Dan Parkinson: The Gates of Thorbardin

Even here, in this cold crevasse split deep and narrow into living mountain stone… even here, where he could go no farther, where his aching body squeezed so tightly between serrated walls of cutting stone that his back was raw and bleeding… even here, where no roads came and the only trails were paths of small things passing…

Even here, he knew they would find him.

At least one of them would come, drawn by the scent of his blood — would come up through the riven rock and find him cornered. There were too many of them on the slopes below, too well spread as they hunted upward, for all of them to miss him where he hid. One would come. One would come to kill him.

He had watched them coursing the field like a hunter's pack. From a ledge where the tumbled stone lay grotesque in the shadows of the sheers above, he had seen them lose his scent. They had spread wide, casting about almost as wolves might, seeking movement, great blunt noses dipping to sweep the ground and rising to test the air, thick, sleek tails swishing graceful arcs as they wound and curved through the diminishing brush of the mountain slope. Long and lithe, immensely powerful and as graceful as dark zephyrs on the wind, they moved upward in silent unison, missing nothing as they came. Sunlight on the black fur rippling over mighty muscles was a tapestry of iridescence.

How many were there? He hadn't been able to tell. They were never all in sight at once. He'd judged that there were thirty down there, seeking him.

But it didn't matter. Of the hunting cats he had seen, one would be enough.

Hunger had knotted his stomach as he turned upward again, seeking a place to go to ground. Or a weapon. His hands craved the touch of a weapon

— any kind of weapon. He had then found a palm-sized rock with a cutting edge and balanced it in his hand. It was no proper weapon, only a sharp stone. But to hands longcomforted by the tools they held, it was better than nothing at all.

Clambering into tumblestone mazes, he'd used his rock to cut a strip from the leather kilt he wore, and concentrated on binding the strip about the rock to make a grip that would fit his hand. He stumbled, fell against a spur of stone, and felt it gash his shoulder. Warm blood ran down his arm, bright droplets spattering the rock beneath his feet. He paused for only a moment, looking at the blood, and raised one eyebrow in ironic salute. Then he had moved on.

Above the tumblestone rose the sheer faces of rock cliffs, and among the cliffs he had found the crevasse, and now he waited there. He had seen them coursing up through the mazes, had seen the one that paused and sniffed where it found the droplets of his blood. One, at least, would find him here. That one had the scent and would not lose it again.

The crevasse was a great slit, deep into the standing cliff. Far above was open sky, but the walls were sheer, with no place to climb. For a time the cut had run on, inward and upward, even widening at one point, where a tiny cold spring dripped from a sandstone cleft to pool in the sand below then disappear into the rising ground. He had stopped there for a moment, trying to quench a thirst that tortured him. Then he had gone on, and could almost feel the hot breath of the hunting cat closing in behind him.

From the spring, the crevasse wound back into sheer stone, narrowing as it went. Finally he could go no farther. He had pushed himself into the final rift as tightly as he could, holding his breath, and he felt the cold rock scraping at his flesh.

He tilted his head to peer upward. Far above was sky, and its path was wider than the cleft that swallowed him front and back. Using the rock walls as pressing surfaces, he raised himself a few inches, bracing with his elbows at the rock before him, with his feet at the rock behind. His breath was a cloud of steam, hanging in the cold, still air around him, condensing on chill stone as he worked.

By inches he crept upward, levering himself between two surfaces. A foot, then three, then seven he climbed, using his forearms thrust ahead of him — then his hands as the chimney widened above. When he could no longer climb, when his outthrust arms would not reach farther and give purchase, he looked down. He was fifteen feet above the bottom of the crevasse and could go no higher.

He was still within reach of a hunting cat, he knew. Any one of the great beasts, as tall at the shoulder as he was at the ears, could leap this high. His chest heaving, his breath a cloud in the shadows of dark stone, he clung and waited. He could go no farther.

"Come on, then, pouncer," he muttered. "You have my scent and you know where I am, so you are the chosen one. Come along, now, and let's get it done. I'm tired."

Tiny clickings echoed up the split, needle tips of great claws tapping at stone as the beast padded nearer. Now he could hear its breath, the deep-chested, rumbling purr of a huge cat closing on its prey.

Shadows shifted in the cleft, and he looked upward. High above, where the walls opened upon sky, something moved. A face was there, tiny and distant, looking down at him. It was there, then it withdrew. Someone was atop the escarpment, above the rended cliffs, someone curious enough to look down and see what was happening below. But whoever it was, it meant nothing to him, here. All that mattered in this moment was that he was here, the cat was coming… and in a place far away Jilian waited for him.

He had promised her he would return.

In the cold mist of his breath, he now saw her face. Of them all, she was the only one who had truly believed him. The only one with faith in him. He had told her about the dreams. He had told several others, as well, but of them all, Jilian believed.

Rogar Goldbuckle might have believed about the dreams, but not about their portent. Goldbuckle had listened, stood for a time in thought, then shook his head. "Who's to know what a dream means?" he had sighed. "I've had dreams, too, Chane. But that's all they were. Just dreams."

It had been worse when he told Slag Firestoke what he wanted to do. Old

Firestoke was not fond of him anyway and was not happy about an empty-pursed orphan spending time with his daughter. It had been Jilian's idea to tell her father about Chanc's premonitions, in the hope that

Firestoke might outfit him for his quest. He didn't need much. Just warm clothing, arms and provisions, and a few of Firestoke's hirelings to accompany him.

"Thorbardin is in jeopardy," Chane had told him. "I know it, and in dreams I've been told that I must find the key to save it."

"Dreams!" Firestoke had rumbled, glaring at him. 'You're daft as a warren-bat."

"I know I'm right," Chane had insisted. "I don't know exactly what I'm to find, but I'll know when I find it."

Firestoke had laughed at that, a cruel, victorious laugh, "So you come to me for money? Well, you can wait until your whiskers rust. You won't see a brass coin from me, Chane Feldstone. Now get out of my house…and stay away from my daughter! She'll have better than the likes of you."

Then, it seemed that old Firestoke had changed his mind. At the time,

Chane believed that Jilian had persuaded him… and Jilian had believed it, too.

The cat sounds were closer now, momentarily hesitant while the big beast tasted the air. Chanc clung to his braced position and felt chill beads of sweat among his whiskers.

She probably still believes it, he thought. How would she know that her father's villains accompanied me to the edge of the wilderness, then waylaid me?

They had beaten and pummeled him, enjoying the sport. They had taken his weapons, his coins, his boots, his warm clothing. Everything that