Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

Firestoke told Glenshadow. Still the wizard shone with a bright ruby glow.

"Come on," Chane urged. "Let's get across. They're coming."

"How about somebody giving me a hand?" The voice that came from below the bridge was highpitched and excited. Chane and Wingover hurried to the edge and peered down into dark, rushing water. They quickly stepped across to the other side. Just below, barely visible, Chestal Thicketsway clung to a hoopak jammed between bridge pilings.

"Give us some light here," Wingover ordered, pulling Glenshadow to the edge of the bridge. Ruby glow lit rushing dark waters and the childlike face, grinning up at them. Chane Feldstone started to crouch above the kender, then winced as his wounded arm took his weight.

"Get back," Wingover snapped, pushing the dwarf aside. "I'll get him."

Kneeling, clinging to a bridge support, the man reached down and lifted the drenched kender, hoopak and all, to set him on his feet on the structure. The others stared at Chess. His hair falling around him, the kender looked like nothing more than a dark mushroom with a forked stick.

He pulled back long, soggy hair, shook it aside, and grinned at them.

"Hello," he said cheerfully, water cascading from him. "Did you know there are just a heck of a lot of goblins out there I I'm glad we stopped shining." He looked at the wizard critically. "If you intend to go on doing that, maybe you should go somewhere else."

After watching the torches come closer for a moment, Chane and his allies could see goblins… and creatures that were taller. Dragging the glowing wizard with them, trying to keep him shielded behind the horse, the searchers scurried for the far end of the bridge and the darkness beyond. When they were clear, Wingover waved the rest ahead, except for

Glenshadow. "Your phosphors gave me an idea," he told the wizard. "I think it's time to try it." Wingover dug into one of his packs and brought out a pair of hand-length cylinders that glowed silvery in the faint, murky moonlight. "Phosphor flares," he explained. "I got them from a Qualinesti traveler, Garon Wendesthalas." He dug deeper into the pack. "I still can't find my oil striker. Can you light these with that phosphor thing?"

"I can try. What do I light?"

"This thing here, on each one. It's a fuse." Wingover hurried to the foot of the bridge and placed a flare on each side, at the main supports.

"Hurry," he said.

The wizard knelt at first one and then the other of the flares, preparing the wicks. His glow was dimming slightly, and he squinted in the gloom.

"Will this help?" It was Chess, coming back to see what they were doing.

The kender held a small metal object, which he manipulated with his thumb.

A merry little fire appeared above his hand. But the wizard set the flares then. Harsh, bright sparks spewed forth, and Wingover said. "All right, get back!"

They retreated a dozen paces, then several more as bronze bolts sang past them from beyond the stream. Suddenly the flares erupted in furious blinding brilliance, beyond which a flood of armed goblins were running up the far ramp, onto the bridge.

Another bronze dart flew past, and Wingover snapped, "Put out that light." Then he turned to the kender as the little flame went out. "Where did you get that?"

Chess shrugged. "I don't know. Found it somewhere. What is it?"

"It's my oil striker!" Wingover growled.

"Is that what it is? Why do I have it, then?"

"I don't know why you have it. Give it back!"

Chess handed the thing over. "You must have dropped it along the way.

Lucky I found it for you. Looks a lot handier than flint and steel."

"It is flint and steel. With a wick. And oil. I — " Wingover stopped and stared. The flares on the bridge had done their job. The bridge blazed merrily now, a wall of fire from edge to edge, barring passage from the other side. A few wooden planks were even falling away to hiss in the dark waters below. But on the other side, a person had pushed through the clamoring crowd of goblins — a taller person, wearing gleaming black, ornamented armor and a horned helmet with a beaten mask. As Wingover, and now the others, stared across the fire, the person removed the mask. The wilderness man caught his breath. For the first time, he saw the face of

Kolanda Darkmoor. The hideous mask across the bridge was lowered, and the woman behind it was — no, might have been — stunningly beautiful. But she was something else instead. Wingover sensed absolute evil there. She only glanced at him, though, for her gaze swiftly locked on Chane Feldstone.

She put her hand to her throat and lifted something from her breastplate.

"How could you let them get away?" the woman shouted. "I set a net across this valley, and you… you sniveling excuse for a troopleader… you let them slip through!"

Thog,aparticularly ugly hobgoblin, and six goblins cowered before the

Commander, afraid to respond. "Two platoons dead or missing!" The horned helmet turned from one to another of them, its dragon facemask seeming to boom with each syllable. "Did any of you even see them clearly? Do you know how many there were?"

Thog scuffed his toe and raised hiseyes. "Fiveof the lighted ones,

Commander… but one of them was a horse."

Furious eyes blazed at the hobgoblin from behind the mask. "Five, but one was a horse. There were six! Counting the horse. I counted them. Why couldn't you?" When there was no answer, the Commander paused a moment, shaking with fury.

"Double shifts!" she said then. "Double shifts for everyone until further ordered. Now, get out of my sight!" The hobgoblin and the goblins turned and hurried away, almost scrambling in their haste. When they were gone, she muttered, "And you… I found the dwarf for you. All you had to do was destroy him. Why didn't you?"

A dry, twisted voice that seemed to come from within the Commander's armor said, "Ah… she questions me? Does she dare?"

"I dare question you, yes," Kolanda hissed. "Why didn't you strike down that dwarf? Why didn't you strike them all down? I gave you the chance!"

"Magic failed," the voice said. "But there will be another chance.

Glenshadow knows."

"Glenshadow?"

"Glenshadow," the thin voice repeated bitterly. "He knows I will kill him when next we meet." Kolanda Darkmoor walked to a high, clear ridge to oversee the reorganization of her troops. Though it was unthinkable that the dwarf with the knowledge of Thorbardin's secret — and his companions

— had somehow managed to get past all her defenses, she let her fury subside somewhat and resumed her planning. The dwarf had to be stopped.

She turned and looked at the range of mountains to the east.

Goblin trackers had reported at morning's first light.

The group had gone almost straight east across the valley… at least as far as they had been able to track them. Someone with the group, it seemed, was skilled at covering trail. But they had gone east, and due east lay the soaring peak of Sky's End. Kolanda knew from her scouts that there was an old, climbing trail that curved around the mountain's slopes, but it would be a tedious and difficult journey. It would have been far better for them to take the pass road, farther north. It crossed heights more scalable than giant Sky's End, and there was a bridge beyond that crossed the chasm and led toward the Plains of Dergoth. And it was to those plains that the dwarf must be going, because it was there that

Grallen fell.

Kolanda smiled. Several of the captured humans and dwarves had died in the process of their inquisition, but she had a serviceable map and a great deal of information as a result.

The northern pass would place her on Dergoth well ahead of the fleeing group.