now she stood over the locker, holding a dagger in her hands - a  small,
  nickeliron dagger with an ebony-andbrass hilt. It was  a  dagger  she  had
  seen many times, but not in her father's  things.  It  belonged  to  Chane
  Feldstone.

  Chapter 5

    Chestal Thicketsway  had  been  a  little  miffed  that  the  dwarf  had
  abandoned what promised to be  an  interesting  exploration  in  favor  of
  playing with fire and iron and such things. But, in the way of all kender,
  he hadn't stayed miffed very long. The world held far  too  many  new  and
  fascinating things to see for any kender to dwell  for  long  on  any  one
  subject... even such a novelty as a fugitive dwarf who could kill a  giant
  cat with his bare hands and make himself a bunny suit. Before he had  gone
  a mile, Chess found a new fascination. The forest of this valley, what  he
  had seen of it so far, was an ancient  forest.  The  gnarled  and  twisted
  hardwood trees, some still wearing their fall colors though many now  were
  bare, spoke of ages of time, while the deep loam  beneath  them,  under  a
  thick carpet of fallen leaves, whispered of countless generations of  such
  trees that had grown and fallen before them. Thousands upon  thousands  of
  years have passed here, the forest seemed to say, and nothing of note  has
  occurred. Nothing here has changed.
    And yet, where the rolling  lands  came  down  to  a  little  rock-bound
  stream, the forest did change. Across the stream was a different  sort  of
  forest, younger and less brooding. The kender  crossed,  climbed  the  far
  bank, and prowled around, looking at everything. The trees were large here
  too, but younger and more varied. The forest here  spoke  of  hundreds  of
  years... but not of thousands.
    "It burned," something said... or seemed to  say.  Chess  was  not  sure
  whether he had heard words or imagined them. He looked  around  and  there
  was no one there. He was alone.
    "It might very well have," he told himself. "This might once have been a
  forest fire, and all the old trees burned and the ones here now grew
  later."
    "Much later," something seemed to say.
    "I beg your pardon?" The kender turned full circle, holding  his  forked
  staff at the ready. There was no one there, nor any sign that  anyone  had
  been there - at least in a very long time. The only sound was  the  fitful
  breeze rustling the treetops. He squatted, peering under the nearby  bush,
  then walked in a wide circle, looking behind trees and under stones. There
  was no one anywhere about.
    Perplexed and curious, he went on, turning often to look behind him.  He
  wasn't sure at all that he had heard  anything,  but  he  didn't  remember
  thinking the words that he had seemed to hear until  after  he  seemed  to
  hear them. Talking  to  himself  was  nothing  unusual  for  Chess.  As  a
  traveler, he was often alone, and even in company he  often  preferred  to
  talk to himself. But he didn't recall ever not being in complete charge of
  one of his own conversations.
    The younger forest - he thought of it now as Afterburn Woods - rose away
  before the kender, and he kept traveling more or less northward, recalling
  from time to time that his original purpose - at least the most recent one
  - had been to go east across the valley with Chane Feldstone,  to  see  if
  the dwarf could find his dreamhelmet.
    The forest thickened, then broke away, and the  black  road  was  before
  him, curving in from the east to wind northward  again.  The  path  almost
  immediately lost itself in the forest as it curved once more, again to the
  east.
    "I wonder what it's trying to stay away from now," the kender muttered.
    "Death and birth," something nearby seemed to say.
    Chess spun around. As before, there was no one there.
    "Death and birth?" he repeated.
    "Birth and death," something almost certainly said.
    This time Chess strolled about, squinting as he peered upward. Maybe the
  talking bird has come back, he thought.  But  there  was  no  sign  of  it
  anywhere. Besides, it had talked - clearly and without  mistake.  Whatever
  was talking here just kind of seemed to talk. It wasn't the same.
    With a grunt of exasperation, he put his hands on his  hips  and  asked,
  'Whose birth and death?"
    "Mine and theirs," something seemed to respond.
    "Theirs and yours?" As the kender asked the question,  his  bright  eyes
  were darting from one side to the other, looking for a clue as to who  was
  talking to him.
    For a moment there was silence, then the silence whispered,  "Death  and
  birth. Go and see." And a few yards away,  just  where  the  trees  began,
  there was a brief shifting of light - as though the air there had moved.
    "Probably something truly dreadful over there somewhere," Chess decided.
  "Maybe even a deathtrap for kender. I guess I had better go and see."
    He turned his back on the black road and entered  the  verge  of  forest
  where the odd shifting of air had been. A few feet into the woods  he  saw
  it again - a little way ahead and beckoning.
    "Ogres, maybe," the kender told himself cheerfully. "A beckoning  vesper
  to lead the unwary into a nest  of  ogres.  Or  hobgoblins,  perhaps?  No,
  probably not. They aren't smart enough to think of something  like  that."
  He paused for a moment, searched in his pouch, and withdrew a  sling  -  a
  small, soft-leather pocket with elastic loops attached to either  end.  He
  secured the loops to the ends of the fork on his hoopak, kicked around  in
  the fallen leaves until he found a few  good  pebbles,  then  hurried  on,
  following where the vesper had been. He went on, not  seeing  the  strange
  air-shift again, but keeping to its original direction.
    After a time the forest broke away, and Chess found himself  on  a  low,
  broken ridge with a clearing extending from its base. A great shallow bowl
  of ground, broken here and there by groves of trees and grassy knolls, the
  clearing extended into distances where herds  of  animals  grazed.  Beyond
  them, forests rose toward the tumbles and steeps of the valley's east
  wall.
    Nearer, though, in the bottom of the bowl, was  a  wide  field  of  what
  looked like ice - flat around the edges,  but  distorted  within  by  many
  random shapes and lumps that seemed to grow from it.
    The kender scrambled down the ledge and approached the field of ice. All
  around it, the air was cold and silent.
    "Old," the silence seemed to say.
    "Right," the kender agreed. He knelt at the edge of the field and rapped
  at it with his staff. The stuff looked and sounded like ice,  and  when  a
  sliver of it broke away he tasted it. It was ice. "It's ice," he said.
    "Fire and ice," the silence seemed to say. "Old."
    Encouraged, Chess wandered out onto the ice. A few steps brought him  to
  the nearest of the weird shapes - a tangled mound of crystals  and  spires
  higher than his head and twenty feet long.  He  knelt,  looking  into  it,
  seeing twisted dark shadows inside. He rapped at it with the heel  of  his
  staff. Little cracks formed, then a hole, larger than his  head,  appeared
  in it as bits of ice fell away. Inside was a blackened  tangle  of  burned
  branches, and a mist like ancient woodsmoke rose from the hole.  He  stuck
  his head through for a better look. Inside the ice was a burned tree.
    "Fire and ice," he said to himself. It looked as  though  the  tree  had
  burned and toppled, then been caked with ice while it still burned.
    All around were other interesting ice mounds. The kender wandered  among
  them, peering here and there, his eyes wide with the  pure  delight  of  a
  kender amidst a mystery. Sometimes he could not see what the ice held, but
  sometimes he could. One small lump contained  a  dead  dwarf  -  a  short,
  thick-set body armored with mail and visored helm. A bolt from a  crossbow
  had pierced him. He lay across an emblazoned shield, preserved by the  ice
  so that the blood of his wound was  still  bright  red.  Hill  dwarf,  the
  kender thought. He looks as though he might have died just minutes ago.
    "Old," something seemed to say.
    Chess stood and turned away, but stopped as something in  the  flat  ice
  underfoot caught his attention. He knelt again, brushing at  the  surface.
  Just beneath it, things glittered and shone. He went to work with his
  staff.
    Breaking away the shallow ice, he found a broadsword, its  edge  notched
  by combat but still as shiny as when it was new. He lifted it, then set it
  aside. A good dwarven weapon, it was too  heavy  and  awkward  to  suit  a
  kender. But there were other interesting things there,  as  well.  One  by
  one, he lifted out a pewter mug, a string of marble beads,  and  a  little
  glass ball. He looked them over, then moved on.  Under  other  ice  mounds
  were other dead dwarves, some standing, some  kneeling  and  some  fallen.
  Dwarves with hammers and swords, frozen in mortal combat. Hill dwarves and
  mountain dwarves, locked now in solid ice in a battle that would never
  end.
    "What ever could they have been fighting about?" the kender wondered.
    "The gates," something seemed to say.
    Chess peered all around, shading his eyes. He saw nothing anywhere  that
  looked like gates. "Gates? What gates?"
    "The gates of Thorbardin," the silence seemed to say.
    "That dwarf should have come with me," the kender muttered. "I'll bet he
  never saw anything like this."
    At the thought of Chane Feldstone, Chess looked  back  the  way  he  had
  come. The dwarf had said something about wanting a  sword.  Chess  snooped
  for a while longer, then decided there was nothing to see  here  that  was
  more unusual than what he had already seen. He went back to where  he  had
  left the dwarven sword, hoisted it on his shoulder, and started back, more
  or less retracing his  steps.  Chess  had  in  mind  to  leave  the  sword
  somewhere that the dwarf would be likely to pass - if he came north at all
  - so he decided he would retrace his steps to the black road.
    "So long," something seemed to say.
    Chess turned, looking  all  around,  yet  no  longer  expecting  to  see
  someone. "Oh, yes," he said. "So long to you, too."
    The silence seemed puzzled and suddenly very sad.  "So  very  long,"  it
  seemed to say.
    Chess didn't know what to say to that, so he said nothing  and  went  on
  his way. The sun sank below the valley's west wall, and the forest  became
  a shadowy place. Here and there, little mists formed above the  leaf  mold
  to drift vague tendrils among the trees. Chess wandered, pausing  to  look
  at a bright stone, a  bird's  nest,  a  scattering  of  bones  where  some
  predator had fed. Whatever caught his eye, he inspected. Whatever came  to
  hand, he picked up. Whatever appealed to him - if there was space for it -
  went into his pouch. It was  the  way  of  all  the  kender,  and  Chestal
  Thicketsway was no exception.
    In evening shadows, somewhere near where he expected to find  the  black
  road, he came  across  another  gnomish  artifact  -  an  ancient,  fallen
  construct that might once have been a catapult, except that no  one  could
  conceivably have operated a catapult so huge and complex. He walked around
  and through the overgrown wreckage, trying to imagine how the thing  might
  once have looked - a huge, impossibly complex machine standing at least  a
  hundred feet tall  on  four  gigantic  wheels  with  spiked  iron  rims...
  endlessly intricate systems of  pulleys  and  gears,  levers  and  winding
  mechanisms, steam boilers and windvanes... and  probably  half  a  hundred
  whistles, bells, and ratchet-rattles.
    Little was left of it now. What had been wood was  entirely  gone.  What
  had been stone was rubble. What had been iron was designs of rust imbedded
  in the ground. But he traced it out, and could surmise what had  happened.
  Here an army of gnomes had built a  siege  engine  and  had  set  it  off.
  Possibly it had thrown a missile, but definitely it had thrown itself. The
  entire machine had climbed up onto its  throwing  arm,  flipped  over  and
  landed on its back. And there it lay to this day, what was left of it.
    Such a long, long time ago. So inconceivably old.
    "Ages," something seemed to say.
    Chess  jumped,  then  turned  full  circle  again,  squinting  into  the
  twilight. "I thought I had left you back there," he snapped.
    "All the ages since the first," the breeze whispered. "Old. Very old."
    "Well, I can see that," the kender agreed. "Are you following me?"
    "With you," something whispered.
    "Why?"
    "By your doing," the voice that was no voice said.
    "By my -" Chess strode to where he had set the dwarven sword and  picked
  it up. "Aha!" he said. Then he raised a puzzled brow  and  rubbed  at  his
  cheek. "Funny, though. I'd heard that magic doesn't work right in this
  valley."
    "I don't," something very wistful seemed to say.
    It was growing dark, and there was nothing more to see  here,  so  Chess
  set the sword on his shoulder and headed west. The black  road  should  be
  near now, he decided.
    The forest became deeper  and  more  shadowy,  and  the  kender  stopped
  abruptly, his pointed ears twitching. Somewhere to his left,  things  were
  moving, coming his way. Among the shadows were darker shadows, big shadows
  flowing and bounding toward him  on  great  padded  paws...  shadows  that
  purred as they came, like the rumbling of distant thunder.
    "Oops!" Chess said, and ran.

  * * * * *

    In evening's dusk, Chane Feldstone and Glenshadow the Wanderer rounded a
  curve of the black road and saw ahead of them a conclave  of  cats.  Feral
  eyes and dagger teeth glinted where the brutes  prowled  and  crouched  at
  each side of the path, while a small figure danced and darted from side to
  side, shouting threats and taunts. As the two approached, the taunter  saw
  them and waved. "Hello!" he called. "I wondered where you were! Who's that
  with you?"
    "There's  that  kender,"  the  dwarf  told  the  wizard,  then  turned.
  Glenshadow had stopped. The man stood now, holding his staff before him as
  though to protect himself. Chane cocked his head, the tilting ears on  his
  cat-cape cap giving a quizzical look to his  scowl.  "What's  the  matter?
  It's only a kender."
    "There's more," the wizard said. "But I can't see..."
    "More? I don't see anybody except a kender. And of  course  a  bunch  of
  cats, but that's no surprise."
    "Not a person," the  wizard  said  slowly,  looking  one  way  and  then
  another, peering into the gloom. "No, not a person, but an... an event."
    The dwarf growled, deep in his chest. Kender and  wizards...  birds  and
  hunting cats... Chane was beginning to miss the sensible, logical life  of
  Thorbardin. Out here, it seemed, no one  ever  really  made  sense.  "What
  event? I don't see any event."
    "It hasn't happened yet," Glenshadow said softly. "But it wants to."
    "Needs to," something seemed to say in a voice that was not a voice.
    Chane felt a chill crawl up his spine as he whirled around, looking  for
  the source of the sound. He felt as though he had heard a voice,  but  his
  ears had not. The mage behind him had raised  his  staff  higher,  but  he
  didn't seem to see anything, either.
    The kender trotted up to them, grinning. "I see you've met whatsit,"  he
  said. "I think he comes with the sword." He lifted  a  dwarven  broadsword
  from his shoulder and extended it, hilt first. "Here.  I  found  this  for
  you. Now you can stop complaining about not having a sword."
    Surprised, Chane took the sword and held it in both  hands,  turning  it
  over, squinting in the poor light.
    "Of course, there's a ghost or something attached  to  it,"  Chess  said
  brightly. "But I can't see how that would matter. Who's that with you?  He
  looks like a wizard."
    "He is, I guess," the dwarf said. "Haven't seen him do  any  magic,  but
  I'd just as soon he didn't, anyway." He lifted the sword to his mouth  and
  tasted its blade. "Old," he muttered. "Good steel, though. And it  doesn't
  look old.-
    "It's been on ice," the  kender  explained.  "Wthat's  wrong  with  your
  wizard? He looks like he's seen a ghost."
    "I don't know what's wrong with him." Chane busied  himself,  slicing  a
  strip of cathide from his cape to make a belt for the sword. "He  said  he
  saw an event."
    "Well, I've seen a few of those." The kender nodded. "But I try  not  to
  let them bother me. Pretty good sword, huh?"
    "A fine sword," the dwarf agreed. 'Thank you. Where did you get it?"
    "I found an old battlefield, over east of here. There's a  lot  of  good
  stuff just lying around. And frozen  dwarves  all  over  the  place,  too.
  Probably nobody you know, though. They've been there a  long  time.  Maybe
  the ghost is a dwarven ghost. I've never met any sort of ghost before,  so
  I don't know. But if he bothers you, just ignore him."
    As one coming out of a trance, the wizard Glenshadow shook  himself  and
  lowered his staff. He stepped close to them, leaned down, and squinted  at
  Chane's sword, then turned to the kender. "Not a ghost,"  he  said,  in  a
  voice that was like winter. "And  not  fixed  to  the  sword,  either.  It
  follows you, Chestal Thicketsway."
    The kender blinked. "What does?"
    'You picked up more than a sword on that battlefield, kender. You picked
  up an unexploded spell."
    Before Chess could respond, Chane pointed down the path. "The  cats  are
  gone," he said.
    Then on an errant breeze, coming from somewhere ahead, all three of them
  heard a sound that seemed to float among the treetops and drift down  like
  crystal snow. The mage seemed to stiffen, the kender's eyes went huge, and
  even the stolid, pragmatic dwarf felt the sound take hold of his heart and
  tug at it.
    Somewhere off there, to the north, someone was singing.  The  voice  was
  more lovely than anything Chane Feldstone had ever heard.

  Chapter 6

    Though it had no king - no regent had acceded to the  throne  since  the
  death of King Duncan  two  centuries  before  -  the  fortified  realm  of
  Thorbardin, deep beneath the surface of the  central  Kharolis  Mountains,
  considered itself a kingdom. And without a king, it fell upon the  Council
  of Thanes to sit as a Board of Regents, deciding such matters as were  not
  governed  within  the  separate  cities  and  warrens  that  made  up  the
  undermountain realm. Seven cities lay within the bedrock of the mountains,
  each a major community in its own right, as well as three farming warrens,
  two Halls of Justice, and a massive fortification at each of  the  realm's
  two main gates.
    In the more than three centuries since  the  great  Cataclysm  that  had
  forever changed the continent of Ansalon, the dwarves  of  Thorbardin  had
  mostly abandoned the manning of Northgate.  The  Cataclysm  had  left  the
  northern approaches virtually inaccessible, providing better  security  to
  the north than even the massive gate that plugged the  mountainside  there
  ever had.
    For a century, rumors had persisted about a  secret  way  to  Thorbardin
  from the  north,  and  the  dwarves  had  kept  the  fortifications  there
  operational. Chaos and pestilence had followed the Cataclysm, and for most
  of that century the threats to Thorbardin from outside were  frighteningly
  real. Plague and famine had spread across the known world, migrations were
  under way across the continent, and no unfortified place could long
  survive.
    But then the gates of Thorbardin had faced  their  hardest  test...  and
  held firm. The bloody Dwarfgate War raged through the Kharolis  Mountains,
  hill dwarf armies pitted against those of the mountain  dwarves  -  cousin
  against cousin, like against like. Those outside were determined to  break
  through to the inside of Thorbardin,  incited,  some  said,  by  the  evil
  archmage Fistandantilus, whom many held to be the most  powerful  magician
  the world of Krynn had ever known.
    Against these forces, Thorbardin had fought a  defensive  action.  Then,
  under King Duncan and his sons  with  Prince  Grallen  leading  the  Hylar
  dwarves - the armies of Thorbardin went out to carry the  fight  to  their
  enemies, right to the mountain called Skullcap, lair of the  great  wizard
  himself.
    What came to pass then - the tragic end of  both  armies  in  one  last,
  terrible act of magic by Fistandantilus - was now old  history.  Of  those
  who might be old enough to remember, few cared to.
    But through it all, the shattered north portal had held, as had  all  of
  Thorbardin's defenses. More than two centuries  later,  the  undermountain
  kingdom still stood. Concerns about threats from outside  were  no  longer
  acute. In very recent times there had been unsettling rumors, of course  -
  rumors the traders brought, about migrations of goblins and ogres  to  the
  north, about whole villages disappearing  in  distant  places  beyond  the
  northern wilderness. Some suspected that, far off somewhere,  armies  were
  being amassed, and there were whispered  comments  about  "Highlords"  and
  infamous plots. Someone had even claimed to have seen a dragon, but no one
  believed that. There were no dragons, not anywhere on the entire world  of
  Krynn. It was common knowledge.
    There were rumors, and a  few  were  concerned,  but  life  went  on  in
  Thorbardin as it had for two hundred years. Some trade had been restored -
  not as in the fabled past, before the War of the Gates,  when  open  trade
  roads had linked Thorbardin with Pax Tharkas and  other  realms  but  some
  trade with other places and other races outside. Time had passed, and  the
  old legends of a secret gate somewhere passed also into oblivion. The  old
  tales of untold evils that might yet lurk about  the  blasted  and  glazed
  grotesqueries of Skullcap Mountain to the north - the legends of the glory
  of King Duncan and the noble Prince Grallen - grew dim.
    It was not in the nature of mountain dwarves to dwell upon the past. And
  certainly, in the teeming cities of Thorbardin, few cared to reflect  upon
  such antiquities.
    Under the Kharolis Mountains, Thorbardin was what it had always  been  -
  hundreds of square  miles  of  busy,  bustling,  squabbling,  and  delving
  dwarfdom, where the past was past and the problems of any one person  were
  seldom of concern to many others.
    And this was the reality that Jilian Firestoke faced. No one knew  where
  Chane Feldstone had gone, and no one  except  her  really  cared,  either.
  However, she was sure now that she knew where Chane had gone, and  certain
  of the mischief her father had engineered.
    And so, as was her custom, Jilian made up her own mind.
    "I am going outside," she told her neighbor, Silicia Orebrand. "I intend
  to go and find Chane Feldstone and  bring  him  home.  There  is  just  no
  telling what sort of mess he may be in out there."
    The stocky Silicia's eyes went wide with horror. "Outside? Do  you  mean
  outside, outside?"
    "Of course I mean outside," Jilian said. "Chane's dream told him  to  go
  and find an old helmet, because Thorbardin was threatened and it was up to
  him to save it. So I know that's where he went. And my own father, tarnish
  his whiskers, put him up to it and then betrayed him. I know all about it,
  you see. So I am going outside to find him."
    "But Jilian... outside? Nobody goes outside! I've never heard of such a
  thing."
    "Tarnish, Silicia. Don't be silly. Of course people go outside. Traders,
  scouts, metallurgists... lots of people ga outside. Even  Chane  has  been
  outside before, helping Rogar Goldbuckle load his packs. He told me about
  it."
    "But can you? I mean, go outside? Is it allowed?"
    "I asked Ferrous Spikemold. He knows about such things. He said  anybody
  who wants to, can go outside. There is no law against going outside.  It's
  just coming back in that gets sticky."
    "Did you tell him that you were thinking about going outside 7"
    "No, I don't see how that's any of his business. And  you  know  what  a
  gossip he can be. I just asked him in general, about people going outside.
  He said anybody can, if they want to."
    Silicia frowned. "But, Jilian, you've never been outside. I mean... out?
  I bet in your whole life you've never seen the sky except from the  Valley
  of the Thanes. I know I certainly haven't. I've never even dreamed of such
  a thing. Why, they say there are all sorts of awful  things  out  there  -
  ogres and goblins, warrior elves, humans. By  Reorx,  they  say  half  the
  world is overrun with humans these days. Jilian, are you feeling  well?  I
  can't imagine thinking such a thing. Outside?"
    "Outside," Jilian said firmly. "And it will serve my father right  if  I
  never come back."
    "But, Jilian, dear..." Silicia paused, then fired her best  shot.  'What
  will people think?"
    "Oh, tarnish what people think. I'm going, Silicia, and that's an end to
  it. All I ask is that you look in on my father from time to time  and  see
  that he pays his tap fees when they are due. The old ruster hasn't a brain
  in his head when it comes to household duties."
    "Well, of course I would do that,  dear."  Silicia  still  was  blinking
  rapidly, only half-believing what she was hearing. "But how would you even
  know where to look for your young man, dear? Outside is... well, it's just
  awfully big!" She shuddered, just thinking about it.
    "Oh, that. Well, at least I know where to start. I have a map  of  where
  he was last seen."
    "A map?" Silicia blinked  again,  awe  following  awe.  "How  could  you
  possibly have a map? Did your father... 2"
    "I haven't even told him about this yet. And I'd appreciate  it  if  you
  didn't, either. No, I saw the armsmen he  sent  to  drive  Chane  away.  I
  didn't know who they were at the time, but I remembered later. Then I  saw
  one of them again, at the tinsmith's stall, and I followed him and got him
  to draw a map for me."
    "An armsman? A warren ruffian? Why would he  have  done  that  for  you?
  Jilian, you didn't..."
    "Oh, nothing like that, Silicia. Don't be silly. No, I just followed him
  until I caught him alone in a cable-shaft, then I crept up behind and  hit
  him in the head with a prybar. Then, while he was unconscious,  I  chained
  him to a cable-wagon track. When he woke up I told him that  if  he  would
  draw the map for me I would give him a chisel to cut himself loose. So  he
  drew the map. He was very willing, because we could hear an orewagon
  coming."
    Silicia goggled at her, totally at a loss for words. Finally  she  shook
  her head and sighed. "Do you have everything you'll need for such a
  journey?"
    "I have some warm clothing and a pack  and  waterskin.  And  my  map.  I
  suppose a company of armed fighters might be good to  take  along,  but  I
  can't afford anything like that."
    "Well, of course not!" Silicia snapped. "The wages people  charge  these
  days, just for single escort through the markets. There's no telling  what
  you'd have to pay to get an escort to go...  ah...  outside."  She  looked
  around at the walls and cabinets of her great room.  Swords  and  shields,
  hammers and pikes were  displayed  and  stacked  in  various  places.  Her
  husband, Stonecut Orebrand, prided himself on his collection. "At the very
  least, I suppose you should take a weapon or two."
    "I couldn't take your husband's -"
    "Tarnish! He's lost track of what he has, anyway. What he doesn't  know,
  he'll never miss." She went to a corner cabinet and poked  around  in  it,
  emerging with a small, double-edged sword and  a  sheathed  dagger.  "Take
  these," she said. "My Brother gave them to Stoney one time, in  a  fit  of
  generosity, but I don't think he's  even  looked  at  them  in  years.  He
  doesn't think much of my brother, you know."
    Jilian took the sword from her and squinted at it  curiously.  "This  is
  heavier than a prybar," she noted.
    "Have you ever used a sword before, Jilian?"
    "Well... not really. Have you?"
    "No. It can't be very complicated, though. One just swings it, I
  suppose."
    "Like swinging a prybar, do you think?"
    "Maybe with two hands, though. The handle is long  enough  for  both  of
  your hands. Here, stand in the middle of the room and swing  it  around  a
  bit. Then you'll be used to it if you ever want to fight with something."
    Jilian helped Silicia slide the furniture out of the  way,  then  placed
  herself in the cleared area and lifted the sword,  gripping  it  carefully
  with both hands. Though shorter  than  most  of  the  swords  in  Stonecut
  Orebrand's collection, the weapon still was only six inches  shorter  than
  Jilian was, and much of its weight was forward, toward the point,  in  the
  dwarven style. Being a sturdy dwarven girl, Jilian had no trouble  lifting
  it, even holding it out at arm's length, but it did  tend  to  off-balance
  her a bit. "What should I swing it at?" she asked.
    Silicia went to a corner and brought back a candlestand with a foot-long
  taper set in it. "Cut the candle," she suggested.
    "All right. Stand back." Jilian placed herself with the  candlestand  to
  her left, sighted on it, raised the sword and swung...  and  gasped,  then
  clung for dear life as the sword seemed to take charge.  It  whisked  past
  the top of the candle and kept going as the momentum of  the  cut  becaine
  centrifugal force. Like a spinning top, Jilian twirled around and  around,
  her feet a blur, trying to keep up with the sword in her hands, trying  to
  keep her balance as she spun.
    On its second rotation, the sword clove through the candle. On its third
  it bisected the oakwood candlestand. On its fourth it cut the legs off the
  stand and took two candles out of a hanging chandelier on the  other  side
  of Jilian. Silicia shrieked and dived  for  cover  as  the  rate  of  spin
  increased and the twirling Jilian began to move. Four more revolutions and
  the sword eviscerated an herb pot, beheaded a chair,  bisected  a  hanging
  tapestry, and embedded itself firmly in a  doorframe.  Jilian  blinked  in
  amazement, while momentary dizziness subsided, then  wrenched  the  weapon
  free and stared at it. "Goodness!" she said.
    Silicia peeked from behind a stone bench. "Are you finished, do you
  think?"
    "I think so." Jilian looked around. "Oh, rust! Look at the mess I've
  made."
    Silicia came from hiding to gaze in wonder  at  the  sword  in  Jilian's
  hand. "I don't think you need any more practice. I believe you've mastered
  the skill, don't you?"
    "I suppose so, but look what we've done to your nice room! Oh,  Silicia,
  I am sorry."
    Silicia walked around the room, pursing her lips  as  she  surveyed  the
  damage. "It's not so bad, really. I  never  liked  that  candlestand,  you
  know. And that awful tapestry! Honestly, I have  thought  about  making  a
  pair of framed needleworks out of it..." She came to  look  at  the  sword
  again. "By the lusters, I never realized how much fun a person might  have
  with one of these. I wonder if some of the ladies might like to jrganize a
  class."
    Jilian nodded. "I believe I will borrow this, if  you're  sure  Stonecut
  won't mind."
    "Not in the slightest. It's as much mine as his, anyway. Now,  you  take
  it, and the dagger, too, and you have a nice time with them. We could rent
  a hall," she continued with her own thoughts, "and practice to music. Some
  of the girls could certainly use the exercise...."
    After her visit with Silicia Orebrand, Jilian went to  see  the  trader,
  Rogar Goldbuckle.
    "You are going where?" he squinted at her in disbelief.
    "Outside," she repeated. "I want to find Chane Feldstone and  bring  him
  home. He may be lost and starving, or something."
    "You?" the trader still couldn't believe what he was hearing. 'You can't
  go traveling around out there. Don't you know what could happen to you?"
    "I plan to take a sword," she said, to put his concerns  to  rest.  "I'm
  remarkably good with a sword. But what I wondered was... well,  since  you
  have dealings with people outside, maybe you could tell me who to talk  to
  out there, to help find him."
    "Don't talk  to  anybody  outside!"  Goldbuckle  snapped.  "Don't  trust
  anybody or anything out there! Rust and corruption, girl, you have no idea
  -"
    "I have a map," she said. "But it will only show me where  he  was  last
  seen. He may not be there any more, so I might need to ask about  him."  A
  new thought occurred to her. "I don't suppose you have any trading parties
  going northward, do you? I might just go along with them, as  far  as  the
  wilderness. That's where I'll start looking."
    Goldbuckle eased himself back to a bench and sat down with a thump.  The
  girl before him was as lovely a young dwarf-maiden as he  had  ever  seen,
  and he had always thought of her as very practical and sensible, the times
  she had come to shop his bazaar or to  deliver  purchase  orders  for  her
  father. But now...
    "I don't have any parties going that way," he said weakly. "Nobody  goes
  to that wilderness. There hasn't been a trade route  through  there  since
  before the Cataclysm, and even then it was chancy. Of course,  that  crazy
  Wingover has been up that way. He wagered he'd go to Pax Tharkas and back,
  if I'd give him a commission. Plan of a fool. But,  of  course,  he  is  a
  fool, to begin with."
    "Wingover? What an odd name." Jilian pursed pretty lips.  "Maybe  that's
  who I should talk to. Where can I find him?"
    "Well, not anywhere in Thorbardin,  certainly.  He'd  never  be  allowed
  within twenty miles of the gate."
    "Why on Krynn not? What did he do?"
    'You don't understand, girl," Goldbuckle shook his head. "Wingover isn't
  a dwarf. He's... well. I've traded with him a bit  and  learned  to  trust
  him. But he's... well. He's a human."
    Jilian stared at him, amazed. 'What would you trade from humans? I mean,
  I know there used to be some trade, but aren't humans - ?"
    "Unreliable, yes. As a rule. Also unstable and generally unpleasant.  Of
  course, one can make some allowances,  considering  how  short-lived  they
  usually are... Girl, have you ever seen a human?"
    "Of course not. I've never been outside of Thorbardin.  But  I've  heard
  about them. Chane has seen several, when he's gone out to carry reports or
  messages for you, and he talks about them. He even saw an elf once."
    "Yes, I know," Goldbuckle sighed. "All sorts show up  at  barter  camps,
  but such places are no place for a girl like you. I swear! Why, I  shudder
  to think of -"
    "Chane is out there, somewhere. And  he's  visited  these  barter  camps
  before, at your employ, after all."
    "That's different! Chane can take care of himself. You -"
    "That's the other thing I wanted to talk about. He may need the money he
  earned from you. If you'll give it to me, I'll give it to  him...  when  I
  find him."

  Chapter 7

    For miles, the black path would and curved through dense  forest.  Then,
  past one final, long curve, it  broke  out  of  the  forest  and  extended
  arrow-straight across a mounded plain where little  vegetation  grew  only
  mosses and spindly, scattered shrubs. The light of the moons Lunitari  and
  Solinari - the first nearly overhead, the second just above the  crags  of
  Westwall bathed the scene in eerie red  and  white  highlights  beneath  a
  spangled sky. "More ruins," Chestal Thicketsway declared, pointing  about.
  "There might have been a city here once.  Maybe  the  Cataclysm  -"  "Much
  older than that," Glenshadow the Wanderer said. "Oh, far older than  that.
  Ages old. The legends say it was a city in the Age of Dreams."
    "Legends say?" Chane Feldstone growled. 'You're a wizard. Don't you
  know?"
    "Not without a powerful spell for time-seeing," the winter voice rasped.
  "And I'll cast no spells in this place. Strange things happen to magic
  here."
    Near them, somewhere close, something seemed to agree... something  that
  lamented the fact.
    "It's said there was a city in this valley," the wizard continued.  "And
  in the city was a king, who captured and held in bond the  source  of  all
  magic. The king's name was Gargath."
    "How could he capture the source of magic?" Chess asked, excitedly.  "Do
  you suppose it is still here?"
    "No. Only the place where it was once held, and the device that held it.
  A god-wrought thing called Spellbinder. It still has power, though.  Power
  enough to confuse and bind even the highest orders of spell."
    "Misery," something voiceless seemed to say.
    "Is that what's wrong with my spell?" Chess asked, looking around. "He's
  bound?"
    The wizard nodded. "Most likely."
    "He certainly doesn't seem to be very happy about it," the kender noted.
    "He?" the dwarf grumped, "What do spells know? They aren't  people."  He
  looked up at the wizard. "How much farther do we have to go?"
    "Not far," Glenshadow said. "Are you tired so soon?"
    "Of course I'm not tired! But I have things to do and I  don't  see  how
  all this is -"
    "It is," Glenshadow assured him. 'You want to  find  the  helm,  as  you
  dreamed. This is how you must begin."
    The dwarf scowled. 'What does this have to do with you, though I It's my
  dream. What makes it important to you?"
    "It might be important to a great many people," the wizard  sighed.  "In
  ominous times, significances take on new meanings. I have my  own  reasons
  for helping you fulfill  your  destiny,  Chane  Feldstone...  if  you  can
  fulfill it."
    "If it's important to you, then why don't you just go and find the helm,
  and let me get back to Thorbardin? I'm not fond of having no roof over  my
  head."
    "Of course you aren't. You're a mountain dwarf.  But  it's  your  dream,
  Chane Feldstone. Not mine."
    "Corrosion," the dwarf muttered. "It's like trying  to  get  a  sensible
  answer from that kender. What do you mean 'ominous times?' "
    "There have been omens. Some have interpreted  them,  and  some  believe
  them. Some think that devastation is about to fall on  these  lands.  Some
  say it has already begun. Invasion. War. The worst of imaginings."
    Chane stopped, staring up at the man. "When?"
    "Soon," the wizard said. "Some say within five years.  Some  say  within
  the year."
    "But... why?"
    "I think there will be further omens," Glenshadow said softly, his voice
  as chill as a winter's night. "Then, perhaps, we will know."
    Ahead of them, the path approached what might have  been  a  huge,  open
  gate in a great wall, except that whatever gate might once have been there
  was long since gone. All that remained was a ragged cleft in a long,  high
  structure  of  broken  stone  which  ran  off  to  left  and  right  into
  moon-shadowed distance. An  ancient  wall,  sundered  here  and  there  to
  rubble. Near the wall, just off the dark path, was  a  separate  mound  of
  rubble that looked familiar. It was like the mound they had found back  in
  the forest - a clutter of what might once have  been  various  things  all
  connected together, with stumps and odd shapes protruding from it.
    "Another gnome machine?" Chess wondered. "What do you suppose it was
  for."
    "Old," the wizard nodded.
    "Very old," something unseen seemed to agree.
    "A siege engine," Glenshadow said. "They kept building them  until  they
  got through the wall."
    "Who did?"
    "Gnomes. Who else?"
    "What did they want?"
    "What Gargath had. The source of all magic."
    "I never heard of a gnome using magic," the kender pointed out.
    The wizard frowned and seemed to shudder. "We had better go on," he
  said.
    Beyond the wall the path pitched steeply downward and entered  a  forest
  so dense that the  light  of  the  moons  was  only  a  patchwork  through
  interwoven branches.
    "I'd just as soon make camp here," Chane said, then went silent  as  the
  singing voice came again, this time much nearer. Someone  just  ahead  was
  singing in a language none of them knew.  The  singer's  tonal  range  was
  tremendous, the voice so utterly lovely that it caught their  breaths  and
  tugged at their hearts.
    A siren? Chane thought and realized it didn't matter. The voice held him
  in thrall, and he couldn't have turned away if he had wanted to.
    Beyond the trees ahead was a glow of firelight, and the voice seemed  to
  be coming from there. They hurried on. The slope lessened to level ground,
  and the trees ended abruptly at a circular clearing. The black  gravel  of
  the path ended at a clean-swept expanse of  black  flagstone  paving  -  a
  circular band of ebony stone nearly one hundred yards across. Thick, short
  pillars of red granite stood like sentinels around  the  circle  at  brief
  intervals, and within the circle of black was  a  circle  of  white,  then
  another of black. The concentric pavings narrowed toward the center, where
  stood a tall, cone-shaped monolith with a small, dim object at  its  apex.
  The firelight came from wood fires set in wide sconces at the four  points
  of the compass, on the inside faces of the surrounding short pillars.  The
  travelers stood where they had stopped,  peering  around,  trying  to  see
  detail in the erratic light.  In  the  semi-darkness  around  the  circle,
  shadows moved. "Cats," the dwarf noted. "Dozens of them. They must live
  here."
    The kender peered into the gloom, then straightened and  pointed.  "Wow!
  Look at that one!" Chane looked. A breeze flared one of  the  flames,  and
  his eyes widened. Beyond the paved clearing,  cats  were  everywhere.  And
  among them was one, huge even by comparison with the  others.  Half  again
  the size of the rest, it stood staring directly at the dwarf, great golden
  eyes thoughtful in a massive indigo head capped by a flowing, snow-white
  mane.
    The wizard seemed to pay no attention. He gazed instead at the monolith,
  his eyes ranging upward toward its top. The crystal device on his staff no
  longer looked like a crystal. Its luster was gone,  and  it  was  a  dull,
  opaque gray in color. "The temple of Gargath,"  he  muttered.  "Where  the
  graygem was entrapped."
    "What?" Chane glanced around.
    "This is where it happened,"  Glenshadow  said,  as  though  talking  to
  himself. "Up there... is the Spellbinder."
    "Woe," something voiceless mourned.
    The impatient kender had scampered away, out  toward  the  edge  of  the
  paving for a better look at the huge, white-maned  cat.  When  it  noticed
  him, he backpedaled, reversed his course, and went to have a  closer  look
  at the obelisk. He disappeared beyond it.
    "There's somebody here," Chane decided. "Somebody keeps these fires, and
  somebody made that song." He looked toward the  hut  beyond  the  obelisk.
  "Maybe..." Then he turned again, alerted by movement close by. A  creature
  like nothing he had ever seen had stepped onto the pavement. She  was  far
  taller than Chane, taller even than the wizard.
    Her skin was the color of midnight and caught the light in  patterns  of
  indigo and ebony that flowed sensuously over a  face  and  form  beautiful
  almost beyond beauty. Her hair was silver-white, long and flowing, and the
  single garment she wore - a brief tunic caught at one shoulder and falling
  to her sleek thighs - seemed to be woven of spider silk.
    Chane stared, open-mouthed, stunned by her beauty as he was  stunned  by
  her song. Never had he heard such a voice - the power of thunder  and  the
  gentleness of summer clouds resonated in perfect balance as she seemed  to
  sing to each of them separately, yet all at once. Never had he heard  such
  a voice, and never had  he  seen  a  creature  so  hauntingly  lovely,  or
  radiating such intense, patient power. The dwarf had the feeling that  she
  could crush him with a touch if she chose... or could touch as softly as a
  butterfly landing on a petal.
    Behind and above Chane, the wizard whispered, "Irda."
    Almost without changing, her song became speech. "Welcome again, man  of
  magic," she crooned, "to the place where magic fails. Is this the one? The
  Derkindescendant? Holder of the destiny?" Great  eyes  in  an  ebony  face
  turned to Chane, perusing him with a gaze very like the gaze of the  great
  cat moments before.
    The dwarf's heart thumped as  he  realized  they  were  the  same  eyes.
  "Shapechanger," he breathed.
    "Of course she is a shapechanger," the wizard said. "I told you, she  is
  the Irda. She can take many forms."
    "Welcome, small warrior," the Irda crooned.  "The  moons  have  promised
  that you would come, following the path of your -"
    Another voice, far less enchanting, shattered the spell: "Come  look  at
  the back of this thing!" Chestal Thicketsway  called.  "There's  something
  like a stairway, and ...hello? Who is this?" The kender  scampered  toward
  them, then stopped and blinked as the Irda turned to regard him. "Wow!" he
  finished lamely.
    "This one is no Hylar kin," the Irda chuckled.
    Chess blinked again and gave the tall, stunning  creature  a  slow  gaze
  from top to toe and back. His lips pursed in a low whistle. "Wow," he said
  again. Then, "Chestal Thicketsway's the name. I'm  a  kender,  from  Hylo.
  What on Krynn are you?"
    "Inquisitive," the Irda murmured. "I am Irda, little one."
    "I wondered what  you'd  look  like,"  Chess  nodded.  "My  great-uncle,
  Tauntry Rimrunner, used to talk about the Irda. I must say, you don't look
  anything like an ogre."
    Chane whirled on the kender, offended and astounded. "What  a  thing  to
  say!" But a hand on his shoulder stopped him.
    "Ogres and the Irda," Glenshadow whispered, leaning close, "a long  time
  ago, they were the same people... before ogres became ogrelike  and  ugly.
  They aren't at all the same any more."
    "The cats are gone," Chess noted suddenly, turning to  look  all  around
  the clearing.
    'They won't bother you again," the Irda said. "They have seen  you  with
  me, and I've assured them. They've gone now to patrol the valley.  Waykeep
  likes its privacy."
    "Those cats are a pretty effective way of discouraging visitors," Chane
  noted.
    "Come to my home," the Irda beckoned, turning away. "There  is  sweetnog
  for refreshment, and we can talk in comfort." She headed for the hut among
  the trees, and they followed.
    Chane paused for a moment as he  passed  the  monolith,  and  looked  up
  toward its top. A strange feeling gripped him, an  intuition  that  raised
  the hackles on his neck and sent a shiver down  his  spine.  Just  for  an
  instant, he felt as if something atop the monolith had  spoken  to  him...
  something that awaited him, that called out to him. He felt as if  he  had
  been here before, though he knew he had not. And the feeling of the  place
  was like the feeling of his dreams.
    "Is this the place?" he muttered, to himself. "Is this where I find the
  helm?"
    A large, gentle hand rested on his shoulder, and he jumped, then  looked
  up at the Irda, standing beside him. 'What you seek  is  not  here,  Chane
  Feldstone," she crooned. "But here is where you will begin your search."
    Again she led the dwarf away, and he noticed that her  movements  -  the
  sense of great strength in her easy, graceful stride; the lithe,  sensuous
  ripple of smooth muscle beneath shining ebon skin - reminded  him  of  the
  flowing grace of the great cats that were her companions.

  * * * * *

    "In ancient times, in the Age of Dreams, this was a place of  men,"  the
  Irda told them. "And magic  was  unknown  on  Krynn.  So  say  the  oldest
  legends. Then, from the realm of gods, came the graystone gem, and with it
  magic... and chaos. Some say the god Reorx gave to King Gargath the  means
  to trap and hold the graystone. Whether or not  that  is  so,  Garath  did
  capture it with a device of two crystals - one to find and  hold  it,  the
  other to counter its magic."
    "That's what the wizard said," Chestal Thicketsway interrupted,  sipping
  from a goblet of warm, sweetnog the 'Irda  had  provided.  "Only  he  said
  there was one crystal -"
    "Hush," Glenshadow snapped. "Just listen."
    "Gargath held it for a time," the Irda continued. "Then it was lost when
  the city was besieged by gnomes, with great siege engines."
    "So that is what those junkheaps are," the kender commented.
    This time it was Chane who hushed him.  The  dwarf  reached  across  the
  table, grasped the kender's tunic, and lifted him  off  his  stool.  "Just
  shut up and listen!" he demanded.
    The Irda continued undaunted. "One legend has it that when the graystone
  was freed, its magic caused some of  the  gnomes  to  become  dwarves  and
  kender, thus originating the two races."
    "Rubbish," Chess snapped. "No kender's akin  to  dwarves,  and  we  sure
  didn't come from gnomes."
    "Rust and corruption! Chane chimed. "Dwarves were here first.  Everybody
  knows that."
    "Will the two of you shut up!" Glenshadow rasped, his voice the stuff of
  blizzards. "Just... shut up!"
    "But I've been slandered," Chess said.
    The wizard's eyes glinted like ice. He pointed his staff at  the  kender
  and muttered, "Thranthalus eghom dit -" and suddenly went  silent.  Though
  Glenshadow's lips continued to move, no sound came out.
    'That was a mistake," the Irda said, sympathetically. "The anti-magic in
  this place is very strong."
    "Very strong," something unseen echoed.
    The kender stared at the wizard. "What's the matter with him?"
    Chane leaned close, seeing the stricken look in the man's eyes. "I think
  he tried to cast a spell," he suggested. "It  must  have  backfired.  He's
  hushed himself."
    The kender cocked his head. "I wonder how long he'll be like this."
    "I don't know." Chane shrugged. "It's his spell. Speaking  of  which,  I
  wish you'd find a way to hush yours."
    "My what?"
    "Your spell. The one that's following you around. It's  spooky  to  hear
  something complaining all the time when there's nothing there."
    "Be wary of that spell," the Irda said. "Its power is so great  that  it
  must happen, eventually."
    "You've met my spell?" The kender grinned. "Actually, I guess  it  isn't
  mine, but it has become attached to me."
    "I know of it," the Irda nodded. "It has been in this valley, waiting to
  happen, for two hundred years. Ever since dwarves fought near here in  the
  Dwarfgate Wars."
    "111 bet that's where all those frozen dwarves came from," Chess noted.
    "This was where Fistandantilus first interceded," the Irda told them.
    Chane shuddered. "Fistandantilus? The archmage? He was here?"
    "Here first, then at the final battle, two ranges west of here,  on  the
  Plains of Dergoth," the Irda told the dwarf.
    "That's where Grallen's army was wiped out," Chane  noted.  "I've  heard
  that story all my life."
    "Both armies were wiped out by the fourth and greatest of the  elemental
  spells Fistandantilus cast," the Irda said. "The first three  spells  were
  cast in the preliminary battle, here in the Valley of  Waykeep.  Elemental
  spells. The first was fire, the second ice..."
    "Burned forests under ice," the kender breathed. "I saw that.  What  was
  the third one?"
    "No  one  knows,"  the  Irda  shrugged.  "It  became  entrapped  in  the
  anti-magic of this place, and hasn't happened yet."
    "Woe and misery," something voiceless said.
    "You mean him?" Chess looked around, needlessly. "I mean, it?"
    "Your unexploded spell," she said calmly.
    "Wow," was all that Chess could say.
    Chane tapped the tabletop with his goblet, growing impatient. 'What does
  all this have to do with me and my dreams?"
    The Irda studied him, her eyes luminous. "I told you that there were two
  crystals in Gargath's device. Only one remains up there now. It is  called
  Spellbinder. Its presence is the reason that magic often fails in this
  valley.
    The other crystal, Pathfinder, was found by Prince Grallen of the Hylar
  -"
    "Grallen? But he died in the Dwarfgate War."
    "Grallen, son of Duncan, King - the  last  king  -  of  Thorbardin.  The
  wizard knows of your dreams, Chane Feldstone. What is the thing  that  you
  have dreamed of finding?"
    "An old helm," the dwarf said. "A battle helmet, with horns and a
  crown-spire."
    "And a crystal at its brow?"
    "Well, yes. A sort of green gem."
    "That green gem is Pathfinder, Chane. The helm is  Grallen's,  and  your
  dreams have  been  more  than  dreams.  Grallen  learned  something  about
  Thorbardin on his way from here to his last battle, at Zhamen  -  what  is
  now called Skullcap Peak. He learned that there  is  a  lost  entrance  to
  Thorbardin, and had he lived he would have found it and sealed it. But  he
  died. At present, armies are amassing in the north... their forward  units
  already invest key areas in many of the nearer lands."
    The Irda paused and a shadow crossed her face. "There will be  war.  The
  ogres know, and what they know I also know. Very soon, Thorbardin will  be
  surrounded by devastation. That is why you have dreamed, Chane  Feldstone.
  Your dreams are Grallen's spirit, calling to you, trying to tell you  what
  must be done. You are to find Grallen's helm and take up Grallen's  quest.
  You are to seal Thorbardin's lost gate."
    The kender smiled, his bright eyes gleaming with excitement.  "Wow,"  he
  breathed. "I'm really glad I came along."
    Chane simply stared at the Irda, at a loss for words. Finally  he  asked
  the only question he could think to ask: "Why me?"
    Glenshadow tried to speak, rubbed his throat and tried  again.  "You..."
  the wizard croaked. He coughed, scowled, and tried to clear his throat. In
  a hoarse voice just above a whisper he said, "Because  you  are  Grallen's
  kin, Chane Feldstone. You are the last of the  line  of  Duncan,  King  of
  Thorbardin."

  Chapter 8

    "Zap," said Chestal Thicketsway, as much to break the silence as for any
  other reason. Almost a minute had passed since Glenshadow's pronouncement,
  and nobody had said or done anything since. The three creatures around the
  kender seemed frozen in place - the  dwarf  standing  stunned,  trying  to
  understand what he had just been told;  the  Irda  remote  and  infinitely
  patient, waiting; the wizard bleak-eyed and gloomy as though he had spoken
  the prophecy of his own doom.
    When none of them reacted to his word, Chess shrugged and prowled  about
  the little  building's  interior,  looking  for  anything  that  might  be
  interesting. "Zap," he said again, to himself. "I'll call him Zap. Good  a
  name as any for a spell that hasn't happened."
    "Need to happen," something grieved.
    "Well, I'd just as soon you detach yourself from me before you do,"  the
  kender said. "I don't even know what kind of spell you are."
    "Old," something mourned.
    "You've made that clear." Chess peered into a shallow cabinet containing
  many pigeonhole shelves. Shadows made it hard  to  see  what  the  shelves
  contained, and he reached toward them, then withdrew his hand when he felt
  the Irda's eyes on him. He turned. "Just looking," he  grinned.  "Maybe  I
  should go outside and look around." Kenderlike,  the  thought  immediately
  became the action. Chess strode to the door of the hut,  pushed  it  open,
  and darted out, closing it behind him. From  his  first  glimpse  of  this
  place, the place of the Irda,  Chess  had  been  fascinated  by  the  tall
  obelisk in the stone-paved clearing. Now he went to it again, directly  to
  its north face where he had found handholds and toeholds  leading  upward.
  He had intended to see where they went, but seeing the Irda had  made  him
  forget that, momentarily.
    The marks in the north face of the monolith weren't really  a  stairway,
  only a series of shallow indentations set  at  regular  intervals  up  the
  precipitous stone face. For a curious kender, however,  they  were  ladder
  enough. Chess slung his hoopak on his back and started climbing.
    In the distance, in moon-shadowed forest beyond the Irda's clearing,  he
  could hear the rumbling purr of cats on patrol. And somewhere far away,  a
  hint of sound carried back on errant breezes, a raucous bird-voice  cawed,
  "Go away!"
    The hand-and toeholds went up and up, and Chess clung and climbed.  Near
  the top, he could look out and see the moon-bathed tops of the forest, the
  dark walls of the valley beyond to east and west.  Then,  abruptly,  there
  were no more indentations in the face of the cone. With  the  top  of  the
  monument almost within reach - no more than ten feet  above  -  there  was
  only sheer, smooth stone and nothing to cling to. Chess hunted around  for
  something that his fingers could grasp, his toes brace into, or his hoopak
  reach. There was nothing. In frustration he clung there for long  minutes,
  then sighed and accepted defeat.
    "Isn't that just how things go?"  he  muttered,  beginning  a  reluctant
  descent. "Probably the most interesting thing in this whole place is right
  there on top of this spire, just sitting there waiting to  be  looked  at.
  Naturally the stairs don't go quite far enough. I wonder what  it  is,  up
  there ...might be something valuable, if a person  could  just  reach  it.
  What kind of ladder heads for the top of something and  then  just  stops,
  just that much short? What kind of sense does that make?"
    "All things have reason, little one." The voice was  the  Irda's  voice,
  low and incredibly sweet. Chess nearly lost his hold, turning to look. She
  stood just below, watching his descent.
    The kender scrambled  the  rest  of  the  way  down  the  cone,  dropped
  light-footed to the pavement, and turned. "I thought I'd take  a  look  at
  what's up there," he said. "But I couldn't get to  the  top.  What  is  up
  there, anyway?"
    "Spellbinder," she said.
    "Pain and desolation," something seemed to whine.
    Chess glanced around, knowing there was no  one  there  to  see.  "Hush,
  Zap," he snapped. Then, to the Irda, "Is it something the gods left  lying
  around?"
    The Irda only smiled. "Spellbinder has been forgotten." She nodded. "But
  what the gods discard, eventually find purposes again."
    "Woe and misery," Zap's voiceless voice mourned.
    The Irda half-turned, raising her head. She seemed to  be  listening  to
  something Chess couldn't hear. And  there  was  something  odd  about  the
  light. The fires still flickered in their sconces on the ring  of  stones,
  but feebly now, as if their fuel were giving out. The rose and silver glow
  cast by the moons Solinari  and  Lunitari  had  changed,  too.  The  light
  glistening on the dark, lovely face of the Irda was almost a bloody light.
    Chess stepped from her shadow to look into the sky, and saw a  sight  he
  had never seen before. The red and silver moons hung above the wall of the
  valley, only a handspan apart, but the silver moon was only a crescent. As
  the kender watched, the crescent diminished as though a blackness had come
  from the north and was eating it away. Narrower and narrower the crescent
  grew.
    "What is it?" Chess wondered. "What's happening?"
    Soft light shone from the Irda's hut, and there were footsteps. A moment
  later the dwarf and the wizard were  beside  them,  also  staring  at  the
  strange sky. 'What's happening to the white moon?" the dwarf rumbled.
    Glenshadow raised his staff, useless in this place  of  anti-magic,  and
  pointed it. "Dragonqueen," he hissed.
    "The black moon shows itself, and eclipses the white."
    "Dragonqueen?" Chess stood on his toes in his excitement,  staring.  "Do
  you mean the moon or the goddess?"
    "They are the same," the Irda said. "By any name,  they  are  the  same.
  Queen of Darkness, Dragonqueen, Nilat the Corrupter...."
    "Tamex the False Metal," Chane growled. "The evil one."
    "She of the Many Faces," the kender chirped. "I've never seen the  black
  moon's shape before - only a hole in the sky where it hides stars. It's  a
  disk, like the other two. Look, it's almost covered the white moon....  It
  has covered it!"
    Where the white moon had been was now only a dim ring of brighter  stuff
  in the sky - a hairline circle of  radiance,  encompassing  darkness.  The
  black moon had covered the white one.
    At that instant Glenshadow's staff came to  life.  The  crystal  in  its
  head, which normally resembled blue ice but which  had  looked  like  dull
  chalk since entering the Valley of Waykeep, blazed brilliant red as if all
  the luminance of the red moon had condensed in it. A beam of crimson  shot
  from the staff to burn for an instant on the forehead  of  the  astonished
  dwarf... only for an instant. Then the beam danced away, up  the  side  of
  the conical tower, right to its top, where it rested, a ruby brilliance at
  the monolith's peak.
    Chane Feldstone stared at the ruby light with eyes not quite the same as
  his eyes had been before. Without a word he walked  to  the  base  of  the
  monolith and found the handholds and toeholds that the kender had found
  before.
    The rest were still staring at the eclipsed white moon, unable  to  tear
  their eyes from the omen. Little by little, the dark  moon  continued  its
  transit, and a crescent of white reappeared - the opposite crescent,
  emerging.
    "The next omen," Glenshadow's voice was as thin and  cold  as  windblown
  snow. "A portent of great evil."
    Something voiceless and terribly sad seemed to say,  "The  time  comes,"
  and Chess glanced around.
    "Hush, Zap," the kender said. "Spells should  be  seen  and  not  heard.
  Look, Chane... now where did the dwarf go?"
    Again the Irda tilted her lovely head, as though  listening.  Glenshadow
  glanced at her and frowned. 'What is it? What do you hear, Irda?"
    She shook her head, silver hair dancing in the  light  that  again  came
  from two moons. "Evil," she sang softly. "In the north an evil lives,  and
  one of evil sings. Ogres gloat and goblins march... and I hear  the  sound
  of WlllgS.
    "Where in blazes did that dwarf get off  to?"  Chestal  Thicketsway  was
  prowling the clearing, peering here and there. He looked upward then,  and
  blinked. "Oh. There he is. Chane! You, Chane Feldstone! What are you doing
  up there? I already tried that. You can't get to the top!"
    The others looked, too. High above them, moving with the  steady,  solid
  rhythm of a climbing mountain dwarf, Chane was approaching the top of  the
  monolith.
    "You're about to run out of ladder!" the kender shouted. "Take  my  word
  for it, that's a waste of time. You can't get to the -"
    The Irda moved close to him and rested a graceful, powerful dark hand on
  his head. "Be quiet, small one," she sang softly.
    The white moon was whole again, but now the red moon was diminishing  as
  the black orb began to occlude it. The rose tint of the moonlight  dulled,
  becoming more silvery. Above, Chane Feldstone had reached the last of  the
  fingerholds and hesitated.
    Again the crystal on Glenshadow's staff winked alight, this time a  cold
  white light as if the white moon's glow focused in it. A single  shaft  of
  white light shot upward, bathing in hard luster the hammer  slung  on  the
  dwarf's back. Clinging to  the  cone,  Chane  loosed  the  hammer,  braced
  himself and swung its spike-end against the stone  above  him.  He  struck
  again, and a black shard fell, bouncing once on the slight  slope  of  the
  monolith, ringing as it struck the pavement below.
    Snagging the hammer in his belt, the dwarf reached up, found purchase in
  a new handhold, and retrieved the hammer to cut another one.
    "Why didn't I think of that?" the kender chuckled. "Here I was  thinking
  about slings and pulleys or some such."
    The red moon was nearly  eclipsed  now,  but  still  Glenshadow's  staff
  glowed, and strong white light bathed the top of the spire where the dwarf
  worked. Abruptly, Chestal Thicketsway remembered the nature of his  unseen
  companion - the spell that had somehow  associated  itself  with  him.  He
  glanced around nervously. "Wizard, the light... does this mean that  magic
  is working here again?"
    "No magic of mortals," the wizard breathed. "Nor any that I can sense or
  understand."
    "The gods are not bound by the limits they  set,"  the  Irda  whispered.
  "Only Krynn-magic is captured in Spellbinder's net."
    "Ashes and woe," something voiceless mourned.
    "I'm glad to hear that," the kender sighed. "I'm not  in  any  hurry  to
  find out what happens when Zap gets unbound."
    Atop the tall cone, Chane cut another hold, then a final one, and pulled
  himself up for a look. The top of the monolith was a shallow cup, no  more
  than four feet across, with objects lying in it. The largest was a  small,
  broken statue apparently carved from alabaster - a  weathered  and  eroded
  representation of a man with a beard, face turned  upward,  one  outthrust
  arm intact, its hand holding a two-inch oval  of  dark  red  crystal.  The
  little statue, which would have stood no more than three feet tall, lay on
  its back. Part of its other arm lay beside it, but the hand was missing.
    The other object in the bowl was a metal ball the size of Chane's fist -
  deeply rusted, but still showing clearly the dent  of  ancient  impact.  A
  green bronze plate was imbedded in the ball, and  Chane  bent  close.  The
  enhanced light of the white moon showed him part of the inscription:  Size
  four siege projectile, specific for use with superior flipshot...
    Gnomes, he thought.
    He swung a leg over the lip of the cup and extended a hand,  meaning  to
  set the little statue upright for a better  look.  But  suddenly  the  red
  crystal pulsed and hummed, the statue's fingers fell away, and the crystal
  dropped into his hand. As Chane closed  his  own  fingers  around  it,  it
  stilled. He knew then, beyond question, why he had climbed the  cone.  The
  crystal had called him. He was to take it.
    Vaguely, in the dwarf's mind, a face appeared - a  face  much  like  his
  own, the bearded face of a mountain dwarf. But not his  own  face,  though
  there was a strong resemblance. The face was more stern than Chane's,  and
  bore the scars of battle. And it looked out at him from the curved  portal
  of a studded, horned helmet with a single ornament - a crystal that  might
  have been a twin of the crystal in Chane's hand except for the color.  The
  helmet's stone was green.
    "Grallen?" It was his own whisper that asked it.
    The face in Chane's mind seemed to nod, to encourage ... then it faded.
    Feeling more confused than ever before  in  his  life,  Chane  Feldstone
  secured the red crystal in his pouch, slung his hammer on  his  back,  and
  eased down to the new holds he had cut. Step by step,  hold  by  hold,  he
  lowered himself down the face of the monolith.  Above  him,  the  enhanced
  light faded and the spire's peak was only that - a stone monolith in
  moonlight.
    At  the  bottom,  they  gathered  around  him,  the  kender  chattering
  questions, the wizard trying to get a word in, the Irda kneeling  to  look
  closely at his face. She peered, then pointed at his forehead.  Glenshadow
  bent to look.
    On the dwarf's forehead, above the bridge of his nose, was a  red  spot,
  almost the shape and tint of the red moon.
    In the Irda's hut, over mugs of spicy drink, Chane told them what he had
  found. He brought out the crystal to show to  them,  but  when  Glenshadow
  touched it, it burned his fingers. The kender also had been  reaching  for
  it, but he withdrew his hand quickly at the wizard's cry of pain.
    "I expect you'd better hang on to that," Chess said prudently.
    The two visible moons were ordinary moons again, as they had been before
  the omen, but there was a darkness in the northern sky  -  an  absence  of
  stars where there should have been stars. The black moon hung  there,  not
  seeming  to  move,  and  Glenshadow  shuddered  when  he  looked  in  that
  direction. The Irda sat outside her hut, facing northward, her head thrown
  back as one who listens intently.
    The lamplight  and  the  sweetnog  were  soothing.  Chane  felt  himself
  nodding, then yawned and lay his head on the table. The kender was already
  asleep.

  * * * * *

    Chane and his companions weren't the only ones who watched the  omen  of
  the moons. A hundred miles northwest, in  the  glades  of  Qualinost,  the
  elves of Qualinesti saw it and sent rangers to spread the word.  Something
  was forecast that demanded study. Evil was afoot.
    Eighty miles due west of the Valley of Waykeep, mages at  the  Tower  of
  High Sorcery also watched the dark moon occlude first the white  and  then
  the red. Councils were called - councils at which  the  wearers  of  white
  robes and those who wore red were much more in evidence than  the  wearers
  of black.
    North of the wilderness, at the great pass city of Pax  Tharkas,  people
  lined the battlements to watch the moons in wonder.
    And twenty miles from the ancient temple of Gargath,  across  the  ridge
  line separating Waykeep from the Vale of Respite, ranks of  armed  goblins
  spread across the north end of a fertile valley, awaiting orders for their
  advance southward, where unsuspecting  villages  lay  sleeping  among  the
  moonlit fields. Among them,  aloof  and  haughty,  were  some  far  larger
  creatures - ogres who had come from their lairs to join the goblin  horde,
  knowing there would soon be sport for them.
    On a brushy rise above the goblins' dark  camps  a  lone  figure  stood,
  looking into the sky. Moonlight of two colors shone on a horned helmet and
  emblazoned black body armor. The faceplate of the many-horned helm  was  a
  hideous metal mask, a demon-faced device from which dark,  searching  eyes
  peered.
    As the occlusion of the visible moons began, the figure  unfastened  and
  removed the faceplate. The  moonlight  revealed  the  face  behind  it:  a
  woman's face, stern and dark-eyed. A face that might have been  beautiful,
  had it chosen to be, but that had made other choices from which there  had
  been no turning back.
    As the dark moon of Krynn eclipsed the first of the visible  moons,  the
  woman drew a thong from beneath her breastplate, a thong  from  which  was
  suspended a dark, misshapen lump. "Caliban," she said.
    The voice that responded was a dry, husky whisper, heard within her ears
  - an ancient, querulous voice. "Why does she call me  now,"  it  breathed.
  "She does not need me here. There is nothing here that she cannot  do  for
  herself."
    The woman frowned. "Caliban, the moons. What does it mean?"
    "The moons, she says," the dry voice had whispered.
    "She wants to know the story of the moons."
    "Tell me!"
    "It is another of the Queen's omens," the husky voice rasped. "She tells
  the Highlords that the time is  almost  at  hand  for  their  invasion  of
  Ansalon, and she tells whatever gods may notice that she claims this  time
  and this world as hers. She warns them not to interfere."
    "Another omen," the armed woman snapped. "Is there a message there for
  me?"
    "Ah," the dry voice said. "She seeks messages for herself."
    "Tell me!" the armor-clad woman ordered.
    "If there is a message for her, it is only this: she  has  promised  the
  Highlord that she will take and hold access to  the  fortress  Thorbardin.
  The Queen will not tolerate any who fail in what they promise on her
  behalf."
    "I will not fail!" the woman said sharply. "Even though I  have  nothing
  but... these -" she swept her free arm contemptuously, indicating the dark
  camps of the waiting goblin horde "- to assist me. I  asked  the  Highlord
  for a strike force. He gave me  stinking  goblins.  But  I  will  succeed.
  Thorbardin will fall when he is ready."
    "She has no need to tell me of this," the dry voice  said.  "It  is  her
  concern, not mine. Now she will let me rest until there is a better reason
  for me to awaken."
    "I will do what I choose!" she  started  to  say,  then  hissed  through
  clenched teeth as tiny lightnings laced from the dark thing to  sting  her
  hand. Quickly, she dropped it back into the  shelter  of  her  armor.  She
  could feel it pulsate slightly as it came to rest between her breasts.
    "Omens," she muttered. "I need no omens to accomplish what I set out to
  do."
    Her gaze fixed then on the sky, not where the moons were  telling  their
  story, but westward, where the line of ridges  that  formed  the  valley's
  east rim stood like jagged teeth against the night sky. There, far in  the
  distance beyond the ridges, was a crimson glow - a light that was  neither
  moonlight nor firelight, but that hung in the  sky  beyond  the  mountains
  like an echo of Lunitari's light.
    Between her breasts the dark thing moved, and again she heard  the  dry,
  ancient voice. "Ah, but there is a message for her, it seems. Someone else
  is abroad this night, seeking the lost way to Thorbardin."
    Full daylight lay on the valley  when  Chane  Feldstone  awoke.  For  an
  instant he didn't know where he was. He blinked and looked around. The hut
  was wide open, shutters thrown back and door standing ajar. Cabinets stood
  open and empty, and the cool breezes of autumn  wafted  through,  carrying
  the sounds of birdcall and small creatures - sounds  that  Chane  abruptly
  realized he hadn't heard since coming into  this  strange  valley  in  the
  wilderness. Near the door, the wizard Glenshadow lay asleep on a rush mat.
    Chane stretched and stood, feeling stiff from sleeping at the table, his
  hammer still slung on his back. Recalling the  night  before,  he  fumbled
  with the lashing on his pouch and  looked  inside.  The  red  crystal  was
  there, secure. He touched his forehead, then brought  his  hammer  around,
  using its polished surface as a mirror. The red  spot  was  still  on  his
  face, just above his nose, but it was less  vivid  now,  less  noticeable.
  Still, his mind was full of information that he knew had not been there
  before.
    He looked around at a small sound. The  kender  was  just  strolling  in
  through the open door.
    "The Irda is gone," the small creature said sadly.  "I  can't  find  her
  anywhere. And I guess she took her kitty cats with her, because  I  didn't
  find any of them, either."
    'Then I guess she was through here," Chane said,  assembling  his  packs
  and straps. "It doesn't matter, though. I know which way to go from here."

  Part II

  WINGOVER'S WAY

  Chapter 9

    There was a time once, rumor had it, when trade routes  had  linked  the
  realms of Ansalon in a more or less reliable fashion  from  Palanthas  and
  Vingaard Keep in the north, through Solamnia, Abanasinia, and Pax Tharkas,
  all the way south to Thorbardin. And maybe even beyond.
    Wingover had heard the stories and felt that they  probably  were  true,
  though he had never met anyone who could confirm them. He had seen a  good
  bit of the known world in his forty or so years and  had  dealt  with  all
  kinds of people. He knew the value that the  elves  of  Qualinost  put  on
  grains and foodstuffs from Solamnia. Mountain-bound Thorbardin traded  for
  grains and spices, as did his own homeland of Abanasinia. And he had  seen
  in Abanasinia and Solamnia - among those who could afford them - plenty of
  tools and weapons created by the dwarves of Thorbardin, as  well  as  fine
  textiles from Qualinost.
    Fibers and fabrics, feathers and furs... comestibles, combustibles,  and
  exotic baubles - every land he  had  seen  in  his  travels  possessed  an
  abundance in some commodities and shortages in others.
    Somewhere in the past there had probably been extensive trade  all  over
  Ansalon. But trade now - and for all the lifetime Wingover  and  those  he
  knew could remember - was erratic and hazardous.  "It's  the  way  of  the
  world," he himself had said more than once. "There's always  someone  more
  determined to make a killing than the rest are to make a living."
    "Poor, ravaged Krynn," some poets called the world. But Wingover had  no
  real quarrel with the nature of things. It was the only world he had  ever
  known, and in some respects the very combativeness of its races aided  him
  in his endeavors. Their aloofness, their distrust of one another, made the
  commodities they all sought even more precious. Sometimes  Wingover  hired
  out as a trail guide, sometimes as an escort for traders.  And  sometimes,
  as now, he carried a pack himself - usually on a bet.
    This time the bet was with the mountain dwarf trader, Rogar  Goldbuckle.
  Over tankards of ale at the Inn of the Flying Pigs in  Barter,  Goldbuckle
  had wagered that Wingover could never make it alive  from  Barter  to  Pax
  Tharkas and back, carrying a pack of goods from his agents at Pax Tharkas.
    The return on the sealed pack would be small compared to what  it  would
  cost Rogar Goldbuckle to pay his gambling debt.
    It had been no mean adventure, this journey.  Wingover  had  chosen  his
  routes with care, going north to Pax Tharkas by one route and returning by
  another to avoid ambushers and other unpleasantries of the wilderness.  He
  had ridden alert and slept with his senses awake, and still there had been
  incidents - the cave ogre that had almost killed him on a  mountain  trail
  somewhere near Wayreth Forest; the landslide that  had  blocked  his  path
  just south of Pax Tharkas; the band of murderous thieves that  had  picked
  up his trail on Regret Ridge and pursued until he was forced to teach them
  some manners; the flooded ford that had forced him to  change  course.  It
  was that flooded ford that led him into the hidden valley where  the  bird
  had screamed a warning at him, and where he had barely  escaped  with  his
  life when a pack of huge hunting cats chased him.
    All that, and goblins, too.
    Wingover shook his head now in perplexity. Why were there goblins  south
  of Pax Tharkas? He had never  heard  of  goblins  in  these  lands.  Other
  places, of course, but not here. It reminded him of the talk he had  heard
  in Pax Tharkas - dire  rumors,  all  hazy  and  confusing,  of  omens  and
  prophesies, of strange sightings in remote places.
    There were even rumors of people somewhere to the north who  swore  they
  had seen dragons.
    And just the past night - a double eclipse of the  moons.  Wingover  had
  heard philosophers and stargazers speculate on such  things,  but  he  had
  never before seen such a sight. It had almost cost him his horse  and  his
  pack. Geekay had spooked at the sight and pulled loose  from  his  halter,
  and Wingover had chased the animal for a half-mile before catching him.
    Did it mean something? He thought of  Garon  Wendesthalas  and  wondered
  where he was. Elves usually knew  more  about  such  phenomena  than  most
  people. Maybe he would see the elf in Barter, and could ask him about it
  then.
    Wingover twisted about in his saddle, easing the fatigue of travel,  and
  pulled his elkhide jacket tighter about him. The horse was rounding a bend
  in the sloping trail, and a fresh wind had sprung up. It was cold at  this
  altitude, even in early autumn.
    Cold and - he noticed abruptly - strangely quiet. He looked around.  The
  usual daytime sounds of the mountains, the chittering of small  creatures,
  the myriad calls of cliff-birds, had gone silent. The only sound  was  the
  wind sighing forlornly.
    Without seeming to have noticed - one learned such skills if  one  would
  survive in the wildernesses of Ansalon - Wingover eased his  sword  around
  so that its hilt rested across the vent of his  saddle,  inches  from  his
  hand. Eyes  that  missed  little  scanned  the  landscape,  searching  for
  anything out of place or out of order.
    Wingover's eyes were as pale as the frost on his reddish  whiskers,  and
  as alert as those of the darting shoal-kite for which  he  was  named.  He
  studied the rising stonefall to his left, the bouldered slope falling away
  to the right, the gametrail winding out of  sight  ahead,  and  stretching
  around as one too long a'saddle - his own backtrail.  Nothing  caught  his
  eye, nothing out of the ordinary, and yet the silence  hung  and  all  his
  senses responded to it.
    Angling near a wide cleft in the stonefall, he  reined  the  horse  into
  cover and stopped, listening. At first there was  nothing  to  hear,  then
  from somewhere came a faint scuffling sound,  as  of  shod  feet  creeping
  through gravel. Many shod feet. And now the errant wind  carried  a  smell
  that alerted him. It was an odor he recognized. A cloying, unpleasant
  odor.
    Wingover frowned, testing the air.  Goblins  again!  What  were  goblins
  doing this far south?
    Again he heard the furtive, scuffling noises, and  this  time  he  heard
  metalic sounds as well - little clinks as of weapons being drawn. Silently
  he dismounted, slipping his animal's reins into a crack in  the  rock.  He
  freed the lashes behind his saddle and righted the flinthide shield there,
  pulling its strap onto  his  left  arm,  gripping  the  guidon  with  hard
  fingers. Sword drawn, Wingover crouched, slipped from  the  cover  of  the
  rocks, and sprinted forward on soft-soled feet, following  the  gametrail.
  Just ahead someone was in trouble.
    Fifty yards from where the man had dismounted, the dim  trail  topped  a
  ridge and disappeared. Crawling the last few feet, Wingover looked beyond.
  The game trail veered away to the right, following a slope. Some  distance
  away it made  a  switchback  turn,  angling  downward  toward  a  distant,
  meadowed valley. On the trail below, a single  walker  strode  along  -  a
  tall, lithe figure clad in furs and leathers against  the  cold.  Wingover
  could not see his face, but he knew his race. Distance and angle could not
  hide the lean, graceful form, the gliding stride of an elf.
    The  elf  turned  slightly,  surveying  the  landscape,  and  Wingover
  recognized him. An old friend. Garon Wendesthalas. The elf carried a  pack
  and a bow, and Wingover suspected he was going to Barter as he was.
    But on the brushy slope between them, crouching in  cover  and  watching
  the elf approach, were goblins armed, armored goblins waiting  in  ambush.
  He counted eight that he could see and cover where two or three more might
  be.
    Wingover crouched, waiting. There was no  question  what  was  about  to
  happen. For whatever reason goblins might have - curiosity about what  was
  in the elf's pack, perhaps, or simply for sport - the goblins  were  ready
  to pounce on the elf, to bring him down with their weapons.
    Garon Wendesthalas has been taking care of  himself  for  a  long  time,
  Wingover told himself, slitted eyes studying the goblins. The goblins  may
  wish they had never met this elf.
    Still, he told himself as goblin faces turned toward one  another,  wide
  mouths grinning in wicked anticipation, what are friends for,  if  not  to
  interfere?
    With a shrug he got his feet under him, howled a battle cry as  wild  as
  any goblin could ever have heard, and plunged  down  the  slope,  directly
  into the crouched goblins' ambush.
    With gravity doubling the speed of his long legs, Wingover descended  on
  them and through them, spinning completely  around  as  he  pierced  their
  line.  His  sword  was  a  flashing  rage,  singing  around  him,  first
  bright-bladed and then suddenly dark with  goblin  blood.  A  goblin  head
  bounced from a rock and rolled down the  slope  ahead  of  him.  Two  more
  goblins died  before  they  could  turn,  one  severed  from  shoulder  to
  breastbone, one cloven through the back, through ribs and  spine.  Another
  raised an axe and was bowled over by Wingover's  flinthide  shield.  Still
  another tried to lift a short sword and failed because he had no arm.
    In an instant of howling fury, the man  was  through  them  and  beyond,
  flailing for balance as he  plunged  on  down  the  slope.  "Goblins!"  he
  shouted. "Ambush!"
    Directly below now, the elf dropped his pack, brought  around  his  bow,
  drew, and let fly. The arrow whisked past Wingover,  and  somewhere  above
  and behind the man a gurgle and a thud sounded. At a  glance  he  saw  the
  severed head of the first goblin, bouncing merrily along beside him.
    A thrown axe sailed past Wingover, embedding itself in loose stone  just
  at the elf's feet. Another of his arrows flew to answer it. On  the  path,
  Wingover braced his legs, skidded and somersaulted to  a  jarring  halt...
  then got his feet under him again and dodged as a bronze dart whisked past
  him from uphill.
    "Good morning," he shouted to the elf, then filled his lungs, let  loose
  another battle howl, and headed back up  the  slope.  The  elf  was  right
  behind him.
    The slope above was a confusion of goblins - most of them dead or dying,
  but some still very much alive. For a  moment  some  of  these  scrambled,
  clawing upward, trying to climb the slope. But one,  a  creature  slightly
  larger than the others and heavily armored, shouted  guttural  orders  and
  regrouped them.
    Going uphill was far slower than coming down had been, and now  Wingover
  and the elf found themselves facing a ready enemy who held the higher
  ground.
    Darts and thrown stones landed  about  them.  Wingover  held  the  lead,
  wielding his shield to deflect what  he  could.  But  a  dart  scored  the
  human's leg, leaving a bloody gash.  Two  goblins  hoisted  a  huge  stone
  between them, raising it above their heads.
    Behind Wingover, the elf said, "Drop."
    He dropped, half-covered by his shield, and the elf loosed an arrow.  It
  took a goblin full in the throat. The second one staggered back under  the
  sudden weight of the stone, and fell.
    With a hiss, the goblin leader lifted the fallen creature  to  his  feet
  and gripped the back of his neck with one strong hand.  In  the  other  he
  held a heavy broadaxe. Pushing his companion ahead of him he charged  down
  on Wingover, who was just scrambling to his feet. Before he could get  his
  shield up, the goblins were on him. His sword impaled one, but the  weapon
  was wrenched aside as the leader flung  the  expendable  one  forward  and
  raised his axe in both hands.
    Dropping sword and shield, Wingover flung himself  upward  and  grappled
  the creature.  Goblin  stench  seared  his  nostrils  as  he  gripped  the
  axehandle, struggling to keep it from completing its swing.  Goblin  teeth
  snapped at his throat, grazing the skin. Claws of a goblin hand raked  his
  face, going for his eyes, and a hard-soled boot flailed at  his  legs.  He
  twisted, thrust, and threw the goblin onto its back, going down  with  it.
  Instantly, the locked pair were  rolling  and  bouncing  down  the  slope,
  grappling and pummeling as they went.
    The broadaxe, jarred free, skidded down the slope ahead of them and came
  to rest on the trail. The rolling combat landed beside it, the  goblin  on
  top, going for  Wingover's  throat.  With  a  heave,  Wingover  threw  the
  creature over his head, spun, and leaped just as the goblin  struggled  to
  hands and knees. Straddling the creature, the man got his toes  under  the
  base of its brass chestplate, hooked his fingers under the back-plate, and
  put all his strength into prying them apart. Held by stout straps, the two
  pieces of armor closed like a trap  around  the  goblin's  neck.  Wingover
  strained harder. Clawing at the man's booted feet,  the  goblin  staggered
  upright, reeling and struggling to breathe as the clamp tightened  at  its
  neck. Its face seemed to swell, its eyes bulged, it  staggered  and  fell,
  carrying the man with it. A  broadaxe  descended  and  crunched  into  the
  ground, barely missing both of them, and Wingover's hold slipped. He heard
  another of the elf's arrows pierce armor somewhere near.
    Panting, he stood. On the ground, the goblin  gasped  for  breath,  then
  rolled and came to its feet, wild eyes glaring, taloned fingers reaching.
    "I've had enough of this," Wingover  decided.  With  a  long  stride  he
  ducked the goblin's arms and drove a hard fist full  into  its  face.  The
  creature toppled like a felled tree and lay still.
    Stone clattered, and Garon Wendesthalas came down the slope. He  glanced
  at Wingover, then crouched beside the goblin. "Alive," he  said.  "One  of
  them got away, up the hillside. He was out of reach before I  could  bring
  him down."
    "I left my horse up there," Wingover panted.
    "Well, if that goblin is going to find him, it  already  has.  What  are
  they doing here? I haven't heard of goblins in these lands... at least not
  any time lately." The elf looked up quizzically. "And  by  the  way,  good
  morning to you, too, Wingover."
    "Hope you didn't mind my crashing your party," the man said.
    "Not at all. There were plenty to  go  around.  Frankly,  I'm  glad  you
  showed up. I knew they were here - smelled them a ways back - but I didn't
  know how many, or exactly where they were. But I still can't imagine  what
  they're doing this far south."
    "That's what I want to know,  too."  Wingover  squatted  on  his  heels,
  tilting his head to study the wide, feral face of the unconscious  goblin.
  Dark blood seeped from its nose and mouth. "Maybe he'll tell us about  it,
  if he wakes Up.
    As though on cue, the goblin stirred and groaned. Garon knelt and lifted
  one of the creature's eyelids with his thumb. "He's coming  around.  Let's
  peel this armor off of him. He'll be more talkative without his shell."
    "Whatever you say. You've dealt with goblins."
    "When I had to." The elf glanced  at  Wingover,  melancholy  elven  eyes
  curious. "I gather you made it to Pax Tharkas?"
    "Made it, and the pack I'm bringing back will cost  Rogar  Goldbuckle  a
  fine purse. But then, the bet was his idea."
    'What if he decides to pay you in kind, by freeing you of your  debt  of
  service to him?"
    "He won't. Goldbuckle's a wily old dwarf, and he won't put  money  ahead
  of collectible service. But then, I don't mind. He staked me when I needed
  it most... I owe him a service whenever he decides to call on me. Probably
  wind up some day fighting a trader's duel with somebody too big for an old
  dwarf to handle."
    They stripped the goblin of his armor and threw it away. No human or elf
  would ever willingly put the smelly, tarnished armor next to his own skin.
    Garon Wendesthalas used strong rope to bind the creature hand and  foot,
  then drew a slim, needle-pointed dagger and set its hilt in a crack in the
  stone path, the ......  pointing  straight  up.  As  the  goblin  regained
  consciousness, hissing and cursing, the  elf  rolled  him  over  onto  his
  belly, dragged him forward, and lifted his head so that his right eye  was
  directly over the dagger's point.
    Wingover watched, fascinated. "What are you doing!"
    "Creatures of darkness cherish their eyes," the elf  said.  Holding  the
  goblin's round head in a strong grip, he said, "Tell us now, goblin... why
  are you here? Who sent you?
    "You can fry in molten stone, elf!" The goblin tried to twist  away  and
  could not. "I won't tell you anything. I'll-"
    Gyron shrugged and pushed the head  down.  The  goblin's  scream  was  a
  shrill hiss, echoing from mountainside.". Matter-of-factly,  Garon  raised
  the round head and repositioned it. "This is a little something that elves
  have learned - the hard way - from goblins," he told Wingover. Then to the
  goblin he said, "You still have one eye left. Who sent you here?"
    The creature writhed and whimpered. "I can't say! I can't!"
    Grim-faced, Garon Wendesthalas pushed the creature's head down until eye
  touched knife-point. "Yes, you can," the elf said. "Who sent you?"
    "I can't... ahh! Darkmoor! The commander! I answer to the - !"  Abruptly
  the goblin stiffened. Tiny bolts of  lightning  writhed  along  its  body,
  twisting in bright weaves around arms and legs, a dancing fabric  of  blue
  bolts as fine as spider lace. The bolts lasted only for an  instant,  then
  the goblin's pale, flabby body went rigid, the  wide  spike-toothed  mouth
  opened and heavy, dark smoke gusted from it.
    The creature went limp. Garon pulled the body away from the  dagger  and
  rolled it over, his long, elven face twisting in disgust. "Dead," he said.
    "So I see," Wingover shrugged. "You didn't kill him, though."
    "No. He truly couldn't say more. He had a spell upon him, and it  killed
  him rather than let him tell us anything else. Do you know  anyone  called
  'Commander' or 'Darkmoor?' "
    Wingover shook his head. "It isn't a goblin name. Doesn't sound dwarven,
  either. It might be elven, but what kind of elf would associate with
  goblins?"
    "It sounds to me like a human name," Garon said. He glanced at the  man,
  wide eyes thoughtful. "Maybe the question is, what  sort  of  human  would
  associate with goblins?"
    "I guess I'd better go see about my horse and pack. Are you bound for
  Barter?"
    The elf nodded. "There have been a lot of rumors lately,  about  trouble
  in the north. And omens. Did you see the eclipses7"
    "Yes. And I thought about you, Garon Wendesthalas. I thought  maybe  you
  could tell me what it means."
    "Maybe nothing," the elf said. "Or it might mean that something very bad
  is about to happen." He looked around at the grim carnage  of  the  goblin
  encounter. "Far worse than this. Maybe we'll learn more  at  Barter.  It's
  the place to listen, if there is something to be known."
    Climbing the slope, Wingover collected his sword and shield, and  paused
  to study some of the dead goblins there. A scouting party, he decided. But
  scouting for what? And for whom?
    The horse was where he had left it,  skittish  and  wildeyed  but  still
  reined within the cleft of rock.  Several  yards  away,  though,  was  the
  sprawled body of another dead goblin. Its skull had been crushed.
    "Don't blame you a bit, Geekay," Wingover reassured the horse. "I  don't
  like goblins, either."
    When Wingover came down the trail, Garon Wenndesthalas was  waiting  for
  him. The human dismounted. "Sling your pack up here with  mine,"  he  told
  the elf. "I'll walk with you."
    Wendesthalas tied his pack to Geekay's saddle skirt and turned away, his
  long stride setting a brisk pace.  Wingover  walked  beside  him,  leading
  Geekay,  and  found  himself  thinking  about  the  manner  of  the  elf's
  inquisition of the goblin. He glanced at  the  lithe,  almosthuman  ranger
  pacing him. In many ways, it seemed to Wingover, the race of  elves  could
  be the gentlest of the people of Krynn. And in many ways the  wisest.  Yet
  there was nothing gentle and seemingly little wise in Garon's treatment of
  the goblin.
    Is it possible for me to really understand him  or  his  kind,  the  man
  wondered. Can any race ever truly understand any other?
    He mulled it over for a few minutes, then decided. Probably not.
    Wingover turned his thoughts to another race. He had a gambling debt  to
  collect from Rogar Goldbuckle. Not that the dwarf would try to cheat  him.
  Such was not Goldbuckle's way. Still, dwarves could be full of surprises.

  Chapter 10

    Though it had started only as a seasonal encampment, a meeting place for
  those of various races whose lot it was to go abroad and trade commodities
  to supply their various realms, Barter now was  a  bustling  little  town.
  Resting in a sheltered valley west of Thorbardin, it was a truce  village,
  a place of respite  from  whatever  conflicts  and  hostilities  might  be
  currently going on around it. A motley collection of low stone cubicles  -
  favored by the mountain dwarves - log structures where hill dwarves  could
  find comfort, shacks, shanties, tree houses in the few trees large  enough
  to contain them, mud huts, and a few airy elven lofts, Barter  catered  to
  any who were willing to trade in peace.
    Here elves, dwarves, humans, and occasionally  kender  walked  the  same
  paths and sat at the same tables with robed sorcerers and outlaw  clerics.
  Here voices might be - and often were -  raised  in  hot  discussion,  but
  outright violence was not condoned. Here even  the  bitterest  of  enemies
  stayed their hands and held their tempers.
    For Barter was Barter. As in any place and  any  time,  no  matter  what
  grand intrigues may be afoot, no matter what wars might be  raging  across
  the lands, still there had to be a means of trade and a place to do it. As
  in all places and all times, each people had need of what the  others  had
  in plenty, if only for the building of weapons to fight against one
  another.
    In Barter, it was said, even an ogre could come and trade - provided  he
  didn't act like an ogre.
    Technically, Barter lay within the realm of the dwarves, though  whether
  its origin was from mountain or hill dwarves' settlements none could  say.
  And this was as it should be, for the bands and  tribes  of  humanity  had
  been scattered far and wide, and many were wanderers,  while  of  all  the
  other races the dwarves had the most to trade, the most need to trade, and
  the greatest understanding of  how  essential  trade  was.  Being  in  the
  dwarven realms also gave some measure  of  protection  to  the  place,  as
  neither mountain nor hill dwarves  was  amenable  to  having  their  lands
  entered by those who sought trouble.
    As they neared the settlement Wingover recalled the simple rules of  the
  place. "Don't kill anybody," he chuckled. "It isn't allowed."
    The faint trail they followed wound down into a valley,  toward  Barter,
  and within a mile of the village they  were  among  cleared  fields  on  a
  gentle slope, with the village visible ahead. Wingover  pointed  toward  a
  large pavilion draped with red and yellow awnings. "The  mountain  dwarves
  are here," he said. "That's Goldbuckle's stall."
    Just ahead, on the trail, an odd object was moving toward the village  -
  a triangular white thing more than a dozen feet from end to end  and  half
  that in width, it had the appearance of a giant spearhead, creeping  along
  on spindly-looking narrow wheels  that  glinted  in  the  sunlight.  Garon
  Wendesthalas studied the thing ahead, then shook  his  head  and  pointed,
  questioning.
    Wingover shrugged. "I haven't the vaguest idea what it  is.  I've  never
  seen anything like it."
    They went on, and within a few minutes were close  enough  to  see  more
  details of the creeping thing. More than a  spearhead  now,  it  resembled
  half a bellows, partially closed. A series of slender ribs  extended  back
  from the forward point, all covered over with  a  layer  of  white  fabric
  pleated so that each fold at the rear draped at least two feet  below  the
  rigid supports. Near the rear was a thing like a  wicker  basket,  two  or
  three feet across, set into the fabric so that only  the  top  of  it  was
  clearly visible from behind. Narrow, slightly bowed poles slanted  outward
  below the basket-thing, each tipped with a wheel  that  was  nothing  more
  than a metal ring braced from a  hub  by  thin,  gleaming  wires.  Beyond,
  someone was walking, only his feet visible, the rest of him hidden by  the
  forward point of the contrivance.
    "Maybe it's some kind of a rollable tent," Wingover suggested.
    "Half an umbrella?" the elf wondered.
    "That big? Nobody would build an umbrella that big. And why does it have
  wheels?"
    "Maybe because it's too big to carry."
    They came closer, and a suspicion arose in  Wingover's  mind.  He  swung
  into his saddle, touched heels to the horse, pranced ahead, and pulled  up
  alongside the strange thing. It was longer than he had  thought,  possibly
  as much as twenty feet from point to rear, and while its trailing end  was
  no more than three feet high, its long, slim point was well above his head
  as he sat in his saddle. He walked the horse alongside and leaned down  to
  look below the thing's edge.  He  sighed  and  straightened.  "Just  as  I
  thought," Wingover chuckled. "A gnome."
    The thing stopped moving. Its point lowered a bit as a metal shaft swung
  down to take its weight, and its owner stepped  out  to  look  up  at  the
  horseman. He stood bellyhigh to Wingover's horse,  and  had  a  bald  head
  surrounded by long white hair that blended  into  a  silvery  beard.  That
  trait  would  have  made  him  look  very  old  ...had  he  been  human.
  "Ofcoursel'magnome," he said in a voice that sounded thin  and  irritated.
  "That'sonethingtheycan't  takeawayfromme.  Bobbin'sthename.
  I'meverybitasmuchgnomeasanyofthem, thankyou. Whoareyou?"
    The question was so imperious, and came from such a small creature, that
  Wingover couldn't suppress a smile. "If I understood  you  correctly,  you
  want my name, which is Wingover," he said. "But don't take it out  on  me,
  whatever you're boiling about. It isn't my fault."
    "Of course not," the gnome said more slowly as he calmed down. "It isn't
  anybody's fault. These things just happen. Though they could have  been  a
  little kinder about it, in my opinion."
    "Who could? And kinder about what?"
    "Everybody. The Transportation  Guild,  the  Master  Craftsgnome...  the
  whole colony. Kinder about getting rid of me,  is  what  they  could  have
  been. If it had happened at home, I'd have had my say about  it.  But  no.
  'Out in the colonies,' they said, 'this sort of thing can't be  tolerated.
  Good of the colony,' they said. 'Best just to send the poor  soul  packing
  off into the howling nowheres, than to chance his infecting anyone  else.'
  So out I went. Kit, klacker, and  Krynnbook,  as  they  say.  Speaking  of
  which, I sincerely hope my map  was  right.  That's  supposed  to  be  the
  village of Barter just ahead. Is it?"
    "It is," Wingover nodded. Garon had come up to them, and the man turned.
  "I kind of thought there'd be a gnome under this  thing,"  he  said.  "And
  here he is. His name's Bobbin." He waved  a  casual  hand.  "That's  Garon
  Wendesthalas. He's from Qualinost."
    Bobbin nodded curtly, then turned to Wingover again.
    "How much for the use of your animal?"
    'The use of... for what?"
    "To pull my soarwagon. What else?"
    "This thing? You look like you're doing all right, pulling it yourself."
    "I don't mean now, I mean later. Does your horse run fast?"
    "As fast as I need him to, when I need him to," Wingover replied
  cautiously.
    "Good," the gnome said, and ducked under his  contrivance,  then  turned
  and peered up at the human again.
    "I'll look you up when I need you. 111 supply the rope, so  don't  worry
  about that."
    Without further conversation, the small creature hoisted the nose of his
  contraption and trudged on toward Barter, towing the  thing  as  he  went,
  only his feet visible beneath it.
    "Did you find out what that thing is?" the elf asked.
    "He didn't say, just called it his soarwagon.  But  it  doesn't  matter.
  Whatever it's supposed to do, it probably won't. I've seen gnomish  things
  before."
    "Odd," the elf said softly. "I think that's the  first  time  I've  ever
  seen just one gnome. Usually, where there is one there are dozens."
    "I gather he's an outcast," Wingover said. "He was part of a colony, but
  they kicked him out. He isn't too happy about it."
    "That explains it, then. But I wonder  why."  They  resumed  their  pace
  toward Barter, but the elf remained thoughtful. "Did you notice the wheels
  on that thing?"
    "Yes. Very nicely made. That's a novel idea  for  wheels,  to  use  wire
  spokes. Light and practical." Wingover hesitated, then turned. "I see what
  you mean. Usually if gnomes set out to put  wheels  under  something  that
  weighs ten pounds, they'll wind up using fifteen or twenty wheels and each
  wheel might weigh a ton... then there'll  be  traction  devices,  and  who
  knows how many clutch and brake assemblies, and  whistles  and  bells  and
  adjustable levers to adjust the adjustments, and  the  whole  thing  won't
  move an inch under any circumstances."
    "Or it might throw itself  off  a  mountain,  or  dig  itself  into  the
  ground," the elf added. "Whatever that thing is, it doesn't look like  any
  gnomish thing I've seen."
    Barter was busy. First snow shone on the  high  peaks  of  the  Kharolis
  Mountains, late harvests were being completed in the valleys,  and  people
  everywhere were preparing for winter. The trading taking place  now  would
  be the last until spring for most who came, and the village  was  bustling
  with activity. Dwarves, elves, gnomes, kender, and humans walked the  ways
  and gathered at stalls  and  pavilions.  Bards,  acrobats,  jugglers,  and
  elixirhawkers  plied  their  trades.  Warriors,  farmers,  craftsmen,  and
  clerics rubbed shoulders with wizards and rangers, and the usual  volatile
  peace of Barter held sway. At any streetcorner, at any moment, there might
  be a dozen separate swindlings, thieveries, fair deals and foul  going  on
  simultaneously, but weapons were kept sheathed and no blood flowed.
    "I see the Inn of the Flying Pigs is still in business," Wingover noted.
  "I'll be there when I've done my business."
    "I'll be around." The elf nodded and started on his way.
    "Give my regards to Goldbuckle."
    Some travelers were staring in fascination at the three pigs  above  the
  inn.  On  Rapping  wings,  they  saiied  about  in  lazy  circles  and
  figure-eights, as cheerfully content with their lot as any pig with  wings
  might be.
    Wingover grinned at a gaping newcomer. "The innkeeper did a favor for  a
  wizard once. No one knows what it was, or who the spellcaster was, but the
  wizard repaid him by making that unique sign to advertise his  place.  The
  pigs fly around up there every afternoon for a few hours,  and  it's  good
  for his business. Just be a bit careful when you walk beneath them."
    Wingover left his horse with  a  liveryman  and  made  his  way  to  the
  pavilion of the mountain dwarf trader, Rogar Goldbuckle.
    The pavilion, with its red and yellow awnings, was one of the largest in
  Barter, for Goldbuckle and his party  did  most  of  the  outside  trading
  commissioned by the Daewar merchants in Thorbardin.  The  pavilion  was  a
  large rectangle, with tended stalls on three sides. There, dwarves wearing
  Goldbuckle's  colors  offered  the  finest  of  Thorbardin  commodities  -
  gemstones of many kinds, pyrites and hewn stone,  minerals  in  powder  or
  granule form, prized funguses famed for their taste, burningstone to  fuel
  hearths in winter, huge varieties of handcarved trinkets and  decorations,
  and - of course - some of the finest arms and armor available anywhere  in
  Ansalon.
    Within the pavilion's fourth side were the counting  tables,  and  there
  Wingover found Rogar Goldbuckle. The trader  raised  a  bushy  eyebrow  at
  sight of the human and said, "Well, it looks to me as though you are still
  alive. Did you give up the idea of going to Pax  Tharkas  by  way  of  the
  wilderness?"
    "Give up, nothing," Wingover chuckled. "I've been there  and  back,  and
  I'm ready to collect on our wager. But first, it will cost you  a  mug  of
  ale to hear about it, Rogar Goldbuckle. And  none  of  your  trade  swill,
  either. Bring out your own supply."
    "Trade swill indeed!" the dwarf  snapped.  "I  handle  nothing  but  the
  finest, and each barrel better than the rest."
    Despite this claim, though, Rogar Goldbuckle brought out his  own  stock
  and led the man to a quiet corner where there was a table and benches.  He
  poured golden ale into a pair of fine silver goblets, and for a time  they
  sat together in silence, enjoying the potent beverage. Only when  Wingover
  had drained his goblet and licked his whiskers  in  appreciation  did  the
  dwarf get down to business. 'You promised proof," Goldbuckle  said.  "What
  kind of proof do you offer?"
    With a wink, Wingover slid his pack from beneath his bench, hoisted  it,
  and set it on the plank table between them. "Check  the  seal,"  he  said.
  "It's from your own consignee in Pax Tharkas. And it's unbroken."
    The dwarf inspected pack and seal, grumbling as he went over it. "It was
  a stupid wager anyway, and had I been sober at the  time  you'd  not  have
  duped me into it. How much was it, again?"
    "You know very well how much it was," Wingover said. "Now  pay  up.  And
  what do you mean, 'duped?' It was your idea, as I recall."
    "I was just trying to do you a good turn," Goldbuckle snapped. 'You  had
  nothing constructive to do, so I thought I'd give you an opportunity for a
  pleasant outing."
    "Pleasant outing? When was  the  last  time  you  tried  to  cross  that
  wilderness, you old charlatan? I made it there  and  back,  but  it's  not
  something I'll do again for a while. What with thieves  and  waylayers  at
  every turn, and cave-ogres... and cats."
    "Cats?"
    "Cats. Oh, yes. And goblins. Why  are  there  goblins  this  far  south,
  Rogar? Have you heard anything?"
    "You actually saw goblins?" the dwarf's eyes narrowed. "There have  been
  some rumors, of course, but -"
    "Not only saw them, but fought them. Garon Wendesthalas and I. He was on
  his way down from Qualinost, and a band of armed goblins set  a  trap  for
  him. I happened along and spoiled the party. Half a day from here, or  not
  much farther. Where the trail comes down from Grieving Ridge."
    "But -" Goldbuckle's eyes widened. "But that isn't even the  wilderness.
  That's well within Thorbardin's realm."
    "That's what I thought. Garon and I think they were  a  scouting  party,
  but that's about all we could learn. The one that we kept alive - or tried
  to - had a spell on him. It killed him before he could tell  us  anything,
  except a name. Darkmoor. Do you know about anyone by that name? Or  anyone
  called Commander?"
    The dwarf shook his head.
    Wingover shrugged. "Maybe we'll never know what it's all about. What are
  these rumors you mentioned?"
    "Oh, just odds and ends. Someone said that goblins were  seen  in  upper
  Dergoth recently, and several people have mentioned seeing more ogres than
  usual. They said the ogres seemed to be laughing sometimes, as though at a
  great joke."
    "What's a joke to an ogre could be bad news for anyone  else,"  the  man
  noted. "What else?"
    "Well... they say that some of the plains tribes in the  northern  lands
  have begun migrations southward, with tales of strange happenings  in  the
  Khalkists."
    "What sort of happenings?"
    "Oh, people disappearing and that sort of thing."
    "People disappear all the time."
    "But not usually whole villages ... even whole tribes."
    "Not usually, no."
    "Tarnish," the dwarf rumbled. "It's  an  uncertain  world  we  live  in,
  Wingover, and troubling times. I've heard a dozen predictions, just  since
  I arrived here, that Ansalon will be overrun by war within two years. Some
  say less time than that. The seers have been studying omens and  comparing
  notes, along with some of the mages. But not one  has  any  idea  who,  or
  what, may be involved in the war if the time should come. Ah, me. What's a
  poor trader to make of it all?"
    Wingover grinned at the dwarf. "Every profit the market  will  bear,  as
  usual. Speaking of which, I'm ready to collect on our bet, in case  you've
  forgotten." He held out his hand, palm up.
    "Corrosion!" Goldbuckle snapped. 'That's a lot of money.  Do  you  think
  all I have to do is snap my fingers old -
    Wingover nodded. 'You old skinflint, that's no more than petty  coin  to
  you, and you know it. So hand it over, and I'll stand the first  round  at
  the Flying Pigs. Garon will meet us  there,  and  we  can  compare  goblin
  stories and sinister rumors."
    Still the dwarf hesitated, and Wingover crossed his arms on  the  table.
  "If you're thinking about trying for double or nothing,  forget  it,"  the
  human said. "Of course, now, if you'd like to just  keep  your  coins  and
  cancel my debt of service instead...."
    "I can't do that," the dwarf muttered. "Oh, very well!" Without  looking
  around he raised a sturdy arm and snapped his fingers.  Within  seconds  a
  counting clerk was at his side. The trader whispered to the  young  dwarf,
  and the clerk scurried away to return  moments  later  with  a  fair-sized
  leather purse. The bag made a resounding, satisfying whack when Goldbuckle
  slapped it down on the table.
    "Ill-gotten gains if ever I saw such,"  the  dwarf  rumbled.  "But  I've
  never been one not to pay a just debt."
    "I never doubted it for a minute," Wingover assured him.  "By  the  way,
  what's in the pack I brought you?"
    "Money," Goldbuckle said, blandly.
    "Money?"
    "A year's accumulated proceeds from my ventures at Pax Tharkas. You'd be
  amazed at how difficult it is to make shipments of coin these days,
  Wingover."
    The human's mouth hung open in  disbelief.  'You  you  had  me  set  out
  through the wilderness with your year's fortune in a pack? Do you know how
  much I'd have charged you to take that responsibility? Even if I took it
  all?"
    "Of course I know," the old dwarf  said  blandly.  "It  really  was  far
  cheaper to make a bet of it."
    "You scoundrel! You... you..."
    "Try, 'bedamned old thieving dwarf,' " the dwarf suggested.  "Some  good
  human swearing might make you feel better."
    Wingover sputtered, steamed, and finally  subsided.  There  was  no  way
  around it. He had been fairly and thoroughly swindled, and had gone  along
  with it wholeheartedly.
    Finally he sighed, retrieved his gambling winnings, and thrust them away
  in his tunic. "Well, at least it's over," he said.  "I've  had  enough  of
  that wilderness to last me for a time."
    "About that," Goldbuckle said.
    "What about it?"
    "Well if you recall, I said I couldn't release you  from  your  debt  of
  service. The reason is, I have assigned your debt to a... ah, friend of
  mine."
    "Assigned? To whom?"
    "Her." Goldbuckle nodded, looking past the man.
    Wingover turned,  and  his  mouth  fell  open.  A  yard  away,  standing
  patiently, was as stunning a young dwarven girl as he had ever  seen.  Not
  much more than four feet tall, she had the wide, strong face of her  kind,
  with large, wide-set eyes and a smallish,  full-lipped  mouth  nicely  set
  between a button  nose  and  a  stubborn  little  chin.  And  she  wore  a
  broadsword strapped to her back.
    "This is Jilian,"  Goldbuckle  said.  "Jilian  Firestoke.  Don't  bother
  trying to talk her out of what she has in mind. It can't be done."

  Chapter 11

    "May the moons fall on me if ever  do  business  with  a  dwarf  again!"
  Wingover bellowed as he strode along Barter's main pathway, causing  heads
  to turn in curiosity. Many paused to stare after the tall, angry  man  who
  wore the boots and leathers of a ranger or barbarian, but  whose  sheathed
  sword and flinthide shield suggested a  warrior...  and  at  the  striking
  young dwarven girl - hardly more than half his stature - who tagged  after
  him, scampering to keep pace with his long strides. The  sight,  to  most,
  was another entertainment in a village that offered  many  entertainments.
  "How you feel about it doesn't matter," the dwarven girl  shouted  at  the
  man's stiff back. 'You must take me to find Chane. Rogar  Goldbuckle  said
  you would."
    "It's a fool's errand," Wingover snapped. "First he cheats me out of  an
  honest fee, then he sends me on a fool's errand. May the curl-winds  carry
  me away if ever I do business with a -"
    "It shouldn't be a difficult trip," the girl puffed,  wishing  he  would
  slow down. "At least, I don't imagine it is. I have a map, you know...  of
  where Chane was last seen."
    Wingover stopped abruptly and swung around, towering over  her.  'You're
  crazy," he snorted. "One lone dwarf - and a girl one at that - out in that
  wilderness'! You wouldn't live an hour. Don't you know what's out there?"
    "Not really. I've never been out of Thorbardin before. But how bad could
  it be? People do go there sometimes, don't they? Oh, look!"
    "What?" He glanced around.
    "There's a gnome! That is a gnome, isn't it? I've  never  seen  a  gnome
  before. They're very small, aren't they?"
    "So it's a gnome," Wingover snapped. "The world is full of gnomes.  Just
  like the world is full of elves, and this part of it  is  mostly  full  of
  dwarves... what do you mean, small? That gnome is nearly as  tall  as  you
  are." He set off again, heading for the Inn of the Hying Pigs. "I'll  tell
  you a few other things the  world  is  full  of,  that  aren't  nearly  so
  pleasant. Goblins, for one. And things worse than goblins, too. There  are
  hobgoblins and trolls -"
    "I have a sword," the girl pointed out, calmly.
    "And ogres," he continued. "Thankfully not as many of those,  but  there
  are some. What you should do is go back home and -"
    "Oh, look!" she said, interrupting, and pointed. "Look over there!"
    Nearby, a dark bird had flapped from the sky, descending to light on the
  shoulder of a wizard. Now it was talking to him, its beak just at his  ear
  but its voice clearly  audible  to  those  around...  though  it  spoke  a
  language few among them understood.
    The wizard  listened  intently,  then  raised  his  staff  and  muttered
  something. Atop the staff a milky globe seemed to swirl with bright color,
  and a loud hum came from it. It sounded like  bees.  Abruptly  there  were
  other wizards hurrying toward him, pushing and bustling through the crowd.
  As some of them reached him he said, 'The omen is confirmed. It  was  seen
  from the Tower of the Orders. Nuitari crossed the orbits of  Solinari  and
  Lunitari. Both were edipsed, each in its turn."
    The ensuing babble of excited discussion wasn't  limited  to  the  robed
  sorcerers, but spread rapidly through the crowd.
    "What does that mean?" Jilian asked Wingover. "Are  they  talking  about
  the moons? What did they do?"
    "They eclipsed," the man said. He strode on toward the Inn of the Flying
  Pigs... three long strides, then he tripped and sprawled full out  on  the
  ground. All  around  there  were  cheers  and  laughter.  Wingover  raised
  himself, shaking his head. Jilian stood over him, her sword in both hands.
  He stared up at her. "Did you trip me?"
    "I certainly did," she said, returning the sword to its sling.
    He got to his knees and dusted himself off, glaring at her. With him  on
  his knees, they were nearly face to face. "Why?"
    The triumphant slight smile on Jilian's wide, pretty face was enough  to
  bring choking sighs from a number of young male dwarves  nearby.  "Because
  you have been behaving rudely," she said. "And because if we are  to  have
  any sort of discussion, you shall have to slow down."
    "There's nothing to discuss," he snapped. "I told you -"
    "Well, you really have no choice, anyway. And  the  sooner  you  realize
  that, the happier we both will be."
    Wingover muttered horrific curses in several languages, and got  to  his
  feet. "If you aren't the most obtuse button I ever -"
    "Jilian," she said, coolly.
    "What?"
    "My name is Jilian. Not Button. But you don't need to apologize. You can
  call me anything you like, as long as you help  me  find  Chane  Feldstone
  like you promised."
    "I didn't promise any such thing!"
    "Thereyouare!" a voice behind Wingover said. The  human  turned  as  the
  gnome  trotted  forward,  waving  at  him.  "Thermodynamics,
  Iheardyoubellowingfromclearacrossthesquare.  Ijustwantedtotellyou,
  I'llbereadywithinthehour."
    Wingover stared down at the  little  creature,  blankly.  "It'sme,"  the
  gnome said. After noting the confused look on Wingover's face, he  took  a
  deep breath and spoke more slowly. "Bobbin. Oh, I know. Humans always  say
  if you've seen one gnome you've seen them all. Somehow I thought you might
  be above that sort of thing. But it doesn't matter. A deal's a deal, right
  All right. There is an open meadow just off there, beyond those huts. Meet
  me there. And bring your horse, of course. Don't worry about rope. I  have
  some." With that, the gnome turned and hurried away in  the  direction  he
  had pointed.
    Wingover stared after him, feeling dazed.
    "What was that all about " Jilian asked.
    "I haven't the vaguest idea."
    Somewhat disoriented and thoroughly cranky, Wingover  once  more  headed
  for the flying pigs, which were just ahead now, gliding in  happy  circles
  above the inn. The man walked  more  slowly,  though,  and  cast  cautious
  glances at the dwarven girl and her sword. The place was busy,  as  usual.
  During trade seasons, Barter was always busy. A few tables  back,  though,
  Garon Wendesthalas sat alone. The elf stood as they entered, and  beckoned
  to Wingover. As they approached he said, "Well, did Goldbuckle pay you off
  without a quarrel?"
    "I don't want to talk about it," Wingover snapped.
    "Did you learn anything about the goblins?"
    "Not much. Just a lot of rumors about all sorts of strange  things.  How
  about you?"
    "About the same. But I have a problem. I'm heading north again tomorrow.
  Goldbuckle called in his debt."
    "More trading packs?" the elf asked.
    "Escort service." He turned a surly thumb toward Jilian, who stood  just
  behind his hip. "This is Jilian Firestoke," Wingover said sourly. "I'm  to
  take her out to find a missing dwarf. Jilian, this is Garon Wendesthalas."
    "Oh, my." Jilian looked up at the tall,  melancholy  being.  'You're  an
  elf, aren't you? I'm pleased to meet you."
    They sat down to mugs of cool ale, and the human and  the  elf  compared
  what they had heard. Neither had anything definite to report, only various
  versions of  the  same  stories.  Something  very  ominous  was  happening
  somewhere far to the north, but nobody had any very clear idea of what it
  was.
    Jilian listened for a time,  then  said,  "That  sounds  a  little  like
  Chanc's dream. It told him that bad times are coming, and  that  it's  his
  destiny to protect Thorbardin. That's why he's out looking for a helmet."
    Garon looked at her, then at Wingover.
    The human spread his hands and shook his head.  "That's  why  I'm  going
  back north," he grumped. "Because some dwarf had a dream about a helmet."
    "Oh, not just one dream," Jilian corrected. "He's had the same dream for
  years. It's only lately that it told him what he is supposed to  do.  It's
  his destiny."
    "Then why do you want to interfere?" the elf asked.
    "Oh, I don't want to interfere, just... well, he  probably  needs  help.
  The guards who went with him came back, and I learned they had robbed  him
  and left him alone in the wilderness. But we'll find him, and he'll be all
  right. Rogar Goldbuckle says Wingover is a very resourceful person... even
  if he is human."
    "Resourceful. Hmph!" Wingover snorted dismally.  "I'm  resourceful,  all
  right. A resource that old villain has mined to its limit."
    Someone jostled against Wingover, then tugged at his sleeve. He  turned,
  to find the gnome there, looking peeved.
    "I thought you had gone to get your horse," the small one griped in slow
  clipped words. "My soarwagon is ready and  waiting,  and  we'll  lose  our
  light soon. Come along, now. We have to hurry."
    "I don't know what you're talking about," Wingover began.
    "What are you supposed to be doing?" Jilian asked.
    Wingover shrugged. "I don't know. Nobody has told me."
    "You're supposed to be pulling my soarwagon with your horse," the  gnome
  explained. "What could be simpler than that? Come along, now. There  isn't
  much time."
    "I'll come and watch," the elf said. "Where did you leave your horse?"
    Without much choice in the matter, Wingover was hustled from the Inn  of
  the Flying Pigs to the stables where his horse waited, then across town to
  a clear meadow, where a marvelous thing sat glowing in late sunlight.
    When first they  had  seen  the  gnome's  contraption,  it  had  vaguely
  resembled a flat parasol, folded. It was no longer  folded,  now,  and  no
  longer resembled a parasol. More than anything  else,  it  looked  like  a
  huge, spreadwinged seagull sitting on spindly wheels in the meadow. Great,
  delicate wings of white fabric extended thirty feet on each  side  of  the
  basketlike contrivance in its center, and its pointed nose  had  become  a
  square framework of dainty metal rods. Fabric covered four  sides  of  the
  basket's six, with the front and rear remaining open.
    The gnome scampered on ahead of them and was busily tying one end  of  a
  long, thin rope to the  thing's  nose  when  the  dwarf,  human,  and  elf
  arrived. All around the meadow, but  holding  their  distance,  people  of
  several races waited, curious to see what might happen next.
    "Polish  and  shine!"  Jilian  chattered  as  she  walked  around  the
  contrivance. "Isn't this pretty? What is it?"
    "It's my soarwagon," the gnome said. "Please stand back. You, bring your
  horse around here in front, and get mounted. I'm almost ready."
    What is it supposed to do?- Jilian asked.
    "It's supposed to  fly,"  the  gnome  snapped,  momentarily  losing  his
  composure. He sighed and took a deep breath.  "That's  why  I  brought  it
  here. To let people see it fly, so I can sell it and  make  some  more  of
  them. I intend to go into the soarwagon business."
    "Well, we know what it won't do," Wingover told the elf. "Fly." He  did,
  though, lead his horse to the front of the contrivance, and  stepped  into
  the saddle. "Don't worry about it, horse," Wingover muttered. "That  thing
  will fall apart in about ten steps, then we can get on with what  we  came
  for." The gnome scampered to him, looped his rope, and raised  it.  "Here,
  attach this someplace, but just as a slip. Give me  the  other  end.  I'll
  release it when I want loose from you."
    Obediently, with an ironic grin, Wingover slipped the rope  through  his
  pommel-clasp and pulled it until the free end came clear, then handed that
  end back. "Just out of curiosity," he  asked  the  gnome,  "why  did  your
  colony drive you away?"
    The gnome glanced up. "Because I'm insane, is  why.  Insanity  can't  be
  tolerated, you know." Bobbin hurried back to  his  machine,  carrying  the
  loose end of the rope, and climbed into the basket between its wings.
    "Insane," Wingover told himself. "I should have known."
    "Well," the gnome shouted at him, "let's go. Just go as fast as you can,
  and as soon as I'm airborne I'll unhitch us and take it from there. That's
  all I need you for."
    "Insane," Wingover breathed. 'Ye gods." He looked back at the  gnome  in
  the fabric-and-metal gull.
    "Go!" Bobbin shouted. "Go!"
    With an oath, Wingover snapped the reins and dug heels into  the  horse.
  The animal surged, took up the slack, and stretched out  to  a  belly-down
  run. Behind him, Wingover heard a shout, but he didn't look back. The rope
  sang in his open pommel, and he heard its end snap free. He  listened  for
  the sounds of wreckage astern, then ducked as  something  huge  and  white
  whispered past him, just overhead. With another oath, he veered the  horse
  aside, hauled on his  reins,  and  watched  in  astonishment  as  Bobbin's
  soarcraft gathered speed. It receded with distance, then raised  its  nose
  and rose into the sky. All around the meadow were  cheers,  applause,  and
  shouts of surprise.
    The soarwagon climbed higher and higher, flashing bright in the slanting
  sunlight. At some distance it dipped a wing,  circled  gracefully  to  the
  left, came about, and circled above the village, high and tiny in the sun.
  It looped and soared, dived and turned, as gracefully  as  a  giant  eagle
  riding the air currents of a mountain range.
    With his mouth hanging open in disbelief, Wingover walked his horse back
  to where the others waited, and dismounted. Jilian Firestoke  was  jumping
  up and down, clapping with glee  as  she  watched  the  beautiful  machine
  perform high overhead. Garon Wendesthalas stood in brooding thought.
    "I can't believe it," Wingover  said,  shaking  his  head.  "That  thing
  actually works! It flies!"
    "I'm not that surprised," the elf said. "I heard what Bobbin  told  you,
  about being insane."
    'What does that have to do with it?"
    "It's the whole point. He really is insane. An  insane  gnome.  What  he
  invents works."
    "But they drove him out."
    "Well, of course they did. They had  to.  Can  you  imagine  what  might
  happen if some great, monstrous gnomish engine were to have one part in it
  that works perfectly, among all those other parts that don't? A thing like
  that could be devastating. It could wipe out a colony."
    Wingover thought about it, staring at the Hying machine in the  sky.  "I
  see what you mean," he said at last.
    For a time the soarwagon cavorted over Barter, then it began to  descend
  and headed back toward the meadow. It slowed, came to within ten  feet  of
  the ground, then suddenly shot upward again, climbing away, regaining
  speed.
    Again it approached, and again, and each time it whisked away aloft.  On
  the fourth pass, as it crept by directly overhead, seeming almost to  hang
  in the evening air, Wingover cupped his hands and shouted, 'You've  proved
  your point, Bobbin! You can come down now!"
    "Ican't!" the gnome's exasperated voice came back,  growing  fainter  as
  the  soarwagon  once  again  gained  speed  and  began  to  climb.
  "Itgoesupallright,butIcan'tgetittogodown!"
    "He may be insane," Wingover told the elf, "but he's still a gnome."
    In evening dusk, after giving up on ever  seeing  the  gnome  land,  the
  three  went  back  into  the  village.  Jilian  had  lodgings  at  Rogar
  Goldbuckle's camp, and Wingover would sleep in the stable loft.
    "You're leaving in the morning?" Garon asked.
    "Apparently so," the human said. "On a blamed fool's errand."
    "111 go part way with you," the elf offered. "There's  nothing  more  to
  learn here, and I've sold my goods."
    "Glad to have you along," Wingover told him. "Any special reason?"
    "There might be more goblins," the elf said darkly.

  Chapter 12

    Jilian Firestoke's map - obtained under  duress  from  a  ruffian  in  a
  Thorbardin tunnel - was not so much a map as a sketch of landmarks with  a
  wavy line meandering among them. When she finally  persuaded  Wingover  to
  look at it, on their second day of travel northeastward  from  Barter,  he
  squinted at it, turned it this way and that, then scratched his head.
    "Is this all you have to go on?" He turned it  again.  "You  can't  find
  anybody with this. It has no coordinates. Nothing to trace from... what is
  it supposed to be a map of?"
    They had stopped to rest on a small meadow that was little more  than  a
  wide shelf on the side of a mountain, but a place where  Wingover's  horse
  could graze and the travelers could drink from a tiny spring  that  flowed
  from porous stone to trickle down the rocky slope where it fed  a  shallow
  pool. As usual when they halted, the man and  the  elf  spread  along  the
  trail, Wingover going ahead to where he could see for  a  distance,  Garon
  falling back to keep an eye on the trail behind them. It was  an  unspoken
  agreement, simply a  thing  that  two  travelers,  wise  in  the  ways  of
  wilderness country, would do.
    Wingover squatted on his heels and spread Jilian's map  on  the  ground.
  "It doesn't even have an orientation," he said. 'Which way is which?"
    She stood behind him, to see over his shoulder. 'You can tell that  from
  where the X's are."  She  pointed.  "One  of  them  is  the  Southgate  of
  Thorbardin, and the other is where those ruffians last saw Chane
  Feldstone."
    "That doesn't tell me anything," Wingover sighed. "Even if we knew which
  X was which - and we don't all that would tell us is that this edge of the
  map - or this opposite one - should face north. But how far apart are the
  X's?"
    "About six inches," Jilian shrugged. "We can measure it if you -"
    "I don't mean that. I mean how far is this supposed to represent in real
  distance?"
    "The distance from Southgate to the northern wilderness," she explained,
  wondering again at the man's inability to remember simple things. "However
  far that is."
    He sighed again, shaking his head. 'That might be twenty  miles,  or  it
  might be fifty. Gods, girl, there isn't a boundary, you know. There  isn't
  some kind of line drawn across the mountains with signs that say, 'This is
  Thorbardin's realm  and  that  side  is  wilderness.'  The  wilderness  is
  anywhere beyond where the latest patrol perimeter happens to be, and  that
  changes all the time. Didn't the person who drew this give you any idea of
  what to look for... or where?"
    "He wasn't very happy with me," she admitted. "He had a bump on his head
  and was shackled to a wagontrack at the time. All he said  was,  'This  is
  Southgate and that's where he got away from us. We supposed the cats would
  get him.' "
    "Cats?" Wingover looked up sharply. "What kind of cats?"
    "I don't know. He just said cats. Oh, and he said a bird told them to go
  away, so they went. Does that help7"
    "Cats." Wingover opened his pouch and withdrew his own maps,  found  the
  one he wanted and studied it. 'There is a  valley,  north  of  here,  that
  seems to go almost due north and south." He paused and considered the map.
  "I wandered into it, but I didn't get a chance to explore it.  There  were
  cats there. Big, black cats half as high as my horse. If your young  dwarf
  has gone there, I don't expect you'll find him." The human laid  the  maps
  side by side, looked at them together, then turned  Jilian's  map  around.
  "That could be it, I suppose. I saw the valley at the other  end,  but  it
  would have come out about -" He pointed at his own map "- about here."
    "Then that's where we must go," Jilian said. "Is it very far?"
    "Not far," the man said. "A day from here, maybe. But that  isn't  where
  we're going."
    "Why not?"
    "Because of the cats. Look, Button, I said I'd help you find that X. But
  if your dwarf went there, we might as well just turn back."
    "But if that's where Chane went, then  that's  where  we  must  go.  You
  promised, you know."
    "How many times do I have to tell you, I promised  no  such  thing?"  He
  stood and put his map away, handing Jilian's back to her. "You know,  your
  father probably has people out looking for you by now... or does  he  even
  know you're gone?"
    "He knows I've gone to look for Chane," Jilian snapped. "I  told  him  I
  was going to."
    "And he didn't stop you? Somehow I can't  imagine  that,  unless  -"  He
  looked down at the wide, pretty face, a suspicion dawning. "Where does  he
  think you are looking?"
    Jilian looked at her feet. "All over Thorbardin,  I  suppose.  I  didn't
  tell him I had talked to his ruffian."
    "Ye gods," Wingover breathed. "And Rogar Goldbuckle?"  "Well...  I  told
  him that I had told my father I was going to look for Chane Feldstone, and
  that my father said, 'Go right ahead. Look all you want to.' I suppose  he
  might have taken that to mean that it was all right for me go to  outside.
  But what difference does that make? Now that we know where Chane  is,  all
  we have to do is go and find him. That valley might be where Chane is, but
  how will you know for sure if we don't have a good look at it?"
    Wingover sighed. "Because of those cats. No one in his right mind would
  -"
    "Oh, rust! Will you stop harping about cats? If that's where Chane went,
  then I'm sure he has attended to any cats that  might  be  there,  so  you
  don't need to worry."
    Wingover gritted his teeth. "Talking to you is like talking to  a  wall!
  Can't you understand, Button? If one of those cats found your dwarf..."
    Jilian  turned  away,  then  paused.  "I  see  people,"  she  whispered,
  gesturing toward the edge of the clearing where the  mountain  fell  away.
  Excitement glowed in her eyes. She pointed again,  and  Wingover  sprinted
  toward the ledge and dropped flat just short of it, to  crawl  forward  to
  where he could see beyond. Jilian was right behind him, and he  saw  at  a
  glance that Garon had spotted the activity and  shifted  his  position  to
  where he could see up and down the trail.
    At first, there was nothing in  sight  below,  only  steep  mountainside
  dropping away toward the hazy depths of a canyon between slopes.  Then  he
  saw movement, and focused on it.
    Far below, tiny with distance, a line of creatures moved along  a  faint
  trail, going southward. Sunlight flashed on armor, and  Wingover's  breath
  became a hiss. Goblins. A small  party  of  them,  with  a  taller  figure
  leading them - a figure wearing dark, glistening armor and what seemed  to
  be a horned helmet. Human? Elf? He couldn't tell. Reaching for his  pouch,
  Wingover brushed an elbow against a stone,  which  in  turn  rolled  over,
  balanced for a moment on the shelf's edge, then fell,  bouncing  down  the
  slope. The human muttered a curse, then found his spyglass and brought  it
  to his eye. Dwarven-made, it was a brass tube with  lenses  and  a  quartz
  prism - not as precise or as delicate as some elven glasses he  had  seen,
  but well-crafted and adequate for his purposes.
    Adjusting its focus-ring, he sighted on the company below  and  frowned,
  trying to count them. Not all of the goblins were in  sight  at  one  time
  since parts of the faint trail were hidden by ridges and features  in  the
  mountainside. But there were a dozen or so. And these  were  better  armed
  and more heavily armored than the ones Wingover and Garon had  encountered
  north of Barter. They moved with a discipline and precision he  would  not
  have expected of goblins.
    Easing his glass along the line of goblins, Wingover studied the  taller
  figure in front. Dark armor, richly  made:  lacquered  steel  breastplate;
  epaulettes emblazoned in gold; oiled, fine chain;  shin-and  armguards  of
  polished bronze; a plain black oval shield; embellished sword hilt exposed
  from bejeweled sheath. The figure  carried  a  light  footman's  lance  or
  javelin, as well; Wingover could not tell which.
    The helmet was multiply horned, and bore a strange and unique mask  that
  was fashioned to resemble an animal's face, but like  no  animal  Wingover
  had ever seen.
    As he looked, the figure halted, raised  a  hand  to  halt  the  goblins
  following, and turned. The hideous mask turned to  watch  a  pebble  bound
  across the path, then looked up - directly at Wingover.
    With a shock, he realized that the being below saw him clearly, that the
  shadowed eyes behind the grotesque horned-lizard mask were staring at  him
  intently, as though his spyglass worked both ways.  Wingover  lowered  the
  glass and edged back, away from the ledge, making the girl retreat with
  him.
    "What is it?" Jilian whispered. "Who are those people?"
    Garon came and knelt beside him, leaning out just once for a glance down
  at the lower path. "Goblins?"
    Wingover nodded. "And someone else leading them. Someone taller. We  had
  better be on our way."
    The elf glanced down again. "Out of sight now," he said. "Did they see
  us?"
    "The leader did. But it would take a day to get from there to here. That
  leader... I've never seen a face-plate designed like that."
    "Describe it," the elf said.
    Wingover described it, and the elf listened in thoughtful silence,  then
  nodded. "A dragonmask," he said. "The mask, the helm... the face of a
  dragon."
    "There are no dragons," Wingover said. 'That's just old legend."
    "There were dragons on Krynn," Garon corrected. "Not legends. They  were
  real. And somewhere, I suppose, they still are real."
    "Well, that was no dragon down there." The man  headed  for  his  horse,
  gathering pack and saddle as he went. "But whoever it was knows  we're  up
  here, and those were real goblins. So it's time to move out."
    They made camp that night on a mountainside  miles  away,  north  and  a
  little east of where they had rested. Wingover made good use of  his  maps
  and his skills to put distance behind them, and they were  exhausted  when
  finally he called a stop. But it was a good place to rest  -  a  sheltered
  cove between broken ridges, where a small cookfire would not be seen,  but
  where a guard on the ridgetop above could see for miles in any direction.
    Wingover and the elf took turns standing guard. Wingover was  not  ready
  yet to trust Jilian Firestoke with such a responsibility.
    Morning's sun found the travelers  awake,  packed,  and  on  their  way,
  threading a narrow ledge-trail.  When  they  stood  atop  the  next  pass,
  Wingover halted them and pointed. 'There's  your  second  X,  Button.  Off
  there where the peaks still shadow the  land  between.  Just  about  where
  those mists begin. That's where Chane Feldstone was  seen  last,  if  your
  armsman was right. A mile or  two  beyond  should  be  where  that  valley
  begins... the one with the cats."
    "Good," the dwarf said happily. "We can be there in time for lunch."
    Wingover started to argue, then stopped. Jilian was standing,  hands  on
  hips, gazing up at him with determined bright eyes that held not a hint of
  compromise.
    He sighed. "Oh, all right. We'll go to where the valley begins. You  can
  take a look from there, then we'll circle and search the ridges. But if we
  see so much as a catwhisker along the way, we turn back."
    "I've never met anyone so obsessed with cats," Jilian scoffed. "I  think
  they're sort of cute."
    "You haven't seen these cats," Wingover snapped. He took up the  horse's
  reins and led off. When they had covered a mile, the trail pitched steeply
  downward, dividing just ahead into two  faint  trails.  One  ran  straight
  ahead, the other branched off to the right. Wingover glanced at his map.
    "That goes to the Vale of Repsite," he said, pointing to the  right-hand
  path. "Two or three days' travel from here. If I were your  dwarf,  that's
  where I would be." Probably resting his sore feet  in  some  village  over
  there, the human thought, but did not say it. Probably cozying up to  some
  hill dwarf's daughters... if he's still alive.
    Garon Wendesthalas stood in thought, looking at the forked  trail,  then
  back the way they had come. "I think I'll leave you  here,  Wingover,"  he
  said finally.
    "Why?"
    "Oh, just to sit and watch the traffic. Maybe we'll meet farther  along,
  somewhere."
    Wingover scratched his bearded chin. "It's those goblins, isn't it?"
    "They might be coming along here." Garon shrugged,  then  a  cold  smile
  spread across his elven face. "I still have plenty of arrows, and  nothing
  better to do."
    "That's why you came, isn't it?" the man said, perhaps a bit sadly. "You
  said there might be more goblins."
    "Have a nice outing, Wingover." The elf turned away. "Maybe  we'll  meet
  again." In the somber elven eyes, just as they turned from  him,  Wingover
  saw something cold and determined. Something deadly. This elf had  a  pure
  hatred for goblins.
    "I hope we do meet again," he said.
    Another mile down the trail, Wingover turned to look back. There was  no
  sign of the elf... but then, there wouldn't be. No one was likely to  know
  he was there until he was ready to show himself.
    Distant movement caught Wingover's eye then, and he peered westward. The
  man shaded his eyes. Far in the distance, something was moving.
    As Wingover's eyes adjusted to the distance the object grew from a small
  speck of white to a bigger speck of white. It was coming rapidly in  their
  direction. Wingover stared, then saw a shadow below the thing and realized
  that it wasn't on the ground. It was in the air, flying.
    It took shape, and its shape was that of a  spreadwinged  gull,  soaring
  aloft on air currents.
    'Ye gods," Wingover muttered. "It's that crazy gnome."
    Within moments the soarwagon was abreast of Wingover and Jilian,  coming
  about in a wide, graceful turn fifty  feet  above  the  trail  and  a  few
  hundred yards ahead. As it turned it settled and slowed, until  it  seemed
  almost to hang in air, fifteen feet above the surface. In that position it
  crept upslope toward them, rocking gently from side to side. When  it  was
  near, they could see the white hair  and  irritable-looking  face  of  the
  gnome sitting in its basket.
    He peered out at them and raised an arm to wave. "Ho,  there!  It's  me!
  Bobbin! Do you have anything to eat?"
    "We know who you are!" Wingover shouted. 'What are you doing way out
  here?"
    "I got caught in a crosswind!" the gnome responded. "I don't know  where
  I am, but I'm hungry! Do you have food?"
    "I can make you a nice sandwich!" Jilian called. "Do you like cold roast
  elk?"
    "Did you ever get that thing to land?" Wingover shouted.
    The gnome glared at him, fighting to control his rocking craft, now just
  fifty feet away and no more than twenty feet above. "If I had  come  down,
  do you think I'd still be up here? A roast  elk  sandwich  would  be  just
  fine, thank you. With raisins, preferably. And I could use some cider, but
  water will do if that's all you have. I'll drop a line, and you  can  send
  it up. Where are you going?"
    "We're going to see if Chane Feldstone is in that valley ahead,"  Jilian
  told him, pulling food from the travel pack.
    "We are not," Wingover snapped. "We're just going  to  the  rim  of  it.
  That's all."
    "He thinks there are cats in there,"  Jilian  explained  to  the  flying
  gnome. "He worries all the time about cats."
    "Do they have wings, like the innkeeper's pigs?" the gnome wondered.
    Jilian giggled. "Of course not. They're just cats."
    "Very big cats," Wingover added.
    "Seems to me you need a scouting service," the gnome said. "After I eat,
  I guess I could go fly over the valley and look around for you, if  you'll
  tell me what you're looking for."
    "Chane Feldstone," Jilian said. "He's a dwarf, about this tall and  very
  handsome -"
    "Cats," Wingover said. "We're on the lookout for cats."
    For a moment the gnome didn't answer. An  air  current  had  caught  his
  soarwagon, and he was struggling to hold it in place. His controls  seemed
  to consist mostly of strings that ran from the basket to the fabric panels
  of the thing's boxy nose, strings that controlled the angle and  pitch  of
  the panels. The soarwagon rocked, bucked, and settled into position again,
  twenty feet above them. Bobbin peered down,  his  gnome-face  ridged  with
  irritation.
    "I don't mind looking around," he  said.  "It  isn't  as  though  I  had
  anything better to do right now."

  Chapter 13

    "I'll bet you never saw anything like this before," Chestal  Thicketsway
  said happily, turning full circle to scan the breadth  of  the  ice  field
  with its jumbled, vague shapes, frozen in  combat.  "Just  look  at  this!
  Didn't I tell you? Bumps! Ice-bumps, everywhere you look. And inside every
  bump are frozen dwarves... still fighting, except they don't move any
  more."
    Chane Feldstone didn't answer.  With  haunted  eyes  he  looked  around,
  needing to see what was here but not wanting to.  To  one  raised  in  the
  sheltered delves of Thorbardin, the Dwarfgate Wars were  just  old  legend
  stories of the defense of Thorbardin's gates in a time  of  great  crisis,
  tales of heroes who had manned the gates and the pathways beyond, who  had
  fought at King Duncan's order so that Thorbardin could live.
    These are some of them, Chane  thought,  approaching  a  great,  jumbled
  mound of ice rising from the  ice  field  -  a  chaotic  feature,  like  a
  miniature mountain range twice his height and  fifty  to  a  hundred  feet
  across in any direction. Within the ice, dark shadows hinted at shapes. He
  knelt in front of a sheer plane of ice and rubbed  at  it,  smoothing  and
  clearing its face. Polished, the ice was transparent.
    The dwarf leaned close, peering within. Just inside,  only  a  few  feet
  away, two dwarves were locked together in combat,  hammer  against  sword,
  shield to shield, straining each against the  other  -  violence  captured
  just as it had been the instant the ice had covered the combatants. Beyond
  these two were others, receding into vague translucence. A  dwarf  on  the
  ground held a shield above him,  desperately  fending  against  a  slicing
  blade frozen in descent. Another, arms outspread, flailed  motionless  for
  balance, frozen in the act of falling over the body of a dwarf cleft  from
  shoulder to midriff by some lucky blow. Within the ice, the spilled  blood
  remained crimson on the black ash beneath.
    These are some of those who went out to defend Thorbardin's  gates,  the
  dwarf thought. And these are who they fought. Which are which, though? Did
  even they know? There might be a hundred or more locked  in  combat,  just
  within this one mound of ice - dwarves who came out from  Thorbardin,  and
  dwarves who fought to go within. All dwarves, and all alike now in  frozen
  silence.
    No one ever returned to Thorbardin to tell of this battle, he  realized.
  No one ever went anywhere from here. They are all still here.  Encased  in
  ice, with ashes underfoot.
    Three spells did Fistandantilus cast. The words echoed in Chane's  mind.
  The first was fire, the second ice...
    Fire and ice. Chane turned away from the ice window, feeling very cold.
    "Isn't this great?" The kender hurried past, chattering his  enthusiasm.
  "Dwarfcicles! Imagine! There's one over there you  should  look  at.  That
  little tall lump... there are four dwarves really going at it. One of them
  has an axe and he's fighting the other three.  Better  hurry...  but  then
  again, I suppose he'll last as long as the ice lasts, won't he? Wow,  this
  is like a museum of statues, with frosty windows!"
    The dwarf turned to glare at the kender, but Chess was  already  heading
  off to look at more lumps.
    Chane growled, and the growl became a sigh. I don't want to be here,  he
  told himself. I don't want to look at this. And  yet,  he  went  on,  from
  mound to mound in the field of frozen death, peering here, kneeling  there
  for a better view within the ice, searching. And through it  all  he  felt
  the faint tingling of the little red spot on his forehead -  the  mark  of
  the red moon - driving him on.
    None who were on this field when those spells were cast ever left  here,
  Chane thought glumly. They're  here  still.  Yet,  according  to  the  old
  stories, Grallen did not die in this place. The son of King Duncan died in
  this ancient war, but not here. Somewhere else,  sometime  later.  Another
  battlefield, somewhere. The place where Fistandantilus cast his  last  and
  greatest spell, they said. Chane tried to remember all he had heard of the
  old legends. Where had that final battle been? He  wasn't  sure...  except
  that it was somewhere other than here. East of here, he seemed to  recall.
  A place called Skullcap.
    Grallen, warrior prince of the Hylar, who had learned a  secret  in  his
  final hours, had learned of a secret way into Thorbardin, too late to find
  and defend it.
    Had Grallen been here, then?
    The red spot on Chane's forehead tingled. Yes, he felt, Grallen had been
  here... and gone on. But to where?
    Again in his mind he saw the image, of a face not unlike  his  own,  the
  face that the dream - or the red moon  had  shown  him.  Grallen,  son  of
  Duncan. Chane's own ancestor. Could that be true?
    Everywhere, ice. Ice whose convoluted shapes contained dwarves frozen in
  combat. In some of them, the frozen shapes struggled amid dark  swirls  of
  smoke that were kept as still as they were. What kind of mage had he been,
  this Fistandantilus? What kind of sorcery had availed him, that  he  could
  have done this? Yet, the legends said, what he had done later was far
  worse.
    The kender skipped past again, as happy as a child with a roomful of new
  toys. "See anybody you know?" he  asked  Chane.  "Wonder  what  they  were
  fighting about..." He hurried on, toward a new mound that  he  hadn't  yet
  explored. Then he paused, thoughtfully, and turned back. "Have you thought
  about taking that hammer and breaking some of them out of the ice? I mean,
  just to see if they'd go on fighting?"
    Chane rounded on him, furious. "I wish you'd just shut up! You might  at
  least show a little respect."
    "Then don't break them  out."  The  kender  shrugged.  "It  was  just  a
  thought, anyway." He went on his way.
    "That kender would rob a graveyard and not think twice  about  it,"  the
  dwarf muttered. Still, the question was intriguing. Were they really  dead
  in there? Or were they only suspended? He thought about it and decided  he
  didn't want to know.
    Chane went on, searching this way and that, not sure what he was looking
  for except that the tingle on his forehead became more  pronounced  as  he
  worked his way eastward. Something here,  it  suggested,  would  tell  him
  where Grallen had gone all those long years ago.
    As he knelt beside another clustered mound - inside, dwarves with  pikes
  held their ground against dwarves  with  swords  and  axes  -  the  kender
  appeared again from somewhere and stopped beside him. "Find anything yet?"
  Chess asked.
    "More of the same. I don't know what I'm supposed to find. I almost wish
  that wizard had stayed around. Maybe he would have had an idea."
    "If he had, it seems like he'd have mentioned it."
    "Did he say anything about where he was going!"
    "Up on a mountain. Said he couldn't see down here. He didn't  say  which
  mountain, though." The kender shaded his eyes, gazing into  the  distance.
  "What do you suppose that is?"
    Chane looked up, saw where the kender was pointing, and  gazed  in  that
  direction. "I don't see anything."
    "I don't either, now. But I thought I  saw  a  big  white  bird."  Chess
  squinted, then cocked his head. "There it is again. See? Way off there  to
  the north. I wonder what that is."
    Chane saw it too, then - a white, winged shape gliding over the  forest,
  miles away. It looked vaguely like a giant seagull.  "I  don't  know,"  he
  said. "But whatever it is, it's not  what  I'm  looking  for."  He  stood,
  glanced around, then headed east again, toward a very large mound  of  ice
  some distance away from any others.
    Chess watched the distant white thing for a few minutes, then  tired  of
  that. He couldn't tell what it was, and it didn't show any sign of  coming
  close enough for a better look. He climbed one of the mounds - beneath his
  feet, vague dwarf-shapes did perpetual, motionless  battle  -  and  looked
  around. "Now what?" he wondered.
    "Go west," something voiceless seemed to say.
    "I wasn't talking to you, Zap," Chess scolded. "I was talking to myself.
  Besides, the only reason you want me to go west is to get far enough  from
  that Spellbinder thing the dwarf has so that you can happen. Right?"
    "Right," something mournful agreed.
    "I've been west, anyway," Chess added.
    "Woe," Zap grieved.
    "I wish that dwarf  would  find  what  he's  looking  for,"  the  kender
  muttered. "I'm ready to go see something new." He started  down  from  the
  ice-mound, then ducked as a huge shadow swept over him.  Clinging  to  the
  ice, he looked up. The white thing was no longer far away. It was directly
  overhead now, spiraling downward,  slanted  wings  carrying  it  in  great
  descending circles as it came lower and lower. Fifty feet  up  it  leveled
  out, seemed to stall, then crept toward him and hovered just  overhead.  A
  head appeared alongside one wing, and a voice floated down. "Hey! Are  you
  from around here?"
    "Of course not!" Chess called back. "I'm just visiting. What is that
  thing?"
    "It's my soarwagon. It still needs a little design modification but  I'm
  working on it. Right now, though, I'm looking for cats. Have you seen  any
  cats?"
    "Not lately," the kender admitted. '"There were some dandies around here
  when I first got here, but they've all gone now. Are you going to come
  down?"
    "I can't." The flier shook his head. "Ground effect,  I  think.  Do  you
  have any foods"
    "A little. Dried meat and flatbread. Why?"
    "How about raisins? Do you have raisins?"
    "I don't think so."
    "Well, whatever you have will just have to do," the flier called. A rope
  began to descend from the white thing, with a small  basket  tied  to  its
  end. "How about sending some up?"
    Chess dug around in his pack. There were all  sorts  of  things  in  it,
  mostly just odds and ends he had picked up, and in most  cases  he  didn't
  recall where or why. The kender found dried meat and a few  flatbreads  he
  had picked up in the Irda's hut. The basket descended  on  its  rope,  and
  when he could reach it Chess deposited some of what he had in it. The food
  was hauled upward.
    "Why are you looking for cats?" Chess called.
    "Some people wanted to know about them. Man called Wingover.  He's  sure
  this valley is full of cats, so I came to see. I haven't found any."
    "They're the Irda's cats. She went away, and I guess they went with her.
  You're a gnome, aren't you?"
    "I am. Bobbin's the name."
    "I'm Chestal  Thicketsway.  Do  you  know  anything  about  old  gnomish
  engines? Like siege engines from ages back? There are several of those off
  that direction, but I couldn't tell much about them."
    "Neither can I," Bobbin said. "I'm insane."
    "Oh. I'm sorry."
    "Not your fault. Another thing that Wingover and his bunch  asked  about
  was a dwarf. Any dwarves around here?"
    "Hundreds," Chess waved his arms around him.
    "Everywhere you look, but they're frozen under the  ice.  Been  there  a
  long time."
    "No, the one I'm looking for is more  recent.  Dwarf  named,  er,  Chain
  something -" The gnome pointed. 'Who's that?"
    Chane Feldstone had appeared  from  behind  a  distant  mound,  and  was
  hurrying toward the kender and the soarwagon.
    "He's a  dwarf,"  Chess  said.  "He  might  be  the  one.  Name's  Chane
  Feldstone. What do they want him for?"
    "I don't know. Does he always dress like that? What is  that  outfit?  A
  bunny suit?"
    "Catskin," the kender explained.
    A vagrant wind whispered across the ice field and made  the  white  bird
  dip and bobble. The gnome did something, and  abruptly  the  flying  thing
  shot high in the sky, so high that it was  only  a  winged  dot  overhead.
  Slowly it seemed to steady, then started going in wide circles.
    Chane reached the mound where  the  kender  stood.  "Who  is  that?"  he
  demanded. "What is he doing up there?"
    "His name is Bobbin. He's a gnome."
    "What is he doing?"
    "Looking for cats."
    "Up there?" Chane squinted upward, trying to follow the circling path of
  the flying thing. "What is he riding?"
    "Something unreliable, it seems to me," Chess said.  "All  he  said  was
  that some people sent him to look for cats and he hasn't seen any. Oh, and
  somebody named Wingover asked about you."
    "Me?"
    "Might be you. Do you know him?"
    Chane scratched his beard. The name did sound  familiar,  as  though  he
  might  have  heard  someone  mention  it  sometime.  Then  he  remembered.
  "Wingover's a human. Rogar Goldbuckle thinks he's crazy."
    "No, it's the gnome who's crazy. He said so himself."
    "Why would Wingover ask about me? I don't even know him."
    "Maybe you're becoming famous," the kender suggested. "Look,  the  gnome
  is coming down again. Every time he goes in one of those circles  he  gets
  lower. Wow! That looks like fun."
    "Fun," something voiceless said.
    Chane jumped and looked around, then clenched his teeth.  "I  wish  that
  spell would stop talking," he growled.
    "It makes me nervous."
    "Shut up, Zap," the kender said offhandedly. 'You just want to get  away
  from the Spellbinder."
    "Need to," Zap whispered.
    "Oh, he's going away," Chess sighed.
    "Your spell?"
    "No, the flying gnome. See? He's heading south. Oh, well. Easy come,
  easy go."
    "It doesn't matter," Chane said. "I found something, finally." He walked
  away, back in the direction he had just come. The kender climbed  off  the
  mound and scampered after him.
    The large mound was east of all the rest, and well apart from  them.  It
  was a grotesquely shaped mound of ice  more  than  a  hundred  feet  long,
  stretching from north to south in a shallow curve. Even from  a  distance,
  the shadowy figures inside were visible as  dark  silhouettes  a  line  of
  armed dwarves in defense position, fighting to  hold  off  a  force  twice
  their strength.
    "It looks like a rear-guard action," Chess decided.
    "It does to me, too. But what I found is beyond it." Chane led  the  way
  around one end of the long mound, then part way back  along  its  opposite
  side. He stopped and pointed. "See?"
    The kender looked, blinked and looked again, then shrugged.  "See  what?
  The end of the ice field? The slope beyond? That range of peaks?"
    "The path," Chane said. "Look.  It  looks  like  a  faint  green  trail,
  heading east. Can't you see it?"
    "I don't see anything like that. Are you sure  you  -"  He  stopped  and
  stared at Chane. "Do you realize that the red spot on your forehead turned
  green for a moment?"
    Chane raised a tentative hand to touch his forehead. His  eyes  widened,
  then he opened his belt pouch and took out the Spellbinder. He took a deep
  breath. "Well, the gem's still red. I thought for a minute  maybe  it  had
  turned green, too."
    The crystal was still red, but something seemed  to  pulse  dimly,  deep
  within the stone. With each pulse the faint  green  trace  of  an  ancient
  trail renewed itself to Chane's eyes.
    "It's showing me where Grallen went from here," the dwarf said. "He went
  east."
    "Where Pathfinder went," something voiceless whined.
    Chane jumped. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that. What did it
  say?"
    "It said, 'where Pathfinder went,' " Chess repeated. "Zap, what are  you
  talking about?"
    Where nothing was, something sighed. "Spellbinder's other," the  unfired
  spell whispered.

  Chapter 14

    High on a Mountain slope, where biting winds came down from  the  snows,
  Glenshadow the Wanderer paused in his climbing to inspect the head of  his
  sorcerer's staff. No longer chalky, it was again a cold, flawless stone of
  swirling transparencies. The wizard pulled his collar tighter against  the
  chill and raised the staff a foot or so. He muttered a word, and the stone
  burst into cold, bright light. He nodded,  doused  it  with  a  word,  and
  looked around. Some distance away, a large, serrated stone lay  against  a
  jagged cliff, half-buried in wind-blown snow. He raised the staff, pointed
  it at the stone, and uttered other words. A tight  beam  of  silver  light
  shot from the gem and struck the boulder, which exploded into shards, some
  of them bounding away down the mountainside.
    Satisfied, Glenshadow climbed again until he came to a high place  where
  patches of ice lay like white pools in the weathered stone.
    He  gazed  into  a  small  ice-covered  pool.  "Master  of  the  tower,"
  Glenshadow  said  in  a  voice  as  cold  as  winter's  winds,  "Grallen's
  descendant has the Spellbinder, and has begun his search for the helm.  Is
  there word of the outlaw?"
    "The Black One lives," said the ice-image  that  formed  on  the  frozen
  pool. "Though he was certainly put to death long ago, there  is  no  doubt
  now that he lives. His magic is known. Other  searchers  have  tasted  it,
  just in recent days."
    "Can you tell me where he is, then, or must I continue to follow the
  dwarf?"
    "He is somewhere to the east," the hooded image  said.  "Nearer  to  you
  than you are to me, but though his  magic  is  sensed  he  goes  hidden...
  shielded somehow from our seekings. If you would find  him,  you  must  go
  with the dwarf."
    "Does the outlaw know yet of the dwarf and his quest?"
    "We think he knows that something is amiss." The iceimage told him. "The
  Black One is pledged to a quest against the dwarven realm  of  Thorbardin.
  This much we know, from those of our order in the Khalkist Mountains.  Two
  died and a third was horribly burned just to  bring  us  the  information.
  Tell me, does the dwarf know his purpose?"
    "To go where the Hylar Grallen went." Glenshadow said  and  nodded.  "To
  seek the helm of his ancestor, which  alone  might  save  Thorbardin  from
  infiltration by its enemies. He has an artifact -  an  ancient  god-stone,
  the twin of the one his ancestor wore on his helm. One stone will lead him
  to the other, and thus to the helm."
    "And should he find this helm... will he then  know  where  Thorbardin's
  weakness lies?"
    "If his ancestor Grallen saw the secret gate, then the stone in the helm
  may also show  it  to  its  next  wearer.  Both  are  god-stones,  as  was
  suspected. Their magic is beyond sorcery."
    "Then the thread is not frail," the ice-pool said. "If the dwarf poses a
  threat, the Black One will know it. He sees more clearly now than when  he
  was alive... before he was put to death. Follow the  dwarf,  Wanderer,  if
  you would find the Black One; the Black One will surely seek  him.  Follow
  the dwarf toward shattered Zhaman, if you would seek again to destroy  the
  outlaw mage." A pause, and then the faint voice asked, "Did  you  see  the
  omen, the eclipse of the moons?"
    "I saw it. What does it mean?"
    '14one knows for sure," the voice said. "But all the omens  point  to  a
  great darkness from the north. Evil has its pawns a'play, and moves across
  the gaming board. Beware."
    The pool darkened, cleared, and was simply a  pool  of  ice.  Glenshadow
  shivered, drew his bison cloak more  tightly  around  his  shoulders,  and
  again touched the ice with his staff. This time the  image  that  appeared
  was of the valley from which he had come. Chane Feldstone and  the  kender
  stood at the edge of a patterned ice-field and looked eastward.
    "Toward shattered Zhaman," the mage  whispered.  "He  follows  Grallen's
  path, toward the resting place of Grallen's helm."
    He started to turn away from the pool, then stopped. Another vision  had
  formed there, coming without call. In inky  blackness  swirled  indistinct
  shapes, coalescing at the center in a pattern that become a face... or not
  quite a face, just the ghostly outline of one; but one that Glenshadow had
  seen before, long years ago.
    And a voice as dry as dust - a voice that seemed shriveled  with  hatred
  and age - hissed from the image. "He seeks me, does  he?"  it  said.  "The
  puny red-robe would try again to do what he thought he  had  done  before'
  Hee-hee. He asks the ice whether I know there is an obstacle in my way.  A
  puny obstacle it is, too. A dwarf. Only a dwarf. Did  I  know  before,  he
  wonders? No matter. I know now." Giggling, the dry voice faded and the ice
  cleared. Long after the vision was gone,  Glenshadow  knelt  by  the  ice,
  shaken and unsure.
    "Caliban," he muttered. "Caliban."

  * * * * *

    Viewed from the south, the valley was a long, deep  cut  among  towering
  mountains. Miles wide and many more miles  long,  deep  enough  that  fall
  foliage still livened the forests below, it swept away to the  north.  The
  valley was straighter than most Wingover had explored, and interesting  to
  his explorer's mind because, while its sides were crested  by  precipitous
  cliffs, its approach from due south was a long, fairly gentle slope.
    It seemed to almost offer itself as a route,  and  Wingover  found  that
  irritating. He had seen the great cats who lived in this  valley,  and  he
  knew the valley was a trap. He wondered if any who had entered  there  had
  ever come out again.
    The man was moody and irritable as the hours passed,  tired  of  waiting
  for a crazy gnome in a  sailing  contrivance,  who  probably  would  never
  return anyway. He brooded upon the fates that had brought him to be  here,
  back out in the wilderness again, pursuing an impossible quest -  to  find
  one lost dwarf in ten thousand square miles of barely explored territory.
    It didn't help Wingover's attitude that Jilian Firestoke seemed to  have
  decided that it was  her  responsibility  to  fill  the  idle  hours  with
  constant chatter. He had heard a dozen times now about  Chane  Feldstone's
  dream, and at least a half-dozen times about  the  perfidy  and  downright
  churlishness of Jilian's father, Slag Firestoke. He had been belabored  by
  gossip - most of it meaningless to  him  -  about  the  feud  between  the
  Tinturner  and  Ironstrike  families,  which  had  kept  the  fifth  level
  downshaft neighborhood of Daewar  in  an  uproar  for  months;  about  how
  Silicia Orebrand's sister was not  on  speaking  terms  with  any  of  the
  Silverfest Society  members;  about  the  uncouth  mannerisms  of  Daergar
  dwarves who seemed to think they owned the Fourteenth Road; and about  the
  scandal that had risen  when  Furth  Undermine  accused  the  East  Warren
  overseers of bribing the executor of the Council of Thanes.
    "Far stars, Button," Wingover  finally  erupted,  "doesn't  anybody  get
  along with anybody  in  Thorbardin?  To  hear  you  talk,  I'd  think  the
  intrigues and hostilities outnumber the population by five to one."
    She blinked in surprise. "Oh, it isn't like  that  at  all,"  she  said.
  "Thorbardin is the nicest place imaginable. Really. I've just been telling
  you the juicy stuff because that's what most people prefer  to  hear.  But
  then, most people - at least most people I know -  are  dwarves.  What  do
  humans like to hear?"
    "Silence, occasionally," he snapped.
    For long minutes, he had his wish. Jilian sat facing away from him,  her
  sturdy little back arrow-straight. She had tried to entertain him. Now she
  made a point of ignoring him, which, for his part, Wingover liked better.
    Soon, though, she asked, "Do you mind if I tell you one other thing?"
    "I knew it was too good to last," he said. "What?"
    She pointed. 'The gnome is coming back."
    He saw it, then - the gliding, erratic flight of  the  gnome's  machine,
  coming toward them, low over the valley's forested floor.
    "It's about time," Wingover snorted.
    The white kite came closer, rising as  it  neared  the  climbing  slope,
  seeming to shoot upward on wind currents until it was  a  tiny  thing  far
  overhead. Then it dipped its wing and began the wide  circling  that  they
  had seen before. It seemed that, once up, the only  way  the  gnome  could
  come down again was by this tedious procedure.
    The soarwagon circled and descended, circled and descended, and  finally
  crept to a halt hovering just a few yards up - but in the wrong place.  It
  was a quarter of a mile from them, above a jagged cliff where the valley's
  west wall began.
    "What is he doing?" Wingover growled. "Why doesn't he come over here?"
    "He's probably trying to," Jilian  said.  "I  don't  think  his  machine
  really works all that well."
    "It's a wonder it works at all," Wingover pointed out.
    For a moment, the soarwagon hovered where it was. Then with a shudder it
  shot upward again, and the circling began all over. This  time  the  gnome
  seemed to have corrected his navigation, and when next the  thing  hovered
  it was just above Wingover and Jilian.
    Bobbin leaned out, his face pinched with irritation. He looked from  one
  to another of them, then settled on Wingover. "I'm  back,"  he  announced,
  "It's me... Bobbin. I'm here."
    "I know you're here," Wingover called back. "I can see you. Did you find
  anything?"
    "Quite a lot of valley, with various things in it. Several miles  north,
  there's a ring of stones with a thing in the  center  that  looks  like  a
  really big thermodynamic inflector, though I'm sure it isn't that. There's
  a sort of little, broken statue on top of it, and paving all around.  Then
  there's a hut, though if anyone lives there he wasn't at home,  and  there
  is a winding black path that goes off in both directions from it. I saw  a
  river and enough trees to make a woodnymph think she'd gone  to  paradise,
  and several nice meadows that I could have landed in... if I  could  land.
  And an ice field covered with lumpy shapes, and what's left of an old wall
  - older than I can calculate from up here, but I imagine it was old before
  anybody I know was old enough to understand old -"
    "How about cats?" Wingover called.
    "How about what?"
    "Cats! That's what you went to look for. Cats!"
    "No. No cats. One kender, but no cats. Though I did see someone  wearing
  a bunny suit made out of cathide, if you can  believe  anything  a  kender
  tells you. What do you want cats for?"
    "I don't want cats! I just wanted to know if you saw any!"
    "Well, I didn't. Some bison, here and there, and a few elk, though..."
    "How about Chane Feldstone?" Jilian called. "Did you see him?"
    "Does he wear a bunny suit?"
    Jilian had started to shout something else at the  gnome,  but  suddenly
  his invention was off again, shooting away in a sharp climb  that  carried
  it toward the distant peaks to the west.
    The girl sighed, then slung her  pack  and  her  sword.  "I  guess  that
  settles that," she said. "We'll just have to look for ourselves.  Are  you
  ready?"
    "Hold on,  there,  Button,"  Wingover  snapped.  "I'm  in  charge  here,
  remembers I decide where and when we go."
    "Then decide," she said and headed for the valley.
    They camped that evening in a clearing well within the valley,  where  a
  chuckling little river flowed cold from the mountains to the west,  and  a
  strange, black-gravel path wound  aimlessly  northward  through  deepening
  forest. At day's final hour, Wingover scouted ahead and found  nothing  to
  alarm him except an odd emptiness about the  valley.  "It's  strange,"  he
  told Jilian when he returned. "It's as if this place has been lived  in  -
  but isn't now. Recently vacated. I  had  the  same  feeling  once  when  I
  stumbled across a village of the Parwind people on the plains. At least it
  had been one of their villages; the tents had  all  been  folded  and  the
  people were gone. That place felt the way this place feels. It's as though
  the area had accustomed itself to  being  home  to  someone,  and  now  it
  doesn't quite know what to do with itself."
    Jilian gazed at the man thoughtfully, then shrugged.  "Humans  are  very
  strange people," she decided, and set about cooking their supper.
    A shadow flitted across the twilight clearing and a sharp,  high-pitched
  voice called from overhead, "I'm hungry! How about sending up some
  supper?"
    Bobbin and his soarwagon were with them again. Wingover  looked  at  the
  contrivance hovering above the camp and shook his head. He had seen gnomes
  from time to time, but he had never encountered a mad one. He  cupped  his
  hands and called, "I want to know about this valley."
    "What about it?" the gnome called back.
    "Everything that you see that might be useful to me. Like how far  north
  does it go, and are there dangers ahead, and where does it come out?"
    "It's a big place. I haven't seen the whole thing."
    "How about scouting for dangers, then?"
    "I can do that, if you ask me nicely.  What  sort  of  dangers  are  you
  looking for?"
    "Any that might be there. Like cats."
    "There aren't any cats. I already told you that, but I don't suppose you
  remember. There's a wizard on a mountainside off there somewhere, but he's
  miles and miles away. And a kender and a dwarf in a funny  suit,  east  of
  where you are... or north, I'm not sure. And way off over there  I  saw  a
  bunch of people crossing over from the next valley. They're really a mess,
  all cut up like they've been in  a  fight,  and  carrying  their  wounded.
  Really a mess, it looked to me. I -"
    The  soarwagon  pitched,  nosed  up,  and  shot  toward  the  sky,  the
  exasperated shout of the gnome trailing back from it, "Save me some
  supper!"

  * * * * *

    Bloody, battered, stripped, and staked out on  the  cold  ground,  Garon
  Wendesthalas was only vaguely aware of  those  who  stood  over  him.  For
  hours, the goblins had tormented him while the one in the lacquered  armor
  their leader - stood quietly and watched. Torture after torture  they  had
  applied, gleeful in their sport, stopping just short of breaking his bones
  or drawing enough blood to kill him. The leader  wanted  information  from
  him. Did he know of a mountain dwarf somewhere near,  a  dwarf  who  might
  have Hylar featuresl Where was the dwarven girl they  had  seen  traveling
  with him? And the human, who - and where - was he?
    The elf had not uttered a sound throughout. Nor had he let his attention
  fix on the pain they inflicted. Instead, he drifted in  his  mind,  remote
  and aloof, savoring  memories,  recalling  pleasant  times...  remote  and
  unreachable. He had removed himself to such distance that  he  was  barely
  aware of the goblins around him. But he  knew  the  leader  now.  A  human
  female, Kolanda Darkmoor. Cornmander, the goblins called her. And he  knew
  that someone - or something - else was with her, though  he  had  seen  no
  one. Distantly, he had heard bits of  their  conversation...  the  woman's
  voice impatient and querulous, the other's a  dry,  shriveled  husk  of  a
  voice that whispered in tones of venom and mockery. He had heard her  call
  the other's name. Caliban.
    Garon shut out  all  other  awarenesses.  In  his  mind  he  walked  the
  patterned forests of the  Qualinesti,  drank  cool  water  from  a  brook,
  listened to the songs of elves in a nearby glade....
    "We're learning nothing here," Kolanda Darkmoor snapped, beckoning to an
  armored hobgoblin. "We've wasted enough time. This elf will tell us
  nothing."
    "Kill him now?" the creature asked hopefully.
    "No, bring him along. He's strong. He will make a good slave."
    "Elf," the hobgoblin snarled. "Make trouble. Run away, sure -"
    Kolanda turned fierce eyes on him. "Did I ask for your opinion, Thog?"
    The hobgoblin stepped back quickly, then lowered his face in submission.
  "Forgive, Commander."
    "Assemble your patrol, Thog. Or what's left of it. We're going  back  to
  Respite. The valley should be reduced by now, and there are things to  do.
  Bring the elf, but first cut the tendons in his legs. Then  he  won't  run
  away. When we rejoin, put him to work tending one of the carts."
    She turned away, cold and angry. No elf would  ever  make  a  worthwhile
  slave, but this one would live long enough to serve  her.  He  had  killed
  nearly half of her patrol before they brought him down.

  Chapter 15

    As the sunset shadows op Westwall climbed the slopes of the ridge  above
  the Valley of Waykeep, Chane Feldstone cut a final hold in a  rock  cliff,
  pulled himself up and over the lip of a ledge, and gawked  at  the  kender
  sitting there idly, waiting for him. The sound he had been hearing for the
  past half-hour, virtually since he had begun to ascend  the  sheer  cliff,
  was louder and nearer now - a  wailing,  keening,  heart-rending  song  of
  misery with no apparent source.
    "You always do everything the hard way," Chestal Thicketsway chided him.
  "I guess it's just the nature of dwarves, to tackle everything headlong no
  matter how difficult it is. Do you suppose you just can't help being that
  way?"
    "How did you get up here?" the dwarf puffed. "It's taken me half an hour
  to climb this cliff. How did you do it so fast?"
    "I didn't," the kender shrugged. "I went  around.  There's  a  perfectly
  good by-path just over there. Easy climbing, for anybody  who'd  take  the
  trouble to find it. I brought your sword and your pack, too. They're  over
  there on that rock. Do you want to camp here for the night, or do you want
  to scale the next cliff? If you  want  to  do  that,  I've  found  another
  by-path so I can meet you up there."
    Chane shook his head. "What is that awful noise? It sounds like somebody
  in pain."
    "Oh, that's just Zap." The kender looked around,  then  shrugged  again,
  remembering that Zap wasn't really anywhere to be seen. "It's  his  latest
  talent, wailing like a stricken soul. He's been doing it for quite a while
  now."
    "I know. I've heard him most of the way up. Can you get him to hush?"
    "I don't know how. I don't even know what he's wailing about.  Maybe  he
  misses the valley or the frozen dwarf place. That's  where  I  found  him,
  originally."
    "Well, I wish you'd shut him up. He gets on my nerves."
    Chess turned. "Zap! Shut up!"
    The eerie,  voiceless  wailing  faltered,  then  began  again  with  new
  enthusiasm - only now it added occasional sobs to its repertoire.
    "That's even worse," the dwarf growled. "How come  he's  following  you,
  anyway? I mean, it. That isn't a person, you know. It's just an old  spell
  that never happened."
    "I don't know why he follows me, but he... it does. Zap! I do wish you'd
  be quiet!"
    The wailing, sobbing almost-sound continued. Chane  sighed,  stood,  and
  looked around. They were on a wide, rubbly  ledge  with  another  wall  of
  shorn stone ahead. But, as the kender had pointed out, the wall diminished
  a short distance away and a path began  there,  angling  upward.  Abruptly
  evening had come, with the setting of the sun beyond  the  valley's  other
  rim, but there still was lingering twilight.
    "We have time to go on a little farther," Chane decided.
    "I wonder if we're anywhere near that green path."
    "The one I can't see?" Chess spread his hands. "I haven't the vaguest
  idea."
    Chane looked one way, then the other, along  the  mountain's  slope.  He
  rubbed his forehead, feeling the tingle there, but  saw  no  green  trail.
  Still, he knew from last sighting that he was somewhere near  it.  From  a
  distance, it had appeared there was a shallow pass  between  peaks  above,
  and the dwarf had assumed that the trail was  going  there.  But  by  what
  route'! He went to his pack, fumbled around inside  it,  then  looked  up.
  "Where's my gem?"
    "Your what?"
    "Spellbinder! Where is it?"
    The kender looked thoughtful, then snapped his fingers and reached  into
  his own pouch. "Do you mean this?" He pulled  out  the  red  stone,  which
  pulsed with a steady rhythm as the dwarf reached an angry hand to take it.
  'You must have dropped that somewhere," the  kender  said  innocently.  "I
  guess I picked it up for you. Don't bother to thank me."
    "What else do you have in that pouch that isn't yours?" Chane growled.
    Chess peered into his pouch. "I don't  know.  I  lose  track.  Here's  a
  marble of some kind that I found on that old battlefield.  And  some  nice
  pebbles, and a toad's  skull  ...a  couple  of  candles,  some  twine,  an
  earring, a twig. What's this? Oh, a pair of nice  cat-tooth  daggers."  He
  pulled out one of the daggers. "Didn't you used to have one like this?"
    "I had two like that," the dwarf rumbled.
    "Did you? What did you do with them?"
    "Give me that!" Chane growled.
    Chess handed over the dagger, then closed his pouch. "If you're going to
  expect me to replace everything you lose -"
    "Oh, shut up!" Chane stopped abruptly and looked around. "Well, one good
  thing. Your spell has stopped wailing."
    The kender listened for a moment, then  grinned.  "He  has,  hasn't  he?
  Thank you, Zap."
    "Agony," something voiceless mourned.
    With the Spellbinder gem in his hand, Chane pointed.
    'There it is. The green line. It goes up the by-path." He hoisted  pack,
  sword, and hammer. "Are you ready?"
    "Look at that!" The kender pointed upward.  Overhead,  great  flocks  of
  birds flew, coming from the high peaks, winging toward the  valley.  Birds
  of all sorts, a migration of panic.
    Chane watched them, wave after wave coming past.
    "What do you suppose caused that?" he wondered aloud.
    "Whatever it was, the birds are in a hurry," the kender said. "See those
  out ahead? Those are pigeons. And mountain kites,  and  jays,  and  ducks,
  and... stand back!" Chess swiftly pulled a pebble from his  pouch,  fitted
  the sling to his staff, placed the pebble, aimed, and let go.  The  pebble
  streaked skyward, and an instant later a large bird crumpled in flight and
  fell, thudding to the shelf almost at Chane's feet.
    "Goose," the kender explained. "I'm getting tired of  dried  cat.  We'll
  have this for supper."
    Chane gaped at him. "How did you do that?"
    "With a pebble. I thought you saw." He picked up the goose and slung  it
  over his shoulder. "See if you  can  find  some  berries  along  the  way.
  Snowberries will  do.  They're  the  yellow  ones  on  the  thorny  vines.
  Snowberries go good with goose." Chess started up the path, and the  dwarf
  followed, still glancing in awe at the smaller creature's forked hoopak.
    Overhead, the waves of fleeing birds continued to pass.  And  now  Chess
  and Chane had company on the slope. The kender and the dwarf dodged  aside
  as a lithe, furred creature with sharp horns  bounded  past  them.  A  few
  yards farther along they  hugged  the  stone  wall  as  a  line  of  other
  creatures, these with  heavy  coats  of  thick  wool,  surged  past  them,
  bleating in panic. At the higher ledge, where the trail  cut  back  toward
  the peaks, the two dived for cover as a pair of panting wolves loped  down
  the path, followed by several elk.
    "Do you suppose winter is coming early this year "  The  kender  stepped
  out on the trail to look after the strange procession, then dodged back as
  more of the woolly creatures charged past him.
    "They're running from something," Chane said. "I guess that settles  it.
  We'll camp here. A  person  could  get  hurt  going  up  that  path,  with
  everything else coming down."
    Two huge  highland  bison  charged  past  the  ledge  and  veered  away,
  following the downward path. Another elk was right behind them,  cavorting
  in desperation as the heavier animals blocked its way. Then  more  of  the
  woolly creatures. One of them wore a collar with a bell.
    "Somebody's sheep," Chess noted.  "111  bet  there's  a  pretty  unhappy
  herder up there somewhere."
    "I think we'd better  get  a  little  farther  from  this  path,"  Chane
  decided. "Camping here would be like trying  to  sleep  in  a  tunnelwagon
  turnaround. Rust, but the traffic is heavy."
    They trudged along the ledge, away from the path, rounded a sheer  bend,
  and saw a rubble-slope ahead. After testing it, Chane began to climb.  The
  kender followed, carrying his goose. The bird was almost as big as he was.
    They were climbing by moonlight when they reached a quiet  swale  higher
  up - well beyond and  above  the  noisy  switchback  with  its  stampeding
  animals. "This will do," Chane said. "I'll make  a  cookfire  back  there,
  behind that outcrop. You can cook the goose."
    "Did you get some snowberries?" Chess asked hopefully.
    "I haven't had a chance. We'll do without."
    By the time the goose was roasted, both the white moon and the red stood
  above the peaks, giving their dichromatic glow to the steep slopes and the
  forest-tops of the distant valley. The two  ate  in  silence,  except  for
  occasional outbursts of commentary and chatter  by  the  kender,  most  of
  which Chane Feldstone chose to ignore. The  dwarf  sat  deep  in  thought,
  occasionally rubbing his forehead, which tingled when the light of the red
  moon touched it. A secret way into Thorbardin, and Grallen had learned  of
  it. Like a third gate, he thought. One that nobody knew about.
    He thought of Thorbardin, exploring in his mind all of the  myriad  ways
  and working clusters of the undermountain kingdom - as much of  it  as  he
  had seen and could recall. Clearest to him in memory were the city of  the
  Daewar, the only home he had ever known, and  the  warrens  where  he  had
  worked for his keep from time to time - first tending fields, then helping
  with the constant delving by which the  dwarves  sought  to  expand  their
  underground crop lands. Clearly he recalled Twelfth  Road,  which  he  had
  passed so of ten as a child. Less distinctly he knew the Tenth,  Eleventh,
  Thirteenth, and Fourteenth Roads, by which Daewar conducted commerce  with
  other cities of Thorbardin.
    Dimly, from one brief visit, he recalled the awesome Life-Tree, home  of
  the Hylar. Their city was delved into a giant stalactite above the  great,
  subterranean Urkhan Sea. As an orphan Chane had possessed  the  appearance
  of Hylar in his build and features, and later even in the manner in  which
  his beard lay back against  his  cheeks  rather  than  hanging  resignedly
  downward. The Hylar, he had thought as a child, had  a  fierce  and  noble
  appearance - and undoubtedly some among them had  such  qualities,  though
  there were plenty of Hylar who in practice were no  more  noble  than  the
  average Daewar.
    Still, Chanc's beard grew in the Hylar manner, and it did not  displease
  him that it made him look as though he were  standing  sturdy  and  proud,
  facing down a strong wind.
    The Valley of the Thanes, noblest place in all of Thorbardin, Chane  had
  seen only once. He wondered briefly if the  supposed  "secret  way"  could
  lead there. The valley was sacred to  the  dwarves,  for  it  contained  a
  magical floating tomb - final resting place of the great King Duncan, some
  said. And the tomb of Grallen, which lay nearby  on  the  lakeshore,  was,
  after all, the only place in Thorbardin that was open to the sky. Yet  the
  only accesses to the Valley of the Thanes were  three  roads  from  within
  Thorbardin itself. And certainly if there were the slightest passage-point
  through the Guardian Walls, somebody within would have noticed it.
    Not the Valley of the Thanes then, Chane decided.
    And not Southgate, which was the common entrance to Thorbardin since the
  Cataclysm, nor likely the mostly abandoned Northgate, with  its  shattered
  portal ledge. Northgate might be unused, Chane told himself, but it's  not
  undefended. It was equipped for the same impenetrable defenses as
  Southgate.
    Possibly some long-forgotten tunnel or shielded  pass  breaking  through
  into one of the warrens, or one of  the  lower  cities?  Kiar,  Theiwar...
  Daergar? It didn't seem likely to him. Surely someone would have noticed.
    "There's a creature with long, flexible arms and not a bone in its
  body."
    Chane looked up. "What? Where?"
    "In the Sirrion Sea," the kender said.  "Aren't  you  paying  attention?
  That's what I'm talking about. The Sirrion Sea. They also say  that  there
  is a gigantic island out there, just far enough from the Isle of  Sancrist
  to be out of sight, that isn't an island at all.  It's  really  a  gnomish
  ship, hundreds and hundreds of years  old,  that  was  supposed  to  drive
  itself by a geared rod with a weight atop it. The reason it's in the  sea,
  they say, is because the gnomes who built it set out westward and that was
  as far as they got before the falling  rod  buried  itself  in  the  ocean
  floor. They've been working on it ever since, trying to iron out  all  the
  bugs, and it just keeps getting bigger and bigger."
    With a low growl, Chane Feldstone returned  to  his  own  thoughts.  The
  First Roads One of the Halls of Justice? There was so much to  Thorbardin,
  so many different parts and places in the  kingdom  beneath  the  Kharolis
  Mountains. Chane Feldstone had seen so few of them, and almost none of the
  outside perimeters and capping peaks that protected the dwarven kingdom.
    Chane sighed and tried another tack.
    Grallen had learned... so the Irda  said...  that  there  was  a  secret
  entrance, and that Thorbardin would be threatened by invasion  because  of
  that entrance. But where was it'! Grallen had not been in Thorbardin  when
  he learned of that; he had been outside, fighting in the  Dwarfgate  Wars.
  Grallen had not returned alive, but he had tried - or at least intended  -
  to find the secret passage and block it  somehow.  The  dwarf  rubbed  his
  chin. Where, then, did Grallen go? Using his crystal, Chane  could  see  a
  green line that he intended to follow. It was, he trusted, Grallen's path.
  And yet, where did it lead?
    "Five unicorns," Chestal Thicketsway said.
    Again the dwarf glanced around, startled. "Where7"
    "What?"
    "You said 'five unicorns.' Where?"
    "Oh, all over," the kender shrugged. "I'm not even sure
    I believe  him,  you  know.  Capstick  Heelfeather  has  been  known  to
  exaggerate. But that's what he says. He says he has personally  seen  five
  unicorns. So far, I've only seen one."
    "I wish that wizard would come back," the dwarf muttered.
    "Why? I thought you didn't like him."
    "I don't. I wouldn't trust that mage as far as I can spit, but he  knows
  a lot of things about outside that I don't know."
    "Is that all?" The kender brightened. "I've been outside  all  my  life.
  What do you want to know?"
    "Well, to begin with, where exactly was Grallen when he died?"
    "I haven't the foggiest notion," Chess said happily.
    "Ask me something else." Shaking his head in  exasperation,  Chane  went
  back to his puzzle. How am I supposed to find a secret entrance if no  one
  has a clue to its location? he wondered. And even if  there  is  a  secret
  entrance, and I find it, what am I supposed to do about it? Apparently the
  only one who ever knew anything about any of this was Grallen, and he died
  a long, long time ago and never told anybody... did he?
    Chane shook his head. If Grallen did tell someone  about  the  entrance,
  why didn't somebody do something about it back then? Or since? Why me?
    "Dwarves and humans," the kender said. "At least that's what I -"
    "Will you please be quiet?" Chane stormed. "Can't you see I'm trying to
  think?"
    "I'm just trying to tell you, there are dwarves and humans down there."
    "Where?"
    "On the path, where all the animals were. But  the  animals  are  mostly
  past now, and there are people over there, going down that path as fast as
  they can. Some of them are bleeding, too. I wonder what's going on."

  Chapter 16

    From the top op a rock outcrop, Chane and Chess had a view of the  path.
  It was below, and some distance away, and the moonlight cast eerie shadows
  where the slopes rose above it. But it was  a  view,  and  Chane  crouched
  there, staring in wonder at the dark shapes moving down the cutback slope.
  Dozens were in view, people of all sizes. Some were dwarves, and some were
  taller - humans, perhaps. Some scampered along the downward path,  turning
  often to look back. Some moved more slowly, clinging to one another;  some
  supporting others, some being carried. Behind the first wave  of  refugees
  came a small knot of figures brandishing spears and swords, moving slowly.
  A few were shouting at those ahead, urging them on.  Others  at  the  rear
  faced back up the path, their weapons at the ready.
    "Somebody's chasing them," Chess  said.  "That's  their  rear  guard.  I
  wonder who's after them."
    Slowly the fleeing people  made  their  way  down  the  angled  by-path,
  disappearing by twos and threes as they  reached  the  cutback  below  and
  rounded the shoulder there. Shouts and cries carried upward, distorted  by
  the spires and tumbles of the mountainside and by distance.
    "Let's get closer," Chane decided. "I can't tell anything from here." He
  rose and turned  to  find  the  kender  already  gone,  scrambling  across
  tumble-slopes, leaping from stone to stone, heading for a better  view  of
  the path. Chane hurried after him.
    For long moments the dwarf and the kender were out of sight of the path,
  but then they emerged on a ledge directly above it  and  looked  down  the
  length of the sloping angle between cutbacks. The path was empty  now,  as
  far as they could see. But just opposite the two,  in  a  shadowed  canyon
  from which the path emerged, something was moving, coming toward the turn.
  Heavy footfalls crunched in the rubble of the  path.  Footfalls...  and  a
  deep, harsh voice that broke into cruel laughter.
    "See 'em run!" the voice rumbled up from the shadows. "Blood  an'  gore.
  Me, I go an' find me more. Bash 'ere skulls an' break 'ere bones! Let  'em
  go? Haw! Not me. Not Loam!"
    The  figure  that  emerged  from  the  darkness  was  huge  a  massive,
  wide-bodied thing that loped down the path  on  bowed,  gnarled  legs.  It
  carried a huge club in one hand, which it flailed as though it were a
  twig.
    '%lake 'em run!" the thing bellowed as  it  passed  directly  below  the
  dwarf and the kender. "Make 'em fleet Make 'em die... in agony. Hee, hee!"
    It skidded in the rubble, faltered for  just  an  instant,  and  changed
  course, heading down the cutback where the fleeing people had gone.
    "What in tarnish is that?" Chane whispered.
    "Ugly, isn't it!" the kender said. 'They're even uglier in front.  Here,
  I'll show you."
    Before Chane could react, the kender stood, drew his  hoopak-sling,  and
  sent a large pebble flying after the monster. The pebble bounced  off  the
  thing's skull with a distant thud. Howling, the monster slapped a  massive
  hand to its insulted head and spun around. Moon-red  eyes  in  a  massive,
  heavy-browed face darted this way and that, then came to rest on the dwarf
  and the kender.
    "Oops," Chess said.
    With a roar that reverberated off the mountain peaks, the great creature
  started up the path toward them, swinging its club.
    "Anyway," Chess said, "now you have a better look at it. I'll bet you've
  never seen an ogre before. Have you?"
    "Puny things!" the ogre roared, gaining momentum.  "Throw  rock  at  me?
  Loam last thing you will see!"
    "What did you do that for?" the dwarf growled. "Now look what -"
    "I  didn't  expect  him  to  be  quite  so  cranky,"  Chess  explained,
  interrupting. His hoopak-sling sang and another pebble - this one larger -
  smashed into the advancing ogre's face, full on his wide nose. Dark  blood
  spurted, then dripped downward, veiling the thing's grotesque  mouth.  The
  ogre roared again and sprinted toward them.
    "I think he's really angry," the kender said.  "This  one's  yours.  I'd
  better look around and see if there are others."
    "What?" Chane turned, but the kender was already  gone,  leaping  nimbly
  from one rock to another, upslope, pausing here and  there  to  peer  down
  into the shadowed pathway below.
    "Rust and tarnish!" Chane stared at the advancing monster. The thing was
  tall enough to reach him with its club, even from the path below the  rock
  where he still crouched. And it was coming fast. He fingered the  hilt  of
  his sword, then decided against it and unslung his hammer.
    "Kharas aid me now," the dwarf breathed.
    Backing up a step from the edge of the rock, Chane  glanced  quickly  at
  its moonlit top, then knelt and swung. He struck stone with the  spike-end
  of his hammer. Again he swung. Then the dwarf ducked as a hand the size of
  his back appeared above the stone and swung a massive  club  that  whuffed
  over him.
    Chane's hammer rang again on the surface of the stone,  and  again.  The
  great club rose above him and descended, crunching into the  stone  beside
  him with a sound of thunder. Again the cudgel was raised aloft,  and  this
  time Chane had to throw himself to one side as it smashed  down  where  he
  had been. He rolled, righted himself, and  swung  his  hammer  again.  The
  weapon's spike sank into stone, making another hole in a precise  line  of
  holes that - he hoped - followed a faint flaw line in the rock.
    Just beyond and below the rock outcrop, the ogre leaped upward.  For  an
  instant its eyes were level with Chane's. The dwarf dodged, and  the  club
  descended again, raising a cloud of stonepowder. The  ogre's  roar  was  a
  rising, echoing  thunder  of  rage.  The  club  thudded  here  and  there,
  searching for Chane... then paused. The sounds beyond told the dwarf  that
  the monster was climbing. He sighted on the fault line and swung again.
    The top of the ogre's head came into view, then its eyes.  The  creature
  bellowed in huge pleasure when it saw that the  dwarf  was  trapped  there
  with sheer cliff at his back and no place to go. The  ogre  clung  to  the
  stone and raised its massive club. Chane scooped stone dust and  threw  it
  into the huge, grinning, bloody face.
    The ogre roared in rage, lost its hold, and dropped from view.  Quickly,
  though, it started climbing again. Chanc's hammer rang. The sound  of  its
  impact was different now, a slight, hollow echo accompanying each  stroke.
  And the spike sank deeper into  the  stone  with  each  swing.  Again  the
  massive hand appeared with its club, and descended a blow that would  have
  flattened  and  crushed  the  dwarf,  had  it  found  him.  Chane  panted,
  concentrating on his work. The scrabbling sounds of clumsy climbing  began
  again, and the ogre's head came into view.
    Chane raised his hammer one  last  time,  whispered,  "Reorx,  guide  my
  maul," and brought it down against the stone.  The  sound  of  the  impact
  seemed to go on and on, the ringing strike becoming a deep,  low  grinding
  sound as the fault opened... a hair line that became an inch, then another
  inch... then a cleft a foot across, that widened abruptly and crashed away
  into the walled pathway below, carrying the ogre with it. Chane  crept  to
  the newly sheared edge of the outcrop and looked down. The pathway beneath
  was a jumble of fallen stone, its walled opening  filled  halfway  to  the
  top. A cloud of stone dust hung above it, veiling the moons' light.
    Slinging his hammer, Chane took his sword in hand and  bounded  down  to
  the rockfall, searching for openings. He found a  wide  slit,  thrust  his
  sword into it, and prodded  as  far  as  the  blade  would  go.  Somewhere
  underfoot, distant-sounding and muffled, the ogre howled in outrage. Chane
  went looking for wider fissures.
    He was still darting back and forth across the tumble of slab-stone when
  the kender reappeared, just above, crouched on the  sheared  ledge.  "What
  did you do with your ogre?" the smaller one asked.  "I  hear  him,  but  I
  don't see him."
    "He's under these rocks," the dwarf snapped. "I can't reach him."
    "Well, that's not so bad," Chess shrugged. "That means  he  can't  reach
  you, either. Of course, if you'd killed him first, then  buried  him,  you
  wouldn't have this sort of problem. Don't you know anything about ogres?"
    "This is the first one I ever saw," Chane growled, prodding into another
  crack with his sword. Beneath the rocks something yelped, and the pile  of
  stone shuddered.
    "Well, you may have the chance to see some  more,  if  that's  what  you
  want.  There's  something  else  up  there  quite  a  distance  away,  but
  definitely up the path. It might be another ogre...  maybe  several.  They
  tend to come in bunches, you know."
    "No, I didn't know."
    "Kind of like goblins," the kender  said.  'You  hardly  ever  find  one
  goblin without finding a lot of goblins.
    Which reminds me, I thought for a minute up there  that  I  could  smell
  goblins. Have you ever smelled goblins?"
    "Not intentionally. What do they smell like?"
    "Oh, I don't know."  The  kender  pondered  it,  finding  the  challenge
  interesting. "They smell like, uh, maybe a sort  of  a  mixture  of  fresh
  manure and dead frogs. I don't know. Goblins smell like  goblins.  Anyway,
  you don't generally find ogres and goblins in the same place at  the  same
  time. That's why I was surprised to smell goblins."
    Chane made a final pass from one end of the rockfall to the  other,  but
  found no opening large enough to reach the buried ogre with more than just
  the tip of his sword. The kender, watching him, went to one of the  cracks
  the dwarf had already tried and inserted the butt-end of his hoopak,  then
  plunged it downward as hard and as deep as  he  was  able.  Beneath  their
  feet, the pile of stones rumbled and quaked, and a trilling bellow emerged
  from various crevices.
    "I think he's ticklish," Chess observed.
    "I think we should get out of here before he really becomes  irritated,"
  Chane said. Thoughtfully, he reached into his pack and touched  the  hard,
  warm facets of Spellbinder.  Instantly  the  faint,  green  guideline  was
  there, leading up the switchback trail, heading for the pass  high  above.
  Yet the kender said there were more ogres up there, and maybe goblins,  as
  well. Chane realized that he had never seen a  goblin  either.  He  didn't
  relish the idea of meeting some of them just now, though. The ordeal  with
  the ogre had left him shaken.
    "Maybe the thing to do," he told himself, "is to go after  those  people
  who were running down the path and find out what they  know  about  what's
  waiting above."
    Chess looked around, frowning. "Don't you want to see for yourself? I
  do."
    "I'd just as soon know what I'm getting myself into before  I  get  into
  it," Chane decided aloud. "I'm going to talk to some of those people.  You
  can go on up there if you want to."
    "Good idea," something soundless seemed to say. "Let's go."
    "Hush, Zap," the kender said. "I know what you're trying to do."
    "Misery," the spell mourned.
    The dwarf glanced around. He was growing accustomed to the ditherings of
  the kender's companion, but it still bothered him.
    "Zap thinks if I take him far enough away from you and Spellbinder, that
  he can happen," Chess said with a shrug.
    The dwarf had already started back down the zigzag trail, so the  kender
  followed him. Chess looked back toward the distant heights  now  and  then
  and wished the old spell hadn't attached itself to him.
    Full morning lay on the valley by the time Chane and the kender  rounded
  a bluff on the mountain's long slope and saw people ahead. Where a  stream
  came down from the heights, two rough camps had been  established,  a  few
  hundred yards apart.  The  larger  camp,  and  farthest  from  the  rising
  mountain, was of dwarves. The nearer, smaller camp - no more  than  a  few
  cookfires and bits of bedding where injured people rested  -  held  a  few
  dozen humans.
    As the dwarf and the kender neared,  those  humans  capable  of  holding
  weapons came out part way  and  formed  a  defensive  line,  watching  the
  newcomers carefully. In the dwarf camp beyond, people  scurried  here  and
  there; twenty or thirty dwarves soon came at a run to join the human
  fighters.
    When they were near enough, Chane cupped his hands  at  his  cheeks  and
  called, "Hello there! Can we join you? We're peaceful!"
    There was hesitation, then a burly human with a full beard  stepped  out
  of the line and called, "Who are you?"
    "I'm Chane Feldstone," the dwarf returned. "That's Chestal  Thicketsway.
  We were on our way up the mountain when you passed us. I want to talk to
  you."
    "There were ogres and goblins behind us," the man said, shading his eyes
  against the morning sun. "If you came from there, how did you get past
  them?"
    "We only saw one ogre," Chane called, "and no goblins, though there  may
  have been some higher up."
    "How did you get past the ogre you saw?"
    Chestal Thicketsway danced forward, past Chane. "Chane  Feldstone  is  a
  famous warrior," he shouted. "He dumped rocks on your ogre and buried
  him."
    "I'm not famous," Chane hissed at the  beaming  kender.  He  turned  his
  attention to the people ahead. Closer now, he could see them clearly. Many
  of them had fresh, bound wounds, and  those  huddling  in  the  two  camps
  beyond were in a sorry shape. "Who are you people?" he called. "Where have
  you come from?"
    The humans and dwarves - and women among  them,  Chane  noted,  of  both
  races - relaxed visibly as the two strangers came near and they  saw  that
  they weren't goblins. The burly man lowered his pike and tapped himself on
  the chest with a grimy thumb. "I'm Camber  Meld.  That's  Fleece  Ironhill
  over there." He pointed toward a gray-bearded  hill  dwarf  standing  just
  ahead of a phalanx of armed soldiers. "We're chiefs of our people. We have
  - er, had - villages a mile apart in the Vale of Respite. That's the  next
  valley over. His people are herders. Mine are growers. Or were." He looked
  around, blankeyed. "I guess what you see is all that are left."
    Chane stopped just a few paces from the leaders, looking from one to the
  other. "What happened?"
    "They fell on us just at daybreak," the dwarven chief said. "An army  of
  goblins and several ogres. First my village, then Camber's. We didn't have
  a chance."
    "We fought," the man corrected. "For three days, we fought, first in the
  villages, then retreating up the slopes. But there were too many of  them,
  and we weren't prepared for  defense.  There  haven't  ever  been  goblins
  around here, and not many ogres."
    "But there are now," Fleece growled.
    Chane stared at them bewildered. "What did they want? Why did they
  attack you?"
    "Base for the Commander," the dwarven chief said.
    "One of my herders hid in a ravine  and  heard  some  of  them  talking.
  That's what they said. 'The Vale of Respite would serve as a base for  the
  Commander.' And they were taking slaves."
    "Is that why they followed you over the ridge?" Chane asked.
    "Ogres followed," the dwarven chief muttered. "Two of  them,  at  least,
  though one may have stopped to torture  a  few  of  our  people  who  fell
  behind. The other one was right behind us."
    "Why do ogres follow anyone?" the human leader  snarled  at  Chane.  "To
  torture, to mutilate, to kill." He looked at Chane curiously. "But you got
  him, huh?"
    "I didn't kill him," Chane said. "I tried to, but all I managed  was  to
  bury him under some rock."
    "We irritated him, though," Chess said helpfully.
    The dwarven chief also was gazing at Chane,  studying  him.  'You  don't
  look like a hill dwarf," he said.
    "I'm not. I'm from Thorbardin."
    The hill dwarf sucked in his breath, his eyes  narrowing  to  slits.  He
  half-raised the axe he carried, then shrugged and let it  down.  "Mountain
  dwarf," he rumbled. "But I guess that war was over a long time ago."
    Chane thought abruptly of the ice-field - only a few miles away -  where
  two kinds of dwarves remained frozen in bloody, ancient conflict. "I  hope
  so," he said.

  Chapter 17

    The dwarf and the kender rested that nigtt in the humans' camp.  Despite
  Fleece Ironhill's concession, a mountain  dwarf  still  was  more  welcome
  among humans than among hill dwarves. What remained in their packs - a few
  pounds of dried cat, some rolls of goose, and a piece of flatbread -  they
  shared. The humans in turn shared some of the meager provisions  they  had
  carried in their retreat from the goblin marauders. It was a sad and sorry
  camp, as was the dwarf camp just beyond. Everywhere,  there  were  injured
  people. And everywhere there was  grief.  Chane  sat  apart  for  a  time,
  talking with the human chief, Camber Meld. Then he curled up and  went  to
  sleep, wondering how he was  to  follow  the  path  of  the  old  warrior,
  Grallen, if that path led right into a fresh nest  of  armed  goblins  and
  bloodthirsty ogres.
    Chestal Thicketsway, still wide awake and excited by the rate  at  which
  new adventures were coming along, roamed about the two camps for  a  time,
  then climbed a hill and sat on top of it, watching the moons creep  across
  the sky.
    In the distance, he could see the hooded fires  of  the  refugee  camps,
  where Chane Feldstone slept. The kender felt at his side and  frowned.  He
  didn't have his pouch with him. He had left it with his pack,  back  there
  at the camp. And he had his hoopak,  but  no  pebbles.  Immediately  Chess
  scouted around and found several good pebbles.  He  then  felt  much  more
  comfortable.
    It was oddly quiet, he noticed. Not so  much  as  a  whimper  from  Zap.
  Chess's eyes widened, and he whirled to look again at the  distant  fires,
  abruptly realizing that he was a long way from Spellbinder.  'Whoops,"  he
  muttered. Turning full circle, slowly, speaking distinctly, he said, "Now,
  listen, Zap, I think we ought to talk about this. I'm sure we can  find  a
  civilized way to.... Zap? Are you listening? I'd really just as  soon  you
  behave yourself for a while longer. There's no reason to  go  off  half...
  Zap? Zap! Where are you, anyway?"
    Nothing responded. There was not the slightest hint of the  old  spell's
  presence.
    "Zap, are you hiding from me?" The kender peered all about  even  though
  he knew that there would be nothing to see.  "Look,  if  you're  tired  of
  following me around, that's all right with me. No problem at all. I  never
  could figure out why you were tagging after me in  the  first  place."  He
  paused and listened again. "If you want to just head out on  your  own,  I
  certainly won't hold a grudge. In fact, that might be the best  thing  you
  could do. Just go along by yourself - the farther the better,  of  course,
  and do your destiny, whatever that is. You might get a real  bang  out  of
  that, don't you think?"  The  kender  frowned  at  the  absolute  lack  of
  response. "Zap! I know you're around somewhere. Where are you?"
    Still there was no answer. The kender sat on a rock,  deep  in  thought.
  Maybe the spell had come up with a new tactic, he reasoned. Maybe it would
  try to convince him that it was gone, to lull him into taking it to  where
  it could explode. On the other hand, maybe this  was  already  far  enough
  away for it to explode.
    Then again, maybe it wasn't here at all. But if not, where  was  it?  It
  had been attached to him since the day on the old battlefield where he had
  first met it. How could it be unattached now? Unless....
    Chess snapped his fingers and grinned. He had left  his  pouch  and  his
  pack at the humans' camp. Maybe it wasn't him that Zap  was  attached  to,
  but his belongings. Maybe it was attached to his pouch! That could explain
  the awful wailing the spell had been doing, up on the mountainside. If  it
  was attached to his pouch and Spellbinder had been in his  pouch...  well,
  he could see how Zap might have been pretty unhappy about that.
    With a grin, Chestal Thicketsway realized that he had found  a  solution
  to a problem. If Zap was attached to his pouch, all he needed  to  do  was
  make a new pouch and go off and leave the old one. Then he'd be rid of the
  pesky spell once and for all. He began to think  about  the  materials  he
  would need for a pouch.
    "Hellothere," a voice said. "Isthatyou?"
    Chess jumped to his feet, spinning around.
    "Up here," the voice said more slowly. "It's me, Bobbin. Do you have any
  raisins I"
    Overhead, the wide-winged soarwagon floated, shadowy in the light of the
  two moons. Chess waved, and the  gnome  did  something  to  his  controls,
  bringing the machine lower still.
    "I don't have any raisins," the kender said. "Sorry. What are you doing
  here?"
    "Scouting," Bobbin explained. "I've sort of signed on as chief scout for
  the Wingover company... since I have nothing better to do. I'm looking for
  danger. Do you have any?"
    "Not right now," Chess admitted. "I had an ogre a  while  back,  though.
  That's pretty dangerous. And from what I hear, there's  plenty  of  danger
  beyond those peaks, over in the Vale of Respite. Goblins  and  ogres  have
  taken the place over. Those people out there by the  fires  are  refugees.
  Why don't you talk to them?"
    "I've been trying to," Bobbin snapped,  "but  my  soarwagon  needs  some
  adjustment of its aerodynamic equivalences... which I will attend to if  I
  ever get back on the ground. I've been trying since early evening  to  get
  to that camp, but I keep winding up somewhere else. I guess you'll have to
  give me my report. Goblins and ogres, you say? And you actually met one of
  the ogres? What's his side of the story?"
    "I don't know. I didn't stop to chat."
    "Well, where's the ogre now?"
    "He's up on the mountain, buried  under  several  tons  of  rock.  Chane
  Feldstone buried him."
    "Chane Feldstone? I've heard that name."
    "I wouldn't be surprised. He's famous, you know. Not rich, but  well  on
  his way to being famous. I'm helping him."  The  kender  grinned  proudly.
  'You can help, too, if you'll spread  the  word.  Just  tell  anybody  you
  happen to see that Chane Feldstone is a famous warrior."
    "I suppose I can do that," the gnome agreed. "Where is Chane Feldstone?"
    "He's over there where those people are  camped.  He's  asleep,  though.
  Burying ogres is tiring work."
    "Well, Wingover wants to know what's going on. I  wonder  -"  The  gnome
  paused, thinking, then said, "Maybe we  could  offset  the  lateral  drift
  ratio in this thing, if you'd help."
    "What do you want me to do?" the kender asked doubtfully.
    "I'll drop a line. You grab it, and maybe you can tow me over  to  where
  those people are."
    A length of stout  rope  snaked  downward  from  the  underside  of  the
  soarwagon. Chess dutifully slung his hoopak on his back  and  grasped  the
  rope in both hands. "Now what?" the kender called.
    "Now just start walking, and I'll try to follow along."
    Chess shrugged, hauled the rope tight, and started to
    walk. For a dozen steps,  the  gnome's  craft  crept  along  above  him,
  obediently. Then it stalled in a draft and edged to one side.  The  kender
  took a tighter grip and hauled it back toward the proper course.
    "This may work out," the gnome called down. "Just keep  going  and  hold
  tight to that line, and... oh, crosscurrent! Hang on!"
    Chess clung to the line as the soarwagon nosed up, and suddenly realized
  that his feet were no longer on the ground. He looked down. The hill where
  he had rested was falling away below,  as  was  the  rest  of  the  world.
  Moonlit landscapes  widened  beneath  him,  shrinking  away  to  miniature
  forests, streams, trails, and ridges.  Higher  and  higher  the  soarwagon
  soared, the bit in its teeth now and the winds of altitude under its
  wings.
    "Would you look at that," the kender breathed. "Wow! What a view!"
    Above him, the gnome  muttered  and  swore,  working  at  his  controls.
  "Linkjoint!" he said in obvious annoyance.  "The  zag  and  the  zig  have
  reversed again. I thought I had  that  fixed."  He  leaned  out  from  his
  basket, squinting as he peered downward. "Are you still there?"
    "I certainly hope so," Chess assured him. "Otherwise I'm in a lot of
  trouble."
    "Well, don't just hang there gawking! Come up here and help me. You  can
  hand me my tools."
    "How do I get up there?" Chess asked.
    "Just a minute. When I get my hands free, I'll winch you up. Don't go
  away."
    "I wouldn't dream of it," the kender assured him.
    Moments passed, then Chess felt the rope inching upward toward the belly
  of the gnome's invention. Winchteeth rattled above, and the great, shadowy
  wings seemed to close down on the kender like storm clouds descending.  He
  rotated slowly as he rose, and suddenly there  was  a  wickerwork  surface
  before him.
    "Climb in," Bobbin ordered. "Then hand me that wobble-wrench. I have  to
  readjust the nose attitude."
    Chess climbed into the basket, found and handed over  a  strange-looking
  tool, then resumed his sightseeing. "Where are we going?"
    "I don't know," the gnome snapped. "How should  I  know?  I  never  know
  where I'm going from one minute to the next. I  spend  all  my  time  just
  trying to get from where I didn't want to go back  to  where  I  shouldn't
  have been in the first place. Hand me the washer-pull."
    An hour passed, and then another, while the  gnome  did  things  to  his
  controls and the kender  passed  tools.  Rising  mountainscapes  crept  by
  below, cliffs and crags, moonlit steeps and  shadowy  canyons.  Then  high
  peaks appeared to either side. Finally, another landscape, which fell away
  toward a distant wide valley where fires burned and smoke clung  like  fog
  in the lower reaches, spread below them.
    "I'll bet that's where all those goblins are," Chess said.
    "I'll bet that's the Vale of Respite."
    The gnome paused to look. "Is there danger there?"
    "From what I hear, there is."
    "Then I'd better tell Wingover about it - ah! There, now.  Here,  Chess,
  you hold these two strings. Just hang on to them, and don't let them slip.
  I think I can turn around now."
    Bobbin drew a pair of  strings  and  let  several  others  slacken.  The
  soarwagon tipped its wings and soared into a wide turn,  spanning  several
  miles of valley below in the process.
    "Can we go down for a better look?" Chess wondered aloud.
    "What do you want to look at?"
    "Whatever's down there. Let's go see."  In  his  excitement  the  kender
  eased his hold on the  two  strings,  and  the  soarwagon's  nose  pitched
  downward. Abruptly they were in a  screaming  dive,  straight  down,  with
  terrain rising to meet them.
    "Oh, let me have those!" Bobbin leaned over, took the strings away  from
  the kender, and pulled on them. The dive flattened  out,  and  the  flying
  machine raced over the tops of leafless trees toward a pall of smoke  just
  ahead.
    "This is a lot better," Chess observed, leaning far out from the  basket
  for a better view.
    The smoke was a thick darkness underlit by the flames of  many  fires  -
  burning houses, burning sheds, huts ablaze, and haystacks  smoldering.  An
  entire village was burning, and in the distance another  lay  in  ash  and
  embers. As the flying machine swept over the fires, Chess  saw  dozens  of
  goblins below, tending the fires and bringing things to throw upon them. A
  few slit-mouthed faces turned upward as the soarwagon passed, and gaped at
  the  contrivance  sailing  through  the  smokes.  Something  struck  the
  soarwagon's frame and glanced away. The basket twanged, and Chess  glanced
  around to find a bronze dart protruding through the  wicker,  inches  from
  his thigh.
    "Do you suppose we've seen enough?" he asked Bobbin.
    A flaming bolt arced upward ahead of them,  and  the  gnome  veered  his
  machine to the right. "If those people set my wings afire -"
    "Those aren't people. Those are goblins."
    Another bolt whisked by. Without hesitation, Chess unslung  his  hoopak,
  dug a pebble from his tunic, and twisted around in the basket to send  the
  stone zinging on its way. Below and behind them, a goblin howled in pain.
    Bobbin glanced at the hoopak thoughtfully. "I wish I'd thought to  mount
  something like that on the soarwagon," he said.
    The kender shrugged. "It's just a hoopak."
    They were past the burning village  then,  and  closing  on  the  second
  village, which was little more than glowing sparks wafting from  piles  of
  ash. Chess pointed ahead. "Aha!" he said. "Ogres."
    "Where?" Bobbin leaned to look, and the soarwagon executed a barrel roll
  at treetop level. The kender clung to  the  basket  as  the  gnome  worked
  frantically to get the contrivance right side up again.  When  finally  it
  was flying upright and level, Bobbin said, "Sorry about that."
    Chess shook his head. "I have an idea.... You tend  to  the  navigation,
  and I'll do the sightseeing."
    "How many ogres did you see?"
    "Three, I think. Can you turn around and go over again? I'll count
  them."
    "Never mind," the gnome said.  "In  certain  circumstances  an  informed
  estimate is as acceptable as quantitative data. I'm going to try to -"
    The soarwagon's nose lofted, and the Vale of Respite  fell  away  behind
  them as the machine headed for the sky. Bobbin wrestled with  his  control
  strings and muttered to himself: "Don't know  why  it  does  that...  only
  trying for a reasonable rate of ascent... something  about  the  angle  of
  trim on the horizontal vanes, I suppose."
    When he succeeded in leveling the soarwagon out, it was approaching  the
  peaks again, heading more or less west.
    "Would you classify what we saw back there as danger?" Bobbin asked.
    "It certainly looked dangerous to me," Chess said brightly.
    "Then I expect I should tell Wingover about it. I agreed to do that, you
  know."
    "Do you suppose you can drop me off on the way?"
    "I'll try." The gnome manipulated strings, and the soarwagon sailed over
  moonlit ridgetops, then down toward the refugee camps a few  miles  beyond
  the slopes. "I think we can -"
    A crosswind fluttered the box-kite  nose  of  the  contrivance,  and  it
  veered aside, then nosed up and headed for the sky again, straight up  and
  gaining speed. "Oh, no. Link failure!" the gnome cursed.
  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."

  PART III

  THE FORCE OF GOBLINS

  Chapter 19

    On a winding trail high on a mountainside, the group halted its climb at
  a place where broken rock was strewn across a hundred yards of  trail  and
  onto the rises above.
    "He's gone," Chane Feldstone said. "This is where I  left  him,  but  he
  isn't here now."
    'You should have killed him," Wingover said. "Burying  an  ogre  doesn't
  mean he'll die. Earth is their natural element. Probably another one  came
  along and dug him out. You'll have to be very watchful  now.  Ogres  don't
  forget a slight or a defeat. This one won't forget you, Chane."
    "Loam," the dwarf muttered. "His name is Loam."
    "His buddy's name is Cleft," Chestal Thicketsway  offered.  "I  saw  him
  farther up, that day. But I didn't know ogres helped each other."
    "Against anyone else, they will," the man told him.
    "They are not pleasant to have as enemies."
    Jilian clung closely to Chane, her wide eyes alert and darting about the
  mountainscape. She had never seen an  ogre,  but  she  had  heard  of  the
  creatures. If Chane had ogres after him, she had a feeling he  would  need
  all the help he could find.
    Wingover scanned the skies, wishing abruptly that Bobbin and his  flying
  whatzit would show up. 'You can never find a gnome when you need one,"  he
  muttered. Chane glanced around. "Why do you need the gnome?"
    "It would be nice to have some idea what's beyond the  next  turn,"  the
  man said. "I still think he could scout for us, if he would just stick
  around."
    "He doesn't have much control of the soarwagon,"
    Chess pointed out. "It just sort of goes where it pleases most of the
  time."
    Wingover busied himself with trying to calm Geekay.
    He kept a firm grip on the animal's lead, scratched its ears and stroked
  its nose. The horse had been skittish for  the  past  hour,  and  Wingover
  wasn't sure whether it was  the  recent  presence  here  of  an  ogre,  or
  possibly some distant scent of goblins that worried him. Geekay shared one
  characteristic with the elf, Garon Wendesthalas.  Geekay  simply  did  not
  like goblins.
    Thinking of the elf, Wingover wondered where he was. Probably on his way
  back to Qualinost by now, he decided.
    With Geekay somewhat mollified, Wingover got out one  of  his  maps  and
  studied it, then put it away. "We had better go on," he told them.  'There
  should be a goat-trail up ahead somewhere, leading off to the south. We'll
  follow that until we find a better path. I'd guess we're about three  days
  from safety."
    Chane glanced around at him again. "Safety?"
    "Thorbardin," Wingover said. "If we make good time and stay to the  high
  ground, it should be no more than three days until we run  into  a  border
  patrol. From there, it's an easy trip home for you two, and I can head for
  Barter and start spending Rogar Goldbuckle's money."
    "I'm not going to Thorbardin," Chane said levelly. "I told you,  I  have
  something I have to do first."
    "Then I'll just take Jilian home." Wingover shrugged.
    "Either way, I'll have kept my pledge."
    "You won't do anything of the kind," the girl snapped.
    "I'm going where Chane goes, and you're supposed to go along with us."
    "Now look, Button, all I agreed  to  do  was  to  escort  you  into  the
  wilderness to look for Chane Feldstone, then to get you home  safely.  All
  right. We've been to the wilderness. We found Chane  Feldstone.  Now  it's
  time to go home. It's as simple as that." Nearby,  the  wizard  Glenshadow
  sat on a rock, listening. At  Wingover's  statement,  he  shook  his  head
  slowly, but said nothing.
    Jilian glared at the man. 'You made a debt of service. Do you intend  to
  break your pledge?"
    Wingover frowned. "I intend to keep it. I just told you that."
    "Well, then, you'll have to wait a while longer  because  Chane  has  to
  find Grallen's helm. It's his destiny." The  man  stared  at  the  dwarven
  girl, then at the bearded young dwarf  behind  her.  Two  of  a  kind,  he
  thought. Each one more stubborn than the other. He turned  to  Glenshadow,
  sitting on his rock. 'You talk to them," he said.
    "What about?" the wizard asked, his voice hardly more  than  a  whisper.
  "She's right. Chane does have a destiny. And as I said, you have no choice
  in the matter."
    "%fell, as I said, I make  my  own  choices,"  Wingover  growled.  "East
  across this ridge is a valley swarming with hostiles. A person would  have
  to be crazy to go there." Jilian stepped back and took Chane's hand in
  hers.
    "Then I release you from your pledge," she told the man.
    "We will go on without you, and you owe us nothing more. Good-bye."
    Geekay tossed his head, broke his reins free from Wingover's  grip,  and
  pranced a few steps up the path, past  the  glowering  dwarves.  He  stood
  there, facing upward and away, snorting and pawing at the rock path. "You,
  too?" Wingover snapped. He pointed a stern finger at Chane. "You're  going
  to get everyone killed," he warned. "And for what? A dream."
    "The dream was real," Chane said, his voice level.
    "Grallen called me to go and find his helm. Thorbardin is at stake,  and
  the power to protect the kingdom is in that helm. But  you  heard  Jilian.
  You're free to go wherever you want to go. We don't need you."
    "And where do you intend to go from here?"
    "Where Grallen went. I have the Spellbinder. It shows me the way."
    Wingover took a deep breath, then released it in a sigh. "That's how  it
  is, then." He strode past them, recovered Geekay's lead,  and  started  on
  without looking back, though he could hear them following.
    After a time, the old trail wound to the right along a shoulder  of  the
  ridge, then switched back, climbing. At the turn,  a  faint  trail  parted
  from it, leading southward. The goat-trail. Wingover turned south, leading
  a reluctant Geekay, and walked a hundred yards before turning to  see  the
  others going away, following the climbing trail upward. At that  distance,
  they looked very small. Two dwarves, a robed mage, and a kender.  Of  them
  all, only the kender turned to look back at Wingover; Chess gave him a sad
  wave of the hand.
    "Crazy," Wingover muttered. "They're all crazy." He shrugged, put a  toe
  in a stirrup,  and  swung  into  his  saddle.  Ahead  lay  three  days  of
  wilderness, then the relative security of the dwarven realm and  the  road
  back to Barter. And he was free now of the debt of service.  He  had  been
  released. It would be good to get back to Barter, to rest a bit, carouse a
  bit and spend Rogar Goldbuckle's wager money....
    Wingover turned in his saddle for another look back.
    Far off on the climbing slope, Chane Feldstone and Jilian Firestoke were
  just disappearing around a shoulder of rockfall, the wizard plodding along
  behind them. Higher up on the slope, the kender was scampering off  ahead,
  looking for whatever kender looked for.
    "By all the moons," Wingover muttered, "I must be as crazy as they are."
  He reined Geekay around, touched heels to the animal, and went to catch up
  to the others. When he finally came up to them,  near  the  crest  of  the
  ridge, he reined in. Dismounting, Wingover pointed a demanding  finger  at
  Glenshadow. "There's just one thing I want to know,"  he  said.  "What  is
  your interest in all this? Why are you with these people?"
    "I have my own reasons," the wizard said.
    "That's not good enough," Wingover growled. "If I'm to face danger  with
  someone, I want to know why he is there."
    Chane Feldstone rubbed his whiskers. "That sounds like a  fair  question
  to me," he noted. Wide-set dwarven eyes studied the wizard. "What's in  it
  for you, anyway?" Glenshadow sighed and slumped, leaning on his staff.
    "A long time ago," he said slowly, "there was a renegade mage. A  wizard
  of the black who rejected the robes and the order. Three  of  us  went  in
  search of him. One of each order. We went to find him, to... deal with
  him."
    "Deal with him?" Jilian raised a pert brow. "What does that mean?"
    "A rogue mage cannot be tolerated," Glenshadow said.
    "He must be persuaded to return to one of the orders... or  he  must  be
  eliminated. We tried to persuade him." He paused,  staring  off  into  the
  distance. "We tried. And of the three who went  out,  only  I  came  back.
  Caliban's powers were greater than we had known."
    Glenshadow paused again, then added, "Caliban died in the  conflict,  as
  well. And yet, somehow Caliban still lives. I have set myself the task  of
  completing what I thought was through back then. Caliban lives, and he  is
  with those who oppose Chane Feldstone and his quest. I seek Caliban."
    Wingover looked at the mage with hooded eyes. "To kill him I"
    "If I can."

  * * * * *

    Sunlight lingered on the peaks  when  the  group  came  down  through  a
  meandering pass and  looked  out  across  the  Vale  of  Respite.  In  the
  distance, smoke trailed above two burned-out  villages  -  no  longer  the
  smoke of destruction, but now the smoke of cookfires where an army rested,
  occupying what had been a peaceful valley. Chane stepped  into  the  lead,
  raised a hand to halt the column, and gazed into the  distance.  His  hand
  closed around the pulsing crystal in his pack. For a time he simply  stood
  there, the high-mountain wind ruffling his beard. Then he turned away, and
  the others gathered around him. "Grallen's path leads east," he said.  "On
  and on... through the valley, and up the mountains beyond. I had hoped  it
  - wherever I have to go - would be closer."
    "Toward Skullcap," Wingover said. "I thought as much."
    Chane gasped. 'You know where Grallen went?
    "I've heard the stories," the man  said.  "From  Rogar  Goldbuckle,  and
  others. Grallen died at Shaman, or somewhere nearby. It's called Skullcap,
  now. That would be roughly northeast from here." He turned to see the last
  of sunlight above the peaks to the west, then turned back. "Point where it
  goes, this green trail of yours."
    Chane pointed, due east across the valley.
    "Well, that doesn't tell us much," Wingover sighed.
    "There's an easy path through the mountains over there.
    But it's farther north. Where you're pointing -- that highest  peak  off
  there, that's called Sky's End. My map doesn't show a trail there."
    "I can only see what the stone shows me," Chane admitted. "We'll have to
  cross over, and look from there."
    "Easy enough to say," Wingover snorted. "Just  cross  over.  Of  course,
  there's a little matter of several hundred goblins and some ogres  between
  here and there. Do you have any ideas on that score?"
    "We have the element of surprise," Chane suggested uncertainly.
    "That's the ticket," Chess said. "We'll slip up on them and  catch  them
  off guard."
    "That seems like a lot of goblins for us to attack," Jilian pointed out.
  "Maybe it would be better if we just went around them."
    "If we can figure out where 'around them' is,"
    Wingover noted. He turned to the wizard. "Don't  you  have  powers  that
  might help us out?"
    "Not here," Glenshadow said. "Not in the presence of Spellbinder. Here I
  have only my eyes."
    "Your magic doesn't work at all?" Wingover asked.
    "It might or might not. And if it did, it would be unreliable."
    "A little invisibility might come in handy," the kender said. "I  saw  a
  lot of invisibility at Hylo the time the bird came from... well, I  didn't
  see it, exactly. What I did was not see it. That's what invisibility
  does."
    "I wish we had the gnome here now," Wingover said.
    "I wonder where he is."
    "Right here," a voice came from aloft. Wingover stared up at the  flying
  contraption, barely ten feet overhead.
    "It's me," the gnome said. "Bobbin. Do you remember?"
    "Of course I remember! Where have you been?"
    "I'm not quite sure. Somewhere northwest, I think.
    Where are you going?"
    "Across that valley," Wingover shouted. "I'd like for you to scout for
  us."
    "All right, if that's what you want. But I don't think it's such a  good
  idea to go across there. There are surly people all over the  place.  Look
  here." He tossed something over the side of the basket.  It  rang  against
  stone, and Chane picked it up. It was a bronze dart.
    "Somebody shot me in the hub with that  thing,"  Bobbin  griped.  "Would
  have cost me a wheel, if I still had my wheels."
    Wingover blinked, realizing for the first time that the flying craft  no
  longer had its delicate silver-wire wheels.
    "What did you do with your wheels?"
    "While I was in the northwest, I found some people -elves,  I  think  --
  with raisins. I traded them my wheels for a half-bushel  of  raisins.  Fat
  lot of good wheels do me up here, anyway."
    "Take a look at this," Chane handed the goblin-dart to Wingover.
    The man looked at the object closely. It was a slim bolt, about eighteen
  inches long, with a broad, sharp head and airfoils of shaved  wood.  Darts
  were a favorite weapon of goblins, and they often fired them  from  short,
  stiff crossbows. Wingover started to  shrug,  then  looked  more  closely.
  "This isn't sand-cast," he said. "It looks as though it has  been  forged,
  or turned on a wheel." He handed the dart to Glenshadow.
    "Not goblin work," the wizard judged.
    "Well, it was a goblin that flung it at me," Bobbin called down.
    "I'd like to see a few more of these," Chane said. "If I  could  compare
  some of them, I'd know whether they were forge-turned or ground on a  cold
  lathe." Chestal Thicketsway snapped his fingers and opened his large pack.
  "Like these?" He drew out two more goblin-bolts.
    "Where did you get those?"
    "The other night, when I was flying with Bobbin, these came  along.  I'd
  forgotten that I had them." He dug  deeper  into  his  pack,  lifting  out
  various other things one by one, to look at them. "I have some pretty good
  stuff in here. I should check it more often."
    "Lathe-turned," Chane Feldstone pronounced,  comparing  the  darts.  "No
  goblin ever made these. I wonder who did."
    "Somebody whose purpose was to turn out a  lot  of  them  in  a  hurry,"
  Wingover said.
    "Somebody equipping an army?" Chane asked.
    "Somebody  who  isn't  a  goblin,  outfitting  goblins?  That's  crazy,"
  Wingover scoffed.
    Chane shook his head. "No crazier than the idea of a human  --  a  human
  female -- being in command of a goblin force."
    "Speaking of females," Wingover said as he looked around, "where's
  Jilian?"

  Chapter 20

    Jilian was  tired  and  cold.  Wtile  the  others  discussed  plans  and
  situations, she wandered about the area, looking for a place to  rest  out
  of the wind. The pass here was a snow-dusted trough between rising  peaks,
  with little cover from the wind's biting teeth. Not far away,  though,  an
  outcropping had sheared away  in  some  bygone  age,  forming  a  mazelike
  rockfall where slabs of stone lay against one another  and  dark  crevices
  beckoned.
    She stooped to peer into one of these, a shadowy cave where slate  walls
  broke the wind. The cave was deeper than it appeared, and another,  darker
  opening, offset and aslant, lay beyond it. The wind gusted again as Jilian
  stepped into the shelter, leaning down to avoid the  rock  above.  It  was
  cold within, but not as sharply so as outside, where the  relentless  wind
  played. Her back to the deeper cave, she crouched there, watching the rest
  of the group. She hoped they would make up their minds soon. It would be a
  relief to get off this cold mountain pass, to be  moving  downward  for  a
  time, instead of toiling and climbing.
    Mountain winds sang around the opening in the rocks, then died abruptly.
  In the silence Jilian heard a furtive sound. As she started to  turn,  the
  dwarven girl was seized by massive hard hands. She tried to struggle,  but
  the strength of whatever held her was immense. She tried to scream...  and
  could not. She was hauled backward, beyond the crevice and into  the  dark
  cave. A huge, leering face appeared directly above Jilian -- a face  twice
  the size of any she had ever seen, with a wide, grinning mouth and  little
  glittering eyes set close beside a great snout of a nose.
    "Pretty toy," the thing whispered, a low rumble of  sound  at  her  ear.
  "Nice for Cleft. Maybe Loam can have what's left."  Crouching,  the  thing
  turned and headed down into darkness, carrying Jilian  as  a  child  would
  carry a doll.
    Jilian's dwarven eyes adjusted quickly to darkness. Even  in  her  shock
  and panic, she noted that the tunnel along which she was  carried  was  of
  dwarven design. Like the load-shafts in Thorbardin that led from one level
  to another, it was a long, delved curve, spiraling downward, turn after
  turn.
    She tried to struggle against the hands that held her,  but  it  was  no
  use. The monster's hands completely encircled her, binding her arms to her
  sides so that all she could move was her head and her feet.  The  pressure
  of the thing's grip  was  crushing.  Jilian  fought  desperately  just  to
  breathe,  and  her  spinning  mind  registered  spiral  after  spiral  of
  descending tunnel, its walls echoing to the thud of the  creature's  feet.
  After a time, the girl twisted her head around, trying to  get  her  teeth
  into a huge thumb. The thing glanced down at her, saw what she was  trying
  to do, and chuckled, a deep, evil rumble of mirth.  It  shifted  its  grip
  slightly and increased the pressure. Jilian felt as though her  ribs  were
  breaking. Ogre, she thought. This is an ogre! Maybe the same ogre that has
  a grudge against Chane. Maybe it's doing this to get even with  him...  or
  maybe to lure him into a trap!
    Jilian made herself hold very still. After she pretended to go limp, the
  creature's grip eased slightly. There was a little more light now, and she
  could see that the tunnel widened out,  then  widened  again,  becoming  a
  vaulted cavern twenty or thirty feet across.
    A staging area, she thought. Whatever dwarves had delved this place,  in
  some bygone time, had crafted a cavern here -- a place to store  and  sort
  things to be carried up or down the spiral shaft. A resting place. She had
  seen such places in Thorbardin. Dim marks on the  floor  might  even  have
  been the bases of ancient cable-track, though there was no hardware in the
  place now. All this she noticed in an instant, as the ogre slowed its pace
  and raised her higher in the dim light.
    "Far enough," the creature rumbled. A mouth like a yawning slit revealed
  spike teeth. "Well underground. Let's see what pretty thing I have found."
  Jilian lay limp in its grasp, and let her head loll to one side,  feigning
  unconsciousness. Higher she was lifted as the ogre peered at  her  in  the
  dim shaft-light, turning her this way  and  that.  It  relaxed  its  grip,
  holding her now with one  hand  while  the  other  poked  her  with  large
  fingers. Finally, the ogre took hold of her tunic and started to  tear  it
  away. Close enough, Jilian decided. With a heave, she freed  herself  from
  some of the fingers, twisted around, and delivered a solid kick,  directly
  into a leering eye.
    The ogre roared as it staggered back and dropped  Jilian.  She  hit  the
  cavern floor and scooted away on hands and knees.  Suddenly,  though,  she
  remembered that her borrowed sword was still slung on her  back.  Ignoring
  the monster's roars, she got to her feet and loosed the sword, then ducked
  as the ogre's  hand  whisked  past  her.  She  turned  and  ran  into  the
  descending tunnel beyond the staging cavern.
    In this lower spiral there was no light at all.
    Surrounded by complete darkness, Jilian ran as she had never run before,
  counting her steps, trusting her dwarven instincts and the skills  of  the
  tunnelers who had built this place long ago. The lower spiral would  be  a
  twin of the upper... she hoped. She put her faith in the  dwarven  passion
  for symmetry and ran. The thudding footfalls of the ogre echoed off  walls
  around her, and its rumbling curses were thunder in her ears. The  monster
  was no more than a half-turn behind, and she wondered  for  a  moment  how
  something that big could move so quickly  in  a  black  tunnel.  Then  she
  recalled something Wingover had  said  about  ogres.  Ogres  are  at  home
  underground. It's their natural element.
    Well, it's mine, too, Jilian thought fiercely. And no  ogre  built  this
  place. Dwarves did. "You don't  belong  here,  you  ugly  rust-heap!"  she
  shouted. "You aren't fit to use a good delving!"
    Behind her the ogre roared again and quickened its pace.
    Again counting her steps, and putting blind faith in the  good  judgment
  of dwarven delvers, she sprinted another dozen paces, then stopped, turned
  to her right, and scurried forward. In the upper spiral there had  been  a
  small cubicle opening to the left. In  the  lower  tunnel,  midway,  there
  should be one to the right.
    It was there. Jilian found the opening and scurried through, holding her
  breath as the ogre raced past... and stopped. For a long moment there  was
  silence, then she heard its rasping breath, returning.  It  knew  she  had
  eluded it, and it was coming back to search. Quickly, Jilian  felt  around
  on the floor. Her hand closed on a small, flat stone. She eased herself to
  the portal, edged partway into the tunnel, and threw  the  stone  upshaft,
  toward the staging room. The stone rang against rock wall,  and  the  ogre
  chuckled in the darkness. Jilian ducked  into  the  cubicle  again  as  it
  charged past, heading back up the tunnel. Then the girl  darted  out  into
  the tunnel and ran.
    She hadn't gained much. Within seconds the ogre was in pursuit again and
  closing. She ran and let dwarven instinct guide her flying feet.
    Abruptly, she realized that she could see the walls.
    There was light ahead,  and  it  was  growing.  The  lower  end  of  the
  spiral-shaft was ahead.
    Another hundred  yards  and  the  tunnel  bent  slightly  to  the  left,
  straightened, and ended. Jilian sprinted between fallen stones and emerged
  on a cleared shelf on the side of a mountain -- a shelf that once had been
  the terminus of a path. But there was no path now. It had sheared away  in
  some long-ago rockfall. It would be a tedious climb, to get down to better
  ground, but at least now there was light.
    "So far, so good," Jilian panted, then  turned  as  a  thunderous  growl
  erupted behind her. Only yards away, the ogre had emerged from the tunnel.
  It still held a hand over one eye.
    "I'm warning you," Jilian shouted, "I'm  getting  very  tired  of  this.
  You'd better go away and leave me  alone."  The  ogre  growled  again  and
  started for her. Jilian picked up a rock and  flung  it,  aiming  for  the
  thing's other eye. The rock bounced off the monster's nose.
    "Oh, rust," Jilian swore. "That's only made things  worse."  She  hefted
  her sword and squared her stance sideways  to  the  approaching  ogre.  "I
  didn't want to have to do this," she muttered.
    As the monster charged, Jilian braced her feet and swung the sword  with
  all her strength.

  Chapter 21

    Atop the pass, the others had split up. Wiwgover sent Bobbin sailing off
  westward to have a look at the backtrail, then swung into his  saddle  and
  spurred his horse down the twisting, perilous path that led away into  the
  Vale of Respite. Chane Feldstone started after him, then glanced aside and
  recognized the cavern  behind  the  rockfall.  "Tunneling,"  he  muttered.
  Without a backward look, he dashed into the cavern and ran, his hammer  at
  the ready. Within a few yards, his nostrils caught  the  earthy  scent  of
  ogre, and he gritted his teeth. "Jilian," he whispered. "Ah, Reorx.
  Jilian...."
    Chestal Thicketsway was right behind the dwarf, followed by  a  whining,
  complaining, voiceless voice that  seemed  to  object  fiercely  to  being
  dragged through subterranean places.
    The wizard Glenshadow watched them go, then chose a peak  and  began  to
  climb. He noticed almost immediately that the crystal atop his  staff  had
  cleared as soon as Chane Feldstone  went  underground.  It  was  something
  important to remember, regarding Spellbinder. Glenshadow climbed,  seeking
  an ice pool that would give him seeing eyes.
    Down and down the searchers went, the dwarf and the kender pounding down
  a long, corkscrew spiral in the heart of the  mountain;  the  mounted  man
  descending the slope, looking everywhere, trying to see everything. In the
  cavern with the light shaft, Chane found prints in the dust on  the  stone
  floor and paused, then hurried on. Jilian was ahead  somewhere,  with  the
  ogre in pursuit. As one, Chane and Chess darted into the  far  tunnel  and
  continued downward, running as fast as they could  in  the  darkness.  The
  kender's natural balance and simple luck were all that kept him abreast of
  the tunnel-wise dwarf.
    The downward slope eased, and the tunnel began to straighten. Chane  put
  on more speed. Just ahead, he knew, the shaft should emerge into open air.
  And if Jilian had managed to escape the ogre in  the  tunnel  --  how,  he
  couldn't imagine -- her fate would be sealed when the monster had room  to
  maneuver. Outside, she would have no chance.
    The tunnel wound slightly to the left, and then there was light ahead...
  light and an abrupt,  heart-stopping  sound.  A  shrill,  agonized  scream
  reverberated back into the tunnel from just beyond its end. Chane put  his
  head down, filled his aching lungs, and plunged  ahead  into  the  evening
  light. Off to one side,  he  heard  a  horseman  coming  downslope,  rocks
  clattering beneath charging hooves.
    The dwarf raised his hammer. As Chane skidded  to  a  halt,  the  kender
  bumped into him from behind, then dashed aside to wield his hoopak.
    But there was nothing to attack. Chane and Chess gathered there, staring
  in wonder.
    Jilian was a spinning top, just beginning to run  down  --  a  flashing,
  tilting, dancing blur spewing blood from the point of an  extended  sword.
  Cloven carnage was just collapsing, almost at her twirling feet. The  head
  and shoulders of an ogre thudded down on top of a tangled pile  of  bloody
  parts, just as the dwarven girl's sword flashed around again and took  off
  the top of its skull, above its eyes.
    "By the Hammer of Kharas," Chane swore.
    "Yuk," Chestal Thicketsway said.
    "What in the name of all the gods?"  Wingover's  voice  came  from  just
  upslope. "Jilian? Are you... are you all right?"
    Jilian pivoted a few more times, then got her balance.
    Wordlessly the girl lowered the point of her sword  and  rested  on  its
  hilt as she tried to catch her breath. She stared at the  pile  of  sliced
  ogre, then turned away, wrinkling her nose. At the sight of Chane, she ran
  to him. "I knew you'd come," she puffed, "but that... he  didn't  give  me
  any time to wait for you."
    Chane simply stared at the dismembered ogre, speechless.
    "He was rude," Jilian explained. "He wasn't behaving well at all."
    Chane began to shake his head, slowly.
    "That's Cleft," Jilian introduced, pointing at the stack of ogre parts.
    "That's one way to put it," Chess noted. "Although 'sliced' would  be  a
  better word.  Wow!  Look  at  that!  Feet  ...shins...  knees...  hands...
  thighs... nothing is connected together. Even his head's in two pieces.
  Wow!"
    Wingover had dismounted, and now he, too, stood and stared.
    "I never realized that ogres had two stomachs," Chess  remarked,  poking
  around in the gore of the monster with a stick.
    Chane took Jilian's sword and began to clean it, still shaking his head.
  "Were did you learn to use a sword?" he asked dazedly.
    "In Silicia Orebrand's parlor," she said. "It didn't take much practice.
  I seem to be a natural. Now aren't you glad I came looking for  you?"  She
  strode to Wingover's horse, led the animal a few yards away, positioned it
  beside a boulder, and said, "Excuse me for a minute, please." Dropping its
  reins, she climbed up on the rock and began unlashing one  of  the  packs.
  Wingover was still gawking at the cloven ogre, but now he  noticed  Jilian
  with his horse, and hurried across.
    "What are you doing? Those things are mine."
    "Then make yourself useful and convince your animal to stand still," she
  said. "He keeps sidling away." Wingover stilled the horse, caught  up  its
  reins, and scowled across the saddle at the dwarven girl.  "Those  are  my
  private things. What are you doing?" Rummaging  deep  in  the  open  pack,
  Jilian drew out a long garment of stained white linen. It was longer  than
  she was tall, but by holding it high and turning to the edge of the  rock,
  she could study it full-length. "This will do, I  suppose,"  she  decided.
  "What is it?" Wingover tried to reach  across  the  saddle,  to  grab  the
  garment out of her hand, but couldn't reach it. "Put that back," he
  demanded.
    "That ogre ripped my clothing," Jilian said. "But what is this thing,
  anyway?"
    "It's a cleric's robe," Wingover snapped. "I traded some deerhides for
  it."
    "Why? What did you want it for?"
    "I intend to sleep in it! Sometime, if ever I find a  quiet  room  in  a
  civilized place. Now, let's drop the subject. If you can use it, go ahead,
  I guess. Do you want me to -- 7"
    "I think I can tend to the fitting." Jilian smiled, folding the robe and
  turning back to the open pack to see what else might be  useful.  She  had
  help now. The kender had lost interest in ogre internals and was up on the
  boulder, helping her rummage.
    "You have some nice stuff in here," Chess told the man.
    "There are goblins or something all over down there,"
    Chane said, peering down at  the  valley.  'They're  out  in  squadrons,
  patrolling all over the place. We won't be able to go around them."
    "Through them, then?" Chess asked, looking up from a saddlebag.
    "I wish we had Bobbin to sort out a route for us," the man said. "But he
  went the other way, and there's no telling when he might show up again. By
  the way, where's the wizard? I haven't seen him since we  came  down  from
  the pass."
    "He went up," Chane said.
    "I guess we'll just have to find our way, then."
    Wingover looked at the sky. "Daylight will be gone in an hour.  I  guess
  we can try to cross by night. It's only a few  miles,  straight  across...
  unless we decided to change our minds and just make  for  Thorbardin."  He
  had their attention, and the expressions forming on various faces  brought
  a grin to his own. "Just checking," he said. "I wouldn't want  to  try  to
  slip through a valley full of goblins unless I was pretty  sure  everybody
  with me is as determined as I am."
    Chane Feldstone's thoughtful  frown  didn't  relax.  The  dwarf  stepped
  closer to the human, looked up into his eyes, and held his gaze. "I  never
  wanted to get involved in anything like this. I didn't want to wind up  in
  the wilderness, or fight ogres and goblins, or be singled  out  to  finish
  some task that was begun before ever I was born. But  I  won't  turn  back
  now. I wouldn't if I could. Do you know why? It's because  something  very
  bad is happening ...or is going to happen. I happen  to  be  here,  and  I
  happen to have a chance to do something about it. If I don't, then who  is
  going to?" "I wouldn't miss it for anything," Chestal Thicketsway  assured
  Wingover. "And I think that goes for  Zap,  too."  He  glanced  around  at
  nothing in particular. "Doesn't it, Zap?"
    "Misery and confusion," something silent seemed to say.
    The kender grinned. "That means he can hardly wait to see what happens
  next."
    Jilian Firestoke peered out from behind  a  screen  of  mountain  brush,
  where she was doing something. "What Chane said goes for me, too," she
  said.
    "Any further doubts?" Chane asked the man.
    Wingover shook his head. "Not a single one."
    "Then let's stop talking about it and go on," Chane snapped.
    "Someone is coming." The kender pointed. A moment later brush parted  on
  the rising slope and the wizard  Glenshadow  came  into  view.  He  looked
  haggard and cold, but his steps were firm.
    "The valley is full of goblins," Chane told him. "We are going to try to
  cross at night."
    "I've seen them," Glenshadow said.  "They  are  all  over,  and  they're
  moving around. Where is the crystal? Where is Spellbinder?"
    "Right here." Chane reached into his belt-pouch. As his fingers  touched
  the artifact it pulsed warmly, and again he saw the  luminous  green  path
  leading away across the Vale of Respite, toward the slopes beyond. He drew
  it out. It glowed, rosy in the half-light.
    "Put it in a hole," the wizard said.
    "Why?"
    "Because I'm curious about something. Don't worry, I  won't  trick  you.
  There. That hole in the rock, put it there."
    Suspiciously, Chane squatted beside the indicated hole.  It  was  little
  more than a foot deep, just a pocket where erosion had widened a crack  on
  the stone. The others gathered around, curious.
    "Go ahead," the wizard insisted. "Put it in there. You can take  it  out
  again in a moment."
    Chane lowered the crystal into the hole, rested it on the  bottom,  then
  stood and stepped back. Glenshadow backed away, his  eyes  nearly  closed.
  The crystal device on his staff glowed feebly. "There is  an  effect,"  he
  muttered. "It makes a difference."
    Chestal Thicketsway blinked and looked up. A drop of rain had fallen  on
  his head.
    "Are you finished?" Chane asked the wizard. "It's time to go."
    "Yes," Glenshadow noted thoughtfully. "It is time to go."
    "What was that all about?" Wingover asked. But the wizard had turned
  away.
    Chane retrieved the crystal, put it away, and lashed  his  pack.  Jilian
  came from the screen of brush, now clad in a tunic of stained white linen,
  scaled down to fit her by a series of clever tucks, folds, and  ties.  She
  handed most of the once-robe back to the human.
    Wingover stared at her. "I don't know why I ever thought that  old  robe
  was for me," he said.
    Chane took the lead, and they started down the darkening slopes,  toward
  the Vale of Respite, where goblins now occupied what had once been a  vale
  of peace.
    When they were gone, something massive came from the rocks and paused to
  look at the heap of chilling gore that once had been an ogre.
    He prodded the mess with his toes, then stepped  over  it  and  went  to
  where the dim trail led downward. He growled, a noise  that  rumbled  like
  distant thunder.
    "Cleft was careless," he muttered. "Cleft is dead.  Should  have  waited
  for Loam, instead. But puny ones are still in  sight.  Loam  will  have  a
  sport this night." Without looking back, the ogre took the trail where the
  searchers had gone.

  Chapter 22

    Full night lay on the valley, a nigtht of moons in crescent  pale  above
  the smoke that hung like a layer of smudgy cloud  just  at  the  treetops.
  Bonfires, dozens of them, glowed at ragged intervals along the  course  of
  the winding stream that fed the valley from the south. Out in the meadows,
  near  the  treelines  that  marked  the  grazing  fields  and  burned-over
  stubbles, other fires marked a perimeter. And through  it  all,  suffusing
  the acrid pall of smoke, was goblin-stench.
    Mounted, Wingover ranged out on the forward flanks of the little band of
  travelers -- first warning and first defense for the group, should they be
  discovered. He went silently, keeping to shadows  where  he  could.  Chane
  Feldstone led the rest, his hammer ready in his hand, the ancient path  of
  Grallen visible before him as a faint green mist.
    Chestal Thicketsway was a small, darting shadow,  sometimes  among  them
  and sometimes not, but never  far  away.  The  kender's  sheer,  wide-eyed
  excitement and curiosity was a source of real concern  to  the  rest,  but
  there was little enough anyone could do to curb him. A kender was always a
  kender.
    Had Chess been as tall as a goblin, Wingover might well have chopped off
  his head when the kender appeared unexpectedly in shadows beside him and
  said,
    "I-"
    The sharp sword that whisked past the top of  Chess's  head  would  have
  taken a goblin at the gullet.
    "Oops," the kender said. "Did I startle you? Sorry."
    "Keep your voice down!" Wingover whispered. 'What are you doing here?"
    "I'm part of this group, remember?" Chess held it to a whisper  now.  "I
  just wanted to tell you, there are goblins moving back and forth among the
  fires. I saw a handful of them right over there, just a minute ago."
    "A handful?"
    "Five. They have a dead sheep."
    "I wish you'd stay with the dwarves," Wingover hissed. But there was  no
  answer. Chess was gone again, off on some adventure of his own. At  least,
  Wingover reassured himself, the little creature could move  silently  when
  he felt like it.
    They were nearly a mile into the valley when Wingover saw movement  near
  the end of a hedgerow a hundred yards away. He signaled, a downward thrust
  of his spread hand, and reined into shadow. The stench of goblin and smoke
  was everywhere, and the sky above was a low, drifting fabric with fireglow
  on its belly. Only rarely was any trace of the moons beyond visible.
    Crouching in silence, Wingover chanced a glance back and  saw  that  the
  rest were out of sight. They had seen the signal and faded into a clump of
  trees at the edge of a field.
    At first there was nothing to see, then there was movement  just  ahead.
  Dark shapes appeared, coming over a low  knoll,  directly  toward  Chane's
  party. Wingover counted three silhouettes with wide, round heads,  wearing
  inverted-bowl helmets. The glint of weapons showed amongst them.
    The shadows came on, moving quietly,  their  only  sound  an  occasional
  muted clank of metal on metal. Wingover dismounted and raised  his  shield
  an inch, peering over the top of it, his sword ready. The goblins were  so
  close that the man could hear their guttural voices:
    "... not much farther. Don't get too close. Want to ring them,  not  run
  into them." A few steps more and they stopped. Wingover saw a  tiny  flare
  of light made by a hooded lamp, its top lifted an inch to light  a  straw.
  They had torches! Suddenly Wingover realized what they  were  doing.  They
  were part of an encirclement, preparing to flare torches.
    Somewhere a hoopak whistled, and one of the  goblin  shadows  stiffened,
  gurgled, and fell. The human didn't hesitate. Still crouching, he launched
  himself at the remaining two, clenching his teeth to stifle the battle cry
  that built in his throat. Like a darker shadow, Wingover was on them,  and
  his sword sang softly as it clove between  the  helm  and  collar  of  the
  nearest one.
    Without stopping, Wingover thrust at the remaining goblin, and his blade
  rang on metal. In the fitful light he saw its glittering eyes,  wide  with
  surprise, saw its mouth open to shout alarm. He clubbed  the  goblin  with
  the edge of his shield. It crumpled at his feet. Before the hooded lantern
  could strike the ground, Wingover caught and covered it. Then  he  took  a
  quick look around, raised himself slightly, and signaled.
    In moments the others were with him.
    "They know we're here," Chane said.
    "They know, all right. Stay close and follow  me  -straight  out  across
  that field. And hurry!"
    They moved, trusting to no more than luck to see them to the next cover.
  The searchers crept across a narrow field of stubble,  where  dead  things
  they could not make out were beginning to rot, then down a  slope  into  a
  gully that would carry seasonal runoff toward the main flowing stream.
    "Lead," Wingover whispered to Chane. "We need distance, quick!"
    The dwarf went ahead silently, and they increased  their  pace,  staying
  low in the gully.
    Wingover glanced back, looking over the  cut  just  where  it  deepened.
  There, where they had been, torches were  springing  alight  by  twos  and
  threes -- a wide ring of lights that would have  bathed  them  in  glowing
  fire had they been there.
    He went on, catching up to the rest, counting them as he  passed.  There
  was no sign of the kender. Chane eased back to cover  the  rear  now,  and
  Wingover led, choosing the best and most silent route down through the
  gully.
    "How do they know we're here?" Jilian whispered.
    "Worse than that, they knew exactly where,"
    Wingover pointed out. "They may find us again." He motioned ahead. "This
  cut winds around farther on.
    There could be an ambush. One of us should scout ahead."
    "I'll go," Jilian said, then paused.  Just  ahead  a  small  figure  was
  running toward them. It was the kender. Chess  reached  them  and  pointed
  back the way he had come. 'There are goblins ahead, waiting," he
  whispered.
    "I think they know we're here."
    Somewhere behind, there were guttural shouts.
    "They've found the dead ones,"  Wingover  said.  "If  they  didn't  know
  before -- which they probably did -they certainly know now. How  many  are
  ahead?"
    "I don't know." Chess shrugged. "A bunch."
    "Hold up here," the man hissed, and Chane came forward to see  what  was
  happening.
    "There's an ambush ahead," Wingover said. "They've  found  us,  and  now
  they'll close in."
    Chane turned to the wizard, who had remained  silent  for  much  of  the
  trek. "Do you have any ideas?"
    "I can't rely on magic here," Glenshadow rasped. "Not with you  carrying
  that crystal."
    "Not even a little spell?" Chess suggested.  "Just  something  innocent,
  like conjuring fifty or sixty armed fighters to back us, or -"
    "Make us invisible," Chane said. "Can you do that?"
    "A spell of invisibility? Easily... except for Spellbinder. I don't know
  what would happen."
    "You had the dwarf put that thing in a  hole  earlier,"  Wingover  said.
  -How about trying it that way? I saw your staff glow when he did."
    "I'm going back down there to look at those goblins," the  kender  said.
  "Let me know what you decide." He was gone before anyone could stop him.
    "It might not work," Glenshadow said. "Spellbinder's power is --"
    "We'll try it," Chane decided. He looked around, then crawled  on  hands
  and knees to the edge of the gully,  explored  there  for  a  second,  and
  whispered, "Here's something. Like a small animal's burrow. it's -- ouch!"
    "What happened?" Jilian asked.
    "Something bit me, then ran up my arm and across my head. It's gone now,
  though. This hole is... uh!... arm's length. I'm  putting  Spellbinder  in
  here! Try it, wizard. It's our only chance."
    A fat drop of rain splatted into the dust at  the  wizard's  feet,  then
  several more. Faint thunder rumbled overhead, and the murk deepened. "I'll
  try," Glenshadow decided. He raised his  staff,  its  own  crystal  device
  glowing faintly, and spoke sharp words in a language that meant nothing to
  the rest.
    For a long moment, nothing happened. Then  Wingover  looked  around  and
  drew a sharp breath. Nearby, Jilian had begun to glow -- a rosy pink light
  emanated from her, haloed about her. And beyond, the others  glowed,  too.
  Even the horse had a fine gray patina that reflected off the walls of  the
  gully. The man looked at his own hands. He, too, was shining -- a distinct
  yellow-gold glow. Even the wizard was  lit...  had  a  glow  on,  Wingover
  corrected. Glenshadow shone a deep ruby-red, as  though  light  came  from
  within him and carried the color of his blood.
    Down the gully, guttural voices were raised,  and  something  small  and
  bright green came racing toward them from that direction. 'You  call  this
  invisible?" The kender's exasperated cry echoed ahead of him.  He  skidded
  to a stop. "Wow! You look like lanterns with legs!" he said, pointing back
  down the gully. "They'll be here in a minute. They're yours to play  with.
  I'll go see if I can find some others."
    Like a small, green torch, Chess bounded to the wall of the gully, up it
  to the top, and away across open land. Shouts of pursuit came  from  where
  he had gone. The sprinkling rain  that  had  started  moments  before  had
  eased, but now, abruptly, it came again, a soaking curtain  of  rain  with
  winds behind it. High lightnings danced, and thunder rolled.
    "Now that's more like it," Wingover snapped at the wizard. "Come on,  we
  have to get out of this gully. Here, I'll take the horse.  Where's  Chane?
  Chane?" "I'm right here beside you," the dwarf said. "Go on,  Jilian.  I'm
  right behind you."
    Of them all, only Chane was not aglow. He had never released his grip on
  Spellbinder.
    The rain came harder, a blinding, driving downpour that  began  to  fill
  the gully as they climbed to its high  bank.  Through  the  noise  of  the
  storm, Chane and the others heard the voices of goblins coming up the cut,
  then the sounds of splashing in water and mud. Clouds had rolled in  above
  the lingering smoke, hiding the dim moons. The rain  doused  the  goblins'
  fires. Within moments, the only light in the valley was the  bright  glows
  from the heroes themselves.
    "I wish you'd done the second spell first and  just  skipped  the  first
  one," Wingover told the wizard.
    "My spell recoiled," Glenshadow said. "Spellbinder is too powerful."
    "I mean the rain," the man said, hurrying them along.
    "If we can get a little distance, the downpour might help US.
    "I didn't bring the rain," Glenshadow admitted.
    "You mean it just happened?" Chane Feldstone  growled,  a  shadow  among
  glowing people. "I don't believe it."
    Glenshadow shook his head. "No, it didn't just happen. It's magic... but
  not mine."
    "There are goblins coming from both directions in  that  cut."  Wingover
  pointed back. 'When they meet, they're going to come  out.  Even  in  this
  rain, they'll see us, the way we're shining. Come on, we'd better run  for
  it." He lifted Geekay's reins, turned to run, and stopped. He listened. "I
  hear something," he said.
    The rest turned, listening intently. Rain  hissed  and  thunders  rolled
  overhead, and through it came the splashing, shouting  menace  of  goblins
  converging in the gully. For a moment there was  nothing  more,  then  the
  others heard it.
    Below the other sounds, lower-pitched and  barely  audible,  a  rumbling
  grew, coming from their right, from higher ground.
    "What is it?" Jilian hissed. "That sound."
    Then Wingover knew, and he arched a thoughtful brow. Flash flood. Massed
  waters filling the lowlands upstream, overtopping the deep gully,  rushing
  down toward the stream somewhere below.
    "Floodwaters," he said.
    "The goblins in the gully," Jilian added.
    "They're wearing armor," Chane concluded.
    Wingover dropped his reins and ran back toward the gully. He  heard  the
  others coming behind him. By the light of his own glow he saw the  gully's
  rim, saw heads coming up over it, and saw a pair of hasty bolts flick past
  as he halted, just a few yards from the edge.  A  flung  stone  toppled  a
  goblin backward into the dark cut he had just left. The rumble had  become
  a roar, and was coming closer.
    Wingover felt a bronze bolt tear at his shield, ducked a second missile,
  and howled a chilling war cry as he charged down on  the  shadowy  figures
  coming over the edge. His sword, glowing with golden light,  traced  rapid
  patterns up and down and around,  clattering  against  armor  and  blades,
  darkening itself with goblin blood.
    Two creatures fell before Wingover, and four  more  took  their  places,
  coming up from the roaring, waterfilled gully. He fended  the  strokes  of
  two with his blade, took another cut on his  shield,  and  saw  the  dark,
  furred shape of Chane Feldstone as the dwarf's hammer pierced  a  goblin's
  helmet.
    At Chane's side, Jilian was a rosy blur in the dark,  a  whirling  blade
  with a spinning top at  its  axis.  The  roar  from  the  gully  became  a
  crashing, tearing screech of sound, and a wall of  spray  swept  down  the
  draw, sparkling in the light of the glowing fighters as it  passed.  After
  the wall of water passed, there seemed to be nothing left to fight.
    How many goblins had there been, there in  the  cut?  Wingover  wondered
  silently. There was no way to know. They were gone,  drowned  and  carried
  away toward the main watercourse.
    On the bank, a shadow moved and another, darker shadow sprang toward it.
  Chane's hammer went up, and the  dwarf  rolled  another  goblin  into  the
  torrent. He stood, staggering, and Jilian caught  him  as  he  started  to
  fall. The dwarven girl raised her glowing face, wideeyed, and beckoned  to
  Wingover. He reached the two in two steps and knelt.
    Chane was down, his teeth gritted with pain, and by their own light they
  saw the bronze bolt standing in his shoulder. Jilian reached for it, but a
  glowing, red hand stopped her.
    "Let me," Glenshadow said. "I know what to do."
    With Chane's own nickeliron dagger, the wizard cut out the  goblin-bolt,
  then peeled back the dwarf's fur tunic  to  cut  away  the  rag  of  linen
  beneath. He studied the wound. Setting his thumbs  at  each  side  of  the
  gash, he squeezed it closed. "Get me a flame," he told Wingover.
    The man fumbled in his  pouch  for  his  fire-maker,  a  cunning  device
  obtained from hill dwarves long ago. He fumbled again,  then  peered  into
  his pouch. "It isn't here," he said.
    "Never mind,"  the  wizard  said.  "Jilian,  see  how  I'm  holding  the
  puncture? Can you do that?"
    Jilian took Glenshadow's place, and the  wizard  reached  into  his  own
  belt-pouch and brought out a small, silver object with a lid. "Phosphors,"
  he said. "It will do as well."
    "Phosphors," Wingover muttered, an idea dawning. But there  wasn't  time
  to consider it now. Glenshadow smeared a bit of paste from  the  container
  over the hole in Chane's shoulder, then took another, darker substance and
  knelt beside Jilian. "Let go now, and get back," he said.
    She withdrew her hands, and Glenshadow touched the second paste  to  the
  first with a knife-blade. Suddenly a  brilliance  flared  on  the  dwarf's
  shoulder, and Chane moaned.
    The light subsided as quickly as it had flared. A puff of  white  smoke,
  lifting away to be dispersed by the pounding rain, rose into the air.
    "Bandage him," "Wingover said grimly. "We have to move on. It's still  a
  long way across this valley."

  Chapter 23

    When Chestal Thicketsway went looking for more goblins, it  didn't  take
  him long to find them. Unfortunately, he had  momentarily  overlooked  the
  fact that he was glowing bright green.
    By the time the kender saw the double platoon of armed  hostiles  coming
  at him across a field, they had already seen him. All he could do was run.
  Rain danced and sizzled around him as  he  fled,  every  step  taking  him
  farther from his friends and deeper into enemy territory. He tried dodging
  into a hedgerow, and realized there was nowhere for him to  hide.  In  the
  thickening blackness of the rainy night, he shone  like  a  green  beacon.
  Even shielded by the pouring rain, which increased  steadily  as  he  fled
  from a growing pursuit, his light gave him away.
    Sure evidence of that was the sheer number of metal bolts  that  whisked
  and sang around him, coming from various directions.
    The goblins couldn't  see  him  well  enough  to  aim  carefully,  Chess
  realized -- at lease if he kept moving and managed to evade  dose  contact
  with any of them. But the bolts kept coming, and  he  had  to  admit  that
  simple luck would guide some of them his direction.
    "This may not have been a very good idea," he told himself, diving  into
  a wash half-filled with dark, racing water. A pair of bronze bolts slapped
  water into the kender's face, and he ducked. Soon Chess  was  fighting  an
  increasing current. It carried him one hundred yards downstream before  he
  made it to the far bank.
    His glow preceded him, and as he clambered out of the  wash  a  grinning
  goblin charged into the light,  brandishing  a  sword.  Chess  braced  his
  hoopak, thumped the butt end of it into the creature's face, then  brought
  it around full-circle. The shaft struck the goblin across the back of  the
  neck and laid it out.
    Chess grabbed up the creature's sword, and his nostrils twitched at  the
  smell of goblin. He changed  his  mind  and  flung  the  sword  from  him,
  point-first. In the darkness somewhere close, a goblin gurgled  and  fell,
  pierced between breastplate and buckler. Chess didn't  wait  to  see  what
  would happen next. He turned and ran, following the course of the filling
  wash.
    All about him was  storm  --  pouring  rain  and  driving  winds,  sheet
  lightning and rumbling thunder. Chess ran, and something  hung  with  him,
  something that was part of the  storm.  It-  seemed  to  expand,  to  flex
  invisible muscles. A voice that was no voice said, "Ah!"
    "Ah?" Chess panted. "What do you mean, ah? Do you have something  to  do
  with this... aha! You do! Well, nice going, Zap. Just keep it up, will
  you?"
    "More," something seemed to demand. "Much more."
    "Just behave yourself!" The kender dodged through a  small  wooded  lot,
  where trees exploded into fiery  kindling  as  great  bolts  of  lightning
  struck them. The thunder was deafening. Goblin feet pounded behind  Chess,
  pursuing the globe of bright green light. A bronze bolt  zipped  past  the
  kender's ear and buried itself in a tree trunk.
    As Chess dodged past a clump of brush, lightning  revealed  a  wedge  of
  goblin-warriors  coming  at  the  kender  from  ahead,  only  yards  away.
  Crossbows went up, and Chess went down, diving flat onto a sheet of  water
  inches deep. Bolts sang over him  and  found  targets  among  the  goblins
  pursuing. Chess rolled aside and set off  at  right  angles,  cursing  the
  bright green glow that shone about him. "Invisibility," he hissed. "That's
  some wizard we found!"
    Hazy boles of trees danced past the kender,  reflecting  his  own  green
  light through the pouring rain, then he was in a cleared field and someone
  was just ahead. Chess skidded to a halt, soupy mud sheeting from his feet.
  More goblins... and  something  else.  A  creature  taller  than  goblins,
  wearing dark armor with intricate designs and a  grotesque  barbed  helmet
  with a hideous mask. The  creature  raised  a  sword,  beckoned,  and  the
  goblins around it charged.
    "If you have any more tricks, Zap," Chess breathed,
    "now's the time."
    "Much more," something silent said.
    Lightning crashed and crescendoed, huge  brilliant  bolts  striking  all
  around. The kender's long  hair  fell  from  around  his  neck,  unraveled
  itself, and seemed to stand straight out from his head, a  huge  crown  of
  dark bristle. Bolt after bolt of  lightning  cracked  and  seared,  before
  Chess and behind, and in the flashes he saw goblins tumbling  through  the
  air, falling here and there; goblins thrown aloft; goblins that smoked and
  sizzled and fried. A wind smacked Chess aside. The  kender's  racing  feet
  barely touched the ground as he flew.
    "Wow," he whispered, nearly blinded by his own streaming hair.
    Somewhere behind, he heard a  voice  --  authoritative  and  furious  --
  shouting orders. She sounds cross, he told himself. Better keep going.
    Driven by a howling wind that seemed to try to lift him from the ground,
  lashed by huge drops of rain that stung his back as they  flew  in  almost
  horizontal sheets, blinded by his streaming hair and deafened by thunders,
  the kender gripped his hoopak and leaped high over a tapering rock  ledge.
  Through the tunnel of his hair he  saw  trees  ahead,  lit  by  stuttering
  flashes and his own green glow. He bounded  down  a  sloping  bank  toward
  heavy growth and  tried  to  slow  himself,  without  much  success.  Then
  directly ahead, something huge and ugly  raised  itself  and  spread  wide
  arms, bracing itself against the  screaming  wind.  An  ogre.  Chess  even
  recognized the huge, grimacing features.
    Loam.
    At gale speed the kender closed on the brute, his eyes wide. At the last
  instant, he thrust out his  hoopak,  dropped  its  butt,  and  vaulted.  A
  tumbling leap carried him up  and  past  the  creature's  crushing  hands,
  almost high enough to clear its head. Almost, but not quite. Instead,  the
  kender's feet smacked the ogre's jutting brow. Chess's free hand caught  a
  tangle of Loam's hair, and the kender completed his flip upright, standing
  on top of the ogre's head.
    "I can't wait to tell them about this at Hylo," he muttered. "Of course,
  they're never going to believe it." Before the ogre could react, wind  hit
  them like a fist and Chess was thrown tumbling, into a grove of trees.  He
  got his feet under him and dodged among the trees, downslope.  Behind  him
  he heard a crash and an angry roar. Loam had run into a tree.
    Among the trees, the wind was diffused a little, and the kender slowed a
  bit. But then he was in the open again, on a  broad,  shoaling  bank  with
  raging floodwaters beyond. Wind swept down on him, caught him,  and  threw
  him head over heels into the churning maelstrom.
    Tumbling and fighting, the kender bobbed away downstream.  Above  him  a
  voice that was not there seemed to moan, "No-o-o! Other way-y-y!"

  * * * * *

    Four brightly shining figures and one dark one fled  across  storm-blown
  fields in a murk lighted only by staccato flares  from  above.  Sheets  of
  rain hissed around them,  and  thunder  reverberated.  The  ground  was  a
  flowing morass of runoff.
    Chane Feldstone led now, holding to the slim green trace that was  their
  only means of direction  in  the  turbulent  darkness.  The  dwarf  was  a
  blackness against the dark, staggering sometimes  from  weakness.  He  was
  supported by the rosy-glowing Jilian, who refused to leave his  side.  The
  golden brightness of Wingover, leading  a  glowing  gray  horse,  and  the
  ruby-red Glenshadow, struggled along after the dark dwarven shape.
    The worst of the storm seemed to be to the south, a few  miles  away  at
  most. The curtained darkness in that direction was broken  by  a  constant
  blaze of lightning, and the gale winds swirling  from  there  carried  the
  sharp, sweet breath of ozone.
    They had tried to persuade the dwarf to ride, but he would have none  of
  it. Wingover suspected that Chane, like many of his race, simply  disliked
  horses. Some dwarves were excellent riders, but not all.
    Since leaving the gully, they had seen no goblins -- or any other living
  thing. Possibly the kender, going off alone as he had, had  led  the  main
  forces away. If so, Wingover  thought,  then  the  gods  help  the  little
  creature. He would never stand a chance out there alone.
    Two miles of travel brought them  to  a  descending  slope  with  forest
  beyond, and beyond that the sound of a torrent raging. The valley's stream
  would be out of its banks by now, a rushing beast that no one could cross.
  While Chane rested, with the attentive  Jilian  chattering  at  his  side,
  Wingover scouted. When he returned, he had news. Upstream a half-mile  was
  a well-worn path going east. If there was a bridge, it  should  be  there.
  "And if the alert went out, that's where the goblins  on  the  other  side
  will be waiting," the wizard pointed out. Chane got to  his  feet.  "We'll
  weld that joint when we find it," he said gruffly.
    Wingover shrugged. 'Then lead on, Grallen-kin," he said.
    Again, then, they were on the move. The path Wingover had  found  veered
  eastward, downslope and into forest, beyond which the torrent  raged.  The
  little stream that Camber Meld had called Respite  River  was,  in  normal
  conditions, a  tame  and  pretty  brook.  Now,  though,  it  was  rushing,
  whitecapped black water nearly a hundred yards across -- but  spanned  yet
  by a raised footbridge wide enough to allow carts to pass from one side to
  the other.
    Beyond the stream was rainy darkness.
    "I'll go first." Chane took a deep breath, drawing himself up. "I'm  the
  only one who might get a look at the other side before he's spotted."
    Without waiting for argument, the dwarf trotted down the streaming bank,
  waded through knee-deep water to the bridge's  ramp,  and  disappeared  in
  pouring darkness. He was back a short time later,  appearing  out  of  the
  darkness like a black-furred shadow with a glinting hammer in its hand.
    "The bridge is sound," he told them. "There have  been  goblins  on  the
  path beyond, but they aren't there now. I took a good look  around.  Maybe
  the rain drove them to shelter."
    "I've heard that goblins have no love of clean water," Wingover noted.
    With Chane leading, pale but clear-eyed, they started across. The bridge
  shivered with the force of the torrent below it, and creaked  and  groaned
  when the horse was led onto it, but it seemed secure. The  searchers  were
  halfway across when they noticed that the wind had died  and  the  pouring
  rain was letting up. The storm was dissolving as quickly as it had  begun,
  and through clouds above, the visible moons could be seen in crescent.
    "Our shine is outlasting our shield," Wingover growled, not  looking  at
  the wizard. In a way, he felt the blame had to be shared. The mage had  at
  least tried to give them cover.
    Jilian stopped and raised a hand, pointing upstream.
    "Look," she said.
    Far up the stream, a greenness glowed -- a widening point of light  that
  sparkled the torrent's surface and glimmered along  both  banks.  Even  as
  they watched, the green glow grew, coming toward them rapidly.
    "The kender?" Chane wondered.
    "Oh, rust," Jilian said. "I hope it isn't the poor little thing's
  corpse."
    "He's still shining," Wingover reassured her.
    As Wingover made that hopeful statement,  the  approaching  green  light
  winked out and there was only darkness on the stream. Jilian  gasped.  And
  gasped again as her own rosy glow dimmed and failed.
    "We're losing our glow," Jilian said.
    Wingover's gold radiance held  for  a  moment  more,  then  blinked  off
  abruptly. Now they were only huddled shadows on a dark bridge, highlighted
  by a glowing horse and a radiant red wizard.  The  horse's  light  dimmed,
  lingered for a moment, and was gone.
    The dark torrent raged beneath the footbridge, and now there were specks
  of light upstream. A blaze of torches was coming along the  bank,  on  the
  side they had left. Wingover pointed. "They were following the kender."
    "I think it would be  a  good  idea  if  you  doused  yourself,"  Jilian
  Firestoke told Glenshadow. Still the wizard shone with a bright ruby glow.
    "Come on," Chane urged. "Let's get across. They're coming."
    "How about somebody giving me a hand?" The voice that  came  from  below
  the bridge was highpitched and excited. Chane and Wingover hurried to  the
  edge and peered down into dark, rushing water. They quickly stepped across
  to the other side. Just below, barely visible, Chestal  Thicketsway  clung
  to a hoopak jammed between bridge pilings.
    "Give us some light here," Wingover ordered, pulling Glenshadow  to  the
  edge of the bridge. Ruby glow lit rushing dark waters  and  the  childlike
  face, grinning up at them. Chane Feldstone started  to  crouch  above  the
  kender, then winced as his wounded arm took his weight.
    "Get back," Wingover snapped, pushing the dwarf aside. "I'll  get  him."
  Kneeling, clinging to a bridge support, the man reached  down  and  lifted
  the drenched kender, hoopak and all,  to  set  him  on  his  feet  on  the
  structure. The others stared at Chess. His hair falling  around  him,  the
  kender looked like nothing more than a dark mushroom with a forked stick.
    He pulled back long, soggy hair, shook it aside, and  grinned  at  them.
  "Hello," he said cheerfully, water cascading from him. "Did you know there
  are just a heck of a lot of goblins  out  there  I  I'm  glad  we  stopped
  shining." He looked at the wizard critically. "If  you  intend  to  go  on
  doing that, maybe you should go somewhere else."
    After watching the torches come closer  for  a  moment,  Chane  and  his
  allies could see goblins... and creatures that were taller.  Dragging  the
  glowing wizard with them, trying to keep him shielded  behind  the  horse,
  the searchers scurried for the far end of  the  bridge  and  the  darkness
  beyond. When they were clear, Wingover waved the rest  ahead,  except  for
  Glenshadow. "Your phosphors gave me an idea," he told the wizard. "I think
  it's time to try it." Wingover dug into one of his packs and brought out a
  pair of hand-length cylinders that glowed  silvery  in  the  faint,  murky
  moonlight. "Phosphor flares," he explained. "I got them from a  Qualinesti
  traveler, Garon Wendesthalas." He dug deeper into the pack. "I still can't
  find my oil striker. Can you light these with that phosphor thing?"
    "I can try. What do I light?"
    "This thing here, on each one. It's a fuse."  Wingover  hurried  to  the
  foot of the bridge and placed a flare on each side, at the main  supports.
  "Hurry," he said.
    The wizard knelt at  first  one  and  then  the  other  of  the  flares,
  preparing the wicks. His glow was dimming slightly, and he squinted in the
  gloom.
    "Will this help?" It was Chess, coming back to see what they were doing.
  The kender held a small metal object, which he manipulated with his thumb.
  A merry little fire appeared above his hand. But the wizard set the flares
  then. Harsh, bright sparks spewed forth, and Wingover  said.  "All  right,
  get back!"
    They retreated a dozen paces, then several more  as  bronze  bolts  sang
  past them from beyond the stream. Suddenly the flares erupted  in  furious
  blinding brilliance, beyond which a flood of armed goblins were running up
  the far ramp, onto the bridge.
    Another bronze dart flew past,  and  Wingover  snapped,  "Put  out  that
  light." Then he turned to the kender as the little flame went out.  "Where
  did you get that?"
    Chess shrugged. "I don't know. Found it somewhere. What is it?"
    "It's my oil striker!" Wingover growled.
    "Is that what it is? Why do I have it, then?"
    "I don't know why you have it. Give it back!"
    Chess handed the thing over. "You must have dropped it  along  the  way.
  Lucky I found it for you. Looks a lot handier than flint and steel."
    "It is flint and steel. With a wick. And oil. I --" Wingover stopped and
  stared. The flares on the bridge had done their  job.  The  bridge  blazed
  merrily now, a wall of fire from edge to edge, barring  passage  from  the
  other side. A few wooden planks were even falling away to hiss in the dark
  waters below. But on the other side,  a  person  had  pushed  through  the
  clamoring crowd of goblins -- a taller  person,  wearing  gleaming  black,
  ornamented armor and a horned helmet with a beaten mask. As Wingover,  and
  now the others, stared across the fire, the person removed the  mask.  The
  wilderness man caught his breath. For the first time, he saw the  face  of
  Kolanda Darkmoor. The hideous mask across the bridge was lowered, and  the
  woman behind it was -- no, might have been -stunningly beautiful. But  she
  was something else instead. Wingover sensed absolute evil there. She  only
  glanced at him, though, for her gaze swiftly locked  on  Chane  Feldstone.
  She put her hand to her throat and lifted something from her breastplate.

  Chapter 24

    "How could you let them get away?" the  woman  shouted.  "I  set  a  net
  across this valley, and you... you sniveling excuse for  a  troopleader...
  you let them slip through!"
    Thog,aparticularly ugly hobgoblin, and six goblins  cowered  before  the
  Commander, afraid to respond. "Two platoons dead or missing!"  The  horned
  helmet turned from one to another of them, its dragon facemask seeming  to
  boom with each syllable. "Did any of you even see  them  clearly?  Do  you
  know how many there were?"
    Thog scuffed his toe and  raised  hiseyes.  "Fiveof  the  lighted  ones,
  Commander... but one of them was a horse."
    Furious eyes blazed at the hobgoblin from behind the  mask.  "Five,  but
  one was a horse. There were six! Counting the horse. I counted  them.  Why
  couldn't you?" When there was no answer, the Commander  paused  a  moment,
  shaking with fury.
    "Double shifts!" she  said  then.  "Double  shifts  for  everyone  until
  further ordered. Now, get out of my sight!" The hobgoblin and the  goblins
  turned and hurried away, almost scrambling in their haste. When they  were
  gone, she muttered, "And you... I found the dwarf for you. All you had  to
  do was destroy him. Why didn't you?"
    A dry, twisted voice that seemed to come  from  within  the  Commander's
  armor said, "Ah... she questions me? Does she dare?"
    "I dare question you, yes," Kolanda hissed. "Why didn't you strike  down
  that dwarf? Why didn't you strike them all down? I gave you the chance!"
    "Magic failed," the voice said.  "But  there  will  be  another  chance.
  Glenshadow knows."
    "Glenshadow?"
    "Glenshadow," the thin voice repeated bitterly. "He knows  I  will  kill
  him when next we meet." Kolanda Darkmoor walked to a high, clear ridge  to
  oversee the reorganization of her troops. Though it was  unthinkable  that
  the dwarf with the knowledge of Thorbardin's secret -- and his  companions
  -- had somehow managed to get past all her  defenses,  she  let  her  fury
  subside somewhat and resumed her planning. The dwarf had  to  be  stopped.
  She turned and looked at the range of mountains to the east.
    Goblin trackers had reported at morning's first light.
    The group had gone almost straight east across the valley ...  at  least
  as far as they had been able to track them. Someone  with  the  group,  it
  seemed, was skilled at covering trail. But they had  gone  east,  and  due
  east lay the soaring peak of Sky's End. Kolanda knew from her scouts  that
  there was an old, climbing trail that curved around the mountain's slopes,
  but it would be a tedious and difficult journey. It would  have  been  far
  better for them to take the pass road, farther north. It  crossed  heights
  more scalable than giant Sky's End, and there was  a  bridge  beyond  that
  crossed the chasm and led toward the Plains of  Dergoth.  And  it  was  to
  those plains that the dwarf must be  going,  because  it  was  there  that
  Grallen fell.
    Kolanda smiled. Several of the captured humans and dwarves had  died  in
  the process of their inquisition, but she had  a  serviceable  map  and  a
  great deal of information as a result.
    The northern pass would place her on Dergoth well ahead of the fleeing
  group.
    There was still one other matter to attend to here. The refugees who had
  crossed the ridge into the next valley to the west were  still  at  large,
  and she wanted them. Only a small force would be necessary for that.
    When the troops were assembled, Kolanda Darkmoor sent a  group  to  find
  the fugitives from Harvest and Herdlinger, and bring back all those fit to
  be put to work. The unfit would simply be killed.
    "Go south a few miles," she told them, "then cross over into Waykeep and
  turn northward. Trap them, subdue them, and bring back slaves."

  * * * * *

    Bobbin was growing more and more irritated as the days  passed.  He  was
  irritated with himself, irritated with his soarwagon, and  irritated  with
  the world in general. And much of his  irritation  came  of  being  bored.
  Except for sightseeing, there was hardly anything to do when one was stuck
  aloft in a contrivance powered by  the  very  air  currents  on  which  it
  floated. And the soarwagon was far more responsive to the wind's  vagaries
  than to the feeble controls the gnome had managed to build into its
  structure.
    For the past day or so, there hadn't even been anyone to talk to.  Since
  leaving the pass between Waykeep and Respite, Bobbin had tried any  number
  of times to return, but the soarwagon wouldn't go. He kept winding  up  in
  other places, or over familiar places but too high  in  the  sky  to  make
  contact with anyone. And he was running low on raisins.
    In a way, that could be a blessing, he  realized,  because  it  was  the
  half-bushel of raisins that had caused his present set  of  problems.  The
  raisin basket -- resting just in front of him in  the  soarwagon's  wicker
  cab -- had shifted and fouled his control lines, and so far  he  had  been
  unable to correct them. His lateral and pitch pulls were  crisscrossed  in
  some fashion, somewhere beyond his reach. The result  was  that  he  could
  gain altitude more or less at will. To descend, however, he  had  to  wait
  for the air currents to make proper adjustments on the  vehicle's  forward
  foils, and hope that the positioning would hold long enough  to  get  near
  the ground again before it reversed itself and climbed.  Worse  still,  he
  could not turn left. Only right.
    The dilemma  was  symptomatic  of  the  basic  control  problem  in  the
  soarwagon's design. In building it, Bobbin had underestimated the  craft's
  buoyancy and misjudged the sensitivity of its control surfaces.
    The other gnomes were right, he told himself.  I  am  insane.  Had  this
  contrivance been  built  in  proper  gnomish  fashion  --  designed  by  a
  committee, sublet out among several guilds, and then assembled by  a  task
  force, it wouldn't have these problems. But then, it wouldn't fly at all.
    The problem of the airfoils and their controls wasn't insoluble.  Within
  the first week of his plight, Bobbin had deduced what was wrong and how it
  could be corrected.
    Part of it was the result of something  unforeseen,  a  phenomenon  that
  Bobbin simply had not known existed. The air near the  ground  was  denser
  and more turbulent than that higher up, and all drafts  within  twenty  or
  thirty feet of the ground were updrafts.
    Obvious enough, now that he understood it. But  he  hadn't  known  about
  such things when he had designed the soarwagon. His  assumption  had  been
  that air was air, anywhere.
    He had even named the phenomenon of  the  nearsurface  currents.  Ground
  effect, he called it. And he had worked out the  control  requirements  to
  correct for it. Only one  problem  remained.  The  soarwagon  couldn't  be
  repaired in flight. He would have to land  first.  And  he  couldn't  land
  until it was repaired.
    Feeling grumpier by the minute, Bobbin tugged  his  strings  and  helped
  himself to some more raisins. He wished he had some cider to go with them.
  Raisins without cider were like a sundial without a pointer. Adequate, but
  hardly timely.
    Through a long morning he had been drifting in wide right-hand  circles,
  while the soarwagon descended  from  an  abrupt,  screaming  climb  to  an
  estimated twenty thousand feet -- a  maneuver  executed  entirely  without
  Bobbin's assistance. Once at that lofty altitude, the  device  had  seemed
  satisfied to begin a slow, languid descent. Bobbin had set  the  soarwagon
  in an easy right-hand  pitch  and  spent  the  intervening  hours  dozing,
  fuming, and eating raisins.
    After Bobbin finished his breakfast and washed it  down  with  rainwater
  collected during the previous night's storm, he looked over  the  side  of
  his wicker cab to see if he could identify where he was.  He  frowned  and
  shook his head in disgust. A half-mile below was that same valley  he  had
  been trying to leave when his raisins shifted:  the  long,  wooded  valley
  between ridges, the one those people had called Waykeep.  The  place  with
  the winding black road.
    Off to Bobbin's left was the smoke of the refugee camps, the people  who
  had come across from the next valley,  fleeing  an  invasion  of  goblins.
  Ahead, just a few miles, was the textured ice-field where he had first met
  the kender, Chestal Thicketsway. An old  battleground,  the  creature  had
  said. The lumps of ice on the field contained fighting dwarves, frozen  in
  place. Bobbin saw no reason to doubt it, though why it mattered was beyond
  him.
    There were people out there now, on the ice. People  moving  around.  He
  squinted. Dwarves... and either humans or elves. From such a distance,  it
  was hard to tell, except that some of them seemed to have beards.
    Humans, then, he decided. Elves don't have beards. Other movement caught
  the gnome's attention then, far  off  to  his  right,  to  the  south.  He
  squinted, trying to see details. A large group of... something... crossing
  a clearing between stands of forest, coming  north.  Sunlight  glinted  on
  metal. Armor?
    The soarwagon's lazy circle brought it over the edge of the  ice  field,
  and Bobbin leaned  out  to  wave.  "Somebody'scomingyourway!"  he  shouted
  excitedly, waving his arms and pointing. But he was ton high.  The  people
  down there, dwarves and humans, obviously from  the  refugee  camps,  were
  intent on the ice itself, and what was under it. No  one  looked  up,  and
  within moments the soarwagon was past them, continuing its descending
  spiral.
    Long minutes passed, then the other group was in sight again below,  now
  dead ahead. The gnome leaned out to squint at them. He  saw  them  clearly
  now. Armored goblins, a company of them marching in rough  phalanx  order,
  with a slightly larger figure in the lead -- a waddling,  greenish-colored
  thing in bright misfitting  armor.  Bobbin  had  never  seen  a  hobgoblin
  before, though he knew what they were. If anything, he decided, hobgoblins
  were even uglier than ordinary goblins. Without its bright garb, the thing
  would have resembled a big, misshapen frog.
    The soarwagon closed on the marching company below, lower  now,  only  a
  few hundred yards up. Well, Bobbin told himself, I'll  circle  over  those
  other people again pretty soon. I  can  tell  them  then  that  there  are
  goblins coming. None of my business, I suppose, but then nobody needs
  goblins.
    As he sailed over the marching goblins, Bobbin heard  their  shouts  and
  leaned out to look down at them. Crossbows and blades were  brandished  at
  him, and guttural taunts drifted upward.  On  impulse,  the  gnome  looked
  around for something unpleasant that he could drop on them. The only thing
  that came to hand was an empty line-spool wedged between the raisin basket
  and the lateral courses. He gripped it, pulled it  loose...  then  grabbed
  the rails of his cab and hung  on  for  dear  life  as  the  snagged  tilt
  controls of the soarwagon suddenly broke free and the vehicle responded.
    The left wing dipped sharply, the nose went up, and Bobbin's contrivance
  came around in a hard  turn,  climbing.  Righting  itself,  the  soarwagon
  pointed its nose at the sky and shot straight up, then completed a perfect
  roll and reversed itself in a blistering dive,  directly  at  the  goblins
  below. They stared, shouted, and began to run in  all  directions.  Bobbin
  cursed as he fought his lines and eased the dive. But the craft had a mind
  of its own and responded with a neat half-roll.
    Upside down and frantic, Bobbin  shot  over  the  heads  of  the  goblin
  troops, raining raisins down upon them. By the time he managed to turn the
  soarwagon right side up, he was  four  miles  south  and  climbing,  again
  coming about in a wide right-hand turn.
    Bobbin clung to his lines, pounded his wicker  rail  with  a  frustrated
  fist.  "Gearslip!"  he  cursed.  "Threadbind  and  metal  fatigue!  You
  misassembled piece of junk, can't you behave yourself  just  once?  Stress
  analysis and critical path i If I ever get my feet on solid ground  again,
  I'm going to take you apart and make  camel  davits  out  of  you!"  At  a
  half-mile  relative  altitude,  the  soarwagon  soared  serenly  over  the
  scattered force of goblins, over the intervening  forests,  over  the  ice
  field where humans and dwarves worked to gather old weapons.  Finally,  it
  passed over the huddled encampment beyond,  where  refugees  tended  their
  children and wounded companions, then raised its nose and climbed.  Bobbin
  closed his eyes and shook his head. Things were bad before. Now he was out
  of raisins. High above the ridge that separated  two  wilderness  valleys,
  and miles north of the pass, the gnome repaired and rerouted  his  control
  lines and prepared to come about one  more  time.  At  least  now  he  had
  controls again, after a fashion. He  could  turn  east,  then  south,  and
  possibly find the people he had lost at the mountain crossing.
    Then movement of an entirely different sort caught Bobbin's eye, and  he
  raised himself high in his wicker to peer dead ahead. Something was coming
  from the north, coming  toward  him,  a  speck  against  the  horizon  but
  definitely coming his way... and flying. Where exasperation had been, hope
  surged forward, brightening the gnome's gaze.
    Flying! Someone else is  up  here  in  another  flying  machine,  Bobbin
  thought gleefully. I'm not alone. Grinning eagerly, he  settled  into  his
  wicker seat and lowered the nose of the soarwagon gently, aiming  for  the
  approaching flier. Someone to compare notes with! Someone who  might  have
  an answer to my dilemma! Someone else in the sky!
    At a mile's distance, the gnome studied the stranger. Red  in  color  --
  bright, crimson red -- with movable wings that flapped rhythmically, and a
  long, trailing appendage of some sort. And legs? Yes, definitely legs. Not
  wheels or runners, but jointed legs, like an animal's. And who was  flying
  it? Bobbin could not see a cockpit or basket, not even someone mounted  on
  a bench.
    Closer still, Bobbin moved. Then his eyes began to widen in  incredulous
  astonishment. The thing looked -he would have sworn it --  like  a  flying
  dragon. Ridiculous, he told himself. There are no dragons on Krynn.  There
  were dragons once, they said. Ages ago. But not now. Not in the memory  of
  anyone living had there been reports of dragons.
    Closer and closer the two fliers came, and more and more Bobbin  had  to
  admit that it did look like a dragon. A huge, red, flying  dragon,  coming
  along the line of peaks, coming directly toward him.
    Fear washed up and down the gnome's spine, a compelling,  sweating  fear
  that was like cold fingers gripped him. Then a voice spoke  to  him.  "Who
  are you?" it asked, seeming to be right there beside  him.  Bobbin  gasped
  and looked around, this way and that, trying to see who  had  spoken.  The
  dragon was a halfmile away now, and there was no doubt in the gnome's mind
  that it was, indeed, a dragon. Again the voice  at  the  gnome's  shoulder
  asked, "Who are you?"
    "Who are you?" the gnome shouted. "Where are you?"
    "You're looking at me," the  voice  said.  "Yes.  Me.  And  yes,  little
  creature, I am what you think I am. Now, calm down and tell me who you
  are?"
    "Bobbin," Bobbin said. "I... I'm a gnome. Are you  really  a...  But  of
  course you are. You wouldn't say so if you weren't, would you?"
    "Bobbin," the voice seemed to  purr  in  his  ear.  "Just  keep  coming,
  Bobbin. You will have no further doubts, in a moment or so."
    Whether it was Bobbin's own numb hands trembling at the control strings,
  or some vagrant current of air, the soarwagon chose that instant  to  slip
  to the right, stall, and go  into  a  nosedive.  Suddenly  the  gnome  saw
  spinning mountaintops straight ahead, and somewhere  behind  him  the  air
  crackled with fire.
    "Oh, gearslip?" he muttered, struggling with his controls.
    "Aha," the voice at his shoulder chuckled. "A  fine  dodge,  gnome.  You
  were lucky that time. But you won't be so lucky again.  I  can't  let  you
  live, you know."
    "Why not?" Bobbin tugged strings, wrestling the plunging  soarwagon  out
  of its spin.
    "Because you have seen me," the calm voice said.
    "That is your misfortune. None who see me must live to tell of it... not
  yet, anyway. You see, that could spoil the Highlord's plan."
    "I wouldn't want to do that, I suppose." Bobbin hauled on his lines, and
  the soarwagon's nose edged a few degrees down.  Bobbin  glanced  back  and
  gasped. The red dragon was less than a hundred yards back,  wings  folded,
  gaping jaws displaying ranks of glittering teeth. The  soarwagon  screamed
  into a dive, strained its fabrics, and flattened out of the  descent,  its
  wake currents spewing a small snowstorm from the icy top of a  rock  peak.
  Behind the contraption the dragon spread great wings and dodged the
  pinnacle.
    "That was a nice stunt," the deep voice  said  in  Bobbin's  mind.  "But
  awfully chancy."
    "I'm insane," the gnome explained.
    "What a shame," the dragon voice purred. "Well, you won't have to  worry
  about that much longer."
    Bobbin glanced around again. He had gained some lead, but now the dragon
  was winging around, making for him in a flanking attack. The creature  was
  huge, far larger in both length and wingspan than Bobbin's  soarwagon.  It
  fairly radiated power and dominance and a mastery of  the  air.  Its  very
  presence was enough to inspire an awful fear, like nothing the  gnome  had
  felt before.
    "I  don't  suppose  we  could  come  to  some...  ah...  less  terminal
  agreement?" Bobbin suggested, throwing the soarwagon into a side slip that
  plunged it directly below the dragon. He soared into a  climb  beyond  his
  pursuer.
    "Don't be ridiculous," the dragon voice was tinged with anger now... and
  something else that tingled just beyond the  gnome's  understanding.  "You
  might as well stop this  dancing  around.  You  don't  have  a  chance  of
  escaping, you know."
    "I'm  sorry,"  Bobbin  said.  "No  offense  intended,  of  course,  but
  self-preservation is  a  difficult  habit  to  break."  He  increased  the
  soarwagon's pitch and reached for the sky. Behind him, the red dragon beat
  great wings, powerful in full pursuit. Yet, somehow, the  beast  seemed  a
  trifle sluggish.
    Could the creature be tired? the gnome wondered. The hint in the  voice,
  that subtle something... could it be fatigue?
    "Stop this, now!" the dragon commanded. "I don't have all day."
    "I'm wrestling with my instincts," Bobbin assured it. "I suppose  you've
  come quite a long way."
    "Nearly five hundred miles," the dragon snapped.
    "Not that it's any of your business."
    "Aerodynamics," Bobbin muttered. "Mass and energy coefficients."
    "Stop babbling and come back here!"
    "You certainly are big," the gnome remarked, his mind racing. "I'll  bet
  you weigh a ton."
    "Closer to three," the dragon voice sneered.
    "Five hundred miles, you said?" He dug out a carbon marker and did rapid
  calculations on the trailing edge of his wing. "At  say...  twenty  knots?
  That means you've been in the air for more than twenty-four hours.  That's
  a long time. Do you have far to go?"
    "Not much farther. Now let's get this over with. Turn around?"
    "I'm still having problems  with  my  autonomic  responses,"  the  gnome
  apologized. Glancing around  one  more  time,  he  readjusted  his  lines,
  dropping the craft's nose in a sudden forty-five degree dive. He  wondered
  how much longer he could stay out of the dragon's reach.

  Chapter 25

    Camber Meld and Fleece  Ironhill  stood  at  the  center  of  a  ragged,
  determined line of refugees, watching  goblins  advance  across  the  ice.
  Twenty-eight fighters formed the motley line, dwarves and humans, most  of
  them male but with a few females among them. A few held weapons of  recent
  make, but most were armed with ancient blades, hammers, axes, and  shields
  broken from the smoking ice -- weapons that had been dropped or cast aside
  by those still under the ice. The two chieftains  looked  each  way  along
  their ragged battle line, then glanced at each other.  There  was  nothing
  more to say, and nothing now to do except wait for the attack and hold the
  line for as long as possible while the  helpless  ones  --  those  in  the
  refugee camps -- made their escape.
    It was all they could do. The refugees were  outnumbered  four  to  one,
  poorly armed and poorly  equipped,  a  handful  of  herders  and  planters
  against a force of goblins. They all knew that the best they might achieve
  would be a little time.
    The refugees had been exploring the ice field when they saw the  goblins
  coming from the south, no more than a mile away. There had been time to do
  no more than send a runner to warn  the  camps,  and  break  out  as  many
  weapons and shields as they could find under the  shallow  ice.  Wisps  of
  ancient dark smoke, trapped from trees and grasses caught blazing  by  the
  ice, had drifted from the breaks with each new crack.
    Now they waited as grinning goblins, a hobgoblin  leading  them,  surged
  across the ice, eager for slaughter. Crossbows were aimed,  and  a  deadly
  rain of bronze darts lashed out at the defenders. Shields took most of the
  missiles, but two dwarves and a gray-haired man fell. The goblins  shouted
  as they slung their bows, raised swords and pikes, and charged.
    All along the line, blades  struck  from  behind  shields  as  the  foes
  closed, and goblin blood steamed and stank on the ice, mingling  here  and
  there with the crimson blood of humans and dwarves.
    The little line of defenders took the first assault and turned it  back,
  then closed ranks and retreated slowly,  drawing  the  barely  disciplined
  goblins out of their formation and into single -- or more often double  or
  triple -combat. For long minutes, the skill and sheer desperation  of  the
  defending line held the field. But the goblins  were  too  many,  and  the
  refugee army retreated again... and again. Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill
  found themselves fighting side by side, and knew that this  would  be  the
  final strategy. Hold and retreat, hold and retreat, until none  were  left
  to face the goblins. It was, simply, a buying of time.
    At the edge of the ice field they retreated yet again, no  more  than  a
  dozen of them now against at least seventy  goblins.  The  goblins  formed
  another charge, then halted. Goblin mouths dropped open, and  goblin  eyes
  stared aloft, beyond and above the line of defenders.
    Fleece Ironhill glanced around just as something very fast skimmed  over
  his head and swept upward on wide, pale wings. He didn't see what it  was,
  nor did he try to follow it with his eyes. Instead he stared at the second
  flying thing, plunging down from above.  A  huge  red  dragon,  its  mouth
  opened wide and a rush of fire coming from it. The dragon flared its wings
  and soared over the line of battle.
    Without warning, the dragon's fire-breath smote the ice field behind the
  goblins.

  * * * * *

    Bobbin was in trouble. For a brief time, he had held his distance  ahead
  of the dragon, the soarwagon diving earthward on rippling  wings.  But  he
  had waited too long, gone too low, and  lost  his  edge.  The  dragon  had
  managed to get above him, and now was closing with deadly speed. The gnome
  heard the long, deep rumble of in-drawn breath and knew what it meant.
    "Thermodynamics," the gnome muttered, praying that his final calculation
  was correct, that the same ground effect that had been his  undoing  might
  just this once work to his advantage. How many times  since  he  had  gone
  aloft had the soarwagon  abruptly  shot  skyward  in  a  screaming  climb,
  propelled by the extra buoyancy of the near-ground air?
    "Don't change your ways just yet," Bobbin muttered, taking a  firm  hold
  on his lateral controls. The ice field sped by just a few yards below.
    Closing his  eyes,  he  pulled  the  strings.  Behind  and  beneath  the
  soarwagon's tail, a torrent of terrible flame seared the air and flowed in
  waves of heat across the ice field,  which  seemed  to  explode  in  great
  clouds of steam and soot.
    The soarwagon went nearly straight up, a pale sliver flung  by  its  own
  dynamics and given added speed by uprushing  air  currents  ahead  of  the
  rising clouds of steam. Bobbin opened his eyes and looked  around.  Behind
  him was a tiny, distant landscape, where finger ridges  of  mountains  lay
  like furrows in a field. And  barely  visible,  far  below,  was  the  red
  dragon, just coming out of its dive and beginning to circle to the east.
    "How did you do that?" The dragon voice in his ears seemed genuinely
  impressed.
    "I bounced off the ground effect," the gnome  explained.  "It's  nothing
  especially new. I've been bouncing off it for weeks."
    "Ground effect?" The voice seemed fainter now.
    "That's what I call it. The air near the ground is denser than  the  air
  higher up. It's why I can't land."
    "You can't land? You mean you can't get down?"
    "No, blast it! I can get near the ground, but I can't  quite  reach  it.
  Uh... are you coming after me again? I'd rather you didn't. I have  enough
  troubles without you." The diminishing voice in  Bobbin's  ear  seemed  to
  chuckle. "I've heard of gnomes being standoffish, but you're the first one
  I've found who was actually stuck up!
    But I have no more time for you, so I suppose this is  your  lucky  day.
  Goodbye, Bobbin." Again there was a fading chuckle, then the voice was
  gone.
    The gnome had managed to level out his climb, and  he  looked  over  the
  wicker rail. In the distance below, the red dragon  was  winging  for  the
  mountains east of Waykeep. Bobbin circled and watched until  the  mythical
  beast cleared the peaks there and descended into the smoky  mists  beyond.
  Then he sighed and tugged on his descent strings. He was cold and  hungry,
  and ready to go down. Apparently the soarwagon was, too. At the  slightest
  pressure on its vanes, it dropped its nose and  plummeted  straight  down,
  its wings rippling and whining.
    "Stress and derailment!" the gnome swore, and began  another  adjustment
  on his controls.

  * * * * *

    When dragonfire rolled over the frozen  battlefield,  the  effects  were
  instantaneous. Ice splintered and  fell  away,  becoming  great  spreading
  clouds of steam mixed  with  ancient  smoke.  Gray  mist  roiled  outward,
  obscuring the goblins and the defenders beyond,  then  drifted  upward  on
  heated drafts. A wide, thick cloud shadowed  a  foreshortened  land  where
  everything seemed to writhe and rumble. Goblins retreated, wide-eyed, then
  turned and retreated again when the blades of the  handful  of  human  and
  dwarf refugees drew blood.
    The evil minions fell back, turned again, and stopped in confusion. From
  the rolling clouds came dwarves, hundreds of dwarves.  Dwarves  armed  and
  armored. Mountain dwarves and hill dwarves with dead eyes in frozen  faces
  that had not known change  in  more  than  two  centuries  --  faces  that
  grimaced and twisted in the exact ways they had when they  fought  against
  one another in a burning forest at the instant the spell of ice  had  been
  cast by an archmage.
    But they were not fighting among themselves now.  Mountain  dwarves  and
  hill dwarves stood shoulder to shoulder, spread out beneath the dark plume
  of choking steam. They  were  silent  and  relentless,  and  fell  on  the
  panicked goblins without a hesitation or a  sound.  The  hobgoblin  leader
  screamed, turned to run, and fell, his helm pierced by  Fleece  Ironhill's
  spiked hammer. Two jibbering goblins following him died under the sword of
  Camber Meld. The cooling cloud of dark steam  above  was  descending  now,
  settling as a dense fog streaked with ash, slanting  before  a  wind  that
  came across the old battlefield, carrying the dry scent of ages. For  long
  minutes there was only silence and the blinding mist.  Then,  slowly,  the
  cloud thinned. Five humans and six hill dwarves, the last of the  combined
  fighting force led by Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill, stood alone at  the
  edge of a great, blackened plain littered with bodies,  dropped  arms  and
  ancient burned stumps. Most of the strewn bodies  were  goblins,  many  of
  them still pierced by the weapons that had killed  them.  And  everywhere,
  among and around them, were little heaps of clothing and armor -- all that
  remained of the dwarves of Waykeep,  fighters  released  from  an  ancient
  spell for one last cut, one last thrust, at an enemy.
    The refugees looked around in awe. Nothing moved except the wind...  the
  wind, and a sliver of white far to the east, something that  flew  like  a
  bird with still wings, riding on the air. Something going away.

  * * * * *

    On a forest-shrouded knoll in the Vale of Respite, some  distance  south
  of the encampments of the goblins, a red dragon  burrowed  into  leaf-mold
  and slept the sleep of exhaustion. Even the most powerful of creatures had
  its limits, and this one had been in flight for nearly  thirty  hours  and
  more than five hundred miles. It  had  flown  from  a  lair  deep  in  the
  Khalkist Mountains to a secret place near Sanction, then had  spanned  the
  entire width of Newsea, past Pax Tharkas, and now lay  in  the  wilderness
  ranges between Qualinost and Thorbardin,  in  the  Kharolis  Mountains  of
  western Ansalon.
    It had chosen the knoll, sent a mind-call northward,  then  burrowed  in
  and slept. Through the remainder of that day it rested,  and  through  the
  night and most of the next day. The sleep restored its strength,  and  the
  dragon dreamed the comfortable dreams of one  who  by  birthright  can  be
  absolute lord over anyone or anything that it cares to dominate...  except
  others like itself, and one beyond, the one the  dragon  called  the  Dark
  Queen. The dragon slept for twenty-eight hours, then awoke briefly  to  be
  aware of its surroundings.
    The one it had called was there, waiting. The dragon went back to  sleep
  and dozed for another three hours. Finally, when it was  rested,  the  red
  dragon stirred, shook away the forest leaves, and lifted  its  huge  head.
  Its  long,  sinuous  body  moved,  and  the  beast  stretched  its  wings
  deliciously. The dragon felt  renewed,  restored.  Nearby,  a  small  fire
  burned, and the person beside  it  came  to  her  feet.  "Have  you  slept
  enough?" she asked sourly.
    "I always sleep enough," the dragon said. "It is you  who  should  worry
  about sleep. The Highlord would be displeased if you should fail  in  your
  mission."
    "I have not failed," the woman said.  "All  of  the  lands  between  Pax
  Tharkas and Thorbardin are in my control ...or will be by  the  coming  of
  spring. My goblins are in place, and all that remains is the gathering  of
  slaves to build some decent fortifications."
    The dragon's gaze was mocking. "If that is all that remains, why are you
  aligning your troops to cross over into the Plains of Dergoth  beyond  the
  mountains?"
    "A minor matter," she snapped. "It would not interest the Highlord."
    "It might," the dragon purred. "Or would you rather I just  report  that
  you didn't care to discuss it?"
    "It's nothing! There is a dwarf who has learned of the invasion gate  to
  Thorbardin and thinks he can block it. I simply intend to eliminate him."
    "Interesting," the dragon said. "As I recall, you told the Highlord that
  no one except you and your... ah, coinhabitant... knew of the  lost  gate.
  You assured the Highlord that Thorbardin will stand open to  him  when  he
  comes, and that he can make it his base of operations."
    "So I did, and so it will be. Do you doubt me?"
    "So many of the best-laid plans," the dragon chuckled.
    "Especially those of humans...."
    "I will not fail!"
    "I wouldn't, if I were you," the dragon whispered.  "Is  there  anything
  you would like reported to the Highlord?"
    "Report what you have seen," Kolanda snarled. "I'm doing my  job,  so  I
  assume you can do yours."
    The woman glared at the dragon, then turned without a  word  and  walked
  away. The horned mask under her arm stared  back  at  the  lizard  through
  hollow eyes. The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuriously. It
  would be time soon to spread great wings and begin the long flight back to
  the region of Sanction. The Highlord would be waiting for his report.  The
  Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north now, amassing armies, sending
  out spies and patrols, plotting and securing lines  of  march,  organizing
  systems ... petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the  Dark  Queen
  would unleash them across Ansalon and beyond. They would then  secure  for
  her -- once and for all -- the world she wanted and was fit to  rule.  The
  dragon pondered for a moment whether to report the  gnome  in  the  flying
  thing who had seen him and somehow  escaped.  He  thought  about  it,  but
  decided that there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a
  gnome.

  * * * * *

    Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting  place,  Chane
  Feldstone led a tired and  dusty  little  group  along  a  winding  ledge.
  Mountain winds sang in towering crags above them, and mists hid the depths
  below.
    "Do you know where we are?" Wingover asked the dwarf for the  second  or
  third time in an hour.
    "Why don't you leave him alone?" Jilian Firestoke  snapped.  "Can't  you
  see he's tired?"
    Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.
    Still weak from his shoulder wound, he  sometimes  stumbled  and  rarely
  spoke, though he pushed on with grim determination. Chane was following --
  the rest could only assume -- the green line that marked  the  path  where
  Grallen had gone centuries before.
    In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover kept  questioning  him.
  The dwarf was showing signs that  to  the  wilderness  man  spelled  sheer
  exhaustion -- a flateyed stare that never seemed to blink;  paleness  that
  came and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.
    Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and for the past day or
  more the man had been looking for a place to do  that.  The  problem  was,
  except for a pair of wide places on  the  trail  where  bitter  winds  had
  chilled them and the last of their  provisions  had  run  out,  there  had
  simply been no place to rest.
    Their current trail along the mountainside was one  Wingover  had  never
  explored. The human marveled at the idea that a dwarven  prince  had  once
  led armies this way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what
  most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves  more  often  called
  the region the Plains of Death. Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the  lead
  stumbled again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught
    Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. "Are you  all  right?"  he  asked,
  looking into the dwarf's exhausted eyes.
    "I'm all right," Chane growled. 'We have to keep going."
    "Do you know where we are?"
    "I know where I'm going. The path is clear."
    "Yes, but do you know where we are?"
    "Not exactly. Where?"
    "I didn't think so," the man said  gently.  "Look  off  across  there...
  across the gorge, over on the face of the next peak."
    Chane looked, his eyes blank. There was a feature over  there,  tiny  in
  the distance but somehow familiar.
    "What is it?"
    "I don't suppose you've ever seen it," Wingover said.
    "At least not from this side, but I thought you might want to know  what
  you're looking at. That's Northgate."
    "North... You mean... ?"
    "Exactly," the man told him. "That is the Northgate of Thorbardin."
    "But the green line doesn't go there," Chane said. "It  goes  east...  I
  think that's east, anyway. Out there, across  those  plains.  Toward  that
  lone mountain, whatever that is."
    "Skullcap," Wingover breathed. "The ruins of  what  was  once  the  most
  feared tower of sorcery, Zhaman, lie there."
    Chane sighed. "Then that is where  Grallen  went.  But  the  line...  it
  doesn't seem to go all the way. I can't really see what it does.  We  have
  to go on. We have to get closer."
    "We have to rest," Wingover said flatly. He shielded his  eyes,  peering
  ahead. Somewhere near, there should be a place safe to rest. He  squinted,
  then his eyes widened and breath hissed through his teeth.  On  the  trail
  ahead, just where it wound out of sight, a large, black cat stood, looking
  back at them. Even as Wingover saw it, the  animal  turned  languidly  and
  slunk out of sight.

  Chapter 26

    "Cats!"
    With a visible shudder, Wingover drew his sword, gripped his shield, and
  eased past the weakened dwarf. He had seen the great black cats of Waykeep
  only once. But once was enough. On stiff legs he started toward the  bend,
  certain that at  any  moment  a  bounding,  snarling  pack  of  the  giant
  creatures would appear there, coming for him. And it would be up to him to
  defend the others. Glenshadow's magic  would  not  work  in  Spellbinder's
  presence. Chane Feldstone was hardly strong  enough  to  stand  off  cats.
  Still, Jilian might make an accounting of  herself  with  that  sword  she
  carried. After seeing the remains of her ogre,  the  man  was  willing  to
  believe almost anything.
    Small feet scuffed just behind Wingover, and Chestal Thicketsway's voice
  said cheerfully, "What are you doing?"
    "Stay back," the man snapped. "There are cats ahead."
    "Cats? Kitty cats or the Irda's cats?"
    "Just stay back, out of the way," "Wingover shot a  quick  glance  back,
  felt something brush past his legs, and turned to shout, "Come back here!"
    "I'll just take a quick look," the kender said,  scampering  ahead.  "If
  they're like the Irda's cats, I've seen a lot of those."
    "Ye gods," the man swore and quickened his pace,  willing  the  rest  to
  stay where they were. Ahead of Wingover, the  curious  kender  disappeared
  around the bend. Wingover ran, then stopped. Just past the bend, the trail
  widened, then widened again, and became a  deep,  sheltered  cove  in  the
  mountainside. Clear, cold water flowed  from  a  tiny  spring  and  pooled
  before overflowing its rock tank and disappearing again into  crevices  in
  the mountain. Conifers grew in abundance, and  rich,  chillbleached  grass
  was everywhere. Beside the pool were several bundles, all securely wrapped
  in sacking, and the kender knelt  beside  the  nearest  one,  untying  its
  straps. He glanced up, grinned, and pointed. "Look." High on a rock  ridge
  beyond the cove, several of the big, dark cats were climbing, going  away.
  Some of them turned to look back, feral eyes seeming to glow in  the  pale
  light, But they only hesitated, then went on. Within seconds, they were
  gone.
    "Food!" the kender chirped. "Look at  this.  Biscuits!  And  honey,  and
  oats, and cabbage... wow!" With one pack open, he went on to the next one.
    Wingover heard the thump of a staff and turned. Glenshadow stood  a  few
  paces back, cold eyes peering from the shadows of his  bison  cloak.  'The
  Irda," he said. "She has provided for us. She said that would be done."
    "But those cats --"
    "Are hers. In a way, I suppose they are her."
    "Where is she, then, this Irda?"
    The wizard gazed at him for a moment, then  shrugged  and  turned  away.
  "She is an Irda. I suppose she is wherever she chooses to be."
    "Irda," Wingover breathed. "Irdas are ogres, from what I've heard."
    Glenshadow shook his head. "No. The Irda is what  ogres  may  once  have
  been. They are not the same."
    "You'd know that if you'd seen her," the kender said.
    "Look at this! Raisins. How about that? And cider."
    The others had appeared, Jilian helping  Chane  and  leading  Wingover's
  horse. At the cove, they all stopped and stared. Jilian nodded.  "This  is
  more like it. Let's get a fire going, and I'll make tea. And  soup.  Don't
  you think some soup would taste good, Chane? Here, you sit down over here.
  Eat a biscuit while I'm cooking."
    "There is danger ahead of us, then," the wizard  noted  ominously.  'The
  Irda knows."
    "How does she know any such thing?"  Wingover  spun  toward  Glenshadow,
  tired and angry, confused and feeling as though everyone but himself had a
  hand in this situation. "Does she use magic?"
    "Only a little... of the kind  I  use,  when  I  can  use  it  at  all,"
  Glenshadow said. "The kind you so despise, though it is a  part'  of  your
  world and not always to your disadvantage. The  Irda  is  a  shapechanger.
  That much is magic, though natural to her kind. And she is a singer.  Some
  have said the Irda carry magic in their voices, though I think now  it  is
  simply that they have... such voices." He paused and considered the  point
  for a moment. "Perhaps they have another magic that is outside  the  magic
  of Krynn. I believe they do, but who can say for certain. If they do, then
  it is used entirely for their own purposes and  not  for  or  against  any
  other being. It is the nature of the Irda."
    "You haven't answered my question," Wingover snorted. "How could such  a
  creature -- as you say -know that there is danger ahead for us?"
    "She listens." Glenshadow shrugged. "The world has many voices, and eyes
  everywhere. The world itself knows what passes upon it. It speaks of it to
  itself, and the Irda listens. How else  could  she  do  what  she  does...
  observe the  purposes  of  the  gods'  things,  the  ones  that  the  gods
  themselves no longer observe? Who else could inform the Irda,  except  the
  world itself'" Wingover shook his head, wondering if the mage was in  fact
  deranged. What he said almost made sense... sometimes, but not in any  way
  that Wingover could see. He turned away and went to  start  unpacking  his
  horse. "Don't do that," Chane Feldstone shouted, getting to his feet.  'We
  have to go on."
    "We aren't going anywhere for a while," Wingover told him. "We are going
  to rest here until we're fit to travel."
    "But I see the path now," the dwarf said, his face going pale again.  "I
  see where Grallen went, and I have to go there. Spellbinder -
    Jilian Firestoke was at Chane's  side  then,  bracing  him  with  strong
  little hands. "The man is right, Chane," she said gently. "You must  rest.
  Then we can go on. Please, sit down."
    A sheen of sweat had erupted on Chane's forehead, and  his  eyes  seemed
  glazed. Still, he tried to struggle free.
    "Can't you see the path? Can't any of you see  it?  It  goes  down  this
  mountain and out onto the plain, then it doubles back... just  out  there.
  It turns back and stops. See? Why can't any of you see?" The dwarf slumped
  and let himself be eased down to a sitting position.
    "Jilian?" Chane murmured. "Jilian, I think  your  father  was  right.  I
  don't deserve you. But he was wrong, too. He was wrong in...  deciding  he
  could decide. It is for you to decide, Jilian..."
    Chane's voice trailed off, and quickly he was asleep. Jilian covered him
  gently with a wrap from her own pack, and when she looked up her eyes were
  moist. "He's so tired," she said.
    Wingover knelt beside the dwarf and  touched  a  palm  to  the  sweating
  forehead. Then he stood, nodding. "It was the goblin dart. It has sickened
  him. He needs rest." To Jilian he added, "Chane will be all right. If  the
  wound were going to kill him, it would have before now."
    Leaving Jilian hovering over the  sleeping  dwarf,  Wingover  walked  to
  where the wizard stood, looking eastward. The mage  raised  his  hand  and
  pointed. Far out in the distance, where the slopes  ended  and  a  flatter
  land began, there was movement. Wingover and Glenshadow were too far  away
  to be sure, but they suspected who was there. The Commander of Goblins was
  ahead of them, and with her was her army.
    "They know we're here," Wingover growled. "But if they didn't follow us,
  how did they find us"?" Maybe they don't know exactly where we  are,"  the
  bison-robed wizard offered, lowering his hand. "But they know which way we
  were going. And they know why."
    "The mage?" Wingover muttered. "The one who died, but didn't?"
    Glenshadow only nodded.
    A flash of white in the distance flickered above  the  gorge  where  the
  path bent around the mountain slope. It wasn't bright, but the  flash  was
  enough to catch Wingover's eyes. He turned. "It's that gnome," he growled,
  pointing.  'Where  has  he  been,  anyway  ?"  The  soarwagon  neared  the
  mountainside,  skimmed  away,  and  did  a  wide  turn.  As  the  gnomish
  contraption came about for another approach, Jilian  Firestoke  waved  and
  Chestal Thicketsway ran to the ledge to watch. "Tell him to  come  in  and
  lower his line," the kender said. "Tell him we have raisins. And cider."
    The flying thing approached carefully this  time,  finally  hovering  on
  updrafts just above the cove. The gnome in the wicker seat leaned out  and
  waved. "Hello!" he called. "Do you remember me? I'm Bobbin."
    "I remember you!" Wingover shouted. "What news do you have?"
    "About what?... Ah, yes! You're the one who's looking for cats. Well,  I
  saw some, up the mountain from where you are. But they're going the  other
  way." Wingover scowled. "We know about the cats! Anything else?"
    "Well, I saw a dragon. A big, red one. He weighs nearly three  tons  and
  had flown five hundred miles." The gnome frowned. "He wasn't very
  friendly."
    "A dragon?" The kender danced about in his excitement. "A  real  dragon?
  Where?" Wingover shook his head in disgust. There was no telling what  the
  gnome had actually seen... if anything.

  Part IV

  GRALLEN'S HELM

  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."

  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."

  Chapter 29

    The stone bridge across the gorge, at its narrowest point near the  foot
  of Sky's End, was old. Not truly ancient,  in  the  sense  that  Gargath's
  monolith and such constructs as Pax Tharkas and the ruins of  Zhaman  were
  ancient, but it was old. Obviously, it had been built since the Cataclysm,
  because prior to that there was no gorge between the  mountain  peaks  and
  the Plains of Dergoth.
    Andobviously,it was of dwarven construction. A  high-arched  bridge,  it
  was built entirely of stone -- huge  blocks  of  cut  and  shaped  granite
  rising a hundred feet or more in its center as it  spanned  three  hundred
  yards of abyss. Its floor was a precise nine feet in width. That  was  the
  same width as the cable-cart tunnels in Thorbardin.
    As he approached the structure, Wingover studied it  intently.  "I  hope
  you know what you're doing," he told Chane.  "Once  we  cross  the  gorge,
  we're going away from Thorbardin, not toward it. And there are  some  very
  unfriendly goblins over there somewhere."
    "At least I know where to look for Pathfinder," the dwarf noted.  -It  s
  just at the edge of the plains, on a  hillside.  Probably  not  more  than
  three miles from here."
    "When you have it, it will lead you back  toward  Thorbardin,"  Wingover
  noted. "The bridge will be between us and the city, then. I can't think of
  a better place for those goblins to trap us."
    "What's why I'm going on alone, after we cross the bridge," Chane  said.
  "The rest of you can wait at the other abutment, to make sure we can  come
  back."
    "I'll do no such thing, Chane Feldstone," Jilian snapped. "If you go out
  there, then I'm going too."
    "I don't have much choice about it," Chestal  Thicketsway  pointed  out.
  "I'm with you, Chane. At least until I do something about Zap."
    "I'll leave Spellbinder here," the dwarf said. "Wingover can hold it for
  me. That way you can stay here, too, Chess. 1 don't  know,  you  might  be
  handy to have around if Chane has to hold the bridge. I've  seen  you  use
  that hoopak."
    "Yeah, I'm pretty good with it, don't you think?"
    "Isn't that what I just said?"
    "No. You said you'd seen me use it."
    "You're good with it, so stay here."
    "I don't have much choice, if Spellbinder's here.  Unless  ...  I  don't
  suppose you'd want me to hang on to Spellbinder until you get  back.  That
  way I could --"
    "No-o-o!" something that wasn't exactly a voice seemed to wail.
    "Oh, yeah," the kender remembered. "I don't want to have  to  listen  to
  that again. Of course, I could leave my pouch, but then what would  I  use
  to carry hoopak pebbles?"
    "Stay!" Chane growled. "All the rest of  you,  too.  I  know  where  I'm
  going, and I'll go faster alone."
    But Wingover was ignoring the dwarf. Quickly, the man stripped the packs
  from his horse, down to just saddle and  gear.  As  he  swung  aboard,  he
  snugged his flinthide shield to his left forearm in riding mode.  Wingover
  then pulled his sword around, ready  to  hand,  and  looked  down  at  the
  glowering dwarf. "When it comes to traveling fast, you're about the  worst
  choice we have at the moment. So it's up to me. Where is  that  hillside?"
  Chane glared up at him. "How do I know you'll come back?"
    "How do you know you would?" the man bristled.
    "Do you want my help or not?"
    "I never asked for your help," Chane grumbled. "Jilian did."
    Wingover leaned down to match the dwarf's pugnacious glare with  one  of
  his own. "I believe you could aggravate the horns off a  minotaur,  dwarf,
  but I don't think you're stupid. Tell me where to find that helm of yours,
  or I'll go search for it anyway." Jilian  tugged  the  sleeve  of  Chane's
  black fur coat. "Tell him, Chane. He'll bring it back."
    "How do you know he...?" Chane looked around and paused.  "Oh.  Well,  I
  suppose you're right. It's just that humans are so hard to trust."
    "Well?" Wingover asked.
    "Beyond the bridge is a broken slope, with a trail winding down  through
  rock outcrop for about half a mile. The trail is easy to see... or it used
  to be, anyway, when I...I mean when Grallen saw it. After you get  out  of
  the breaks, you'll see a few low hills ahead,  and  the  trail  will  fork
  around the first one. Take the left fork. The right leads to the bog."  He
  paused, and Wingover nodded.
    "Past that hill you'll see two more a mile or so away -little hills that
  look alike, with a  gap  between  and  the  sundered  plains  beyond.  The
  right-hand hill is where Grallen's helm is, with Pathfinder. The  hillside
  faces Skullcap, and the helm's near the foot of the hill.  There's  rubble
  there, so I guess you'll just have to search through it."
    "What if it's buried or something?"
    "It isn't buried. But it's in a dark place with a tall,  tilted  opening
  -- like a crack. Jagged, kind of. And where it is, it can't see
  Thorbardin."
    "How do you know that?" Wingover  asked.  Chane  shrugged.  "Because  it
  wants to, and it can't. I don't know. The  Irda  said  the  two  gems  are
  god-things, left over from something a god did. Maybe they are  interested
  in whatever that god is concerned about."
    "And what god is that?" Wingover said with a frown.
    "Assuming, of course, that there really are gods. I'm not sure I believe
  any of that."
    "I don't know if I do, either," the dwarf admitted. "But the  Irda  did.
  And Reorx is the highest of the gods... if there are any."
    "Reorx?  Wingover  scoffed.  What  about  Gilean?  And  Paladine,  and
  Kiri-Jolith? Reorx isn't any higher than them!"
    "Who?"
    "Gilean."
    The dwarf nodded. "He's all right, I suppose. I meant Reorx was  greater
  than those other two you named. I've never even heard of them."
    "You never heard of Paladine? He's the highestranking of --"
    "He means Thak and Kijo," Chess butted in, grinning.
    "A lot of people call them Paladine and Kiri-Jolith." They  both  looked
  at the kender. Chane frowned and snapped, "What are you grinning about?"
    "Oh, I was just thinking, for two people who  don't  believe  there  are
  gods, you both certainly have your favorites."
    "And how do you know so much about it?"
    "I listen a lot."
    "Pure superstition, anyway,"  Wingover  snorted,  straightening  in  his
  saddle. He looked at the rising stone bridge ahead and lifted his reins.
    "I'll be back," he said. "Just hold the bridge for me if trouble comes."
    He touched heels to the horse and trotted it to the foot  of  the  stone
  bridge. The horse abruptly turned tail and tried  to  throw  him  off.  He
  clung, cursing, and finally got the animal under control.
    "Maybe he's afraid of the bridge," Chane suggested.
    "Geekay has never been  afraid  of  a  bridge  in  his  life!"  Wingover
  shouted. "Or a goblin, either! He's just full of vinegar  from  not  being
  exercised."
    "Geekay? Is that his name? What does it mean?"
    "He named himself. It's Goblin Killer." Wingover hauled the  reins.  The
  horse spun, dug in haunchesdown, and hit the  bridge  at  a  full  gallop.
  Wingover's diminishing voice came back to them: "Blast it, horse! Not so
  fast!"
    In seconds the thundering horse had topped  out  at  the  crown  of  the
  high-curved span and was out of sight. A moment later the ring  of  hooves
  on stone faded to a distant clatter, beyond the gorge.
    "Well, the bridge is still there," Chestal Thicketsway decided. "I guess
  it's safe to cross."
    "Of course it's safe," Chane growled. "It's dwarven  work."  Picking  up
  his pack, he started up the bridge, the others following after him.
    "If a gnome can fly," the kender muttered, "then I guess a  dwarf  might
  miscalculate rocks and things from time to time."

  * * * * *

    By the time Wingover got the bridge-spooked horse under tight rein, they
  were through the breaks and into rolling, open country. Holding Geekay  to
  a steady trot, the wilderness man scanned the lands ahead. A few low hills
  lay ahead, about a half-mile away, just as Chane had said. Wingover  eased
  the reins and headed for them, looking for signs of a trail.
    At first there was none, then in a low place that might once have been a
  mudflat he saw tracks. They were old tracks, but still clear  -  at  least
  three horses, and the short, wide .prints  of  dwarven  boots.  The  trail
  disappeared short of the hill, but Wingover made left and  circled  around
  it, his eyes roving the landscape.  Sometimes  he  raised  his  shield  to
  eye-level and peered over the top edge of it. An old trick, it was  a  way
  to see distinct movement that might otherwise lose itself  in  mirage.  So
  far he had seen nothing, but vagrant breezes carried the stink of goblins.
  Wingover knew they were out there somewhere.
    As much as he watched the land around him, he watched the  ears  of  his
  horse. The animal smelled goblins, too, and was wary.  Its  ears  swiveled
  this way and that, pausing sometimes. When they did, Wingover  scanned  in
  their direction.
    The hill was a smooth mound, and as Wingover passed it he saw two  more,
  just as the dwarf had described. They lay about a mile  ahead,  with  some
  draws and gullys lacing the lower ground between.
    Geekay's ears turned, fixed on a direction ahead and to the left, and  a
  tremor ran along his mane. Wingover lifted his shield,  peering  over  its
  edge. Atop a narrow draw, barely a hundred yards away, something moved. It
  looked like a twig twitching in  the  wind...  except  that  twigs  twitch
  rhythmically, and this one didn't. It moved, disappeared below the rim  of
  the draw, and reappeared a few yards away. Its direction  was  toward  the
  point where his own path would cross the draw.
    So they're waiting for me there, he decided. But how many?
    Wingover reined a little to the left, holding hard against the bit, then
  let Geekay have his head. The horse had never been trained as a warhorse -
  not as some he had seen, great steeds in armor, ridden by  men  in  armor,
  silent men who had come down from  Solamnia  once  many  years  before  in
  search of a fugitive - but Wingover and Geekay had traveled  far  together
  and had been in some scrapes.
    With the bit eased and the scent of goblins in his  nostrils,  and  with
  the tug to the left from his rider, Geekay took the  lead.  As  the  horse
  gathered himself, Wingover jumped to the ground and headed for the draw at
  a crouching run, angling to the right. Behind him, Geekay whinnied shrilly
  and galloped away to the left.  Fifty  yards...  one  hundred...  then  he
  turned and headed for the draw.
    In the ravine, four goblin scouts paused, puzzled at the  sudden  change
  in approaching sounds. One started to raise his head and  another  swatted
  him down. "Don' look," he growled. "Get us seen. Listen!"
    "Runnin' away," another said, pointing back the way they had come. "That
  way."
    The goblins turned to follow the hoofbeats, but  a  blood-freezing  howl
  erupted just behind them. The rearmost goblin didn't  even  have  time  to
  turn. Wingover's sword flashed across his back from shoulder to waist, and
  dark blood spurted. The second turned, tried to raise  his  dart-bow,  and
  had it knocked from his hand. With his sword, the goblin barely  countered
  the human's following thrust with a low, chopping swing at his legs. Metal
  rang on metal.
    The third goblin had his blade out, but the fourth caught his arm. "Back
  up," he hissed. "Get room. Use darts."
    They scrambled back, setting darts to their crossbows.  The  first  dart
  ricocheted off Wingover's flinthide shield. The second  buried  itself  in
  the back of a goblin flung from the point of a sword.  The  last  two  set
  darts again, then their eyes widened as the sound of thunder bore down  on
  them from behind. One turned, screamed, and bounced off the other  as  the
  flashing hooves of a horse named Goblin Killer  descended  upon  him.  The
  remaining goblin was still scrambling to his feet when Geekay swapped ends
  and kicked. Crushed like a turtle in  its  shell,  the  goblin  flew  over
  Wingover's head and rebounded off a wall of the gully.
    "Not bad," Wingover breathed, catching up  the  reins  of  the  excited,
  wild-eyed horse. "Now let's move. It stinks here."
    He scrambled into his saddle. Geekay cleared the  rim  at  a  bound  and
  headed for the right-hand hill ahead, Wingover wondered where the rest  of
  the goblins were. He knew there were at least a hundred  more,  and  among
  them possibly ogres - as well as a woman in a hideous armor mask that  hid
  a face that should have been beautiful.
    Atop the hill was a bright green statue of a wizard, both arms  extended
  to their full length, a motionless staff in one hand. Wingover blinked  at
  it, then headed for it. Even from the foot  of  the  hill,  he  recognized
  Glenshadow the Wanderer... even though he was bright green and motionless.
    The wilderness man reined in beside the wizard, gaping at him. Even  his
  clothing and his hair were bright  green.  Leaning  from  his  saddle,  he
  asked,. 'What happened to you?"
    "Take... it," the wizard gasped.
    "Take what?" He looked the mage over  and  noticed  that  one  hand  was
  balled into a tight fist. Wingover pried it open. In the wizard's hand was
  a crystal, the twin of Spellbinder,  except  for  its  color.  As  red  as
  Spellbinder was, so was Pathfinder green.
    Wingover took the crystal, and the green color faded from the mage.
    Glenshadow slumped, trembling. "I - I shouldn't  have  touched  it,"  he
  rasped. "Should have known. Spellbinder  binds  magic,  turns  it  against
  itself. Pathfinder freezes it, holds it in stasis. It was how Gargath held
  and controlled the graystone."
    Wingover flipped the crystal over in his hand. "Very pretty,"  he  said.
  "All right, they're waiting for us at the bridge. Can you ride?"
    "Can't get through," the wizard said, still trembling.
    "The goblins... they're behind you, heading for the bridge. I  saw  them
  from up here. With  Pathfinder,  I  couldn't  move.  But  I  could  see...
  everything. The dwarf was right. Thorbardin is breached. Here."
    Glenshadow stooped and picked up  something  Wingover  had  not  noticed
  until then - an old dwarven helmet, not elaborate but of  fine  craft.  It
  was a horned and spired helm of burnished metal with skirts and  a  carven
  nosepiece. Above the noseguard was a setting.
    "The gem belongs here," Glenshadow said. "Please put it back in place."
    Wingover took the helmet and turned it, wonder in  his  eyes.  Grallen's
  helm. There was no doubt of it. The dwarven prince of old had  been  here.
  He had been inside the fortress of Zhaman, and only this helm had survived
  to tell of it. And it had called out to Chane Feldstone in dreams.
    Carefully Wingover reset Pathfinder in the helm's setting. His hard, but
  gentle fingers refit the brass prongs that had held it, and for  a  moment
  Wingover was tempted to put it on his head. It would  fit,  and  it  might
  speak to him... then he changed his mind. This is Chane's to do with as he
  must, he told himself. And if there is one lesson I can  learn  from  this
  wizard here, it is not to fiddle with things that are beyond me.
    Wingover bound the old helmet with thongs and hung it from  his  saddle,
  then reached a hand to Glenshadow. "Come up,"  he  said.  "The  horse  can
  carry double. We've got to get back to the bridge."

  Chapter 30

    Because the goblin army was so widely spread, fanned across  the  plains
  in three troops, miles apart, Kolanda Darkmoor decided to move against the
  people at the bridge. Even though the  wizard  might  be  with  them,  the
  defenders were still only a handful. She ordered Thog to gather  the  main
  force on the central plain to await her signal.
    Thus, when Wingover made his dash from  the  breaks  to  the  fork-trail
  hill, spotters saw him from less  than  a  mile  away.  The  word  of  his
  sighting was relayed immediately.
    "We got foragers workin' those gully-washes," the runner said.  "They'll
  get him there."
    "Groups of four?"
    "Like you said," the sprinter noted, "he  won'  get  through.  Jus'  one
  man... they'll get him."
    Yet, moments later, the rider was seen again, farther away and past  the
  washes, heading for the more distant of the  twin  hills.  Kolanda  swore,
  halted her platoon, and  pulled  Caliban  from  beneath  her  breastplate.
  "Caliban!" she snapped. "See for me now." She held the withered  heart  to
  her forehead without ceremony.
    "She is arrogant," the whispering voice said. "She will require  special
  attention when... ah?" The voice became a hiss. "Glenshadow!"
    "See for me!" Kolanda ordered. "The man on the horse, what is he doing?"
    The view closed on the distant rider, who  was  swerving  to  climb  the
  hill, then shifted to the hilltop, Kolanda  stiffened.  The  wizard  there
  stood immobile, arms outstretched, and  shone  with  a  green  glare  that
  seemed to burn  through  her  skin.  She  jerked  Caliban  away  from  her
  forehead. "What is that?"
    "She doesn't know what has hurt us," the feathery voice  whispered.  The
  heart vibrated in the Commander's hand, the air sizzled and trembled,  and
  Caliban loosed a bolt of pure energy across the miles, aimed at the wizard
  on the hill. Then  Caliban  went  cold  in  Kolanda's  palm.  "An  element
  protects him," it whispered. "I could not reach him."
    "Is his magic more powerful than yours?" the woman snapped.
    "She doesn't understand," Caliban whispered. "It is not his magic. It is
  something else. Wait... ah. The  man  has  taken  it.  Now  Glenshadow  is
  revealed. Now I can fight him. Hold me up. I must draw power from you."
    "Wait," Kolanda commanded. "The thing he had, that the rider has now, is
  that what the dwarf is seeking?"
    "She plays at riddles," the dry voice grated. "Hold me up."
    Kolanda felt the familiar tingling in her skin  as  Caliban  started  to
  restore his energy for another attack,  drawing  from  her  own  reserves.
  Abruptly she dropped the withered thing, letting  it  hang  on  its  thong
  outside her breastplate. 'You will obey me," she commanded. "Obey or  find
  no source for your magic. Without me, you are nothing. We do this my  way.
  Do you agree?"
    "She oversteps," the voice whispered, distant and  dry.  "She  will  pay
  when the time is right. It must be so."
    "Another time, we can discuss it," she said. "But now, do you agree?"
    "How can we fight as two?" the ancient voice insinuated. "When I  am  at
  rest her armor hides me, and hides all from me except her. When  I  am  in
  use, she must hold me in contact with her; she can do nothing else."
    "Do you agree?" Kolanda demanded.
    "I agree," the distant, evil voice said. "For now. But how?"
    "Like this," she said. Reaching behind her,  the  Commander  loosed  the
  lacings on her breastplate, then pulled it off and threw it aside for  the
  slaves to pick up and place in the cart. The blouse beneath  it  she  tore
  from neck to waist, exposing her breasts. Caliban hung now  in  the  cleft
  between them, and his voice was no longer distant.
    "I can draw from her heart to fight, as well as from her head," it
  admitted.
    Immediately, Kolanda felt the tingling  again,  this  time  through  her
  chest, and the surrounding air seemed to sizzle. "My way,"  she  reminded.
  "You can have the wizard, but not at risk of the  man  and  the  thing  he
  carries." The distant vision came again, but only vaguely now that Caliban
  was not at her eyes. Still, it was enough.
    The wizard was mounting the horse, swinging up behind its rider.
    Kolanda beckoned a hobgoblin. "Noll," she commanded, "take  the  platoon
  at double-time and go to the bridge. Take those you find there. Kill  them
  if they resist." She motioned the troops forward, and they lined out at  a
  run, followed by the cart drawn by slaves and by the swamp goblins searing
  them with whips to get more speed from them.
    Only Kolanda and her personal guard of  six  selected  fighting  goblins
  remained. With them at her heels, she set off at a steady trot toward  the
  edge of the breaks. Where the trail emerged, she would wait  for  the  two
  riders coming from the hills.  Caliban  could  have  his  revenge  on  the
  wizard. He could have the other man, too, as far as she was concerned, but
  intuition told her that the thing he carried with him must not  reach  the
  dwarf at the bridge. It must not reach Thorbardin,  of  course,  but  more
  than that she herself must have it.
    Whatever it was, it had the power to punish Caliban.
    The two men on the horse were still nearly  a  mile  away  when  Kolanda
  Darkmoor and her guards took up ambush positions  along  the  trail,  just
  where it entered the broken lands.
    Half a mile to the west, Noll and his platoon of goblin  warriors  crept
  through narrow ways among heaped boulders,  approaching  the  abutment  of
  Sky's End Bridge. Behind them came the cart, pulled by slaves. In the same
  cart Kolanda Darkmoor's lacquered steel breastplate lay  atop  bundles  of
  lathed bronze darts, foraged weapons  and  supplies,  and  bits  of  booty
  picked up along the trail. Where it lay, it almost hid a sleek longbow  of
  elven design and a single arrow... the last arrow of Garon Wendesthalas.
    Weak and battered, beaten and mutilated, the elf clung to  the  side  of
  the cart for support as swamp goblins harried the slaves along. He  clung,
  and his hand was never far from the bow and the single arrow.

  * * * * *

    Wingover was long since out of sight by the time Chane  and  the  others
  had crossed the arched bridge, and they settled in to wait between a  pair
  of pillars that might once have been guard towers, flanking the  east  end
  of the bridge. Guard towers or, Chane thought,  possibly  counting  towers
  for inspection  of  wares  in  transit.  Idly,  the  dwarf  found  himself
  thinking: this might once have been a trade road. Wingover had  spoken  of
  trade roads.  Probably  there  had  been  such  a  road,  going  out  from
  Thorbardin to points north by way of Pax Tharkas. Obviously there had once
  been a lot of trade between the undermountain kingdom and other  realms  -
  far more than the modest efforts of Rogar  Goldbuckle  and  other  traders
  produced now.
    Thorbardin itself was full of things not dwarven.  Elvenwares  of  great
  beauty were treasured under the mountains, as were tapestries and  feather
  arrangements, cunning  table  services  of  carved  wood  made  by  humans
  somewhere, toys and folding  screens,  vine-laced  frames  for  paintings,
  small bits of treasured ivory. Chane had seen such things all his life  in
  Thorbardin, but had never thought much about them. Now  he  realized  that
  they were relics of some long-ago time when the gates had  been  open  and
  roads had been in use for caravans to come and go upon them. Chane thought
  of it, and felt as though some grand thing had been lost  along  the  way.
  Wars and hostilities and conflicts among peoples had destroyed the  roads,
  and put an end to the commerce they had represented.
    This very bridge, this soaring arch across a misted  gorge,  might  have
  been part of that same old route from Thorbardin to  Pax  Tharkas  to  the
  lands of Abanasinia ...destroyed in the Dwarfgate Wars. The  bridge  might
  have been a point of registry for dwarven goods outbound, and a  point  of
  inspection for the treasures of other places, coming to the dwarven realm.
  The broken lands beyond would have made ideal trading grounds.  A  hundred
  camps could be set up within a half-mile, each in its private corner,  and
  all interconnected by the maze of stone-walled paths. It would have been a
  trading bazaar like nothing ever seen in Thorbardin,  even  in  the  great
  centers of the Daewar city.
    It was a pity, that such things no longer were.
    "If ever there is peace," Chane muttered, "real peace  and  cooperation,
  it will be warriors and fighters who bring it. For they are the  ones  who
  have seen the most of chaos."
    Chess glanced around at him. 'You sound like an elf."
    "Or a human," Jilian observed. "That does sound awfully human, Chane."
    "I wonder," he said. "I wonder if there's that much difference."
    "I think I'll take a look around," Chess said. "Things are getting  dull
  around here."
    Before he could turn away, though, the kender  looked  up  and  grinned.
  'Things may perk up a little, I guess. Bobbin's back."
    Like a speck against the mountainside, rapidly  growing,  the  soarwagon
  dipped and tumbled toward Chane, Jilian, and Chess.  The  kender's  supply
  pole dangled below it,  horizontal,  attached  to  the  hook  on  Bobbin's
  lifeline. They walked a few steps out on the bridge to watch its approach,
  and Chane's foot bumped something protruding  from  the  bridge  rail.  He
  knelt for a better look. It was a metal ring the size of the palm  of  his
  hand, just inches above the bridge's floor. He raised his eyes,  searching
  along the rail. There was another a few yards  away,  and  another  beyond
  that... and the same along the base of the south rail.  Metal  rings  were
  set in the stone at intervals, as far up the bridge as Chane could see. He
  knew what they were. Every cable-cart tunnel in Thorbardin had such  rings
  at every change in grade. Such winch rings were used for the hoisting  and
  lowering of laden carts along slopes, by use of pulleys.
    Just like in Thorbardin.
    But why equip an open-road bridge with winch-rings? Unless....
    Chane stood, gazing past the rising bridge,  across  the  gorge  at  the
  sheer face of Sky's End. They had come down from a  high  ledge,  along  a
  narrow switchback trail that approached the bridge from a sharp angle.  No
  straight approach from the west was possible, because the bridge  footings
  ran nearly to the sheer, clifflike face of the cutaway mountain.  It  had,
  now that Chane thought of it, seemed odd that a bridge should end at right
  angles to the foot.of a diff, but he had other things  on  his  mind  when
  they'd first encountered it.
    Chane took a deep breath and nodded. Intuition so strong it  was  beyond
  question poured through him.
    "I know where it is," he muttered.
    Beyond the west end of the bridge, at the foot of Sky's  End's  towering
  cliff, was a rockfall. And behind the rockfall... it had to be. An ancient
  tradeway, under the mountain. A tradeway that would lead to the warrens.
    The forgotten entrance to Thorbardin. Forgotten because an old  war  had
  brought an end to trade.
    "Hello!"
    Chane blinked and turned. Just a few yards away, level with the  bridge,
  the soarwagon hovered over the gorge. The gnome waved  at  them.  "Do  you
  want this pole back?" he called. "I don't have any use for it, and it's  a
  clumsy thing to carry around."
    "Why don't you just drop it?" the kender asked.
    "It's a nice pole, and you might want to send  over  some  more  raisins
  some time. Why don't you keep it?"
    Chess smiled. "All right. Let it down, and I'll keep it."
    "Not here," Bobbin said. "I'm afraid to get too close  to  that  bridge.
  But I can let it down just past those towers."
    The soarwagon edged upward, dipped, and soared out over the gorge  in  a
  wide circle. It settled to a hover again just past the foot of the bridge.
    "I'll go get the pole," the kender said.
    Bobbin began lowering the  horizontal  pole,  working  his  winch,  then
  paused, looking toward the breaks. He cupped his hands and  shouted,  "Did
  you know there are goblins here?"
    In the instant the gnome took his hand from the winch, the pole  dropped
  free. In that same instant a company of armed goblins surged out of hiding
  just beyond the bridge abutments and charged.
    The pole and the lead hobgoblin arrived at the gap between  the  pillars
  at exactly the same time. The creature's midsection hit the pole,  jamming
  it against the pillars, and he flipped over it and fell.  Several  goblins
  fell over him, and others over them; the  pole  splintered,  and  Bobbin's
  line broke free. The  soarwagon  bobbed  skyward  as  Chestal  Thicketsway
  turned and ran, back up the rise of the bridge.
    "Goblins!" Chess shouted needlessly, for the sprawling, shouting mass of
  creatures behind him would have been difficult to overlook.
    Chane leaped to Jilian's side, grabbed her arm, and pulled  her  to  the
  nearest vertical riser on the bridge rail. Without a word, he  thrust  her
  down behind it.
    Chess turned and drew his hoopak sling. As the hobgoblin tried to get to
  his feet, spilling goblins around him, the kender bounced a rock  off  his
  helmet, knocking it askew.
    Momentarily blinded, the hobgoblin waved his sword and screeched,  "Rush
  'em! Cut'm down!"
    A goblin free of the rest started to charge, and a whining  pebble  took
  him in the eye. He went over backward, screaming.
    Jilian Firestoke had no intention of hiding behind a vertical pillar  of
  a bridge rail, when there were things to be done.  Holding  her  sword  in
  launch position she rushed past Chane and headed for the enemy.
    Chane started to shout at her, then saw one of the  goblins  beyond  her
  raise a crossbow. He drew his sword and threw it, as hard as he could. End
  over end, it flashed in the sunlight... over Jilian's head  and  downward.
  Point first it hit the goblin's breast armor, and the sheer weight  of  it
  drove it through. The goblin fell, skewered through the brisket,  and  his
  dart sailed out over the gorge.
    Jilian swung at the nearest goblin, missed, and spun around, clinging to
  her centrifugal blade. The creature's laugh was cut  short  as  the  sword
  came around again, this time full across his luring face.
    Chane hoisted his hammer and waded in, following Jilian.
    "Fall back!" the hobgoblin shouted.  "Fall  back!  Use  th'  darts!"  He
  sprinted for cover as Jilian whirled toward him. Her blade took the tassel
  off his helmet, the stock off his crossbow, and  the  tail  off  his  kilt
  before he got out of range.
    For a moment there was scrambling, fleeing goblins everywhere, then  the
  bridge was clear. Chane dived under Jilian's flashing sword to  keep  from
  being beheaded. "Stop now!" he roared, catching her around the waist in  a
  diving tackle. They tumbled across a dead goblin and  rolled  against  the
  bridge rail.
    "I said, stop," Chane panted.
    Jilian picked herself up and smoothed her hair. "I was  trying  to.  You
  didn't have to be so grabby about it. Honestly!"
    A bronze dart ricocheted  off  stone  beside  the  dwarven  girl.  Chane
  glanced around, then grabbed her hand and headed up  the  bridge,  seeking
  cover. Darts zipped around them, and pebbles flew in answer.
    The kender was dodging in and  out  of  the  cover  of  stone  uprights,
  stepping out to use his weapon, then darting back to cover to reload.  But
  as the dwarves piled in behind him, he reached into his pouch and his hand
  came out empty. He was out of pebbles, and there was nothing on the bridge
  to throw.
    Chess dug deeper into the pouch. "I've probably got some things in  here
  that I can shoot."
    He searched, found something, and slipped it  into  the  hoopak's  sling
  just as a goblin peered around one of the bridge spires.  The  kender  let
  fly, and his missile burst and splattered on the creature's face.
    "What was that?" Chane called.
    "Pigeon egg," the kender admitted. "Not a very good choice, I guess."
    Darts continued to fly and zing around the defenders.
    "We'd better retreat," Chane rumbled. "Come on. Follow me across the
  bridge."
    Chess glanced around, and his eyes widened. "I don't think so," he said.
  "Look."
    Above and behind them on the bridge stood an ogre with a  huge  club  in
  his fist. As the dwarves turned and saw  him,  the  creature  grinned.  He
  pointed his club at Chane Feldstone. "You see me, dwarf?" he thundered. "I
  see you, too. You think Loam don't remember you?"
    The darts stopped flying, and goblin  cheers  sounded  below.  The  ogre
  stood, gloating, his stance nearly spanning the width of the bridge.
    "Maybe I can slice him," Jilian offered, but Chane pushed her back.  The
  dwarf stood, balancing his hammer for combat. In return, the  ogre  licked
  its lips, grinned again, and came for him.

  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.

  Chapter 32

    An eerie darkness walked across the land, a darkness of  writhing  black
  clouds that swirled and  coiled,  defeating  the  sunlight.  West  of  the
  bridge, Sky's End was veiled, its slopes immersed in flowing darkness.  To
  the east, the breaks, the low hills, and the vast  plains  beyond  were  a
  dancing mosaic of deepening shadow. Toward Skullcap the clouds circled and
  tumbled  in  upon  themselves,  twisting  in  clockwise  rotation  as  the
  descending belly of the storm dropped lower and lower, becoming  a  funnel
  miles across. Above the gorge winds swept down from  mountain  passes  and
  howled in murky glee.
    Wingover set his sword upright against a stone and used his  right  hand
  to lift his left arm, shield and all, until the flinthide's edge was  just
  below his eyes. With a strip of fabric from his tunic he tied the  useless
  arm in place, then retrieved his sword.
    The woman in the horned helmet gazed  up  at  him,  her  pose  arrogant,
  speculative. After a moment she called, "I want the thing you brought from
  Dergoth! Give it to me!"
    Wingover waited.
    "You won't kill me," the woman called. "You  can't."  Her  laughter  cut
  across the wind as she lifted the hideous mask, letting Wingover see her
  face.
    "I don't know what you want," Wingover shouted.
    "You know," the woman laughed. "The thing your wizard had. The thing you
  brought here. Give it to me!"
    Wingover faced Kolanda, trying to hold her gaze, counting  silently.  It
  was only three hundred yards  to  the  rockfall  beyond  the  bridge.  The
  dwarves should reach it any moment. Once within that hidden  portal,  they
  might be safe. He didn't know how he knew that, but he knew.
    "You've come too late for that," he shouted. "It's gone."
    "Gone? Gone where?"
    Above and just beyond the woman and the goblins, a  figure  appeared  on
  top of a rock. It was Glenshadow. Bison cloak whipping in the  wind,  long
  hair and beard streaming, he leaned for a moment on his staff, then  stood
  erect as the staff's crystal cap winked to life. A  clear  crimson  beacon
  blinked to life in the darkening murk.
    "They made it," Wingover muttered. "Spellbinder is beneath the ground."
    On the flat top of a sundered stone the  wizard  Glenshadow  raised  his
  glowing staff and shouted, "I know you, Caliban!" His voice carried on the
  wind like flung ice, and a brilliant flare of crimson shot  out  from  his
  staff toward Kolanda Darkmoor -  shot  out,  and  stopped  just  short  of
  reaching her, swallowed up in a darkness that had a voice of its own.
    The sibilant, withered voice said, "And I know you,
    Glenshadow. You are the last." Blinding light blazed where  the  crimson
  beam ended, and crackling thunder rolled.
    Glenshadow's beam receded, swallowed by a wave of darkness  that  rushed
  toward Glenshadow. Rushed, then hesitated. Wingover's mind  reeled.  Which
  Glenshadow? There wasn't just one any more. There were three.  Then  five.
  Then a dozen, and more. Myriad  Glenshadows,  everywhere,  all  moving  in
  perfect unison as they willed their magics back upon the darkness centered
  at Kolanda's breast.
    "Trickster!" the withered voice rasped. "Red-robe, you'd fight  me  with
  illusion?" Blacknesses  writhed  outward,  seeking  all  the  Glenshadows.
  "Die," the voice whispered.
    The blacknesses snaked out, and one by one the image mages were  gone...
  except one. As Wingover watched that one grew to gigantic  size.  Hundreds
  of feet tall, his stance spanning the nearby breaks,  Glenshadow  absorbed
  the blackness cast at him. It pierced him here, there, searching, and lost
  itself in his vastness.
    "Illusion," the withered voice hissed. "Can you do no better than that?"
  The winds swirled, sizzling, and the searching blackness grew. Great  dark
  holes appeared in the fabric of Glenshadow's massive image, and it  seemed
  to flutter in the wind, dissolving. From one tiny corner of it a  beam  of
  crimson lanced out and smote the thing  at  Kolanda's  breast,  making  it
  shriek and writhe. It fought back, then, and again the span  between  them
  was colliding energies, crimson and black with blinding glare between.
    Somewhere beyond the bridge, greater thunders erupted. The stone  bridge
  trembled, keened, and swayed. Somewhere across the gorge a  piece  of  the
  mountain was falling.
    "Where is the thing I want?" Kolanda shouted again, her voice rising in
  anger.
    "It's where you can never reach it now,"  Wingover  called  and  started
  forward, limping. A goblin dart thumped into  his  shield,  clung  for  an
  instant, and dropped away. A pigeon egg  splattered  on  the  armor  of  a
  goblin, then a pewter mug took the creature full in the face.  One  beside
  it screeched as a dagger  made  from  a  cat's  tooth  whistled  from  the
  kender's hoopak and lodged in its throat.
    "I've had enough of this," Kolanda Darkmoor spat. She stooped, retrieved
  a set and loaded crossbow, and trained it for an instant on Wingover.  "It
  ends now! Caliban, finish it!" Massed darknesses welled  outward,  seeking
  Glenshadow. The dark magics reached out, then hesitated and swiftly faded.
  The crossbow faltered  as  Kolanda  Darkmoor  looked  down  at  the  arrow
  standing in her breast, piercing the withered heart of Caliban, linking it
  forever to her own heart by a common shaft of hickory Wood.
    Beside the north spire Garon  Wendesthalas  slumped,  a  goblin's  blade
  piercing his throat. Slowly he sprawled, his bow  sliding  from  nerveless
  fingers to lie beside him. He turned his head and  looked  up  the  bridge
  rise, then raised a battered hand in  final  salute  to  his  old  friend,
  Wingover. He didn't move again;
    The winds howled, and  hailstones  battered  the  land.  Lightning  like
  spider legs walked across the Plains of  Dergoth  and  the  nearer  hills,
  striking among the goblin troops there. Staccato and brilliance,  darkness
  and storm, the bolts danced on winds that screamed and sang  and  buffeted
  the swaying stone bridge.
    Chestal Thicketsway clung to a bridge rail and shouted, "It's Zap!  He's
  happening!"
    His shield to the raging wind, Wingover fought his way to  the  foot  of
  the bridge with the kender clinging to him. They fell, rolled, and  sought
  shelter in a storm like no storm ever seen on Ansalon...  at  least  since
  the Cataclysm.
    "Three spells cast Fistandantilus,"the Irda had said, "in the Valley  of
  Waykeep. The first was fire, the second ice. The third has not yet
  happened."
    Now, the sundered Plains  of  Dergoth  were  washed  by  storm,  as  Zap
  fulfilled his destiny.

  * * * * *

    Rockfall had hidden  the  old  trade  portal.  What  once  had  been  an
  iron-framed gate, nine feet wide and twenty  feet  high,  with  cable-cart
  stays and transfer platforms, now was a forgotten gap behind  hundreds  of
  tons of tumbled stone. Hidden, but not closed.
    With Jilian following, Chane Feldstone crawled through a cleft among the
  rocks and entered a tunnel, which was more a maze that only a dwarf  or  a
  curious kender might have riddled out. Behind them,  faint  now,  was  the
  rolling thunder of the storm. Chane eased around a  hairpin  turn  between
  boulders, then crawled over a buried slab and under another, following the
  green light that seemed to speak to the gem set in the old helm  he  wore.
  On and on they went, and everywhere was dark, fallen stone with  only  the
  green trace to guide them. Pathfinder pulsed and glowed as the stone  maze
  wound on dimly. In the pouch  at  Chane's  belt,  Spellbinder  throbbed  a
  silent song.
    Jilian's cheeks were moist with wiped-away tears, her throat tight  with
  dread and regret. People she had come to love were now left  behind.  They
  would probably die so that the mission of Grallen  and  of  Chane's  dream
  could be completed. She had looked back just once, from  the  top  of  the
  bridge, and felt as though her heart might break. The two  had  seemed  so
  small back there, so helpless - a bleeding man and  a  bright-eyed  kender
  with his hair coiled around his throat. Just those two,  facing  ...Jilian
  had not looked back again.
    For the first time in her life, Jilian  felt  the  weight  of  mountains
  above her, the press of the stone  through  which  they  made  their  way.
  "Maybe we can go back and help them," she whispered. "I mean, when  you've
  done whatever it is you are supposed to do." Ahead of her  Chane  squeezed
  his broad shoulders through  a  narrow  crevice  and  took  another  turn,
  pausing only to make sure that she followed. He said nothing,  though  she
  knew he ached for their friends just as she did.
    Another tight, jagged opening between tumbled slabs, another  turn,  and
  Jilian heard Chane's breath catch in his  throat.  He  clawed  and  pulled
  through a crack, and when he was beyond it he turned to give her his hand.
  Greenish light flooded about him and lit up the cavern he had  discovered.
  Chane and Jilian looked around. The light they saw was Pathfinder's  glow,
  reflecting back from the delved walls and ceiling of a wide, hewn space. A
  few bits of rubble lay scattered among neat mounds of piled stone. Nearby,
  an old cable-cart lay on its side.
    "A transfer terminal," Chane said. He pointed  to  the  left.  A  clean,
  unshattered tunnel led away there, into darkness. Pathfinder  pulsed,  and
  the narrow trail of green light appeared again, on the dusty floor. It led
  straight to a mound of crushed stone, up the side of it to  the  top,  and
  stopped at a little cone of green light, with a red center.
    Chane walked to the  mound,  head-high  to  him,  and  stood  a  moment,
  listening to something that only he could hear. Then he  took  Spellbinder
  from his pouch.  The  red  gem  pulsed  warmly,  its  glow  the  color  of
  Lunitari's light. Reaching out, he placed the gem on the  pile  of  stone,
  where the spot of red shone.
    From behind the dwarves, from the buried gate they had traversed, came a
  sound of distant, rolling thunder.  Spellbinder's  light  grew  in  power,
  flared brilliantly in the cavern, then settled into a  steady,  warm  glow
  that seemed to fill the air with tiny music.
    "Come." Chane took Jilian's hand. "Pathfinder  has  brought  Spellbinder
  home. Now we must hurry."
    "Can we go back?" she asked.
    As though in answer, the thunder grew beyond the  gate  and  the  cavern
  quaked ominously. Chane headed for the  left  tunnel  at  a  run,  pulling
  Jilian along with him. The thunder mounted behind them.
    Once beyond  the  cavern,  Pathfinder's  steady  green  glow  lighted  a
  cable-way long forgotten, a finely-delved tunnel  that  seemed  to  go  on
  ahead of them unobstructed. "Hurry," Chane said. Behind them, the  thunder
  became the roar of solid stone shearing and the  chatter  of  rockfall.  A
  cloud of dust obscured the opening of the cavern, and the faint red  light
  winked out.
    "It's sealed," Chane rumbled. "And locked against magic. That  was  what
  Grallen intended to do."
    "Where does this go?" Jilian pointed ahead, down the cable-way.
    "It goes where it always went," Chane Feldstone said.
    "It goes to Thorbardin."
    Once more  Jilian  looked  back.  "I'd  like  to  see  outside  again...
  sometime. Do you suppose we ever will?"
    "We'll see it," Chane replied softly. "Maybe we'll even  see...  them...
  again sometime,"
    At his brow, Pathfinder throbbed a clear  green  pulse  of  reassurance.
  Chane felt as though Grallen's helm had just given him a promise.

  Chapter 33

    On a bright spring day a man came down from the  wilderness  ranges.  He
  rode a sturdy, battle-wise horse and had the look of far places about him.
  In the  main  square  at  the  crossroads  of  Barter  he  reined  in  and
  dismounted. Not far away, winged pigs circled contentedly  above  an  inn.
  Some distance beyond, pavilions spread their bright expanses,  a  sign  of
  the spring trading season. Among them was a large,  red-and-gold  pavilion
  that stood amidst myriad stalls and showing tables.
    "Goldbuckle is here," the man noted, talking to himself and his horse in
  the way of one who has been afar and long  alone.  He  smiled  a  sardonic
  smile, unlashing a pack from behind his  saddle.  Inside  was  Abanasinian
  ivory, an exquisite collection of the finest carvings. "That old thief  is
  going to drool all over himself when he sees this,"  he  told  the  horse.
  "But it's going to cost him plenty to get his hands on it."
    Leading the horse, he started for  the  trade  pavilion  of  the  Daewar
  merchant, then stopped when a highpitched, excited  voice  shouted,  "Hey!
  Look who's here!"
    Chestal Thicketsway pushed through a crowd of  traders  and  ran  toward
  him. "Wingover! I thought you were dead or something!"  He  skidded  to  a
  stop, beaming up at the man. "And Geekay made it, too. Wow! Did  you  hear
  about Chane Feldstone? He's rich and famous, just like I said he'd be. The
  Thorbardin traders talk about him all the time. Rogar Goldbuckle has  been
  strutting around here ever since he arrived, telling everybody how he's  a
  personal friend of Chane Feldstone. He has the trading  sanction  for  the
  Hylar now, too. Gee, everybody thought you were dead, though. How did  you
  survive that storm?"
    "I -" Wingover started.
    "Did you ever see such a storm in all your life? Wow! What a wind! I saw
  a boulder as big as a house, just rolling along with the wind pushing  it.
  I never saw anything like that storm. Most people don't believe me when  I
  talk about it, but that's all right. What did you do, find a hiding place?
  After we got separated, I mean? That's what I did. I just crawled  into  a
  hole and stayed there until Zap got it out of his system."
    "I -" Wingover attempted.
    "I'll bet you didn't expect to find me here, either, did you? I wouldn't
  be, except that Bobbin couldn't find his way back without a  guide.  Every
  place he'd seen  was  from  the  air,  and  after  Zap  knocked  him  down
  everything looked different. He got lost! Did I tell you... no,  I  didn't
  yet, did I?... Bobbin's building a new invention. It's  kind  of  like  an
  iron fish, and I don't know much about it. You know how gnomes are. Either
  they don't tell you anything, or you can't get a word in edgewise. He says
  he wants to go and find an ocean as soon as he  gets  it  ready.  Are  you
  going to see Rogar Goldbuckle? He's here, you know. That's his place over
  -"
    "Chess, I -"
    "- there, with all the red-and-yellow drapings. There's some really neat
  stuff in there. I found a -"
    "Chess -"
    "- whole sack of bright beads that somebody had  dropped  or  something,
  but the dwarves at the gate made me leave it. That's all right, though.  I
  found some other things, too, and I can go back and  look  some  more  any
  time I want to, no matter what they say about -"
    "Chestal Thicketsway!"
    The kender blinked, startled. "Ah... yes?"
    "You haven't changed a bit."
