Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

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.