Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

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?"