Dan Parkinson - The Gates of Thorbardin

"The helm is there," Hobby said. "Chislev knows where everything is.

Chislev is everywhere that there are eyes to see." Slowly, the carved wooden head turned to the right, and in the ice pool the landscape slithered past: a place of broken lands; a wide, cold marsh with mountains beyond. Only a few miles away, a range of giant peaks rose above the sheer wall of a great cliff hundreds of feet high, a diff that soared upward from a misted gorge. And just at the top of the cliff, facing on a narrow ledge, was a massive, closed gate.

The great northern gate of the undermountain realm of Thorbardin, still intact though its approaches had been sheared away for centuries. Abruptly the picture vanished, and the carved wooden face of Hobby was again in the ice. "Hobby has shown what you wanted to see," the horse said. Glenshadow drew his staff across the ice, and again it was only ice. He stood, wind whipping the fringes of his bison cloak, rippling the hems of the faded red robes beneath.

Far out across the plain, tiny with distance, plumes of dust arose where armies moved. Glenshadow watched these, deep in thought. Out there, somehow joined to the woman who led the invaders, was Caliban.

Caliban, the renegade black-robed mage Glenshadow and two others had hunted down years before… Caliban, who chose to fight them rather than accept the rules of the robed orders… Caliban, whose magic destroyed two of the three before he himself died.

Glenshadow's cold eyes were as bleak as a winter storm as he remembered.

Caliban had died, but not at

Glenshadow's hand. He had killed himself, rather than accept defeat.

Glenshadow had seen the manner of it.

The black-robed mage, with his own two hands, had torn out his own heart.

Even across the miles now, he felt eyes upon him and knew that he was seen. Caliban's magic lived, and was at work.

The wizard on the mountain raised his eyes toward the skies. "Hear me

Gilean, gate of souls," he said, his voice like the mountain wind. "Hear me Sirrion Firemaster. Hear me Chislev, whose carven creatures see what is to see. World-tree Zivilyn, and Shinare by whose color the wilderness man shone, hear me. Hear me all who seek balance in a struggling world, who yearn for order in a plane whose name is chaos. Two things more do I ask in this life: to see the death of he who died before… and first, to see what Chane Feldstone sees when he holds Spellbinder and Pathfinder and looks toward Thorbardin."

Sighing, the mage looked across distances toward the place where the dust plumes blew. He knew what the thing was that Kolanda Darkmoor had raised from her breastplate — the thing he had thought was an amulet. It was what remained of Caliban. It was the wizard's heart. The Wanderer felt eyes upon him, and sensed a building of magics. He turned his eyes toward the place the wooden horse had shown him, and muttered a transport spell.

Winds whipped about him on the mountainside, and then there was only the wind.

In the final four miles of approach, with Skullcap fully and horribly visible ahead, Kolanda Darkmoor had fanned her goblin troops out in three long lines. They had swept the plains for a sign of anyone having passed as she waited for the reports to come back. Within hours, a front several miles long had been combed. It was clear that no one had passed this way recently.

Thoughtfully, then, Kolanda looked back the way she had come. Due west, the bulk of Sky's End rose somber against the sky. To the south, just visible across the miles, was the massive mountain wall of Thorbardin, the great north gate tiny above a sheer cliff of huge proportion. Northgate was almost never used now because of its nearly impossible access — even by the dwarves who lived beyond it.

Her eyes, shadowed within the grotesque horned mask that was the faceplate of her helmet, rested on Northgate for a time. Then they roved downward, seeking something she knew was there but had never seen — the thing her career with the Highlord's forces was based upon, the thing that would assure her the power she craved when the Highlords began their campaigns. That thing was the secret way into Thorbardin.

Command of Thorbardin was to be Kolanda

Darkmoor's reward — provided she remained in the good graces of the

Highlord of Neraka. She would have command of defeated and occupied

Thorbardin, and first share of the treasures of the realm.

Kolanda could not see the hidden entrance. No one could, now. But it was there, and she knew the way to it. It was that information that had gained her the interim rank of Commander.

She wished she could see the hidden gate now. It would feel good, she thought, to see the route by which she would lead forces to penetrate and conquer the kingdom of the western dwarves of Ansalon.

It's there, she thought, scanning with her eyes. Just there… and unknown to those within.

But there was one who posed a threat: a dwarf who had the means to thwart her plans. He must be destroyed. But where was he? Not here yet, certainly. Back there somewhere, she realized, but coming this way. But where? The plains were vast, with no significant feature except the ruined fortress of Zhaman… now Skullcap. He would be coming to Skullcap, wouldn't he? Where else would he seek that which he sought?

Shadowed eyes in a hideous mask roved the slopes of Sky's End. Up there?

Where?

It was time to ask Caliban. She turned away, looking for one of her hobgoblin marshals. None were near, and the only goblins within call were stupid brutes — a dozen or so greasy swamp goblins good only for carrying packs and spears, and for combing the field after combat to dispatch the wounded. A pair of ogres squatted nearby, though, two of four that had come south with her force. The other two had been missing for at least a week. She approached the pair and pointed at the nearest one. "You, go and tell the marshals to form here and await orders."

The huge creature stared at her with cruel, close-set eyes — eyes that were above her own even though the ogre was squatting on its heels. It yawned, baring great slabs of yellow teeth, and looked away. Raising her faceplate Kolanda stepped closer and barked, "You heard me? Do as I say!"

The two ogres grinned at each other, then the one she had addressed spat on the ground. "Don't feel like it," it rumbled. "Do it yourself."

With rising fury in her eyes, Kolanda Darkmoor drew her sword and swatted the ogre across the face with the flat of her blade. "Obey me!" she hissed.

The grin disappeared from the huge, leering face. The ogre stood, rubbing its cheek with a hand that was eighteen inches across. It towered over the woman. "Puny human," it rumbled. "Go too far. Maybe I squash you where you are."

Kolanda reached to her throat and drew a leather thong from beneath the lacquered metal of her breastplate. At its end dangled a black, misshapen thing that resembled a shriveled pear. "Caliban," she said.

A rush of heat sprang from the thing, a tangible force that made the air around it sizzle. Fire shot from it and struck the ogre in the chest. The creature was thrown backward a dozen yards. It tumbled, rolled, and sprawled, then lay still. Vile smoke curled upward from its midsection, and dead eyes stared at the sky.

Kolanda dropped the dark thing back into her breastplate and pointed at the second ogre. 'You heard my order," she said. "You do it."

Growling deep in its massive chest, the monster scrambled to its feet, glaring at the woman. It paused for a moment over the smoking body of its partner, shot a murderous glance back at Kolanda, then went to do her bidding. After watching the ogre move off, the Commander beckoned to some of the swamp goblins. "Bring the slaves," she ordered. "Set my pavilion here." When she was alone, she pulled the dark thing from her breastplate again, where an angry heat had developed between her breasts. She held it up, gazing at it with revulsion.