Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

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.

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.