Dan Parkinson: The Gates of Thorbardin

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."