Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

"Well, I saw a dragon. A big, red one. He weighs nearly three tons and had flown five hundred miles." The gnome frowned. "He wasn't very friendly."

"A dragon?" The kender danced about in his excitement. "A real dragon?

Where?" Wingover shook his head in disgust. There was no telling what the gnome had actually seen… if anything.

Solinari and Lunitari had set hours ago. Beside a small fire, set far back in a mountain cove, Chane Feldstone lay in peaceful sleep for the first time in several days. For the moment, the red spot on his forehead was so dim that it was barely noticeable. Better still, the firelight reflecting on his cheeks above his beard revealed a healthy, ruddy color that Jilian attributed to two days of rest and good food, though among the others were some who suspected other cures as well.

Glenshadow the wizard had made it clear that, in his opinion, the dwarf had been in no danger, despite his illness. The red moon, the wizard said, had set Chane a task.

Glenshadow had been silent after that. He had gone off by himself to sit in thought. Then, after a time, he had pulled his bison cloak about him and wandered away on some path of his own.

He had not returned, though a day had passed. But as Chane Feldstone lay now, sleeping by the little fire, Jilian hovering beside him as always, it was the kender who saw a thing that needed no reconsideration. He came with twigs to feed the fire and paused there. Then he beckoned to Wingover and pointed.

Jilian had fallen asleep. Her head nodded forward, then rested, moving slightly with her even breathing as she slept. In the shadows between the two dwarves, their two hands lay clasped, Jilian's little hand resting in

Chane's larger one.

Wingover grinned. 'Yes," he whispered. "That very likely is what is curing him. Some comforts have more power than people know."

"Not for me," something seemed to say wistfully, and Chestal Thicketsway looked up from the new task he had begun, which was trimming branches off a long, thin sapling he had found.

"Quit complaining, Zap," the kender said testily. 'You never had it better than this. I'll bet you never expected to travel."

"No," the disembodied non-voice seemed to mourn,

"just to happen."

"Well, you weren't happening where you were, either. So what's the difference?" Wingover glanced at the kender, curious to see what the little person was doing. It was the first time he had seen Chestal

Thicketsway concentrate on anything for more than one hour. Yet, Chess had been working on his sapling for most of the day. With all of its branches gone and most of its bark peeled away, it was a slim pole of fresh wood more than twenty feet long. With the last of the trimming done, the kender laid the sapling down near the ledge and looked around. "I need some string," he said.

The man arched a curious brow. "Do you plan to go fishing?"

"I don't think so," the kender said distractedly. "But I need… ah, excuse me." He trotted away, heading for the stacked packs and equipment.

After a time he returned, heading for the ledge. "I found some thongs," he said. "They're not string, but they'll do."

Wingover looked after Chess, then called softly,

"What are you making over there?"

"A supply stick," Chess called back. "Gnomes aren't the only ones who can invent good stuff, you know."

"A supply stick," Wingover muttered, wondering what it was all about.

Then it came to him, and he grinned. Raisins for Bobbin, of course. The gnome had shown up twice since they had been here, both times cursing in gnomic and trying desperately to bring his craft close enough to the ledge for someone to reach his lowered line. He kept jabbering about something called "ground effect," and "ninety degrees to the grade," and "the gearstripping tiltyness of mountains."

They had raisins for him, and cider — which seemed to delight him — but so far they hadn't been able to deliver the goods to his supply line.

At its nearest, the line had dangled fifteen feet beyond the sheer ledge.

Bobbin was probably getting hungry up there, wherever he was.

"Supply stick," Wingover said again. "Well, it just might work."

"What might?"

The deep voice, strong and quiet, startled him. Chane Feldstone hadn't moved, but he was awake. His eyes were bright in the firelight, looking from Wingover to the dozing Jilian.

"Are you feeling better?" Wingover got to his knees and leaned for a better look at the dwarf.

"I feel fine." Chane looked around, careful not to disturb Jilian. "How long have we been here? I thought we had gone to… no, it was only a dream, wasn't it I"

"Couple of days," Wingover told him. 'You were pretty sick. How does your shoulder feel?"

Chane shifted, winced, and sat up, still holding Jilian's hand. "A little stiff, but it's all right. Are we all here?"

"The wizard's gone off someplace again. I don't think he cares for the company around here. Chess is over there, by the ledge, rigging a pole so we can feed the gnome when he shows up again… if he shows up again."

Chane looked at Jilian, his eyes softening. "How long has she been sitting here?" Carefully, he eased her down into a sleeping position, still holding her hand. Then he freed himself and stood.

"She hasn't been away from your side for more than a few minutes since we got here," the man said. "But if you're ready, we need to talk about where we go from here. Those troops are ahead of us, out there on that plain. They're waiting for us."

"Maybe it wasn't all a dream, then," Chane muttered.

"I dreamed the soldiers were there, waiting across a ravaged plain, where the stump of a melted peak rises. A peak that looks like a giant death's-head."

"It's called Skullcap," Wingover said. "Have you seen it?"

"No, but now I have. We — in the dream — we came around the mountain and stopped here. This very place. The air was clear, and in the distance we could see the spire of Zhaman, about ten miles away on the steppes of

Dergoth. It was so clear. It glittered in the sunlight, a high, fortified tower standing alone out there, beyond where our army was gathered… and theirs.

"There were fourteen of us here on the mountainside. Derek was here, and

Carn and Hodar, and old Callan Rockreave… old Callan." Chane's voice broke, then steadied. "He was my father's most stalwart friend, always at my side as he had pledged to the king. And the Daewar brothers, Hasp and

Hoven Fire — " He paused again and glanced at the sleeping Jilian.

"Firestoke. They were of her family. I wonder if she knows that my family and hers once were… no," Chane shook his head. "She couldn't have known that. Or about me, because she wasn't born then. Even her father's father wasn't born then. Odd, isn't it?"

Wingover squatted on his heels, staring at the dwarf, astonished.

"We were here," Chane sighed. "Then we went from here, across a stone bridge and onto the steppes of Dergoth, where our armies waited for us… and their armies, too. And we fought. Were we in the right? I didn't even wonder, then. My father had set our course, and we fought. I led my troops; I can still hear their shouts when we charged. 'On Grallen,' they shouted. 'For Thorbardin!' You see, human? In my dream I was Grallen, on the field at Zhaman. Why are you staring at me like that?"

"The spot on your forehead," Wingover pointed. "It glows."

"It has done that before." Chane looked up at the red moon Lunitari. "At least now I know exactly why I wear it."

"But… it glows like red crystal. Like Spellbinder itself."

"In the dream I wore its other self, just here," he touched the glowing circle between his brows. "But on my helm, embedded just above the noseguard. They said it glowed too, when I… when Grallen wore it. But not red. Pathfinder is green. The trace I follow is where Pathfinder went." He looked toward where Jilian slept beside the fire. "I'd like to see her safely home, you know. But home will never be safe, for her or anyone, unless I do what Grallen intended. The secret has already been sold."