Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

"Through them, then?" Chess asked, looking up from a saddlebag.

"I wish we had Bobbin to sort out a route for us," the man said. "But he went the other way, and there's no telling when he might show up again. By the way, where's the wizard? I haven't seen him since we came down from the pass."

"He went up," Chane said.

"I guess we'll just have to find our way, then."

Wingover looked at the sky. "Daylight will be gone in an hour. I guess we can try to cross by night. It's only a few miles, straight across… unless we decided to change our minds and just make for Thorbardin." He had their attention, and the expressions forming on various faces brought a grin to his own. "Just checking," he said. "I wouldn't want to try to slip through a valley full of goblins unless I was pretty sure everybody with me is as determined as I am."

Chane Feldstone's thoughtful frown didn't relax. The dwarf stepped closer to the human, looked up into his eyes, and held his gaze. "I never wanted to get involved in anything like this. I didn't want to wind up in the wilderness, or fight ogres and goblins, or be singled out to finish some task that was begun before ever I was born. But I won't turn back now. I wouldn't if I could. Do you know why? It's because something very bad is happening…or is going to happen. I happen to be here, and I happen to have a chance to do something about it. If I don't, then who is going to?" "I wouldn't miss it for anything," Chestal Thicketsway assured

Wingover. "And I think that goes for Zap, too." He glanced around at nothing in particular. "Doesn't it, Zap?"

"Misery and confusion," something silent seemed to say.

The kender grinned. "That means he can hardly wait to see what happens next."

Jilian Firestoke peered out from behind a screen of mountain brush, where she was doing something. "What Chane said goes for me, too," she said.

"Any further doubts?" Chane asked the man.

Wingover shook his head. "Not a single one."

"Then let's stop talking about it and go on," Chane snapped.

"Someone is coming." The kender pointed. A moment later brush parted on the rising slope and the wizard Glenshadow came into view. He looked haggard and cold, but his steps were firm.

"The valley is full of goblins," Chane told him. "We are going to try to cross at night."

"I've seen them," Glenshadow said. "They are all over, and they're moving around. Where is the crystal? Where is Spellbinder?"

"Right here." Chane reached into his belt-pouch. As his fingers touched the artifact it pulsed warmly, and again he saw the luminous green path leading away across the Vale of Respite, toward the slopes beyond. He drew it out. It glowed, rosy in the half-light.

"Put it in a hole," the wizard said.

"Why?"

"Because I'm curious about something. Don't worry, I won't trick you.

There. That hole in the rock, put it there."

Suspiciously, Chane squatted beside the indicated hole. It was little more than a foot deep, just a pocket where erosion had widened a crack on the stone. The others gathered around, curious.

"Go ahead," the wizard insisted. "Put it in there. You can take it out again in a moment."

Chane lowered the crystal into the hole, rested it on the bottom, then stood and stepped back. Glenshadow backed away, his eyes nearly closed.

The crystal device on his staff glowed feebly. "There is an effect," he muttered. "It makes a difference."

Chestal Thicketsway blinked and looked up. A drop of rain had fallen on his head.

"Are you finished?" Chane asked the wizard. "It's time to go."

"Yes," Glenshadow noted thoughtfully. "It is time to go."

"What was that all about?" Wingover asked. But the wizard had turned away.

Chane retrieved the crystal, put it away, and lashed his pack. Jilian came from the screen of brush, now clad in a tunic of stained white linen, scaled down to fit her by a series of clever tucks, folds, and ties. She handed most of the once-robe back to the human.

Wingover stared at her. "I don't know why I ever thought that old robe was for me," he said.

Chane took the lead, and they started down the darkening slopes, toward the Vale of Respite, where goblins now occupied what had once been a vale of peace.

When they were gone, something massive came from the rocks and paused to look at the heap of chilling gore that once had been an ogre.

He prodded the mess with his toes, then stepped over it and went to where the dim trail led downward. He growled, a noise that rumbled like distant thunder.

"Cleft was careless," he muttered. "Cleft is dead. Should have waited for Loam, instead. But puny ones are still in sight. Loam will have a sport this night." Without looking back, the ogre took the trail where the searchers had gone.

Full night lay on the valley, a nigtht of moons in crescent pale above the smoke that hung like a layer of smudgy cloud just at the treetops.

Bonfires, dozens of them, glowed at ragged intervals along the course of the winding stream that fed the valley from the south. Out in the meadows, near the treelines that marked the grazing fields and burned-over stubbles, other fires marked a perimeter. And through it all, suffusing the acrid pall of smoke, was goblin-stench.

Mounted, Wingover ranged out on the forward flanks of the little band of travelers — first warning and first defense for the group, should they be discovered. He went silently, keeping to shadows where he could. Chane

Feldstone led the rest, his hammer ready in his hand, the ancient path of

Grallen visible before him as a faint green mist.

Chestal Thicketsway was a small, darting shadow, sometimes among them and sometimes not, but never far away. The kender's sheer, wide-eyed excitement and curiosity was a source of real concern to the rest, but there was little enough anyone could do to curb him. A kender was always a kender.

Had Chess been as tall as a goblin, Wingover might well have chopped off his head when the kender appeared unexpectedly in shadows beside him and

said, "I-"

The sharp sword that whisked past the top of Chess's head would have taken a goblin at the gullet.

"Oops," the kender said. "Did I startle you? Sorry."

"Keep your voice down!" Wingover whispered. 'What are you doing here?"

"I'm part of this group, remember?" Chess held it to a whisper now. "I just wanted to tell you, there are goblins moving back and forth among the fires. I saw a handful of them right over there, just a minute ago."

"A handful?"

"Five. They have a dead sheep."

"I wish you'd stay with the dwarves," Wingover hissed. But there was no answer. Chess was gone again, off on some adventure of his own. At least,

Wingover reassured himself, the little creature could move silently when he felt like it.

They were nearly a mile into the valley when Wingover saw movement near the end of a hedgerow a hundred yards away. He signaled, a downward thrust of his spread hand, and reined into shadow. The stench of goblin and smoke was everywhere, and the sky above was a low, drifting fabric with fireglow on its belly. Only rarely was any trace of the moons beyond visible.

Crouching in silence, Wingover chanced a glance back and saw that the rest were out of sight. They had seen the signal and faded into a clump of trees at the edge of a field.

At first there was nothing to see, then there was movement just ahead.

Dark shapes appeared, coming over a low knoll, directly toward Chane's party. Wingover counted three silhouettes with wide, round heads, wearing inverted-bowl helmets. The glint of weapons showed amongst them.

The shadows came on, moving quietly, their only sound an occasional muted clank of metal on metal. Wingover dismounted and raised his shield an inch, peering over the top of it, his sword ready. The goblins were so close that the man could hear their guttural voices: