Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

The dwarf and the kender rested that nigtt in the humans' camp. Despite

Fleece Ironhill's concession, a mountain dwarf still was more welcome among humans than among hill dwarves. What remained in their packs — a few pounds of dried cat, some rolls of goose, and a piece of flatbread — they shared. The humans in turn shared some of the meager provisions they had carried in their retreat from the goblin marauders. It was a sad and sorry camp, as was the dwarf camp just beyond. Everywhere, there were injured people. And everywhere there was grief. Chane sat apart for a time, talking with the human chief, Camber Meld. Then he curled up and went to sleep, wondering how he was to follow the path of the old warrior,

Grallen, if that path led right into a fresh nest of armed goblins and bloodthirsty ogres.

Chestal Thicketsway, still wide awake and excited by the rate at which new adventures were coming along, roamed about the two camps for a time, then climbed a hill and sat on top of it, watching the moons creep across the sky.

In the distance, he could see the hooded fires of the refugee camps, where Chane Feldstone slept. The kender felt at his side and frowned. He didn't have his pouch with him. He had left it with his pack, back there at the camp. And he had his hoopak, but no pebbles. Immediately Chess scouted around and found several good pebbles. He then felt much more comfortable.

It was oddly quiet, he noticed. Not so much as a whimper from Zap.

Chess's eyes widened, and he whirled to look again at the distant fires, abruptly realizing that he was a long way from Spellbinder. 'Whoops," he muttered. Turning full circle, slowly, speaking distinctly, he said, "Now, listen, Zap, I think we ought to talk about this. I'm sure we can find a civilized way to… Zap? Are you listening? I'd really just as soon you behave yourself for a while longer. There's no reason to go off half…

Zap? Zap! Where are you, anyway?"

Nothing responded. There was not the slightest hint of the old spell's presence.

"Zap, are you hiding from me?" The kender peered all about even though he knew that there would be nothing to see. "Look, if you're tired of following me around, that's all right with me. No problem at all. I never could figure out why you were tagging after me in the first place." He paused and listened again. "If you want to just head out on your own, I certainly won't hold a grudge. In fact, that might be the best thing you could do. Just go along by yourself — the farther the better, of course, and do your destiny, whatever that is. You might get a real bang out of that, don't you think?" The kender frowned at the absolute lack of response. "Zap! I know you're around somewhere. Where are you?"

Still there was no answer. The kender sat on a rock, deep in thought.

Maybe the spell had come up with a new tactic, he reasoned. Maybe it would try to convince him that it was gone, to lull him into taking it to where it could explode. On the other hand, maybe this was already far enough away for it to explode.

Then again, maybe it wasn't here at all. But if not, where was it? It had been attached to him since the day on the old battlefield where he had first met it. How could it be unattached now? Unless…

Chess snapped his fingers and grinned. He had left his pouch and his pack at the humans' camp. Maybe it wasn't him that Zap was attached to, but his belongings. Maybe it was attached to his pouch! That could explain the awful wailing the spell had been doing, up on the mountainside. If it was attached to his pouch and Spellbinder had been in his pouch… well, he could see how Zap might have been pretty unhappy about that.

With a grin, Chestal Thicketsway realized that he had found a solution to a problem. If Zap was attached to his pouch, all he needed to do was make a new pouch and go off and leave the old one. Then he'd be rid of the pesky spell once and for all. He began to think about the materials he would need for a pouch.

"Hellothere," a voice said. "Isthatyou?"

Chess jumped to his feet, spinning around.

"Up here," the voice said more slowly. "It's me, Bobbin. Do you have any raisins I"

Overhead, the wide-winged soarwagon floated, shadowy in the light of the two moons. Chess waved, and the gnome did something to his controls, bringing the machine lower still.

"I don't have any raisins," the kender said. "Sorry. What are you doing here?"

"Scouting," Bobbin explained. "I've sort of signed on as chief scout for the Wingover company… since I have nothing better to do. I'm looking for danger. Do you have any?"

"Not right now," Chess admitted. "I had an ogre a while back, though.

That's pretty dangerous. And from what I hear, there's plenty of danger beyond those peaks, over in the Vale of Respite. Goblins and ogres have taken the place over. Those people out there by the fires are refugees.

Why don't you talk to them?"

"I've been trying to," Bobbin snapped, "but my soarwagon needs some adjustment of its aerodynamic equivalences… which I will attend to if I ever get back on the ground. I've been trying since early evening to get to that camp, but I keep winding up somewhere else. I guess you'll have to give me my report. Goblins and ogres, you say? And you actually met one of the ogres? What's his side of the story?"

"I don't know. I didn't stop to chat."

"Well, where's the ogre now?"

"He's up on the mountain, buried under several tons of rock. Chane

Feldstone buried him."

"Chane Feldstone? I've heard that name."

"I wouldn't be surprised. He's famous, you know. Not rich, but well on his way to being famous. I'm helping him." The kender grinned proudly.

'You can help, too, if you'll spread the word. Just tell anybody you happen to see that Chane Feldstone is a famous warrior."

"I suppose I can do that," the gnome agreed. "Where is Chane Feldstone?"

"He's over there where those people are camped. He's asleep, though.

Burying ogres is tiring work."

"Well, Wingover wants to know what's going on. I wonder — " The gnome paused, thinking, then said, "Maybe we could offset the lateral drift ratio in this thing, if you'd help."

"What do you want me to do?" the kender asked doubtfully.

"I'll drop a line. You grab it, and maybe you can tow me over to where those people are."

A length of stout rope snaked downward from the underside of the soarwagon. Chess dutifully slung his hoopak on his back and grasped the rope in both hands. "Now what?" the kender called.

"Now just start walking, and I'll try to follow along."

Chess shrugged, hauled the rope tight, and started to walk. For a dozen steps, the gnome's craft crept along above him, obediently. Then it stalled in a draft and edged to one side. The kender took a tighter grip and hauled it back toward the proper course.

"This may work out," the gnome called down. "Just keep going and hold tight to that line, and… oh, crosscurrent! Hang on!"

Chess clung to the line as the soarwagon nosed up, and suddenly realized that his feet were no longer on the ground. He looked down. The hill where he had rested was falling away below, as was the rest of the world.

Moonlit landscapes widened beneath him, shrinking away to miniature forests, streams, trails, and ridges. Higher and higher the soarwagon soared, the bit in its teeth now and the winds of altitude under its wings.

"Would you look at that," the kender breathed. "Wow! What a view!"

Above him, the gnome muttered and swore, working at his controls.

"Linkjoint!" he said in obvious annoyance. "The zag and the zig have reversed again. I thought I had that fixed." He leaned out from his basket, squinting as he peered downward. "Are you still there?"

"I certainly hope so," Chess assured him. "Otherwise I'm in a lot of trouble."