Dan Parkinson: The Gates of Thorbardin

With the bit eased and the scent of goblins in his nostrils, and with the tug to the left from his rider, Geekay took the lead. As the horse gathered himself, Wingover jumped to the ground and headed for the draw at a crouching run, angling to the right. Behind him, Geekay whinnied shrilly and galloped away to the left. Fifty yards… one hundred… then he turned and headed for the draw.

In the ravine, four goblin scouts paused, puzzled at the sudden change in approaching sounds. One started to raise his head and another swatted him down. "Don' look," he growled. "Get us seen. Listen!"

"Runnin' away," another said, pointing back the way they had come. "That way."

The goblins turned to follow the hoofbeats, but a blood-freezing howl erupted just behind them. The rearmost goblin didn't even have time to turn. Wingover's sword flashed across his back from shoulder to waist, and dark blood spurted. The second turned, tried to raise his dart-bow, and had it knocked from his hand. With his sword, the goblin barely countered the human's following thrust with a low, chopping swing at his legs. Metal rang on metal.

The third goblin had his blade out, but the fourth caught his arm. "Back up," he hissed. "Get room. Use darts."

They scrambled back, setting darts to their crossbows. The first dart ricocheted off Wingover's flinthide shield. The second buried itself in the back of a goblin flung from the point of a sword. The last two set darts again, then their eyes widened as the sound of thunder bore down on them from behind. One turned, screamed, and bounced off the other as the flashing hooves of a horse named Goblin Killer descended upon him. The remaining goblin was still scrambling to his feet when Geekay swapped ends and kicked. Crushed like a turtle in its shell, the goblin flew over

Wingover's head and rebounded off a wall of the gully.

"Not bad," Wingover breathed, catching up the reins of the excited, wild-eyed horse. "Now let's move. It stinks here."

He scrambled into his saddle. Geekay cleared the rim at a bound and headed for the right-hand hill ahead, Wingover wondered where the rest of the goblins were. He knew there were at least a hundred more, and among them possibly ogres — as well as a woman in a hideous armor mask that hid a face that should have been beautiful.

Atop the hill was a bright green statue of a wizard, both arms extended to their full length, a motionless staff in one hand. Wingover blinked at it, then headed for it. Even from the foot of the hill, he recognized

Glenshadow the Wanderer… even though he was bright green and motionless.

The wilderness man reined in beside the wizard, gaping at him. Even his clothing and his hair were bright green. Leaning from his saddle, he asked, 'What happened to you?"

"Take… it," the wizard gasped.

"Take what?" He looked the mage over and noticed that one hand was balled into a tight fist. Wingover pried it open. In the wizard's hand was a crystal, the twin of Spellbinder, except for its color. As red as

Spellbinder was, so was Pathfinder green.

Wingover took the crystal, and the green color faded from the mage.

Glenshadow slumped, trembling. "I–I shouldn't have touched it," he rasped. "Should have known. Spellbinder binds magic, turns it against itself. Pathfinder freezes it, holds it in stasis. It was how Gargath held and controlled the graystone."

Wingover flipped the crystal over in his hand. "Very pretty," he said.

"All right, they're waiting for us at the bridge. Can you ride?"

"Can't get through," the wizard said, still trembling.

"The goblins… they're behind you, heading for the bridge. I saw them from up here. With Pathfinder, I couldn't move. But I could see… everything. The dwarf was right. Thorbardin is breached. Here."

Glenshadow stooped and picked up something Wingover had not noticed until then — an old dwarven helmet, not elaborate but of fine craft. It was a horned and spired helm of burnished metal with skirts and a carven nosepiece. Above the noseguard was a setting.

"The gem belongs here," Glenshadow said. "Please put it back in place."

Wingover took the helmet and turned it, wonder in his eyes. Grallen's helm. There was no doubt of it. The dwarven prince of old had been here.

He had been inside the fortress of Zhaman, and only this helm had survived to tell of it. And it had called out to Chane Feldstone in dreams.

Carefully Wingover reset Pathfinder in the helm's setting. His hard, but gentle fingers refit the brass prongs that had held it, and for a moment

Wingover was tempted to put it on his head. It would fit, and it might speak to him… then he changed his mind. This is Chane's to do with as he must, he told himself. And if there is one lesson I can learn from this wizard here, it is not to fiddle with things that are beyond me.

Wingover bound the old helmet with thongs and hung it from his saddle, then reached a hand to Glenshadow. "Come up," he said. "The horse can carry double. We've got to get back to the bridge."

Because the goblin army was so widely spread, fanned across the plains in three troops, miles apart, Kolanda Darkmoor decided to move against the people at the bridge. Even though the wizard might be with them, the defenders were still only a handful. She ordered Thog to gather the main force on the central plain to await her signal.

Thus, when Wingover made his dash from the breaks to the fork-trail hill, spotters saw him from less than a mile away. The word of his sighting was relayed immediately.

"We got foragers workin' those gully-washes," the runner said. "They'll get him there."

"Groups of four?"

"Like you said," the sprinter noted, "he won' get through. Jus' one man… they'll get him."

Yet, moments later, the rider was seen again, farther away and past the washes, heading for the more distant of the twin hills. Kolanda swore, halted her platoon, and pulled Caliban from beneath her breastplate.

"Caliban!" she snapped. "See for me now." She held the withered heart to her forehead without ceremony.

"She is arrogant," the whispering voice said. "She will require special attention when… ah?" The voice became a hiss. "Glenshadow!"

"See for me!" Kolanda ordered. "The man on the horse, what is he doing?"

The view closed on the distant rider, who was swerving to climb the hill, then shifted to the hilltop, Kolanda stiffened. The wizard there stood immobile, arms outstretched, and shone with a green glare that seemed to burn through her skin. She jerked Caliban away from her forehead. "What is that?"

"She doesn't know what has hurt us," the feathery voice whispered. The heart vibrated in the Commander's hand, the air sizzled and trembled, and

Caliban loosed a bolt of pure energy across the miles, aimed at the wizard on the hill. Then Caliban went cold in Kolanda's palm. "An element protects him," it whispered. "I could not reach him."

"Is his magic more powerful than yours?" the woman snapped.

"She doesn't understand," Caliban whispered. "It is not his magic. It is something else. Wait… ah. The man has taken it. Now Glenshadow is revealed. Now I can fight him. Hold me up. I must draw power from you."

"Wait," Kolanda commanded. "The thing he had, that the rider has now, is that what the dwarf is seeking?"

"She plays at riddles," the dry voice grated. "Hold me up."

Kolanda felt the familiar tingling in her skin as Caliban started to restore his energy for another attack, drawing from her own reserves.

Abruptly she dropped the withered thing, letting it hang on its thong outside her breastplate. 'You will obey me," she commanded. "Obey or find no source for your magic. Without me, you are nothing. We do this my way.

Do you agree?"