Dan Parkinson: The Gates of Thorbardin

Geekay stepped out of his hidey-hole, pawed at the dead thing on the trail, twitched his ears in revulsion, and looked up the trail where the others had gone. At an easy trot, he followed.

"It's a thing a man picks up, traveling wilderness," Wingover explained, helping Glenshadow over a fissure. "Never backtrack yourself without a diversion of some kind. You don't know what might be waiting for you."

"And you might lose your horse," the wizard rasped.

"Better him than me." Wingover shrugged. "But it's not likely. We've been around a while. He knows what to do." The wilderness man paused and sniffed. "I smell goblins."

"And I sense evil," Glenshadow said. "Magic and evil. I wish I could see."

The man looked at him, peering into his eyes. 'You mean you can't see?"

"I don't mean just with my eyes. There are better ways, you know." He sighed. "It seems I've been blind forever. The cursed Spellbinder."

Wingover turned the helmet, indicating the green gem inside. "What about this one? Pathfinder. What does it do to you?"

"Nothing… unless I touch it. You saw what it does then."

"Is that because you're a wizard?"

Glenshadow nodded. "The two gems react to magic. Pathfinder holds it in place; Spellbinder confuses it, turns it upon itself. It is how Gargath trapped the graystone. At least, such is the legend. I believe it now."

Abruptly Wingover turned away, holding up his hand. "Hush," he whispered. "Listen!"

Ahead of them, not far away, there was a clamor of voices. Goblins cheered and cackled.

"They're at the bridge," Wingover said. "Let's go." With a bound he hurried on, leaving Glenshadow to follow as best he could. Running, sprinting, leaping from stone to stone atop the broken zone, Wingover rounded a shoulder and saw the bridge ahead. Goblins in force pressed forward at the foot of it, and a huge ogre with a club stood halfway up its slope, facing down. Between were the two dwarves and the kender.

Even at this distance, Wingover saw Chane Feldstone brace himself for battle… a tiny creature, not half as tall as the monster he faced, and armed only with a hammer. Above it all, the crazy gnome circled in the air on the wings of a sailcloth kite.

Wingover slung the dwarven helmet at his back, tightened the straps on his shield, and raised his sword. By the time he hit the lower trail, he was moving at a run. His war cry was a howl of fury as he burst upon the goblin platoon.

Loam advanced slowly toward the waiting dwarf, enjoying the moment, drawing out the sweet satisfaction of destroying the small creature who had humiliated him. For long days and long miles, the ridicule Cleft had heaped upon him after digging him out from the fallen stone, had rung in his ears. His fury had fermented into a deep hatred for the dwarf with the cat-fur garments. Cleft was dead now, and Loam felt no regret, but still the harsh glee of his fellow's taunts lingered to haunt the ogre.

Many times in his life, Loam had killed dwarves — as well as humans and other lesser creatures. He had even killed two elves, purely for the sport of it. But this kill would be the sweetest of all. He wanted to make it last.

Just within reach of the smaller being, he feinted suddenly, thrusting his club forward. The dwarf's frenzied dodge delighted him, and he chuckled, a deep rumble like distant thunder. Again Loam jabbed, prodding with the huge club, this time grazing Chane's head as the dwarf backpedaled. Was that panic in the little creature's eyes? Loam's pleasure deepened. He held the club out, waving it lazily from side to side, taunting, and beckoned with his other hand. "Little fighter," he chuckled.

"See how brave! Can't even make his knees behave. Think your hammer worries me? Come and try it, then you'll see."

From the corner of his eye Loam saw the little kender sidling along the bridge rail, trying to flank him. With his empty hand he reached out, swatted casually, and sent the small thing tumbling. "Friends can't help the fighting one," he rumbled. "Dwarf must deal with Loam alone."

He raised his club higher, threatening, and suddenly the dwarf darted under it. Loam roared as the creature's hammer cracked against his kneecap.

Chane ducked between the ogre's legs, whirled around, and went between again as the monster turned, getting in another blow at the same kneecap.

The ogre's roar was deafening. Chess darted past, swatting the ogre across the knuckles with the heavy end of his hoopak and chattering at the top of his lungs, hurling taunts and insults that fairly summarized the misbegotten nature of ogredom.

A tide of goblins had started to flow up the bridge, but they now hesitated. Beyond the bridge spires a bloodchilling howl sounded, and goblins scattered in panic as Wingover charged among them, shield pummeling, sword flashing. A few goblins at the foot of the bridge turned and tried to form a defense, but were cut down by Jilian in full spin.

At the ogre's feet, Chane managed one more solid blow with his hammer, this time at Loam's midriff. The dwarf was then knocked flat by the massive club. He lay stunned, trying to breathe, and Loam stepped to him.

Ignoring the kender's prodding hoopak, the ogre raised his club to crush the dwarf.

Chess flailed at the ogre's back, then blinked as something fell across his arm… a metal hook, attached to a rope. He dropped his hoopak and grabbed the rope. After throwing it around the ogre's massive ankle, the kender set the hook to the rope in one motion. Finally, Chess straightened and pulled down on the rope as hard as he could.

Overhead, the soarwagon's sensitive vanes reacted to the tug. They instantly realigned themselves, and the craft nosed up, seeking the sky.

Loam's club descended as his feet went out from under him. The blow rang against stone a foot from Chane's head, and the dwarf looked up, trying to see clearly. Just above the bridge, a flailing ogre dangled upside down from Bobbin's supply line, while overhead the soarwagon shivered and trembled, fighting for altitude. The gnome's voice was a screech: "Get that creature off my line! He's too heavy!"

Chestal Thicketsway picked up his hoopak and dug into his pouch desperately. The only thing that came to hand was a small glass ball, something he had picked up on the old, frozen battlefield in the Valley of

Waykeep.

He set it in the hoopak's sling-pocket and sighted at the hook holding the rope to the ogre's ankle. "Maybe I can shoot him loose," he called reassuringly.

The glass ball flew, ricocheted off Loam's foot, and zoomed upward to imbed itself in the wicker of Bobbin's cab. In the air above Chess, something voiceless seemed to say, "Ah. Much better."

The kender stared up and around. "Zap? Was that you?

Enraged and frothing, Loam dropped his club, curled his body upward, and began clawing at the rope that held him. The ogre's huge hand grasped it, then hand over hand, he pulled himself upright and began to climb.

Chess cupped his hands and shouted, "Watch out, Bobbin! The ogre's coming up your rope! I missed my shot!"

"Drat and threadbind," the gnome's irritated voice answered. "If you want something done right, you have to do it yourself, I suppose. Now where did I put that wrench? Ah, here it is."

The struggling, bucking soarwagon had edged away from the bridge and was beginning, little by little, to fall toward the gorge. Bobbin worked feverishly, loosing first one lug and then the next, then drew back as his winch mount broke loose, taking a piece of the soarwagon with it. Ogre, supply line, and winch plummeted away, into the mists of the great gorge.

The soarwagon, suddenly free of the creature's weight, shot upward like a winged arrow. High above it did a tight barrel roll, looped about, and headed out over the breaks, toward the plains.