Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

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.