Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

Though he was anxious to be on his way, Chane Feldstone had put off his quest long enough to build a sturdy pit-forge and begin the making of tools that the refugees would need. Scavengers from both the human and dwarven camps were sifting through the ruins of nearby ancient gnomish artifacts, recovering metal to be fired and beaten into tools and weapons to replace things they had left behind when the goblin force attacked.

Chane was shaping a serviceable anvil and showing some of the younger hill dwarves how to cut blade-stock when the hum of conversation around him died, and he looked up. And gawked.

Jilian Firestoke stood before him, staring in profound disbelief. Jilian

Firestoke, who was supposed to be safely home in the Daewar district of

Thorbardin. She stood just yards away, here in the wilderness, dressed in rugged trail garb and sturdy boots, with a broadsword slung at her back.

Still, beyond all doubt she was the same Jilian Firestoke who so often filled his dreams. Morning sun danced in her hair and gleamed in her bright eyes, and Chane simply stared at her.

"What on Krynn are you doing?" she asked. "Those clothes… I never saw anything like those. And your cheeks are ruddier than before. You look older, too. What is that?" She pointed at his face.

Chane groped for words and found none.

"That spot on his head?" the grinning kender beside Jilian asked. "The red moon gave him that. It has something to do with the crystal he has.

The Spellbinder."

Chane tried again. "J — Jilian?"

"I told you he'd be surprised," the kender chatted.

"Surprised?" A tall man with sword and flinthide shield came into

Chane's shocked and narrowed view. "I'd say he's speechless."

"Wh — What are you… ah… Jilian?"

"Of course I'm Jilian." The dwarven girl shook her head. "Chane, you look so strange. Where did you get that clothing?"

"He hollowed out a kitty cat." The kender giggled. "It was his first step toward becoming rich and famous."

The words crowding and jostling each other at Chanc's lips finally sorted themselves out. In a roar that stunned those facing him and set them back a step, he said, "Jilian, what are you doing here?"

"Why…" She blinked large, startled eyes. "Why, I came to find you. I found out what my father did, and I thought you might be in trouble."

Chane's mouth hung open for a long moment, then he closed it with a snap. His eyes blazing, Chane came around the forge. He strode to Jilian and pointed a shaking finger at her nose. "That is the stupidest thing I ever heard! Of all the… Don't you know it's dangerous out here? You could be hurt! You could be… Jilian, for Reorx's sake! You have no business outside, much less out here in the wilderness!"

Her voice shook and her eyes blinked rapidly as she pointed out, "You're here."

"That's different! I can take care of myself!"

Jilian was silent for a moment, the set of her face changing from bewilderment to a smoldering anger. She threw back her shoulders and planted her hands on her hips. "Well, by all that's rustproof, so can I."

Chane glanced at the kender. "Where did you find her?"

Chess indicated the man with the flinthide shield. "She was with him."

Chane pivoted toward the man and raised his hammer. "You brought her here? By what right — "

"Don't shake that thing at me," Wingover warned. His hand was at the hilt of his sword.

"I'm here by my own doing, Chane Feldstone," Jilian snapped. "I thought you'd be glad to see me."

Chane turned from the human. "I am glad to see you," he admitted. "But,

Jilian, you don't belong here. You belong in Thorbardin, where you're safe."

"I'm safe here," she said. "You're here. Besides, I brought you something. I thought you might need it."

"What?"

"This." She drew a dagger from her tunic and handed it to him, hilt-first.

Chane held the dagger, turning it in his hands, barely seeing it as a sudden, embarrassing moisture clouded his eyes. It was his nickeliron knife — the very one he had cherished for so long, then had lost to the toughs who routed him from the realm of Thorbardin. 'You… came all this way to bring me this?"

"Well, yes. You always said it was important to you."

Chestal Thicketsway stepped close to look at the ornate dagger. "That's pretty," he said.

Chane glared at him. 'You keep your hands off of it. It's mine."

"I wouldn't doubt it for a minute," the kender said innocently.

"Besides, I don't need it. I have a matched pair of nice cat-tooth daggers. Why would I need another dagger?"

Quite a crowd seemed to have gathered, Chane noticed. Fleece Ironhill and Camber Meld were nearby, with a number of their people from the refugee camps. Also, there was a horse.

"Speaking of daggers," the kender chattered, "I hope you took care of my pouch while I was gone, because I think that's what Zap is attached to."

"That thing has been hanging around ever since you left," Chane noted absently. "So maybe it is your pouch it's attached to."

"Well, I plan to get rid of that pouch," Chess said.

Near at hand, something silent seemed to say, "Yes, do. Please."

Several of those present jumped, and some turned full circle, searching.

"What was that?" Jilian Firestoke asked.

"That was Zap." Chess shrugged. "Spooky, isn't he?"

"It's an unexploded spell," Chane told the girl. "Chess accumulated it somewhere."

"He wants to happen," Chess explained, "but he can't because he's too close to Chane, and Chane has the Spellbinder."

"Well, when we come to someplace harmless, you can throw away your pouch and that should put an end to that," the dwarf said.

"Soon, please," Zap's soundless voice sounded.

"All right," the kender agreed. "But you'll have to wait until I make a new pouch to keep all my things in. I've got some pretty good stuff in that pouch, and I don't want to lose any of it."

For a moment there was silence, then the silence seemed to weep a thin, bitter wail of frustration.

"Look, I don't know what all this is about," Wingover said, "but I'd sure like to have a serious talk with somebody."

"You will." A new voice spoke — a voice as cold as winter's frost. "Tis time you knew where you're going, man of the far places. Not that you've a choice, any more than anyone else."

No one, apparently, had seen him arrive. But he stood among them now, tall and thin, leaning on his staff. Beneath his bison cloak, the hem of his faded red robe identified him.

"A wizard," Wingover muttered.

"There you are," the kender grinned.

"Glenshadow," Chane Feldstone growled.

By reflex, Wingover's flinthide shield drew across his breast, and the wilderness man glared at the wizard across its notched edge. "What's that about having no choice? I make my choices, wizard."

"The moons have made an omen," Glenshadow breathed. "One here has a mission, stamped upon him by Lunitari. Others are chosen to accompany him, and a magic beyond magic binds the bargain." He looked around, his eyes falling upon the kender, then on Jilian, and again on Wingover. Finally the wizard raised his eyes and gazed into the high distances. Far off, against the face of a mountain peak, Bobbin the gnome's soarwagon glided in great circles.

"An odd assortment," the wizard muttered. "Very odd, indeed."

Through waning day and into evening, there were councils. News was exchanged, stories told and plans discussed. Camber Meld and Fleece

Ironhill recounted again what had happened in the Vale of Respite, beyond the Eastwall peaks. An army of goblins, they said. And ogres among them.

Camber Meld's eyes were moist as he described the sudden, all-out attack on the human village of Harvest — the slaughter, the rout of survivors unprepared for battle, the blood and the burning. Old Fleece Ironhill's voice was a cold growl as he told of the similar struggle at the hill dwarf village of Herdlinger. The dwarves had been slightly better prepared. They had seen the smoke above Harvest. But except for the fighting lasting a bit longer, the story of Herdlinger's fall was the same.