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                 DragonLance Heroes II Trilogy
                          Volume II

                              ***
                    The Gates of Thorbardin
                           written by
                         Dan Parkinson

VERSION 1.1 (Feb 16 00). If you find and correct errors in
the text, please update the version number by 0.1 and
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 Dedication

 Stories grow from stories told,
 So no tale's ever ended
 While there's yet new among the old.
 It's thus that lore's extended.

 The Gates of Thorbardin is  dedicated to  whomever finds
 the  gnomish  island-vessel,  or  solves the  mystery of
 Garon Wendesthalas, or tells the  whole tale  of Caliban
 and Kolanda, or can chronicle the entire Battle  of Way-
 keep.

                           Part 1
                      The Dream Chaser

                          Chapter 1

  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 gro-
 tesque  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 cut-
 ting edge and balanced  it in  his hand.  It was  no proper
 weapon,   only   a   sharp  stone.   But  to   hands  long-
 comforted by the tools they held, it was better  than noth-
 ing at all.
   Clambering   into  tumblestone   mazes,  he'd   used  his
 rock to cut a strip from the leather kilt he wore, and con-
 centrated 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 be-
 neath 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, in-
 ward  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 be-
 hind  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,  some-
 thing 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, some-
 one  curious enough  to look  down and  see what  was hap-
 pening  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 lis-
 tened, 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 per-
 suaded 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 Firestoke  had pro-
 vided, they took - and everything else he had, as well.
   "Don't  come  back  to  Thorbardin,"  they'd  told  him.
 "Our sponsor doesn't want to ever see you again."
   And they had harried his trail, to  make sure  he didn't
 turn back. Day after miserable, hungry  day they  had fol-
 lowed  him,  until  he  had  crossed  beyond  Thorbardin's
 realm into the wild lands.
   Hunger  weakened  him,  and  he  felt  his  braced  arms
 trembling. The purring rumble  of the  great cat  was very
 near, just beyond the final bend in the  chasm. He  took a
 deep  breath.  "Come  on,  you  blasted  cat,"  Chanc said
 aloud. "Come kitty-kitty-kitty, you  tarnish-pitted carni-
 vore. Come on and get it over with!"
   Then it was there, thirty feet  away, a  sleek, stalking
 predator  of midnight  black. Gold  eyes spotted  him, and
 it  paused,  ears flattening  back atop  an ebony  head as
 wide as his body.
   Its mouth opened wide to clear front  fangs the  size of
 daggers. Its purr became a  low roar,  and it  bunched its
 massive  body,  long  tail  twitching. Then  it charged...
 two long bounds and a  leap, front  paws reaching  for its
 prey.

    In the last instant, he released his  hold and  dropped. A
  heavy  paw  the  span  of  his  own  hand brushed  his head.
  Needle-sharp  claws  cut  shallow furrows  from his  hair to
  his  brow.  Then he  was below  it, and  he heard  the heavy
  thump as the cat wedged itself into  the slanting  cut where
  he had been.
    He fell, rolled  away, scrambled  upright, and  caught its
  writhing tail in  both hands,  pulling himself  upward. Feet
  braced against stone, he  climbed and  swung himself  to its
  rump,  dodging  its  thrashing  hind  claws.  Hands  full of
  black fur,  he pulled  himself forward.  The cat's  roar be-
  came a  howl of  rage. Its  head came  up and  turned, great
  teeth glinting as he grabbed the cat's  head and  threw him-
  self over its shoulder, clinging for life. The cat shrieked.
  He heard the snapping of bone.
    For  an  instant  he  dangled  between  clawed  paws  that
  had ceased to move,  and felt  the hot  breath of  the beast
  on  his face  as its  lungs emptied  themselves. It  did not
  breathe again. Its neck was broken.
    Feeling  weak  with  hunger and  exertion, he  pulled him-
  self atop the beast once more, sat there long enough  to let
  his muscles stop  trembling, then  raised himself  above it,
  feet  braced  against rock  faces on  either side.  He began
  prying the cat loose from the  grip of  the stone.  When fi-
  nally  the  huge  body  was  free,  he  dragged  it  back to
  where there was a little space, rolled it onto its back, got
  out the wrapped  shard of  rock and  set about  dressing and
  skinning the body.
    He  had  almost  completed  the task  when a  voice behind
  him said, "Take the tenderloin. Best part of a cat."
    He  turned,  crouching.  The  person  who  stood  there, a
  few  yards  away, was  nearly his  own height,  but slighter
  of build. He  was beardless,  though the  great mane  of his
  hair had been caught  up in  leather wraps  at one  side and
  was  looped around  his neck  like a  fur collar.  He leaned
  casually on a staff with a fork at its  end, and  gazed sar-
  donically at the skinned beast on the  ground. "I  don't be-
  lieve  I  ever  saw a  body go  to so  much trouble  for his
  supper," he said. "You are a mess. Blood  all over  you, and
  I expect some of it's yours."

   The   newcomer   was   looking   him   over  unabashedly,
 and  Chane  glared  back. "A  kender," he  growled. 'You're
 a blasted kender."
   "So  I  am,"  the  newcomer  said, feigning  surprise. "But
 then  you're  a  dwarf.  I  guess  everybody   is  something.
 Chestal  Thicketsway's  the  name.  You  can call  me 'Chess'
 if  you want  to. Why  did you  lead that  cat in  here, any-
 way?"
   "Because I couldn't  think of  any better  way to  kill it,
 and I'm hungry."
   "So am I," the kender  grinned. "Did  you notice  the lit-
 tle canyon back there, with the spring in it? I'll get a fire
 started there,  if you'll  bring the  meat. And  don't forget
 the  tenderloins...  and  the backstrap.  Those are  the best
 meat, you know."

 * * * * *

   By evening firelight, the little spring canyon in the cleft
 seemed  almost  a  homey  place.  His  belly  full  of  roast
 hunting cat,  sage tea,  and a  bit of  hard cheese  that the
 kender  had  produced  from  his  pouch  -  he  said  he  had
 found  it  somewhere  -  the  dwarf  pegged  down   the  cat-
 skin and began to  work the  flesh from  it, using  his edged
 stone  as  a  scraper,  while  the kender  watched curiously.
 All  through  supper  the  kender  had chatted  sociably, not
 seeming  to  care  that  his  companion  rarely  answered ex-
 cept  for  an  occasional  grunt  or  growl.  Chestal  Thick-
 etsway  was  not  bothered  by  that,  it seemed,  He enjoyed
 the  sound  of  his  own  voice,  and rarely  ran out  of new
 ideas  and  opinions  with  which  to  amuse  and  amaze him-
 self.
   But  as  the  dwarf  worked   steadily  over   the  staked-
 down  hide,  scraping,  rubbing,   and  dressing   it,  Chess
 gradually went silent...  or nearly  so. He  sat by  the fire
 and  watched  in  lively  curiosity,  now and  then muttering
 to  himself.  "Not  that,"  he  said.  "Wrong  color."  Then,
 "No, I don't think so. It is far too big." And,  "Well, possi-
 bly for formal occasions, but hardly for every day."
   Finally  the  dwarf turned  to glare  at him.  "What are
 you muttering about?"

    "I'm  trying  to  decide  what  you  plan  to do  with that
  pelt," the smaller person  explained. "So  far I  have pretty
  well eliminated any ideas of a tent or a rug, and I can't see
  a  dwarf flying  a black  fur flag...  unless, of  course, he
  plans  to  take  up  taxidermy, which  is an  unusual occupa-
  tion  for  dwarves  as  far  as I  have seen.  If you  were a
  gnome, now -"
    "I need a coat," the dwarf said  gruffly, returning  to his
  scraping.
    "-  You  might  have some  notion of  lacing poles  into it
  to make a flying  machine, or  punching holes  in it  to sift
  gravel for a -"
    "Shut up," the dwarf said.
    "- sliding stairway. What?"
    "I  wish  you  would be  quiet. I'm  trying to  work here."
    "I  can  see  that.  Why  don't you  make yourself  a coat?
  You  could  certainly  use  one, I'd  say. Maybe  some boots,
  too.  Most  dwarves  I've  met  prefer  bullhide  boots  with
  iron soles, but just some  simple fur  boots would  be better
  than  those rags  you have  bound around  your feet.  I don't
  think I've  ever seen  a worse-dressed  dwarf than  you. I've
  seen goblins with better  attire. Did  you lose  your clothes
  somewhere 7"
    "They were stolen...."
    "And  aren't  you  supposed  to  carry a  hammer or  an axe
  or   something?   Most   dwarves   are   pretty  tight-fisted
  about tools and weapons. I'd say  you have  a story  to tell.
  How about your name?"
    "What about my name?"
    "Do you remember it?"
    "Well, of course I remember it!"
    "What is it?"
    "Chane Feldstone."
    Chane  turned  back  to  his  pelt,  growling. When  it was
  cleaned to his  satisfaction, he  put more  wood on  the fire
  and  went to  retrieve the  two longest  teeth from  the car-
  cass of the cat. They were the center  incisors of  the upper
  jaw,  and  like  incisors  they were  sharp along  the edges.
  Unlike  incisors,  though,  they  tapered  to keen  points at
  the  ends...  and  unlike  the  teeth  of  most  creatures  -

 even  creatures as  large as  the hunting  cat -  they were
 nearly ten inches long.
   He  worked  at  them  for  a  time,  wrenching  them this
 way and  that with  strong hands,  until finally  they were
 loose enough for him  to pull  them out  of the  jaw. Chane
 carried them back to the fire and laid  their root  ends in
 the flame to  clean them  while he  cut hardwood  for grips
 and lengths of thong for binding.
   "Most dwarves prefer metal daggers," the kender
 pointed out. "Most dwarves don't care for ivory."
   "This  is  the  best that's  available right  now," Chane
 snapped. "It will do until I can find something better."
   "Things aren't hard to find,"  Chess agreed.  "People are
 always leaving things just lying around -"
   "Don't you have somewhere to go?" Chane asked.
   The  kender  leaned  back  against  a rock,  cupping his
 hands behind his head. "I  thought I'd  have a  look around
 that  valley  down  there...  the one  the cats  chased you
 out of. It's called Waykeep, or some such thing."
   "The valley?"
   "Or some  part of  it. No  one seems  to know  very much
 about it. Hardly anyone goes there."
   Chane looked at the  great pelt,  pegged out  for curing,
 and at the daggerlike fang he was fitting with a handle. "I
 can see why," he said.
   "Actually, I  was on  my way  to Pax  Tharkas, but  I got
 sidetracked," the kender admitted. "There's a lot to see in
 these  mountains.  And  a lot  not to  see. Did  you notice
 that valley the cats came from, how it  just sort  of fades
 out of sight when you try to see  it? Pretty  mysterious if
 you ask me."
   Even if you don't ask, Chane was thinking.
   "I had a  nice talk  with a  hill dwarf  a few  months ago.
 He'd lost an amulet and I helped  him find  it, and  when I
 showed  him  my  map he  said the  blank space  between the
 west ranges and the Vale of Respite must  be the  Valley of
 Waykeep.  He  doesn't  know  anything  about it,  except it
 doesn't  show  on  maps and  nobody goes  there. Especially
 wizards.  So  that's  why  I'm  sidetracked  and not  on my
 way to Pax Tharkas. You don't look like  a hill  dwarf. You

 look a little different. Are you a mountain dwarf?"
   "I'm  from  Thorbardin,"  Chane  said,  paying  scant  at-
 tention  to  the  chattering  kender.  The more  the creature
 talked, the more glassy-eyed he felt. It  was like  trying to
 listen to twenty or thirty anvils, all at once.
   "Is  that  why  your  beard  grows  back that  way?" Chess
 stared  at  him  in  bright-eyed  curiosity.  "Do  all Thor-
 bardin dwarves have swept-back whiskers?"
   "No, but  I do.  It's just  the way  they grow."  He looked
 up  from  his  work,  thoughtfully.  'What  kind  of  maps do
 you have?"
   "Oh, all  kinds," the  kender spread  his hands.  "Big ones
 and   little   ones,   some   drawn   on   linen,   some   on
 parchment  -  I  even  have  one  drawn  on  a... no,  I used
 to have that, but I don't now. I ate it."  He glanced  at the
 remains of their meal.
   "Maps of what?" Chane growled.
   The  kender  blinked  at  him.  "Places. That's  what maps
 are. They're pictures of  places. I  make a  lot of  maps. Of
 places.   When   I   go  home   to  Hylo   someday...  that's
 where I'm from, did I tell you that?"
   "I don't know." The dwarf's scowl was becoming
 fierce. "What places?"
   "-  I'll  be  able  to  show  everybody where  I've been."
 The   kender   blinked   again.   "What  places   would  you
 like?"
   "I  don't know,  exactly," Chane  sighed. "I've  never seen
 it...  except  in  dreams.  But  it's  outside  of Thorbardin
 ...someplace beyond Northgate."
   The  kender  shifted   his  voluminous   belt-pouch  around
 so  that it  rested on  his lap,  and began  rummaging inside
 it.  The  pouch  seemed  to  have  endless capacity,  and the
 dwarf  stared  at  the  horde of  treasure the  kender's busy
 hands  brought   to  light.   Bright  baubles   of  countless
 kinds, small stones, bits of twine, an old turtle shell, var-
 ious  metal  objects,  a  wooden  cube,  an old  and battered
 bird's nest - this the kender  stared at  for a  moment, then
 tossed  aside  -  a broken  spoon, a  scrap of  cloth.... The
 treasures went on and on.
     Then Chess drew forth a fat sheath of drawings and his

 eyes   brightened.   "Ah,"  he   said.  "Maps."   He  thumbed
 through  them.  "If the  place you  want to  see is  north of
 Northgate,  that  means  it's  east  of here,"  he explained,
 then  looked  up,  glanced  at  Chane  and pointed.  "East is
 that way."
   "What  do  the  maps  show to  the east?"  Chane squinted,
 trying to see what the drawings said.
   Chess  looked  up,  surprised.   "Nothing,"  he   said.  "I
 thought I told you about that. The first  thing east  of here
 is  the  Valley of  Waykeep, and  it isn't  on maps.  Maybe I
 can draw one on the way."
   "I don't want to go to the Valley of Waykeep," the
 dwarf snorted.
   "If  you want  to go  east, you  do," Chess  said amicably,
 then  reached  into  his  pouch  and  drew out  another shiny
 bauble.  "How  about that?"  He held  it up  and gazed  at it
 in surprise.
   "How about what? What is that?"
   "It's  that  hill  dwarf's  amulet. The  one I  helped him
 find. He must have  lost it  again. That's  where I  found it
 the first time, too. Right in here, under the troll's sandal.
 What do you know!"

 Chapter 2

        "What kind of dreams was it? I mean the one
 where  you  saw a  place outside  of Thorbardin,  and now
 you want to  find it?"  Chestal Thicketsway  scrambled to
 the crest of a stone ledge and squinted, peering at misty
 distances. Fogs and low clouds seemed to span  the Valley
 of  Waykeep,  a  trough  of  sun-dappled gray  mist miles
 across and tens of miles  in length.  He noted  again how
 the valley seemed to just... lose itself from sight, even
 when one stood directly above it and looked down.
 Chane  Feldstone  hoisted  himself  to  the  ledge-top, a
 black-clad  dwarf  burdened  by  black  packs  slung from
 each  shoulder.  The dead  cat had  provided more  than a
 meal. It had provided a good, black fur coat,  two packs,
 and a supply of smoked meat.  "It was  just a  dream," he

 said.  "At  least  that's  what  almost  everybody  tells  me.
 Maybe  they're  right,  too. But  it's my  dream, and  I don't
 think that's all it is."
   "Well,  what  do  you  think  it  was?"  The  kender  shaded
 his  bright  eyes,  gazing  at  the distant,  craggy mountains
 that  rose  above  the  mists  several miles  eastward, across
 the valley.
   "I  think  it  was a  message," Chane  sighed. "It's  like a
 dream  that  I've  had a  hundred times  over the  years, only
 this  time  it  seemed  to  almost make  sense, and  there was
 this  face  - I  felt like  I should  know who  he was,  but I
 can't quite grasp  it. He  told me  that I  had a  destiny and
 the  fate  of  Thorbardin  depends  on   me,  and   he  showed
 me a place where I must go."
   'Why?"
   "I  don't  know.  He  didn't  say, but  it must  have some-
 thing  to do  with the  helmet, because  that's what  I always
 dream about."
   The kender glanced around at the dwarf, raising an
 eyebrow quizzically. "What helmet?"
   "The  same  one  I  always  dream about.  Ever since  I was
 half-grown."
   "A  helmet,"  Chess  breathed.  "Gee,  I usually  just dream
 about  butterflies  and leeches  and things.  I don't  think I
 ever  dreamed  about a  helmet," He  raised his  forked staff,
 twirled it in his  hngers for  a moment,  then tossed  it into
 the air and caught it, still twirling, as it fell. "Dreams are
 important,  though.  My   cousin  dreamed   he  was   a  door-
 mat one time, and a week later an ogre stepped on him."
   Chane stared  at the  twirling staff.  "What is  that thing,
 anyways"
   'What  t"  Chess  blinked  and  stopped twirling  the stick.
 "Oh,  this?  It's  a  hoopak.  Tell  me  some more  about your
 helmet dream."
   "Well, it's just a dream. I've  had it  now and  then, most
 of my life. I dream  I'm in  a place  I've never  seen before,
 and there's something  there. Sometimes  it's a  locked chest,
 sometimes  a  bag,  sometimes  a  pile of  stones or  a wooden
 box. But I open it, and there is an old  helmet inside.  A war
 helm,  with  horns  and  a  spire,  cheekplates,  noseguard...

  it always looks the same, and every time I start to put  it on
  my  head  there  is a  voice that  says, "  'No, not  now. Not
  yet. When the time comes, you will know.' "
    "Is that all?" the kender frowned in disappointment.
  'That isn't very exciting."
    "That's  all  of  it," Chane  admitted. "Or  it was  until a
  few  weeks  ago,  when  I  started  having  that  dream almost
  every night.  But now  it's different.  There's a  great, high
  bridge, and nothing  at all  beneath it.  I cross  the bridge,
  and then I find the helmet. I start to put it on, and there is
  someone  there  with  me.  A  warrior,  like  the   old  Hylar
  warriors back in the time  of the  great war.  He looks  at me
  and  says,  'The  time  approaches.  Thorbardin  is  at  risk.
  Chane   Feldstone,   you   must   become   who  you   are  and
  who  you  are  meant  to  be.  It  is  your destiny.'  " Chane
  growled  and  scuffed  a  fur-clad  foot  against  the  stone.
  "Old Firestoke laughed when I told him about it."
    "Is he the one who chased you out of Thorbardin?"
    "Nobody chased me out of Thorbardin!"  Chane rum-
  bled. "I went because I wanted  to go.  But his  villains beat
  me up and robbed me and told me never to come back."
    "Why do you suppose they did that?"
      "Because Slag Firestoke is a miserable old rust-pit, and
  he wants Jilian to marry somebody wealthy or famous."
    "I don't suppose you are either of those?"
    "No, I'm  not. But  I'll go  back when  I'm ready,  and I'll
  go  on  my  own  terms, and  Slag Firestoke  can go  to corro-
  sion for all I care."
    "But you're going to find the helmet first."
    "I intend to  try. Maybe  it was  just a  dream, but  I want
  to find out."
    "Maybe the helmet will make you rich and famous,"
  the kender suggested.
    Still  seething  at the  recent memory  of betrayal  and hu-
  miliation,  Chane  squinted  and  peered  at  the  misted val-
  ley.  The  kender  was  right  about  one  thing,  he decided.
  The valley seemed to try to hide itself,  as though  it didn't
  want  company.  But  to  reach  the  mountains  east  of there
  he would have to cross it.
         They had seen no further sign of the big cats. If the

 beasts  lived  in the  valley, they  had obviously  gone home
 during  the  night.  In  the  distance,  beyond   the  mists,
 morning sun haloed  the caps  of tall  peaks that  jutted up-
 ward  like  lizards'  teeth.  At one  point, somewhat  to the
 north, there was a gap that might be a pass.
   "Does your map say what's beyond those next moun-
 tains?" he asked.
   "Another valley," the  kender said.  "It's called  the Vale
 of  Respite.  And  beyond  it  are  more mountains.  Some re-
 ally big ones.  According to  one of  the maps,  the northern
 gate  of  Thorbardin  is  over  there  someplace.  I've never
 seen that. Have you?"
   "Not   from   outside,"   Chane   admitted.    He   growled
 again,  thinking  about  Firestoke's  "armsmen"   -  actually
 just  a  gang of  toughs, the  sort who  were all  too common
 in some of the warrens  and even  parts of  some of  the clan
 cities  in  the  undermountain  domain.  Firestokel  The  old
 rustbucket  had  made  Chane  believe  that  he  was  helping
 him,  outfitting  him  for  a  journey, providing  armed com-
 panions...   and   had   betrayed   him.  What   must  Jilian
 think?  Thinking  of  Jilian  he  became  so  melancholy that
 he went back to thinking about her father instead.
   'Yes,  by the  Great Anvil!"  he growled.  'Yes, I  will go
 back,  and  maybe  I'll  shove  Slag  Firestoke's pretensions
 right down his throat."
   "Being  rich  and  famous   might  help,"   Chess  allowed.
 He  shifted  his  pouch  to  a  more comfortable  position at
 his  belt,  gripped  his  hoopak,  and  scuffed  an impatient
 foot. "Look at it, will youl I never saw  a valley  so reluc-
 tant to be seen."
   Chane picked up his packs. "Maybe it's a spell."
   "I  don't  think  so,"  the kender  said. "I  heard magicians
 don't  like  to  come  here  because  it  makes them  itch or
 something.  The  hill  dwarf  told  me  that." He  glanced at
 the  fur-clad  dwarf,  then  tipped his  head to  study Chane
 critically. Clad entirely in black cat-fur, the only parts of
 the dwarf that were visible were the top half  of his  face -
 swept-back  whiskers  nearly  as  dark  as  the cat  fur cov-
 ered  everything  below  his  nose  -  his  hands,   and  his
 knees   between   kilt  and   boot-tops.  Chess   decided  he

 looked like a dwarf in a black bunny suit.
    Chane  stepped  to  the  edge  of  the ridge  and looked
 down. Rough,  fissured rock  fell away  in a  vertical drop,
 and through the mists he thought he saw water below.
    Wings  beat  the air,  and a  dark shadow  flitted across
 the ledge. They looked up. A  large bird,  as black  as mid-
 night  but  with  iridescent  flashes where  sunlight caught
 its  sleek  feathers,  had   swooped  down   from  somewhere
 above and now  rested on  a gnarled  snag just  overhead. It
 preened itself, shifted its footing on the snag,  and cocked
 its head to stare at them  with one  golden eye.  "Go away,"
 it said.
   Chane blinked. "What?"
   "It  said,  'go away,'  " the  kender repeated.  "I never
 heard  a  bird  say  'go  away' before,  have you?  For that
 matter, I've never heard a  bird say  a word  of any  kind -
 except  once,  when  a  messenger  bird  in  the  service of
 some  wizard  got  lost  in  a  crosswind  or  something and
 landed on the flagstaff at Hylo Village. It talked  for five
 or  ten  minutes.  Nobody  knew what  it was  talking about,
 but half the folks in the village were invisible for several
 days  afterward."  He  paused,  remembering. "Lot  of things
 got   misplaced   about   then.   Old    Ferman   Wanderweed
 never did find his front door -"
   "Will  you  be  quiet?" Chane  snapped. "This  bird just
 talked to us."
   "I know that. It said, 'go away.' I told you."
   "But birds can't talk!"
   "Generally   not."  Curiously,   the  kender   raised  his
 forked staff and poked at the bird. It glared at  him, first
 with one eye and then with the other, and shifted  its posi-
 tion on the snag. "Go away," it said again.
   "Do  you  suppose  that's  all  it  knows  how   to  say?"
 Chess wondered  aloud. "Just,  'go away'?  If I  were teach-
 ing a bird to talk, I think I'd come up with  something bet-
 ter than -"
   "Go away or keep the Way," the bird said.
   "That's much better," Chess nodded.
   "What does it mean by that?" Chane glared at the bird,
 which glared back with a malicious yellow eye.

   "Go  away  or  keep  the  Way,"  the bird  squawked. "Go
 away  or  keep the  Way! Go  away or  keep the  Way!" Hav-
 ing had its say  then, the  bird glared  at them  one more
 time, relieved itself on the snag, spread wide  wings, and
 launched itself out over the valley.
   They watched it shrink to  a dot  in the  distance, then
 Chane settled his  packs on  sturdy shoulders  and stepped
 to the edge of the cliff again.
   "You're still going?" the kender asked.
   "Of course I am. Why not?"
   "You heard what that bird said."
   "I don't take orders from birds. Are you coming?"
   "Sure, but I bet there's an easier  way down  than where
 you're heading." Turning  away from  the sheer  ledge, the
 small creature started  off, down  the far  slope, angling
 away from the ledge.
   Chane  frowned  and  called after  him, "That  isn't the
 way the bird went."
   Chess glanced back. "So what?"
   "The  bird  said,  'keep  the  Way.' Maybe  we're supposed
 to follow it."
   "I thought you didn't take orders from birds."
   "I don't, but I'm open to suggestions when they  lead in
 the direction I want to go."
   "Well, I'll meet you in the valley, then,"  Chess said.
 "This looks like a nice, easy path around this way. A per-
 son could get hurt climbing down that cliff."
   "Suit  yourself."  The  dwarf  shrugged,  eased  himself
 over  the  sheer  ledge, and  found handholds  and accept-
 able, if  precarious, holds  for his  feet. As  a mountain
 dwarf,  climbing  was  second  nature to  him, and  he had
 little patience for detours.
   The sheer  face was  almost vertical,  but it  was rough
 and  broken,  and Chane  could find  purchase. As  he low-
 ered himself below the edge, he  saw the  kender strolling
 happily away, down the easy slope to the north.
   It was eighty feet to the bottom of the rock,  as nearly
 as  Chane  could  judge. Slow  going, but  he kept  at it,
 working his way down  with the  stubborn dexterity  of his
 kind.  Born in  Thorbardin, largest  kingdom of  the moun-

  tain  dwarves  of Krynn  - and  maybe the  only one,  for all
  Chane  knew  -  swarming  over  rock  faces  was  as  natural
  to  him as  delving caverns  and tunnels.  Dug from  the bed-
  rock  of  a  mountain  range,  Thorbardin  was  more  than  a
  city. It was an entire complex of cities, all deep within the
  mountains.  And  it  had  many  levels.  In  one  way  or an-
  other, Chane had been climbing rock all his life.
    The   dwarf   was   nearing  the   bottom  when   he  heard
  shouts  and  scuffling  above.  A  rain  of   pebbles  pelted
  Chane.  He  looked  up  to  see  the kender  flinging himself
  over the ledge, seeming to fly out  into thin  air for  a mo-
  ment before  he twisted  around, thrust  his forked  staff at
  the face  of the  cliff, wedged  it into  a crack,  and swung
  from  it.  Above  Chess a  great black  head with  feral yel-
  low  eyes  looked  down.  A  big,  padded  paw   with  ranked
  claws  extended  and  swatted   downward,  trying   to  reach
  him.  The  kender  pulled  himself  hand  over  hand  to  the
  rock face,  clung there,  released his  staff, and  thrust it
  into another  crack farther  down. "The  bird was  right," he
  called. "I think I'll try it your way."
    Chane  let  himself  down  another set  of holds,  and sud-
  denly  it  was  raining  gravel  again.  From above  came the
  sound of  splintering rock,  and another  yell. The  next in-
  stant,  Chane  was  knocked  from  his  holds  as  the kender
  landed  on  him.  A  tangle  of arms  and legs,  pack, pouch,
  and  forked  staff,  the  kender and  the dwarf  thumped onto
  the  slope  at  the foot  of the  cliff and  rolled downward,
  gathering   momentum  -   a  black-and-motley   ball  heading
  for  the  maze  of  tumblestone  below,  leaving  a  cloud of
  dust  in  its  wake.  Through  the  fallen  rock  they  went,
  threading  this  way  and  that  among  boulders as  the rise
  and  fall  of  the  slope  guided  them.  They bounded  off a
  boulder,  careened  from  another,  shot  through  a  hole in
  the  base  of  two  coupled  stones, and  zoomed off  a lower
  ledge.  Water  glinted  below,  rising  to  meet  them,  then
  closed over them with a splash.
    The  kender  surfaced,  bobbing  like  a  cork.   He  sput-
  tered, blinked, and headed  for the  nearest solid  surface -
  a  jutting  creek  bank  a  few  feet  away. Reaching  it, he
  pulled  himself  up,  water  sheeting  from  him.  "Wow,"  he

 said. "Your way down is certainly faster than mine."
   When  there  was  no  answer,  he  looked  around. There
 was no sign  of the  dwarf. The  surface of  the stream  - a
 deep,  cold little  river no  more than  twenty feet  wide -
 shivered  with  converging  ripples  and  resumed  its flow.
 He  looked  downstream,  then  upstream.   No  one   was  in
 sight. He waded out  as far  as he  could and  began thrust-
 ing  about  beneath  the  surface,  poking  here  and  there
 with his hoopak.
   Nothing.
   "Now  where  did  that  dwarf  get  off to?"  Chess mut-
 tered.  He  waded  in  another  step, fighting  the current,
 and  prodded  deep  into  the  stream,  finding  nothing but
 water.
   Several   yards   downstream,   near   the   bank,  waters
 parted and  a pair  of black  cat-ears emerged,  followed by
 a  black  head-pelt and  then the  face of  Chane Feldstone,
 dripping  wet.  The  dwarf  got  his  whiskers  above  water
 and  blew  out  a  long-held  breath,  then  plodded  up the
 shallows and out of the creek.
   "What  are  you  doing  over  there?"  Chess  snapped  at
 him.  "I  was  getting  worried. I  didn't know  whether you
 could swim."
   The  dwarf  turned,  glaring  at  him with  hot-eyed fury.
 "I can't swim!  I had  to walk."  He sat  down to  empty wa-
 ter out of his boots and his  pack, then  put them  on again
 and  stood,  plodding  toward  the kender  with the  look of
 mayhem  in  his eyes.  "Why did  you jump  on me  up there?
 If you can't scale cliffs, why  don't you  just stay  off of
 them?"
   "I didn't jump on you," Chess said. "I fell on you. It's a
 different  thing  entirely.  It...."  He  looked   past  the
 drenched  dwarf  and   pointed.  "Do   you  know   that  you
 have a following?"
   Where  thickets  began,  fifty  yards downstream,  four of
 the great black hunting  cats had  emerged. Ears  laid back,
 eyes  blazing  with  feline  anticipation,  they  padded to-
 ward the pair, their rumbling purrs like distant thunder.
   "Don't talk about it," Chane said. "Run!"
     They ran up the creek bank, across a gravel bed, and

 onto   meadowgrass   where   thickets  converged   ahead  of
 them. The kender, in the  lead, dove  into the  thickets, as
 quick and as  limber as  a rabbit  taking cover.  The dwarf,
 slower of foot, felt hot breath  on his  back as  he bumbled
 into  a  viny  wilderness  that  clawed  and  pulled  at him
 from all  sides. With  one arm  up to  protect his  feet, he
 pushed  on,  short,  brawny  legs  making  up in  power what
 they  lacked  in speed.  Directly behind  him he  heard cats
 circling,  testing,  slinking  into  the thickets  by hidden
 ways,  spreading  to  flank  him  on both  sides, converging
 to  head  him  off.  Chane  tripped and  sprawled, suspended
 for  a  moment  in  a  nest  of thorny  brush. He  pushed on
 and  stumbled  again,  and  abruptly  a  fork   of  seasoned
 hardwood  was in  his hand.  He gripped  it and  followed as
 it pulled him forward another step, then two.
   "Come on!" the kender shouted. "We don't have all
 day!"
   With  Chess  pulling  and  his  own  legs  pushing,  Chane
 burst  from  the  entwining thickets  and rolled  onto clear
 ground.  He could  see nothing  except a  mass of  vines and
 thorns in front of his face. He tried to stand, tripped over
 vines  tangled  around  his  face,  and  fell  again. Behind
 him, to the right and left, were the  rumbling purrs  of big
 cats. He braced himself for their attack, and waited.
   And nothing happened.
   Near at hand, the kender said, "Well, how about that!
 I think we've found the 'Way.' "
     Pulling and cutting at Chane's cloak of vegetation, the
 kender  cleared  a  viewport  for  him.  He  looked  around.
 They were  near the  center of  a wide,  open path  that led
 into  forest.  The  path's  surface  was  black  gravel, its
 stones glinting in the spangled light like bits of coal. And
 alongside the path were  several of  the huge  hunting cats,
 glaring  and  whining,  padding  this  way  and  that  along
 the verge of the gravel.
   "They  don't  want  to  come  onto  the path,"  the kender
 said. "I guess this is what the bird was talking  about." He
 turned  his attention  again to  clearing thorny  vines from
 Chane,  pulling  and  slicing  at  them, discarding  them by
 lengths  and  armloads. "You  really are  a mess,"  he noted

 cheerfully.  "Given  a little  time, I'll  bet you  could grow
 berries."
   Chane's arms were free then, and he set about untan-
 gling himself, shrugging off the kender's  attempts to
 help.
   "This  works  pretty  well  for  that," Chess  said, holding
 up  the  implement he  had been  using. Chane  stared at  it -
 a dagger made from a cat's tooth.
   "What are you doing with that?" he demanded.
 'That's mine."
   "Is it I" the kender looked at it closely. "I found it some-
 where,  while  we  were  rolling  down the  hill. Do  you sup-
 pose you lost it?"
   "Give it back!"
   "All  right."  Chess  handed  over the  knife. "If  that's how
 you feel about it, here. It's all right. I still have another,
 just like it."
   Above  the  blackstone  path  an   iridescent  raven
 wheeled, circled, then flew off to the north as though
 showing them the direction to take.
   Other  eyes  also  watched  the  bird,  but   not  directly.
 High  on  a  wind-scoured  crag,  among  the  peaks   east  of
 the  Valley  of  Waykeep,  a  man  knelt  beside an  ice pool,
 gazing  intently  at  its  surface.  A  dark  bison-pelt  robe
 pulled  tight  around  his  shoulders  shielded  him  from the
 cold,  only  here  and there  exposing the  color of  the long
 robe  he wore  beneath it  - a  robe that  had once  been ver-
 milion,  but  whose  hood,  cape,  and  hems  now  were  faded
 to  the  red  of twilight.  The color  blended, in  the shadow
 of  his  hood,  with  unkempt  whiskers  the  gray  of  winter
 wind.
   In  the  ice  pool  was  an  image:  two  beings on  a black
 path  where  black  cats prowled  the edges  and a  black bird
 beckoned   above.  The   image  wavered   and  misted   as  an
 errant  wind  scattered  hard,  dry   snow  across   the  ice.
 Without  looking  up,  the  man  raised  a  long staff  with a
 crystal device at its  peak. Sunlight  glinted in  the crystal
 and  concentrated through  it to  glow on  the surface  of the
 ice.  The  misted  surface  smoothed  itself, melted,  and re-
 froze bright  and clear.  The two  in the  valley were  on the

 move,  following  the  bird.  Like  a  deadly  honor guard,
 great black cats plodded along both  sides of  the pathway,
 flanking them.
   The image shifted then. In the ice  was a  great, vaulted
 chamber  hewn  from  living  stone.  Dim and  deserted, the
 chamber  contained various  structures and  articles, larg-
 est of which was a great  dais upon  which rested  a crypt.
 Here and there on  the shadowed  walls hung  paintings, all
 done  in the  finest dwarven  style. The  view held  on one
 painting and  seemed to  approach it  as the  vision magni-
 fied:  a  fighting  dwarf  in  emblazoned armor,  leading a
 charge  of  dwarven  warriors  across  a  blasted mountain-
 scape. Again the vision grew, focusing on  the face  of the
 dwarf in the lead.
   Peering closely into the  ice, the  man studied  the fea-
 tures of that  face -  wide, strong  dwarven features  of a
 face  that  had  known  power  and  had  known  pain; wide-
 set, intelligent eyes that had  seen much  of life  and had
 cherished most of it; a face chiseled for patience, twisted
 now in fury as he led his armies in final assault.
   The  man studied  the features  as he  had in  many view-
 ings,  then  twitched  his staff.  The view  changed again,
 back  to  the  black  pathway  in  the  Valley  of Waykeep.
 This time  the vision  moved close,  sighting on  the irri-
 tated, frowning face of a dwarf in black furs with cat ears
 atop his head.
   Just as he had studied the face in the painting,  the man
 at the ice pool now examined the features  of the  dwarf in
 the valley below.

 Chapter 3

         The blackstone path wound and curved as it
 wandered  deeper  into  the  Valley  of Waykeep.  It twisted
 and  turned  oddly,  often  for  no  apparent  reason. Some-
 times it nearly doubled back  on itself,  so that  the trav-
 elers  found  themselves   walking  southward   within  easy
 reach  - sometimes  even within  sight -  of where  they had
 just   passed   going  northward.   Then  again,   it  would
 straighten for a time, only to abruptly veer off to the east
 or  west,  as  though  circling  around  some  obstacle that
 neither the dwarf nor the kender could see.
 At   times  the   path  narrowed,   becoming  only   six  or
 eight feet wide. In these places the big cats gathered along
 its  edges  -  sometimes  a  dozen  or  more,  rumbling  and
 purring in feral anticipation - and the  two were  forced to

  go in single file, running a gauntlet of swatting, searching
  claws as the  animals balanced  just at  the borders  of the
  path and strained forward, trying to reach them.
    "These  creatures  are  most decidedly  unfriendly," Chess
  mentioned  as  he  dodged  a  huge,  needle-clawed  paw.  As
  it  whipped  past  him,  he  rapped  it  sharply   with  his
  hoopak.  "Bad  kitty!"  he  snapped.  The  cat's  responding
  growl was thunderous.
    Just behind him, Chane ducked as a cat  swatted at
  him. "Stop stirring them up," he ordered the kender.
  "You're just making matters worse."
    "I don't  know why  they have  to be  so surly."  The ken-
  der  shrugged.  "Maybe  they  don't  get  fed  regularly. I
  wonder  why  this  path  twists and  turns so  much. Doesn't
  it seem odd to you that a path  should go  to so  much trou-
  ble to go aroun'd things, if there aren't  any things  to go
  around?  I'll  bet  we've walked  ten miles  so far,  and ha-
  ven't gained  more than  a mile  or two.  You see,  there it
  goes  again."  He  pointed  with  his  hoopak.   Ahead,  the
  black  road  turned  abruptly  to  the left  and disappeared
  into  forest.  "Do  you  see  any  reason  why  we shouldn't
  just go straight ahead?"
    "I see about a dozen very good reasons," Chane
  snapped, counting cats.
    "I mean besides them. What do you suppose is ahead
  there, that this path doesn't want us to see?"
    Chane  felt  an  extended  claw  graze  his  boot-top  and
  skipped away  from it,  then ducked  as a  cat on  the other
  side tried to knock  off his  head. He  spun, lost  his bal-
  ance,  and  sprawled,  pellets  of  black   gravel  sheeting
  ahead  of  him.  The  cats  there dodged  aside, retreating.
  Chane got to his knees and  scraped at  the gravel  with his
  hand.  The  gravel  was  spread  evenly  over a  smooth sur-
  face,  as  though  it  had  been swept.  It was  only inches
  deep,  with  bare  dirt  below.  He  gathered  a  handful of
  gravel and tossed it toward a cat. The cat veered  aside, as
  though panicked.
      "They don't like this stuff," Chane muttered. "I think
  they're afraid of it."
    Chess had come back to watch. "Well, then, that's

 easy," he said. "All we need to do is move the road."
   "Move it how?" Chanc's brows lowered in disgust.
   "I don't know," Chess shrugged. "You're a dwarf.
 You're supposed to know about things like moving
 gravel. How would you do it?"
   "If  I  wanted  to,  I'd  use a  skid. Something  flat and
 heavy to drag it  from one  place to  another. But  we don't
 have a skid."
   "Then  maybe  you  could  build  one,"  Chess  suggested.
 "There are all sorts of things around here to use."
   Chane  sighed,  looking  off  into  the forest  beyond the
 path. Yes, there were plenty  of materials,  readily availa-
 ble. There also were plenty of giant black cats just itching
 for  one  of them  to step  off the  path and  within reach.
 "Sure," he said. "That deadfall  log over  there could  be a
 dragsled,  with  vines  attached. But  it's over  there, not
 here."
   "Then  go  get  it,"  the  kender  said.  "Just  a minute,
 though. I'll see if I can give you a little  space." Without
 hesitating, he stepped to the edge of  the path,  lifted his
 staff  and  brought  it  down  between  the  ears of  a cat.
 While  that  one  still  was  recoiling,  Chess  thumped two
 more  of  them,  prodded  a  fourth  one  in the  ribs, then
 moved  away  along the  path, his  feet flying,  swerving on
 and off of the carpet of black  gravel. All  of the  cats on
 that  side  bounded  after   him,  snarling   and  spitting.
 "Hurry'" he shouted.
   For  a  moment,  Chane  stood  stunned, staring  after the
 departing  chase. "Rust  and tarnish!" he  muttered. "That
 kender is crazy."  Then he  hurried off  the path  to gather
 materials for a  dragsled skid.  "I don't  know why  I'm do-
 ing this," he grumped as he dragged  things back  to safety.
 "It wasn't my idea to change the road. It was his."
   Still,  when  the kender  reappeared at  the curve  in the
 path,  strolling  along  with  a pack  of angry  cats pacing
 him,  Chane  was  already  binding  vines   to  a   log  and
 weighting  it  with stones.  Chess came  to watch  him work,
 peering  over  his shoulder.  "Do you  think it  will work?"
 he asked.
      "Of course not," Chane snapped. "I'm just doing this

 for practice."
    "What's wrong with it?"
    "To  start  with,  in  order  for a  skid to  move gravel,
 somebody has to  get out  in front  of it  and pull  it. And
 whoever does that is  going to  be eight  feet past  the edge
 of the path before the gravel load gets there."
    "That  could be  a little  chancy," Chess  admitted, look-
 ing around at  the patrolling  cats. "But  if you  don't pull
 too fast, I can come along behind you and..."
    "Me pull?"
    "It's  your  skid,"  the  kender  pointed  out.  "Besides,
 you're  bigger  than  me.  Anyway,  I  can  follow  along and
 throw  gravel  out  ahead  of  you, enough  to keep  the cats
 back while you reroute the road."
    "I don't see anything wrong with just leaving the
 blasted road where it is!"
    "We've already been over that," the kender said.
    Considering  the  circumstances  of its  construction, the
 skid  worked  fairly  well.  The  black  gravel  on  the path
 was  only  a  few  inches  deep,  with  ordinary  clay below,
 and  when  Chane  put  his  shoulders  to  the  tow-vines and
 dragged  the  sled,  it plowed  up a  growing mound  of black
 pebbles in front, and left bare clay behind.
    'That's  perfect,"  Chess  grinned.  "Just  head  for  the
 curve,  and  keep going  straight ahead  when you  get there.
 I'm right behind you."
    "That's comforting to know," the dwarf growled.
    When he came to the curve, Chane was barely mov-
 ing.  The  load  of  gravel ahead  of the  skid had  grown so
 that it took all his strength to move it. He hesitated at the
 edge  of  the  path,  confronted  by  cats.  Then  showers of
 black  gravel began  to fly  over his  shoulders, some  of it
 pelting  him  from  behind as  the kender  flung enthusiastic
 handfuls  as  fast  as  he  could.   The  cats   snarled  and
 snapped,  but  backed  away.  "Take   the  weights   off  the
 skid," the dwarf called.
    "Why?"  Another  handful  of  gravel flew,  one fair-sized
 pebble catching Chane on the cheek as he turned.
    "So  it  will spread  the gravel  instead of  scooping it!
 Don't argue, just do it!"

   Chess removed the weights, then resumed showering
 gravel as Chane took up his harness again.
   By the  time the  skid was  exhausted, the  pathway south
 of the curve had a bare clay stripe angling from its center
 to the  turning edge,  and a  new black  path the  width of
 the strip extended fifty feet into the forest.  Chess scam-
 pered back and forth along the new  path, peering  off into
 the forest.  "Nothing interesting  yet," he  said, finally.
 "We'd better go back for another load."
   The  second  stripe  taken  from  the main  path extended
 the new road another fifty feet, and  the third  stripe put
 them well into the forest, almost out of sight of  the road
 where  they  had  been.  Poised  at  the  very  end  of the
 gravel,  the  kender  peered  and squinted,  looking ahead.
 "There is something over there," he  pointed. "But  I can't
 see what it is. It's something  big, though.  Another load,
 and we should be there."
   "Another  load  and  we'll  have  wiped out  the original
 path back there," Chane pointed out.
   "Oh,  come  on.  Where's your  spirit of  adventure? Just
 one more haul."
   They started  back, and  Chane was  almost at  the clear-
 ing  when  he  stopped.  "Now  see  what  we've  done,"  he
 grunted.  Ahead,  black  cats were  crossing the  main road
 freely. Whatever the black gravel did  to stop  them, there
 wasn't enough left on the skidded section to work.
   The  kender  studied  the  problem solemnly,  pursing his
 lips as his pointed ears twitched slightly in thought. Then
 he shrugged. "It's all  right. We  weren't going  that way,
 anyway."
   "We can't go back, either," the  dwarf pointed  out. "We
 might  want  to,   you  know.   We...."  He   paused,  then
 caught  the  kender  by  the  shoulder.."That  business you
 did  before,  leading  the  cats  off...  can  you  do that
 again?"
      "I suppose so. Won't be as much fun the second time,
 though. Things like that get to be routine after a while."
   "I don't care," the dwarf said. "Just do it."
   The  kender  shrugged.  "I  guess  one  more  time  won't
 hurt. Come along,  kitties. Time  for another  run." Poking

  and  prodding  at  snarling  predators,  Chess  circled the
  stump  of the  road, gathering  more than  a dozen  cats on
  the far side. With a final swat of his  staff, he  took off
  around  the  curve,  great  cats  bounding after  him. Left
  alone,  Chane  wrapped  his  harness  over   his  shoulders
  and  set  about  replacing  gravel on  the main  road. Some
  time passed before the kender returned, a long line  of ir-
  ritated cats  slinking along  abreast of  him. When  he saw
  what  the  dwarf  was  doing,  Chess  shouted  and  ran to-
  ward  him.  "What   are  you   doing?"  he   demanded.  "We
  need that gravel. Why are you putting it back?"
    Panting, Chane slipped out  of his  vine harness  and in-
  spected his work. The road  here was  not as  neatly graded
  as it had been, but it was  black again  and hemmed  in the
  cats.  "Because  we don't  need it  any longer,"  the dwarf
  said. Picking up his pack, he strode to  the east  verge of
  the  road  and  walked  off  into  the forest.  Behind him,
  across  the  road, the  cat pack  snarled and  rumbled, un-
  able to cross.
    "Well,  come  on,"  Chane glanced  back. "Let's  see what
  it was that you wanted to look at."
    It might  once have  been a  machine, in  some incredibly
  ancient time.  Or it  might have  been a  building. Perhaps
  even both. Now it  was a  great heap  of rubble  and broken
  metal things, slowly surrendering  to the  landscape. Trees
  hundreds  of  years  old  grew  from  its crest,  vines and
  brush obscured its slopes, and a carpeting of forest leaves
  and grassy loam was well along toward burying it.
    Chane  and  Chess  wandered  over  and  around  it, peer-
  ing, poking, and prying.
    "This looks like part of a wheel," the  kender chattered.
  "But  why  would   anybody  make   a  wheel   fifteen  feet
  across?  Wow!  Look  at  those things  sticking out  of the
  mess. What are  they, drills?  They're as  big around  as -
  and  here's  some  old,  rusty chain.  Must have  weighed a
  ton per link when  it was  still good  iron. I  wonder what
  this was, over here. A furnace  of some  kind? Did  you no-
  tice that all these stones scattered over here  are square?
  They  might  have  been  paving  blocks.  What do  you sup-
  pose this thing was when it was something?"

    "I   haven't   the   vaguest   idea."  Chane   was  digging
  through  a  reddish  heap  of  vaguely-shaped  rust  tumbles,
  raising a cloud of thin red  dust that  settled on  his black
  furs  like  rust-colored  snow.  After  several   minutes  he
  straightened,  holding  up  a  long,  slim  object to  have a
  better look at it. It was a rod, nearly six feet long, gnarly
  and  misshapen  from  centuries  of  rust.  He  knew  by  its
  heft, though, that  there was  good metal  within it.  He set
  it aside and began digging again.
    For  some  time  the  kender  explored  the  ancient  heap,
  his  bright  eyes  shining  in  wonder  at each  new mystery.
  He  moved  things  here  and  there,  on  the   thought  that
  whatever  all  this  was the  outside of  might also  have an
  inside,  and  somewhere  there  might  be an  entrance. Find-
  ing none, he  scampered here  and there  over the  surface of
  the  thing,  tugging  and  pushing  at  everything  that pro-
  truded,  seeing  what  would  move.  Where  a   broken  shaft
  of  heavily   corroded  metal   angled  upward,   he  cleared
  away broken stone,  then braced  his feet  and pulled  at the
  stub.  Deep   beneath  him,   something  groaned   and  large
  parts of the mound  shifted slightly.  Beyond the  crest, the
  dwarf shouted, then appeared at the top.
    "Sorry  about  that." Chess  waved at  him. "I  guess what-
  ever this was, it doesn't work any more."
    With  a  warning  scowl,  the  dwarf went  back to  what he
  was  doing.  Chess  continued   his  exploration.   Near  one
  edge  of  the  mound,  tugging  away  a  rock,  he   found  a
  thick,  ragged  sheet  of green-black  stuff that  might once
  have been bronze. Wiping it  with his  tunic, he  saw letters
  on  its  surface  and  sat  down  to  read  them  aloud. Most
  were  corroded  beyond  recognition,  but  here  and  there a
  few words could be partially deciphered:
    "... velous Wallbreacher, equipped with secondary
  ar  ...  iple-geared  self-propel  ...  ba  ...  not
  included..."
    And elsewhere, "... Model one of -"
    "Gnomes," Chess said, nodding at the revelation. He
  climbed  to  the  top  of  the   mound.  Beyond,   Chane  was
  moving  stones  around,  arranging  them  in a  circle. Chess
  cupped his hands and shouted, "Gnomes!"

 The dwarf raised his head. "What?"
 "Gnomes!" the kender repeated. "This was a gnomish
 machine of some kind. I found its label."
 "What was it supposed to do?"
 "I don't know. But gnomes built it, so it probably
 didn't do anything right."
 Chane turned away and resumed the moving of
 stones.
 For  a  bit  longer, Chess  explored the  ancient wreckage,
 then  he  brushed  down  his  tunic, shouldered  his pouch,
 picked up his staff, and went to find the dwarf.  "This was
 interesting," he said. "Now let's go on, and see  what else
 there is to find."
 "I'm busy," Chess grunted,  setting a  block of  stone atop
 another.
 "What are you doing?"
 "I  found  some  usable metal.  I'm setting  up a  forge to
 work it."
 "Oh."  The  kender  walked  all the  way around  the circle
 of stone, wide-eyed. "What do you want to make?"
 "A  hammer,  of  course.  The  only thing  I know  of that
 can  be  made  without  a  hammer is  a hammer,  though it
 won't  be  a  very  good  one,  without  a hammer  to work
 with."
 "A  hammer,"  Chess  nodded,  taken with  the logic  of it.
 "Then what?"
 "What?"
 "What are you going to make once you've made your
 hammer?"
 "Another   hammer.   Once   I  have   a  rough   hammer  to
 use, I can make a perfectly good hammer  with it.  Then, if
 that rod there will stew out and take a temper, I'll make a
 sword."
         "Is this part of your plan for becoming rich and
 famous?"
 "I  don't  have  any  such  plan,"  the  dwarf  growled. "I
 don't  have  a  hammer  or sword,  either, so  first things
 first."
 "I have a feeling this is going to take a while."
 "It will take as long as it takes."

   For  the rest  of the  day, Chestal  Thicketsway prowled
 about,  exploring  the  silent  forest, becoming  more and
 more impatient. At nightfall he  returned to  the wreckage
 heap,  took  fire  from  Chane's  now-operating  forge and
 made a meal of cured cat meat and bark  tea, then  went to
 sleep to the sound of dwarven craft echoing in the night.
   At  first  light  of  morning,  the  kender  awakened,
 stretched,  and strolled  over to  watch the  dwarf again.
 Chane  now  had  a serviceable  - if  crude -  hammer, and
 was  using  it to  make a  better hammer  from a  chunk of
 iron he had found.
   Finally  the  kender  had  seen  enough.  "I'm  going on
 ahead," he said. "I want to see  what else  is interesting
 around here."
   "Have a nice trip," Chane said without looking up.
   "Yourself,  as  well,"  Chess  replied. He  started off,
 northward,  then  turned  back  and  made   several  trips
 back  and  forth  between  the  mound  and the  black road
 where great cats prowled the far border.
   Chane  was  thoroughly  engrossed  in  what  he  was do-
 ing.  The  good  hammer  was taking  shape nicely,  and he
 had  scraped  away  enough age  from the  long rod  to see
 the metal beneath, and to taste it. It was good  steel. It
 would make a blade... maybe more than one.
   The  kender  paused  once more  beside the  forge. "Luck
 with your quest," he said.
   "You, too," Chane glanced up. "See you."
   "Sure,"  Chess  waved  and headed  north. Long  after he
 had  gone,  the  dwarf  looked  up from  his work  and his
 eyes went thoughtful. Entirely ringing  him and  his forge
 was a circle of black gravel scattered on the  ground. The
 kender had left a shield for him, in case any of the hunt-
 ing cats found a way to cross the road or to go around it.

 Chapter 4

   Through  that  day  and  most  of  the   next,  Chane
 worked at his forge in the forest. In a buried  firepit he
 coaled bits of hardwood for the  bed of  his flame,  and a
 foot-bellows of sapling lengths  and catskin  fed it  to a
 pulsing glow. His  first hammer  was no  more than  a lump
 of  iron  remelted,  skimmed  clean and  shaped in  a clay
 mold. But with its help he crafted a second  one -  a ham-
 mer that even  a Hylar  prince or  Daewar merchant  in the
 finest halls of Thorbardin might  have envied.  For though
 Chane   Feldstone   -   orphaned   and  without   a  known
 lineage - had been relegated  to the  lowly ranks  of com-
 mon  delver  and  sometimes outsman  in the  teeming realm
 within the Kharolis Mountains, still the high  crafts came
 to him easily when he turned his hand to them.

    Often  through  the  years  of  childhood he  had watched
  others of his age go off to apprentice at the trades of me-
  talsmithy,  stonecutting,  and  other  such  high callings.
  Sometimes  he  had been  envious that  those so  chosen had
  someone  of  note  to  sponsor them.  His hands  had longed
  for the feel of good tools, and his  heart had  yearned for
  the  chance  to  do  such  works  as  those  more fortunate
  would one day do. Still, he had not been alone in  his cir-
  cumstances.  Among  the  seven  cities  of  the  undermoun-
  tain  kingdom  there  always  were  thousands  of  children
  without  access  to great  name or  the comfort  of wealth.
  Children  of  the warrens  and the  ways, the  offspring of
  warriors  who  didn't  come  home  or  traders lost  to the
  outlands, orphans and waifs of  all sorts.  It was  the way
  of  the  dwarves  of  Thorbardin  that  these  children  be
  cared  for  and receive  at least  some basic  education so
  they would never lack for work or the basic needs.
    Chane  had  grown  up like  the rest,  and had  learned a
  host of lesser skills that served him well. Only, there had
  been  times -  times all  through the  years when  some se-
  cret  part  within  him raged  and strove  for recognition.
  Times there had been....
    When he was  yet a  youngster, inches  short of  his full
  growth  of  four  feet  six,  Chane  had  been  employed to
  clean  the smithing  stalls of  the ironworker,  Barak Chi-
  selcut.  A  piece of  nickeliron had  been cast  aside, and
  Chane retrieved it, put a high polish on it and returned it
  to the master.
    "A  nice  bauble,"  old  Chiselcut  had  said, approving.
  "So you enjoy metals, youngster?"
    "Yes, sir. I like the feel of good metals, and  the sound
  and taste."
    "Then keep this," the old dwarf told  him. "Play  with it
  at the forge and anvil, if you like. But mind you  get your
  work done first."
    For  weeks,  Chane  had  shaped  the  bit  of nickeliron,
  late  in the  sleeping hours  when no  one else  was about,
  and  the small  dagger he  crafted from  it had  so pleased
  Barak  Chiselcut  that  the   shopmaster  gave   the  youth
  some  brass  and  ebony  with  which to  make a  handle for

 it.
   "You  have  skill at  making weapons,  Chane," Chiselcut
 told  him.  "Maybe some  ancestor of  yours was  a crafts-
 man.  It's too  bad you  don't have  a known  lineage. But
 then,  most  orphans  don't.  Keep  the  dagger,  and keep
 learning.  Having  craft  is  more important  than knowing
 who you are."
   For fifteen years  Chane had  carried and  cherished the
 knife, and  sometimes at  odd moments  it seemed  to whis-
 per to him, "Look at me,  Chane Feldstone.  I am  no ordi-
 nary  dagger,  and  you  are no  ordinary dwarf.  See your
 reflection in  my steel.  Perhaps someday  your reflection
 will tell you who you really are."
   He  had  looked  at  his  reflection and  wondered. Even
 then, in the years before his shoulders broadened  and his
 whiskers grew,  he had  been aware  that he  looked subtly
 different  from  most  of  those  around him...  not quite
 typical of the ordinary  day-to-day Daewar  he met  in the
 trade  centers. In  some respects,  he even  resembled the
 Hylar dwarves  - not  that it  made any  difference, since
 there  was  no  more  likelihood  of  his  tracing lineage
 among  the  Hylar than  among the  Daewar. A  foundling is
 a foundling, anywhere in Thorbardin.
   It was in those years, too, that  the dreams  began. The
 same  insistent dream,  over and  over, sometimes  no more
 than a week  apart. The  mysterious place,  the mysterious
 container, and the old, horned battle helmet that  he held
 in  his  hands  but  somehow never  managed to  place upon
 his head.
   The  years  had  passed,  and  he  had  come of  age and
 found  work  with  Rogar  Goldbuckle,  the trader.  He had
 served  as  a packer  and sometimes  as an  outsman, going
 beyond  Southgate  to  help  with  the  gear and  goods of
 trading parties bound for Barter  or some  other gathering
 place of  merchants. Chane  had made  the journey  to Bar-
 ter  himself  once. He  had met  elves and  humans, gnomes
 and kender. He had seen the rising and setting of the sun,
 had seen the moons in the night sky, had felt the vastness
 of outside, a world not contained beneath mountains.
   Back in Thorbardin, full of worldliness and wonder,

  Chane  had  walked as  tall as  any dwarf  for the  first time
  in his life. And it had been then that he'd met Jilian. Jilian
  Firestoke.   His   eyes  grew   moist  now,   remembering  how
  she  had  made  his  heart  melt...  and  how  he  had  worked
  to  win  her  affections.  He  had known  from the  first that
  her  father  despised  him,  but  that  hadn't  seemed  impor-
  tant.  Jilian  knew  her  own  mind,  and what  Slag Firestoke
  thought about anything didn't seem to matter....
    Until  the  dream  had  come  again,  this  time   with  ur-
  gency.  This  time  the dream  had spoken  to him  of destiny,
  and he couldn't help but believe it.
    And old Firestoke had used the opportunity to teach
  Chane who he truly was  - a  lowly foundling  who had
  reached beyond his grasp.
    The  nickeliron  dagger  was  gone  now. It  was one  of the
  things  Slag  Firestoke's  thugs  had  robbed  from  him  when
  they  drove  him  into  the   wilderness.  Maybe   Jilian  was
  gone  as  well.   Chane  was   certain  that   Slag  Firestoke
  wouldn't tell his  daughter what  he had  done, so  all Jilian
  could   know   was   that   Chane  had   gone  away   and  not
  come  back.   Maybe  she   even  thought   he  was   dead.  He
  was  still  tempted  to  head  right  back  for  Southgate, to
  give  those  toughs  a  taste  of  honest  iron, and  to shake
  Slag  Firestoke  until  his  teeth  rattled.  The devious  old
  rust-bucket.
    But  the dream  called. There  was something  he was
  supposed to do, and he knew deep inside that  he could
  not return to Thorbardin until he had done it... or at
  least tried his best.
    "Become  rich  and  famous,"  the  kender  had  said.  Chane
  rumbled  his  irritation  at  the thought.  What could  a ken-
  der know about anything?
    The  new  hammer  shaped  itself  on  his  makeshift  anvil.
  Four  pounds  would  be  its  weight.   His  hands   told  him
  that,  and  he  knew  there was  no mistake.  A head  that was
  a  shaping  maul  at one  end with  a tapered  balancing spike
  at  the  other.  A  hammer  that  could  bend   the  strongest
  drawbar  or   shape  the   daintiest  filigree...   and  could
  serve  as  a  formidable  weapon  should  the  need  arise. He
  put the final touches to it, tempered its face and  its spike,

 and  set  it  on  a  shaft of  sturdy darkwood,  with rawhide
 lashing  for  the  hand to  grip. Then  he fashioned  a thong
 to  carry  it,  took  a  deep breath,  and looked  around for
 the metal that would make a sword.
   A  man  stood  a  few  feet  away,  leaning  casually  on  a
 staff,  watching  the  dwarf.  Chane  had  no  idea  how  long
 the  man  had  been  there.  He  had  not heard  him approach.
 But  the  faded  red  robe  beneath  the bison-pelt  cape told
 him what the  man was,  and the  dwarf felt  a twinge  of dis-
 taste...  distaste  and  more than  a bit  of caution.  A wiz-
 ard.
   "I  see  nothing  wrong  with  becoming  rich   and  famous,
 Chane  Feldstone,"  the  wizard said  in a  voice as  thin and
 as  cold  as winter  wind. "It  is a  proper approach  to some
 worthwhile goals."
   The  dwarf  frowned  at  him,  backing  off  a  step. "Have
 you  been  listening  to  my  thoughts?  If  you   have,  you
 know it wasn't me who said that, it was some kender."
   "There'd  be  no  need  to  read  the  thoughts of  one who
 speaks  them  to  himself  while he  is working,  Chane Feld-
 stone."
   "How do you know who I am? I didn't tell myself my
 name."
   "Oh, I know  of you,  Chane Feldstone,"  the wizard
 said. "I might even know more of who you are than you
 do."
   "Who are you, that you know about me?"
   The man sighed, bowing his head, and whiskers of
 sleet  gray  bobbed  as  he  nodded.  "I  have   been  called
 many   things,   young   dwarf.   Some  call   me  Glenshadow
 the  Wanderer.  If you  want a  name for  me, that  will do."
 He  stepped  doser  to  the  still-glowing  forge  and spread
 his  hands  as  though  to  warm himself.  He glanced  at the
 new  hammer.  "Have  you  set  a  crest  or  a   device  upon
 that? Have you named it or made it yours?"
   Again  the  dwarf  edged  away,  but  he  took   the  hammer
 from his belt and turned it in the light. "I've only initialed
 it. See for yourself. What device would I use?"
   The  wizard  squinted  at the  hammer. "Ah,  yes. I  see. C.
 F. Chane Feldstone. It is truly your hammer, then."

 "What do you want of me?"
 "Why, I am going with you. I thought you would
 know that."
 "Why would I have known any such thing?"
 "You're right, of course," the man admitted. "Well, first
 we must go see the Irda."
 "The who?"
 "The Irda."
 "Why?"
 "We will know more about that when we get there.
 Come along, now."
 "Come along nothing!" Chane's whiskers twitched
 with exasperation. "I have a sword to make."
 The  wizard  looked  at  the  ancient, rusted  metal bar.
 "That  isn't the  stuff of  your sword,  Chane Feldstone.
 There's better along the way. Come  on, now.  This valley
 is not a happy place for me,  and I  don't want  to spend
 more time here than I have to."
 Chane shook his  head violently,  clenching his  teeth in
 frustration.  "I  don't know  what you're  talking about,
 and I don't want to go!"
 "I think you had better," the wizard said quietly.
 "Why?"
 "Because  of  them." The  wizard tilted  his head  to one
 side, gesturing."
 Chane  looked  where  the man  indicated, then  sucked in
 a  whistling breath,  grabbed his  pack, and  ran, barely
 aware that the robed  man was  pacing him  alongside. Be-
 hind  them came  a leaping,  bounding, slinking  flood of
 huge black cats.
 The  wizard was  half again  as tall  as Chane,  and when
 he lifted his hems and sprinted, he left the dwarf in his
 wake. "This way!" he called. "The road curves  back, just
 ahead!"
 Chane ran for all he was  worth, but  with each  step the
 cats were closer behind him,  their deep,  rumbling purrs
 mounting like the roll  of charging  drums. When  he felt
 their breath warming his  back he  clasped his  hammer in
 one hand, his cat-tooth dagger in the other, skidded to a
 stop,  and  spun  around. The  dwarf crouched  and roared

  a battle cry. As he faced them, the cats  hesitated. Other
  cats coming up behind collided with the leaders. In an in-
  stant the glade was atumble  with clawing,  spitting cats,
  swatting at  one another,  sidling and  rearing, grappling
  and  rolling.  Chane  raised his  hammer and  started for-
  ward, set to wade  in among  them, but  a hand  caught him
  by the nape, turned him, and shoved.
    "Run!" the wizard snapped. "This is no time for
  games!"
    The  logic  of  that  statement  was  inescapable. Chane
  ran. Beyond the glade  was forest,  and beyond  the forest
  the blackstone path. They arrived  there with  cats pound-
  ing at their heels, and  the dwarf  strode back  and forth
  along the edge of safety, growling  as ferociously  as the
  frustrated  predators  that  strained toward  him. Finally
  Chane got his temper  under control,  slung his  hammer at
  his belt, and turned to  the wizard.  "How do  you suppose
  those cats got across the road? They were supposed  to all
  be on the other side."
    The  man  shrugged  disinterestedly.  "An  ancient ques-
  tion, that. Why does a cat cross the road?"
    "Rust  and  corruption!"  Chane  glared at  him. "That's
  chickens, not cats! And don't change  the subject.  What I
  asked was how they got across."
    "Oh, that. You left  your log  skid back  there. Someone
  simply moved the gravel again."
    "But  who  would  -"  the  dwarf's  face went  dark with
  fury. "You! You did that! Why?"
    "Would you have come along with me otherwise?"
    Chane  tried  to  say  something,  could think  of nothing
  appropriate, and merely sputtered.
    "No  need  to  apologize," the  wizard said.  "Any dwarf
  worth his salt would  rather cook  iron than  travel. It's
  your  nature.  You  might  have  dawdled there  for weeks,
  when  you  should  be seeking  the Irda.  You do  want an-
  swers to your questions, don't you?"
    "I don't have any questions!"
    "Of  course you  do." The  wizard drew  himself up  to his
  full  height,  and  the  gray  eyes  above his  gray beard
  seemed  to  focus  on  something  far away.  "Everyone has

 questions."  At  first,  Chane had  thought the  man looked
 old.  Now  he  realized it  was not  old he  looked, but...
 ageless. 'You  can learn  to be  what you've  always been,"
 the wizard said, "if you've  the gift  of knowing.  But you
 can't  learn  from  whence  you came  'til you  learn where
 you're going."
   Chane felt a chill creep up his  spine. "Are  you working
 a spell, wizard?"
   "Oh,  mercy,  no,"  the man  said, turning  away. "Didn't
 your little friend tell you? Spells are dangerous and unre-
 liable here. This is the Valley of Waykeep."

 * * * * *

   For days  Jilian Firestoke  had watched  the ways  of the
 Daewar  city,  going  often  to the  market centers  at the
 tenth  and  thirteenth  roads and  finding excuses  even to
 visit  the  bustling ware-room  district near  the eleventh
 road  gate,  where goods  from other  clan cities  in Thor-
 bardin were gathered and  traded. She  had ridden  a cable-
 train  to the  east warrens,  where Chane  Feldstone worked
 the  fields  sometimes  when  neither  Barak  Chiselcut nor
 Rogar Goldbuckle had employment for him.
   Wherever  she  went,  she  had  asked  about  Chane,  but
 no  one  had  seen  him lately.  Maybe, some  suggested, he
 had gone to carry  dispatches for  Rogar Goldbuckle  to his
 commodity  camp   west  of   Thorbardin  in   the  Kharolis
 Mountains.  But,  no,  one  of  Goldbuckle's  guardsmen had
 said that he was sure there had been no  dispatches lately,
 and  since  Goldbuckle  was  preparing  for a  pack-trip to
 Barter, he would carry any such messages himself.
   She  had  become  more  worried  by the  day. It  was not
 like Chane to just disappear without  telling her  where he
 was going, Yet, since the day she had taken him to  see her
 father - she had been sure her father  would help  him, but
 he  had  flatly refused  - Chane  had been  absent. Someone
 said  they  thought  Chane  might  have  gone  back  again,
 alone, to talk with Slag Firestoke. But her father  said he
 hadn't  seen  the  whelp  again  and,  furthermore,  didn't
 want to.
     Jilian had only recently - as they said in the polite

  sectors - "come of age,"  and had  no shortage  of admirers
  among  the  young  male  dwarves  of  Thorbardin.  A petite
  and sturdy four feet three, with the wide,  subtly chiseled
  face  of  a  dwarven  angel  and  a  curvaceous  shape that
  even the most  modest of  clothing could  not hide,  it was
  natural that  she should  have suitors.  And she  did. They
  came by the dozens, and Slag  Firestoke busied  himself in-
  vestigating  the  family  lineage  and  financial  means of
  each one. But he was wasting his  time. Jilian  had already
  decided.  Even  when  young  males  of   the  noble-blooded
  Hylar  clans  stared  after  her in  the market,  with open
  mouths   and  enchanted   eyes,  she   was  no   more  than
  amused.  In  Chane  Feldstone  she  saw  something  that no
  one else seemed to see, but that didn't matter. She saw it,
  and had no intention of letting him get away.
    And she had told her  father so,  in no  uncertain terms.
  In  that  straightforward  way of  hers that  always seemed
  to infuriate him, Jilian had made it clear that  she would,
  by  Reorx,  decide for  herself what  male she  wanted. And
  she had, by Reorx, decided it was Chane Feldstone.
    It  wasn't  that  Chane  was  the  most   handsome  young
  dwarf  she  had seen  - although  his broad  shoulders, his
  somber,  wide-set  dark  eyes, and  the way  his near-black
  whiskers  swept  back  in  feral  lines along  each sloping
  cheek reminded  her of  old pictures  she had  seen, paint-
  ings  of  the fierce  Hylar warriors  of ancient  times. It
  wasn't that he was  the most  entertaining; at  times, when
  the  mood  was  on  him,  Chane  was  nearly  impossible to
  talk  to,  and  seemed  to  lose  himself  in  dark, hidden
  thoughts that he wouldn't - or couldn't - express.
    He was, in fact, a waif.
    Orphaned  in  some manner  that left  no clear  record of
  his lineage, Chane was a bit  of an  enigma to  those whose
  duty it was, or whose inclination it was, to keep  track of
  people in  the dwarven  realm. Clearly  a citizen  of Thor-
  bardin, he yet had no definable status  except that  of or-
  phan and common worker.
    But now Jilian was worried. He had simply disap-
  peared, and no one had seen him. And when she had
  asked  her  father  to make  inquiries, old  Firestoke just

 sneered  and  said,  "Good  riddance.  He's nothing  but an
 upstart who's never learned his place."
   She would  have argued  with her  father, except  for the
 arrival  of  that  bunch   of  rough-looking   armsmen  who
 were  waiting  to  see  him  on some  sort of  business and
 wouldn't  go away  until they  had. By  the time  they were
 gone, Jilian's anger at her father  had jelled.  She didn't
 want to argue with him. She didn't want to  talk to  him at
 all. In fact, she had hardly seen  him since  the incident,
 having  gone  about  her  own business  and staying  out of
 his sight when he was at home.
   Until today.
   With communication at a minimum in the Firestoke
 quarters, certain necessities such as  paying the  tap fees
 and  keeping the  larder stocked  - things  Jilian normally
 did - had piled up so that  she had  to do  something about
 it or face such problems as late penalties on water and oil
 bills.  So she  had gone  to her  father's chamber  for the
 money  she  needed,  and found  that he  was away  on busi-
 ness.
   For the first time in  months Jilian  had opened  the old
 dwarf's private locker.
   Now she stood over the  locker, holding  a dagger  in her
 hands  -  a  small,  nickeliron  dagger with  an ebony-and-
 brass hilt. It was a dagger  she had  seen many  times, but
 not in her father's things. It belonged to Chane Feldstone.

 Chapter 5

    Chestal Thicketsway had been a little miffed that
 the  dwarf  had abandoned  what promised  to be  an inter-
 esting exploration in favor of playing with fire  and iron
 and such things. But, in the way of all kender,  he hadn't
 stayed  miffed  very  long.  The world  held far  too many
 new and fascinating things to see for any kender  to dwell
 for long on any one subject...  even such  a novelty  as a
 fugitive dwarf who could kill  a giant  cat with  his bare
 hands and make himself a bunny suit.
 Before  he had  gone a  mile, Chess  found a  new fascina-
 tion. The forest of this valley, what he had seen of it so
 far, was an ancient forest. The gnarled and  twisted hard-
 wood trees, some  still wearing  their fall  colors though
 many  now  were  bare, spoke  of ages  of time,  while the

 deep  loam  beneath them,  under a  thick carpet  of fallen
 leaves, whispered  of countless  generations of  such trees
 that  had  grown  and  fallen  before them.  Thousands upon
 thousands  of  years  have passed  here, the  forest seemed
 to  say,  and nothing  of note  has occurred.  Nothing here
 has changed.
   And yet, where the rolling  lands came  down to  a little
 rock-bound  stream,  the  forest  did  change.  Across  the
 stream was  a different  sort of  forest, younger  and less
 brooding.  The kender  crossed, climbed  the far  bank, and
 prowled  around,  looking  at  everything.  The  trees were
 large here  too, but  younger and  more varied.  The forest
 here  spoke  of  hundreds  of  years...  but  not  of thou-
 sands.
   "It  burned,"  something  said...   or  seemed   to  say.
 Chess  was not  sure whether  he had  heard words  or imag-
 ined  them.  He  looked  around  and   there  was   no  one
 there. He was alone.
   "It might very well have," he  told himself.  "This might
 once have been a forest fire, and all the old  trees burned
 and the ones here now grew later."
   "Much later," something seemed to say.
   "I  beg  your  pardon?" The  kender turned  full circle,
 holding his forked  staff at  the ready.  There was  no one
 there, nor any sign that anyone had been  there -  at least
 in a very long time. The only sound  was the  fitful breeze
 rustling  the  treetops.  He  squatted,  peering  under the
 nearby  bush,  then walked  in a  wide circle,  looking be-
 hind  trees  and under  stones. There  was no  one anywhere
 about.
   Perplexed  and  curious,  he  went  on, turning  often to
 look behind him. He wasn't sure  at all  that he  had heard
 anything,  but  he  didn't  remember  thinking   the  words
 that he had seemed to hear  until after  he seemed  to hear
 them.  Talking to  himself was  nothing unusual  for Chess.
 As  a traveler,  he was  often alone,  and even  in company
 he often preferred to talk to himself. But he didn't recall
 ever  not  being  in  complete  charge  of  one of  his own
 conversations.
      The younger forest - he thought of it now as After-

 burn  Woods  -  rose  away  before  the  kender, and  he kept
 traveling  more  or  less northward,  recalling from  time to
 time that his  original purpose  - at  least the  most recent
 one  -  had  been  to go  east across  the valley  with Chane
 Feldstone,  to  see  if  the  dwarf  could  find  his  dream-
 helmet.
   The  forest  thickened,  then  broke  away,  and  the black
 road  was  before  him,  curving  in  from  the east  to wind
 northward  again.  The  path  almost  immediately   lost  it-
 self in the forest as it curved once more, again to the east.
   "I  wonder what  it's trying  to stay  away from  now," the
 kender muttered.
   "Death and birth," something nearby seemed to say.
   Chess  spun  around.  As  before, there  was no  one there.
 "Death and birth?" he repeated.
   "Birth and death," something almost certainly said.
   This  time  Chess  strolled about,  squinting as  he peered
 upward.   Maybe   the   talking  bird   has  come   back,  he
 thought. But there was no  sign of  it anywhere.  Besides, it
 had  talked  -  clearly  and  without  mistake.  Whatever was
 talking  here  just  kind of  seemed to  talk. It  wasn't the
 same.
   With  a  grunt  of exasperation,  he put  his hands  on his
 hips and asked, 'Whose birth and death?"
   "Mine and theirs," something seemed to respond.
   "Theirs  and  yours?"  As  the  kender asked  the question,
 his  bright eyes  were darting  from one  side to  the other,
 looking for a clue as to who was talking to him.
   For  a  moment there  was silence,  then the  silence whis-
 pered,  "Death  and  birth.  Go  and  see."  And a  few yards
 away, just where the trees  began, there  was a  brief shift-
 ing of light - as though the air there had moved.
   "Probably something truly dreadful over there some-
 where," Chess  decided. "Maybe  even a  deathtrap for
 kender. I guess I had better go and see."
   He  turned  his  back  on  the black  road and  entered the
 verge of forest where the odd shifting of  air had  been. A
 few  feet  into  the woods  he saw  it again  - a  little way
 ahead and beckoning.
      "Ogres, maybe," the kender told himself cheerfully. "A

  beckoning vesper to  lead the  unwary into  a nest  of ogres.
  Or  hobgoblins,  perhaps?  No,  probably  not.   They  aren't
  smart  enough  to think  of something  like that."  He paused
  for  a  moment,  searched  in  his  pouch,  and   withdrew  a
  sling - a small, soft-leather pocket  with elastic  loops at-
  tached to either end.  He secured  the loops  to the  ends of
  the  fork  on  his  hoopak,  kicked  around  in   the  fallen
  leaves  until  he  found  a  few  good pebbles,  then hurried
  on,  following  where  the  vesper  had  been.  He  went  on,
  not seeing the strange  air-shift again,  but keeping  to its
  original direction.
    After  a  time  the  forest  broke  away,  and  Chess found
  himself  on  a low,  broken ridge  with a  clearing extending
  from  its  base.  A  great  shallow  bowl  of  ground, broken
  here  and there  by groves  of trees  and grassy  knolls, the
  clearing  extended  into  distances  where  herds  of animals
  grazed.  Beyond  them,  forests   rose  toward   the  tumbles
  and steeps of the valley's east wall.
    Nearer,  though,  in  the bottom  of the  bowl, was  a wide
  field of what looked like ice  - flat  around the  edges, but
  distorted  within  by  many  random  shapes  and  lumps  that
  seemed to grow from it.
           The kender scrambled down the ledge and approached
  the field of ice. All around it, the air was cold and silent.
    "Old," the silence seemed to say.
    "Right," the kender  agreed. He  knelt at  the edge  of the
  field and rapped at it with his staff.  The stuff  looked and
  sounded  like  ice, and  when a  sliver of  it broke  away he
  tasted it. It was ice. "It's ice," he said.
    "Fire and ice," the silence seemed to say. "Old."
    Encouraged, Chess wandered out onto the ice. A few
  steps brought  him to  the nearest  of the  weird shapes  - a
  tangled  mound  of  crystals  and  spires  higher   than  his
  head and twenty feet long.  He knelt,  looking into  it, see-
  ing twisted dark  shadows inside.  He rapped  at it  with the
  heel of his staff. Little cracks formed, then a  hole, larger
  than his head, appeared in it as bits of  ice fell  away. In-
  side  was  a  blackened  tangle  of  burned  branches,  and a
  mist  like  ancient   woodsmoke  rose   from  the   hole.  He
  stuck  his head  through for  a better  look. Inside  the ice

 was a burned tree.
   "Fire and ice," he said  to himself.  It looked  as though
 the  tree  had  burned  and  toppled,  then been  caked with
 ice while it still burned.
   All  around  were  other   interesting  ice   mounds.  The
 kender  wandered  among  them,   peering  here   and  there,
 his eyes wide with  the pure  delight of  a kender  amidst a
 mystery.  Sometimes  he  could  not see  what the  ice held,
 but  sometimes  he  could.  One   small  lump   contained  a
 dead  dwarf  -  a  short, thick-set  body armored  with mail
 and  visored  helm.  A  bolt  from  a  crossbow  had pierced
 him.  He  lay  across  an  emblazoned  shield,  preserved by
 the ice so that the blood of his wound was still bright red.
 Hill  dwarf,  the  kender  thought.  He  looks as  though he
 might have died just minutes ago.
   "Old," something seemed to say.
   Chess stood and turned away, but stopped as some-
 thing in  the flat  ice underfoot  caught his  attention. He
 knelt  again,  brushing  at  the  surface. Just  beneath it,
 things  glittered  and  shone.  He  went  to  work  with his
 staff.
   Breaking  away  the  shallow  ice,   he  found   a  broad-
 sword,  its edge  notched by  combat but  still as  shiny as
 when it was new. He  lifted it,  then set  it aside.  A good
 dwarven  weapon,  it  was  too  heavy  and  awkward  to suit
 a kender. But there were other interesting things  there, as
 well. One by one, he lifted out  a pewter  mug, a  string of
 marble  beads,  and  a  little  glass  ball. He  looked them
 over,   then  moved   on.  Under   other  ice   mounds  were
 other  dead  dwarves,  some  standing,  some   kneeling  and
 some  fallen.  Dwarves  with  hammers  and   swords,  frozen
 in  mortal  combat.  Hill  dwarves  and   mountain  dwarves,
 locked now in solid ice in a battle that would never end.
   "What ever  could they  have been  fighting about?" the
 kender wondered.
   "The gates," something seemed to say.
   Chess peered all around, shading his eyes. He saw
 nothing  anywhere  that  looked  like  gates.  "Gates?  What
 gates?"
   "The  gates  of  Thorbardin," the  silence seemed  to say.

   "That  dwarf  should  have  come  with  me,"   the  kender
 muttered. "I'll bet he never saw anything like this."
   At  the  thought  of  Chane  Feldstone,  Chess  looked back
 the  way  he  had   come.  The   dwarf  had   said  something
 about   wanting   a   sword.  Chess   snooped  for   a  while
 longer,  then  decided  there  was nothing  to see  here that
 was  more  unusual  than  what  he   had  already   seen.  He
 went  back  to  where   he  had   left  the   dwarven  sword,
 hoisted it on his shoulder,  and started  back, more  or less
 retracing his steps.  Chess had  in mind  to leave  the sword
 somewhere that  the dwarf  would be  likely to  pass -  if he
 came  north  at  all  - so  he decided  he would  retrace his
 steps to the black road.
   "So long," something seemed to say.
   Chess  turned,  looking  all  around,  yet  no  longer ex-
 pecting  to  see  someone. "Oh,  yes," he  said. "So  long to
 you, too."
   The silence seemed puzzled and suddenly very sad.
 "So very long," it seemed to say.
   Chess didn't know what  to say  to that,  so he  said noth-
 ing and  went on  his way.  The sun  sank below  the valley's
 west  wall,  and  the  forest  became  a shadowy  place. Here
 and there, little mists formed above the  leaf mold  to drift
 vague  tendrils  among  the  trees.  Chess   wandered,  paus-
 ing to look at a bright stone, a bird's nest, a scattering of
 bones   where   some  predator   had  fed.   Whatever  caught
 his  eye,  he  inspected.  Whatever came  to hand,  he picked
 up.  Whatever  appealed  to  him  -  if  there was  space for
 it - went into his pouch. It was the way  of all  the kender,
 and Chestal Thicketsway was no exception.
   In   evening   shadows,   somewhere   near  where   he  ex-
 pected  to  find  the  black  road,  he  came  across another
 gnomish artifact -  an ancient,  fallen construct  that might
 once  have been  a catapult,  except that  no one  could con-
 ceivably  have  operated  a  catapult  so  huge  and complex.
 He   walked   around   and   through  the   overgrown  wreck-
 age,  trying  to  imagine  how  the  thing  might  once  have
 looked  -  a  huge,   impossibly  complex   machine  standing
 at least a  hundred feet  tall on  four gigantic  wheels with
 spiked  iron  rims...  endlessly  intricate  systems  of pul-

 leys  and  gears,  levers  and  winding  mechanisms,  steam
 boilers  and  windvanes...  and  probably  half  a  hundred
 whistles, bells, and ratchet-rattles.
   Little was  left of  it now.  What had  been wood  was en-
 tirely  gone.  What  had  been  stone  was rubble.  What had
 been  iron  was  designs  of  rust  imbedded in  the ground.
 But  he  traced  it  out,  and could  surmise what  had hap-
 pened.  Here  an  army of  gnomes had  built a  siege engine
 and had set it off. Possibly  it had  thrown a  missile, but
 definitely  it  had  thrown itself.  The entire  machine had
 climbed  up  onto  its  throwing   arm,  flipped   over  and
 landed on its back. And there it lay to  this day,  what was
 left of it.
   Such a long, long time ago. So inconceivably old.
   "Ages," something seemed to say.
   Chess  jumped,  then turned  full circle  again, squinting
 into the twilight. "I thought I had left you back there," he
 snapped.
   "All  the  ages  since the  first," the  breeze whispered.
 "Old. Very old."
   "Well, I can see that," the kender  agreed. "Are  you fol-
 lowing me?"
   "With you," something whispered.
   "Why?"
   "By your doing," the voice that was no voice said.
   "By  my  -" Chess  strode to  where he  had set  the dwar-
 ven  sword  and  picked  it  up.  "Aha!"  he  said.  Then he
 raised  a  puzzled  brow  and rubbed  at his  cheek. "Funny,
 though.  I'd  heard that  magic doesn't  work right  in this
 valley."
   "I don't," something very wistful seemed to say.
   It  was  growing  dark,  and  there  was nothing  more to
 see  here,  so  Chess  set  the  sword  on his  shoulder and
 headed  west.  The  black road  should be  near now,  he de-
 cided.
   The  forest  became  deeper  and  more  shadowy,  and the
 kender  stopped  abruptly,  his  pointed   ears  twitching.
 Somewhere  to  his  left,  things  were moving,  coming his
 way.   Among   the   shadows   were  darker   shadows,  big
 shadows   flowing   and  bounding   toward  him   on  great

 padded paws... shadows that purred as they came, like
 the rumbling of distant thunder.
   "Oops!" Chess said, and ran.

 * * * * *

   In  evening's  dusk,   Chane  Feldstone   and  Glenshadow
 the  Wanderer rounded  a curve  of the  black road  and saw
 ahead of them  a conclave  of cats.  Feral eyes  and dagger
 teeth  glinted  where  the brutes  prowled and  crouched at
 each  side of  the path,  while a  small figure  danced and
 darted from side to side, shouting  threats and  taunts. As
 the  two  approached,  the  taunter  saw  them  and  waved.
 "Hello!"  he  called.  "I  wondered  where you  were! Who's
 that with you?"
   "There's that kender,"  the dwarf  told the  wizard, then
 turned.  Glenshadow  had  stopped.   The  man   stood  now,
 holding his staff before him as though to  protect himself.
 Chane cocked  his head,  the tilting  ears on  his cat-cape
 cap giving a quizzical look to his scowl. "What's the mat-
 ter? It's only a kender."
   "There's more," the wizard said. "But I can't see..."
   "More?  I  don't  see  anybody  except  a  kender.  And of
 course a bunch of cats, but that's no surprise."
   "Not  a  person,"  the  wizard  said slowly,  looking one
 way  and  then another,  peering into  the gloom.  "No, not
 a person, but an... an event."
   The dwarf  growled, deep  in his  chest. Kender  and wiz-
 ards...  birds  and  hunting   cats...  Chane   was  begin-
 ning to miss the sensible, logical life of  Thorbardin. Out
 here,  it  seemed,  no  one ever  really made  sense. "What
 event? I don't see any event."
   "It hasn't  happened yet,"  Glenshadow said  softly. "But
 it wants to."
   "Needs  to,"  something  seemed  to say  in a  voice that
 was not a voice.
   Chane  felt  a  chill crawl  up his  spine as  he whirled
 around, looking for  the source  of the  sound. He  felt as
 though he  had heard  a voice,  but his  ears had  not. The
 mage behind him had raised his staff higher, but  he didn't
 seem to see anything, either.

   The kender trotted up  to them,  grinning. "I  see you've
 met whatsit," he said. "I think he  comes with  the sword."
 He  lifted  a  dwarven  broadsword  from  his  shoulder and
 extended it, hilt first. "Here. I found  this for  you. Now
 you can stop complaining about not having a sword."
   Surprised,  Chane  took  the  sword and  held it  in both
 hands, turning it over, squinting in the poor light.
   "Of  course,  there's  a ghost  or something  attached to
 it," Chess said brightly. "But I can't  see how  that would
 matter. Who's that with you? He looks like a wizard."
   "He is, I guess," the  dwarf said.  "Haven't seen  him do
 any  magic, but  I'd just  as soon  he didn't,  anyway." He
 lifted the sword to his mouth and tasted its  blade. "Old,"
 he  muttered.  "Good  steel,  though.  And it  doesn't look
 old.-
   "It's been on ice," the kender explained.  "Wthat's wrong
 with your wizard? He looks like he's seen a ghost."
   "I  don't  know  what's  wrong  with  him."  Chane busied
 himself, slicing a strip of cathide from his cape to make a
 belt for the sword. "He said he saw an event."
   "Well, I've  seen a  few of  those." The  kender nodded.
 "But I try not to let  them bother  me. Pretty  good sword,
 huh?"
   "A  fine  sword,"  the  dwarf  agreed. 'Thank  you. Where
 did you get it?"
   "I found an old battlefield, over east of here. There's a
 lot of  good stuff  just lying  around. And  frozen dwarves
 all  over  the  place,  too.  Probably  nobody   you  know,
 though. They've  been there  a long  time. Maybe  the ghost
 is a dwarven ghost. I've never  met any  sort of  ghost be-
 fore, so I don't know. But if he  bothers you,  just ignore
 him."
   As  one  coming  out  of  a  trance, the  wizard Glensha-
 dow  shook  himself  and  lowered  his  staff.  He  stepped
 close  to  them,  leaned  down,  and  squinted  at  Chane's
 sword, then turned to the kender. "Not  a ghost,"  he said,
 in a  voice that  was like  winter. "And  not fixed  to the
 sword, either. It follows you, Chestal Thicketsway."
   The kender blinked. "What does?"
   'You  picked  up  more  than a  sword on  that battlefield,

 kender. You picked up an unexploded spell."
   Before  Chess  could  respond,  Chane pointed  down the
 path. "The cats are gone," he said.
   Then  on  an  errant  breeze,  coming   from  somewhere
 ahead, all three  of them  heard a  sound that  seemed to
 float  among  the  treetops and  drift down  like crystal
 snow. The mage seemed to stiffen, the kender's  eyes went
 huge, and even the stolid, pragmatic dwarf felt the sound
 take hold of his heart and tug at it.
   Somewhere off there,  to the  north, someone  was sing-
 ing.  The  voice  was  more  lovely  than  anything Chane
 Feldstone had ever heard.

 Chapter 6

     Though it had no king - no regent had acceded to
 the throne since the  death of  King Duncan  two centuries
 before - the fortified realm  of Thorbardin,  deep beneath
 the  surface  of the  central Kharolis  Mountains, consid-
 ered itself a kingdom. And  without a  king, it  fell upon
 the Council of Thanes to sit as a Board of Regents, decid-
 ing such  matters as  were not  governed within  the sepa-
 rate  cities and  warrens that  made up  the undermountain
 realm.
 Seven  cities  lay  within the  bedrock of  the mountains,
 each a major community in its own right, as well  as three
 farming warrens, two Halls of Justice, and a  massive for-
 tification at each of the realm's two main gates.
   In the more than three centuries since the great Cata-

 clysm  that  had  forever changed  the continent  of Ansa-
 lon,  the  dwarves  of  Thorbardin  had  mostly  abandoned
 the  manning  of  Northgate.  The  Cataclysm had  left the
 northern  approaches  virtually   inaccessible,  providing
 better security to the  north than  even the  massive gate
 that plugged the mountainside there ever had.
   For a century, rumors had persisted  about a  secret way
 to Thorbardin  from the  north, and  the dwarves  had kept
 the fortifications there operational. Chaos and pestilence
 had  followed  the Cataclysm,  and for  most of  that cen-
 tury the threats to Thorbardin  from outside  were fright-
 eningly  real.  Plague  and famine  had spread  across the
 known  world,  migrations  were   under  way   across  the
 continent, and no unfortified place could long survive.
   But then the gates of Thorbardin  had faced  their hard-
 est  test...  and  held  firm.  The  bloody  Dwarfgate War
 raged through  the Kharolis  Mountains, hill  dwarf armies
 pitted  against  those  of the  mountain dwarves  - cousin
 against cousin, like against like. Those outside  were de-
 termined  to break  through to  the inside  of Thorbardin,
 incited, some said, by  the evil  archmage Fistandantilus,
 whom  many  held  to  be  the  most powerful  magician the
 world of Krynn had ever known.
   Against  these  forces, Thorbardin  had fought  a defen-
 sive  action.  Then,  under  King  Duncan  and his  sons -
 with  Prince  Grallen  leading  the  Hylar  dwarves  - the
 armies of Thorbardin went out to carry the fight  to their
 enemies, right to  the mountain  called Skullcap,  lair of
 the great wizard himself.
   What came to pass then - the tragic  end of  both armies
 in one last, terrible act of magic by Fistandantilus - was
 now old history. Of those who might be  old enough  to re-
 member, few cared to.
   But through it all, the shattered north portal had held,
 as had all of  Thorbardin's defenses.  More than  two cen-
 turies  later,  the  undermountain  kingdom  still  stood.
 Concerns  about  threats  from  outside  were   no  longer
 acute. In very recent times there had been  unsettling ru-
 mors, of course -  rumors the  traders brought,  about mi-
 grations of goblins and  ogres to  the north,  about whole

 villages disappearing in distant places beyond  the north-
 ern wilderness.  Some suspected  that, far  off somewhere,
 armies  were  being  amassed,  and  there  were  whispered
 comments  about  "Highlords"  and  infamous  plots.  Some-
 one had even claimed  to have  seen a  dragon, but  no one
 believed  that.  There  were no  dragons, not  anywhere on
 the entire world of Krynn. It was common knowledge.
   There were rumors, and  a few  were concerned,  but life
 went on in  Thorbardin as  it had  for two  hundred years.
 Some trade had been restored - not as in the  fabled past,
 before the War  of the  Gates, when  open trade  roads had
 linked  Thorbardin  with  Pax Tharkas  and other  realms -
 but some trade with other places and other  races outside.
 Time  had passed,  and the  old legends  of a  secret gate
 somewhere  passed  also  into oblivion.  The old  tales of
 untold evils  that might  yet lurk  about the  blasted and
 glazed   grotesqueries   of   Skullcap  Mountain   to  the
 north - the legends of the  glory of  King Duncan  and the
 noble Prince Grallen - grew dim.
   It was not in the  nature of  mountain dwarves  to dwell
 upon the  past. And  certainly, in  the teeming  cities of
 Thorbardin, few cared to reflect upon such antiquities.
   Under  the  Kharolis  Mountains,  Thorbardin   was  what
 it had always  been -  hundreds of  square miles  of busy,
 bustling,  squabbling,  and  delving  dwarfdom,  where the
 past  was past  and the  problems of  any one  person were
 seldom of concern to many others.
   And this was the reality that Jilian Firestoke faced. No
 one  knew  where  Chane  Feldstone  had  gone, and  no one
 except  her really  cared, either.  However, she  was sure
 now that she  knew where  Chane had  gone, and  certain of
 the mischief her father had engineered.
   And  so,  as  was  her  custom, Jilian  made up  her own
 mind.
   "I  am going  outside," she  told her  neighbor, Silicia
 Orebrand. "I  intend to  go and  find Chane  Feldstone and
 bring him home. There is just no telling what sort of mess
 he may be in out there."
   The stocky Silicia's eyes went  wide with  horror. "Out-
 side? Do you mean outside, outside?"

   "Of course I  mean outside,"  Jilian said.  "Chane's dream
 told  him  to  go  and  find  an  old helmet,  because Thor-
 bardin was threatened and it was up  to him  to save  it. So
 I  know that's  where he  went. And  my own  father, tarnish
 his whiskers,  put him  up to  it and  then betrayed  him. I
 know all about it, you see. So  I am  going outside  to find
 him."
   "But Jilian... outside? Nobody goes outside! I've
 never heard of such a thing."
   "Tarnish,  Silicia. Don't  be silly.  Of course  people go
 outside.  Traders, scouts,  metallurgists... lots  of people
 ga  outside.  Even  Chane has  been outside  before, helping
 Rogar Goldbuckle load his packs. He told me about it."
   "But can you? I mean, go outside? Is it allowed?"
   "I   asked   Ferrous  Spikemold.   He  knows   about  such
 things.  He  said  anybody  who  wants  to, can  go outside.
 There  is  no law  against going  outside. It's  just coming
 back in that gets sticky."
   "Did  you  tell  him  that you  were thinking  about going
 outside 7"
   "No,  I  don't  see how  that's any  of his  business. And
 you  know  what  a gossip  he can  be. I  just asked  him in
 general,  about  people  going  outside.  He   said  anybody
 can, if they want to."
   Silicia  frowned.  "But,  Jilian,  you've never  been out-
 side.  I  mean...  out?  I  bet  in  your whole  life you've
 never seen the sky except from the Valley  of the  Thanes. I
 know  I  certainly  haven't.  I've  never  even  dreamed  of
 such a thing. Why,  they say  there are  all sorts  of awful
 things out  there -  ogres and  goblins, warrior  elves, hu-
 mans.  By Reorx,  they say  half the  world is  overrun with
 humans these  days. Jilian,  are you  feeling well?  I can't
 imagine thinking such a thing. Outside?"
   "Outside," Jilian said firmly. "And it  will serve  my fa-
 ther right if I never come back."
   "But,  Jilian,  dear..."  Silicia  paused, then  fired her
 best shot. 'What will people think?"
   "Oh, tarnish what people think. I'm going, Silicia, and
 that's an end to it. All I ask is that you look in on my fa-
 ther from time to time  and see  that he  pays his  tap fees

 when  they  are  due.  The old  ruster hasn't  a brain  in his
 head when it comes to household duties."
   "Well, of course I would do that, dear." Silicia still was
 blinking  rapidly,  only  half-believing  what  she  was hear-
 ing.  "But  how  would  you  even  know  where  to   look  for
 your  young  man,  dear?  Outside  is...  well, it's  just aw-
 fully big!" She shuddered, just thinking about it.
   "Oh, that. Well, at least I know  where to  start. I  have a
 map of where he was last seen."
   "A map?" Silicia blinked again, awe following awe.
 "How  could  you  possibly  have  a  map?  Did  your
 father... 2"
   "I  haven't even  told him  about this  yet. And  I'd appre-
 ciate  it  if you  didn't, either.  No, I  saw the  armsmen he
 sent  to  drive  Chane  away.  I  didn't  know  who  they were
 at  the  time,  but  I  remembered  later. Then  I saw  one of
 them  again,  at  the  tinsmith's  stall,  and I  followed him
 and got him to draw a map for me."
   "An armsman? A warren ruffian? Why would he have
 done that for you? Jilian, you didn't..."
   "Oh, nothing like that, Silicia. Don't be silly. No,  I just
 followed  him  until  I  caught  him  alone in  a cable-shaft,
 then I crept up behind and  hit him  in the  head with  a pry-
 bar.  Then,  while  he  was  unconscious, I  chained him  to a
 cable-wagon  track.  When  he  woke  up  I  told  him  that if
 he  would  draw  the  map  for me  I would  give him  a chisel
 to  cut  himself  loose.  So  he  drew  the  map. He  was very
 willing, because we could hear an orewagon coming."
   Silicia goggled at  her, totally  at a  loss for  words. Fi-
 nally  she   shook  her   head  and   sighed.  "Do   you  have
 everything you'll need for such a journey?"
   "I   have   some   warm   clothing  and   a  pack   and  wa-
 terskin.  And   my  map.   I  suppose   a  company   of  armed
 fighters  might  be  good to  take along,  but I  can't afford
 anything like that."
   "Well,  of   course  not!"   Silicia  snapped.   "The  wages
 people  charge  these  days,  just  for single  escort through
 the  markets. There's  no telling  what you'd  have to  pay to
 get   an   escort   to  go...   ah...  outside."   She  looked
 around  at  the  walls  and  cabinets   of  her   great  room.

 Swords  and  shields,  hammers  and  pikes  were  displayed
 and  stacked  in  various  places.  Her  husband,  Stonecut
 Orebrand, prided himself  on his  collection. "At  the very
 least, I suppose you should take a weapon or two."
   "I couldn't take your husband's -"
   "Tarnish!  He's  lost  track  of  what  he  has, anyway.
 What  he doesn't  know, he'll  never miss."  She went  to a
 corner  cabinet  and poked  around in  it, emerging  with a
 small,  double-edged  sword  and  a sheathed  dagger. "Take
 these,"  she  said.  "My  Brother gave  them to  Stoney one
 time, in a fit of generosity, but I  don't think  he's even
 looked  at  them  in  years.  He doesn't  think much  of my
 brother, you know."
   Jilian took the sword from her and  squinted at  it curi-
 ously. "This is heavier than a prybar," she noted.
   "Have you ever used a sword before, Jilian?"
   "Well... not really. Have you?"
   "No.  It  can't  be  very  complicated, though.  One just
 swings it, I suppose."
   "Like swinging a prybar, do you think?"
   "Maybe  with  two  hands,  though.  The handle  is long
 enough for both of your  hands. Here,  stand in  the middle
 of  the  room and  swing it  around a  bit. Then  you'll be
 used to it if you ever want to fight with something."
   Jilian helped Silicia slide the furniture out of the way,
 then  placed  herself in  the cleared  area and  lifted the
 sword,  gripping  it  carefully  with  both  hands.  Though
 shorter  than  most  of the  swords in  Stonecut Orebrand's
 collection, the weapon  still was  only six  inches shorter
 than Jilian was, and much  of its  weight was  forward, to-
 ward  the  point,  in  the  dwarven  style. Being  a sturdy
 dwarven girl, Jilian had no trouble lifting it,  even hold-
 ing it out at arm's length, but it did tend  to off-balance
 her a bit. "What should I swing it at?" she asked.
   Silicia  went  to  a  corner and  brought back  a candle-
 stand with a foot-long taper set in  it. "Cut  the candle,"
 she suggested.
   "All right. Stand back." Jilian placed herself with the
 candlestand to her left, sighted on it, raised the sword
 and swung... and gasped, then  clung for  dear life  as the

 sword seemed to  take charge.  It whisked  past the  top of
 the  candle  and  kept  going  as the  momentum of  the cut
 becaine  centrifugal  force.  Like  a spinning  top, Jilian
 twirled  around  and  around,  her feet  a blur,  trying to
 keep up with the  sword in  her hands,  trying to  keep her
 balance as she spun.
   On  its  second  rotation,  the  sword clove  through the
 candle. On its third it  bisected the  oakwood candlestand.
 On its fourth it cut the legs  off the  stand and  took two
 candles out of a hanging  chandelier on  the other  side of
 Jilian. Silicia shrieked and dived for cover as the rate of
 spin  increased  and  the  twirling  Jilian began  to move.
 Four  more revolutions  and the  sword eviscerated  an herb
 pot,  beheaded a  chair, bisected  a hanging  tapestry, and
 embedded itself firmly  in a  doorframe. Jilian  blinked in
 amazement,   while   momentary  dizziness   subsided,  then
 wrenched  the  weapon  free and  stared at  it. "Goodness!"
 she said.
   Silicia  peeked  from  behind  a  stone  bench.  "Are you
 finished, do you think?"
   "I think so." Jilian  looked around.  "Oh, rust!  Look at
 the mess I've made."
   Silicia  came  from  hiding  to  gaze  in  wonder  at the
 sword in Jilian's hand. "I  don't think  you need  any more
 practice. I believe you've mastered the skill, don't you?"
   "I  suppose so,  but look  what we've  done to  your nice
 room! Oh, Silicia, I am sorry."
   Silicia walked around the room, pursing  her lips  as she
 surveyed  the  damage. "It's  not so  bad, really.  I never
 liked  that candlestand,  you know.  And that  awful tapes-
 try!  Honestly,  I  have  thought  about  making a  pair of
 framed  needleworks  out  of  it..."  She  came to  look at
 the  sword  again. "By  the lusters,  I never  realized how
 much fun  a person  might have  with one  of these.  I won-
 der if some of the ladies might like to jrganize a class."
   Jilian nodded. "I believe I will  borrow this,  if you're
 sure Stonecut won't mind."
   "Not in the slightest. It's as much mine as his, anyway.
 Now, you take it, and the dagger, too, and you have a
 nice time with them. We could rent  a hall,"  she continued

 with  her  own  thoughts,  "and practice  to music.  Some of
 the girls could certainly use the exercise...."
   After her visit with Silicia Orebrand, Jilian went  to see
 the trader, Rogar Goldbuckle.
   "You  are  going where?"  he squinted  at her  in disbelief.
   "Outside,"  she  repeated.  "I  want  to  find  Chane  Feld-
 stone  and  bring  him home.  He may  be lost  and starving,
 or something."
   "You?"  the  trader  still  couldn't  believe what  he was
 hearing.  'You can't  go traveling  around out  there. Don't
 you know what could happen to you?"
   "I plan to take a sword," she said, to put his concerns to
 rest.  "I'm  remarkably  good  with  a  sword.  But  what  I
 wondered  was...   well,  since   you  have   dealings  with
 people  outside,  maybe  you could  tell me  who to  talk to
 out there, to help find him."
   "Don't    talk    to    anybody    outside!"   Goldbuckle
 snapped.  "Don't  trust  anybody  or  anything  out  there!
 Rust and corruption, girl, you have no idea -"
   "I  have  a  map,"  she said.  "But it  will only  show me
 where he was last seen.  He may  not be  there any  more, so
 I  might  need  to ask  about him."  A new  thought occurred
 to her. "I don't suppose  you have  any trading  parties go-
 ing  northward, do  you? I  might just  go along  with them,
 as far as the wilderness. That's where I'll start looking."
   Goldbuckle  eased  himself  back  to   a  bench   and  sat
 down  with  a thump.  The girl  before him  was as  lovely a
 young  dwarf-maiden  as  he had  ever seen,  and he  had al-
 ways  thought  of her  as very  practical and  sensible, the
 times she had come  to shop  his bazaar  or to  deliver pur-
 chase orders for her father. But now...
   "I  don't  have  any  parties  going  that  way,"  he said
 weakly.  "Nobody  goes  to  that  wilderness.  There  hasn't
 been  a  trade route  through there  since before  the Cata-
 clysm,  and  even  then  it  was  chancy.  Of  course,  that
 crazy  Wingover  has  been  up  that  way.  He  wagered he'd
 go  to  Pax  Tharkas  and back,  if I'd  give him  a commis-
 sion. Plan of a fool. But, of course, he is a fool, to begin
 with."
        "Wingover? What an odd name." Jilian pursed pretty

  lips. "Maybe that's who I should talk to. Where can I find
  him?"
    "Well,  not  anywhere  in  Thorbardin,  certainly.  He'd
  never be allowed within twenty miles of the gate."
    "Why on Krynn not? What did he do?"
    'You  don't  understand,  girl,"  Goldbuckle  shook  his
  head. "Wingover isn't a dwarf.  He's... well.  I've traded
  with him a bit and learned to trust him. But he's... well.
  He's a human."
    Jilian  stared  at  him, amazed.  'What would  you trade
  from  humans?  I  mean,  I  know  there  used  to  be some
  trade, but aren't humans - ?"
    "Unreliable, yes. As  a rule.  Also unstable  and gener-
  ally  unpleasant.  Of  course,  one  can make  some allow-
  ances,  considering  how  short-lived they  usually are...
  Girl, have you ever seen a human?"
    "Of course not. I've never  been outside  of Thorbardin.
  But I've heard about  them. Chane  has seen  several, when
  he's gone out to carry  reports or  messages for  you, and
  he talks about them. He even saw an elf once."
    "Yes,  I know,"  Goldbuckle sighed.  "All sorts  show up
  at barter camps, but such places are no  place for  a girl
  like you. I swear! Why, I shudder to think of -"
    "Chane is out there, somewhere.  And he's  visited these
  barter camps before, at your employ, after all."
    "That's  different!  Chane  can  take  care  of himself.
  You -"
    "That's the other thing I wanted to  talk about.  He may
  need the money he earned from  you. If  you'll give  it to
  me, I'll give it to him... when I find him."

 Chapter 7

        For miles, the black path would and curved
 through dense forest. Then, past one final, long curve, it
 broke  out  of  the  forest  and  extended  arrow-straight
 across  a mounded  plain where  little vegetation  grew -
 only mosses and  spindly, scattered  shrubs. The  light of
 the moons Lunitari and Solinari -  the first  nearly over-
 head,  the  second  just  above  the  crags of  Westwall -
 bathed  the  scene  in  eerie  red  and  white  highlights
 beneath a spangled sky.
 "More  ruins,"  Chestal  Thicketsway   declared,  pointing
 about.  "There  might have  been a  city here  once. Maybe
 the Cataclysm -"
 "Much   older   than   that,"  Glenshadow   the  Wanderer
 said. "Oh, far older than that. Ages old. The  legends say

  it was a city in the Age of Dreams."
      "Legends say?" Chane Feldstone growled. 'You're a
  wizard. Don't you know?"
      "Not  without   a  powerful   spell  for   time-seeing,"  the
  winter  voice rasped.  "And I'll  cast no  spells in  this place.
  Strange things happen to magic here."
      Near them, somewhere close, something seemed to
  agree... something that lamented the fact.
      "It's said there was a city in this valley," the  wizard con-
  tinued.  "And  in  the  city  was  a   king,  who   captured  and
  held  in  bond  the  source  of  all magic.  The king's  name was
  Gargath."
      "How could he capture the source of magic?" Chess
  asked, excitedly. "Do you suppose it is still here?"
      "No. Only the place where it was once held,  and the
  device that held it. A  god-wrought thing  called Spell-
  binder. It still has power, though. Power enough to con-
  fuse and bind even the highest orders of spell."
      "Misery," something voiceless seemed to say.
      "Is that what's wrong with my spell?" Chess asked,
  looking around. "He's bound?"
      The wizard nodded. "Most likely."
      "He  certainly  doesn't  seem  to  be  very happy  about it,"
  the kender noted.
      "He?" the  dwarf grumped,  "What do  spells know?
  They aren't people." He looked up at the wizard. "How
  much farther do we have to go?"
      "Not  far,"  Glenshadow  said.  "Are  you  tired   so  soon?"
      "Of  course I'm  not tired!  But I  have things  to do  and I
  don't see how all this is -"
      "It  is,"  Glenshadow  assured  him.  'You  want to  find the
  helm, as you dreamed. This is how you must begin."
      The dwarf scowled. 'What does this have to  do with
  you, though I It's my dream. What makes it important to
  you?"
      "It  might  be  important  to  a  great  many   people,"  the
  wizard  sighed.   "In  ominous   times,  significances   take  on
  new   meanings.   I  have   my  own   reasons  for   helping  you
  fulfill  your  destiny,  Chane  Feldstone...  if you  can fulfill
  it."

   "If it's important  to you,  then why  don't you  just go
 and  find  the  helm, and  let me  get back  to Thorbardin?
 I'm not fond of having no roof over my head."
   "Of  course  you  aren't.  You're  a mountain  dwarf. But
 it's your dream, Chane Feldstone. Not mine."
   "Corrosion," the dwarf muttered. "It's like trying to get
 a  sensible  answer  from  that  kender.  What do  you mean
 'ominous times?' "
   "There   have   been   omens.   Some   have   interpreted
 them,  and  some  believe  them.  Some think  that devasta-
 tion is about to fall on these lands. Some  say it  has al-
 ready begun. Invasion. War. The worst of imaginings."
   Chane stopped, staring up at the man. "When?"
   "Soon,"  the wizard  said. "Some  say within  five years.
 Some say within the year."
   "But... why?"
   "I  think  there  will be  further omens,"  Glenshadow said
 softly, his voice as chill as a winter's night. "Then, per-
 haps, we will know."
   Ahead  of  them,  the  path  approached  what  might have
 been a huge, open gate in a great  wall, except  that what-
 ever  gate  might  once  have  been  there  was  long since
 gone. All that remained was a ragged cleft in a  long, high
 structure of broken stone which ran off  to left  and right
 into   moon-shadowed  distance.   An  ancient   wall,  sun-
 dered here and there to rubble. Near the wall, just off the
 dark  path,  was  a  separate mound  of rubble  that looked
 familiar.  It was  like the  mound they  had found  back in
 the forest - a clutter of what might  once have  been vari-
 ous  things  all  connected together,  with stumps  and odd
 shapes protruding from it.
       "Another gnome machine?" Chess wondered. "What
 do you suppose it was for."
   "Old," the wizard nodded.
   "Very old," something unseen seemed to agree.
   "A siege engine," Glenshadow said. "They kept build-
 ing them until they got through the wall."
   "Who did?"
   "Gnomes. Who else?"
   "What did they want?"

 "What Gargath had. The source of all magic."
 "I never heard of a gnome using magic," the kender
 pointed out.
 The wizard frowned and seemed to shudder. "We had
 better go on," he said.
 Beyond  the  wall  the   path  pitched   steeply  downward
 and entered a forest so dense that the light of  the moons
 was only a patchwork through interwoven branches.
 "I'd  just  as  soon  make  camp  here," Chane  said, then
 went silent  as the  singing voice  came again,  this time
 much  nearer.  Someone just  ahead was  singing in  a lan-
 guage  none  of them  knew. The  singer's tonal  range was
 tremendous,  the voice  so utterly  lovely that  it caught
 their breaths and tugged at their hearts.
 A  siren?  Chane  thought and  realized it  didn't matter.
 The voice held him in thrall, and he couldn't  have turned
 away if he had wanted to.
 Beyond the trees ahead was  a glow  of firelight,  and the
 voice seemed  to be  coming from  there. They  hurried on.
 The slope lessened to  level ground,  and the  trees ended
 abruptly at a circular clearing. The  black gravel  of the
 path  ended at  a clean-swept  expanse of  black flagstone
 paving - a circular band  of ebony  stone nearly  one hun-
 dred  yards across.  Thick, short  pillars of  red granite
 stood like sentinels around the circle at brief intervals,
 and within the circle of black was a circle of white, then
 another  of  black.  The  concentric pavings  narrowed to-
 ward  the center,  where stood  a tall,  cone-shaped mono-
 lith with a small, dim object at  its apex.  The firelight
 came  from  wood  fires set  in wide  sconces at  the four
 points of the  compass, on  the inside  faces of  the sur-
 rounding short pillars.
 The  travelers  stood  where  they  had  stopped, peering
 around, trying to see detail in the erratic light.
 In   the   semi-darkness   around   the   circle,  shadows
 moved.  "Cats,"  the  dwarf noted.  "Dozens of  them. They
 must live here."
     The kender peered into the gloom, then straightened
 and pointed. "Wow! Look at that one!"
 Chane  looked.  A  breeze  flared one  of the  flames, and

  his  eyes widened.  Beyond the  paved clearing,  cats were
  everywhere.  And  among  them  was   one,  huge   even  by
  comparison with  the others.  Half again  the size  of the
  rest, it stood staring directly at the dwarf, great golden
  eyes  thoughtful  in  a  massive indigo  head capped  by a
  flowing, snow-white mane.
    The  wizard  seemed to  pay no  attention. He  gazed in-
  stead  at  the  monolith, his  eyes ranging  upward toward
  its top. The crystal device on his staff no  longer looked
  like a crystal. Its luster was  gone, and  it was  a dull,
  opaque gray  in color.  "The temple  of Gargath,"  he mut-
  tered. "Where the graygem was entrapped."
    "What?" Chane glanced around.
    "This is where it happened," Glenshadow said, as
  though  talking  to  himself. "Up  there... is  the Spell-
  binder."
    "Woe," something voiceless mourned.
    The impatient kender had scampered away, out to-
  ward the edge of the paving for a better look at the huge,
  white-maned  cat.  When  it  noticed him,  he backpedaled,
  reversed his course, and went to have a closer look at the
  obelisk. He disappeared beyond it.
    "There's  somebody   here,"  Chane   decided.  "Somebody
  keeps  these  fires,  and  somebody  made  that  song." He
  looked  toward  the hut  beyond the  obelisk. "Maybe..."
  Then  he  turned again,  alerted by  movement close  by. A
  creature like nothing he  had ever  seen had  stepped onto
  the pavement. She was far taller  than Chane,  taller even
  than the wizard.
    Her skin was the color of midnight and caught  the light
  in  patterns of  indigo and  ebony that  flowed sensuously
  over  a  face  and  form  beautiful almost  beyond beauty.
  Her hair was silver-white, long and flowing, and  the sin-
  gle garment she wore - a brief tunic caught at  one shoul-
  der and falling to her sleek thighs -  seemed to  be woven
  of spider silk.
    Chane  stared,  open-mouthed,  stunned  by   her  beauty
  as he was stunned  by her  song. Never  had he  heard such
  a  voice  -  the power  of thunder  and the  gentleness of
  summer  clouds  resonated  in   perfect  balance   as  she

  seemed to sing to each of them separately, yet all at once.
  Never had he heard such a voice,  and never  had he  seen a
  creature so hauntingly lovely,  or radiating  such intense,
  patient power.  The dwarf  had the  feeling that  she could
  crush him with a touch if  she chose...  or could  touch as
  softly as a butterfly landing on a petal.
    Behind and above Chane, the wizard whispered,
  "Irda."
    Almost   without  changing,   her  song   became  speech.
  "Welcome  again,  man  of  magic,"  she  crooned,  "to  the
  place  where  magic  fails.  Is this  the one?  The Derkin-
  descendant? Holder of the  destiny?" Great  eyes in  an eb-
  ony face turned  to Chane,  perusing him  with a  gaze very
  like the gaze of the great cat moments before.
    The dwarf's heart thumped  as he  realized they  were the
  same eyes. "Shapechanger," he breathed.
    "Of course she is  a shapechanger,"  the wizard  said. "I
  told you, she is the Irda. She can take many forms."
    "Welcome, small warrior," the Irda crooned. "The
  moons have promised that you would come, following
  the path of your -"
    Another voice, far less enchanting, shattered  the spell:
  "Come  look  at  the  back of  this thing!"  Chestal Thick-
  etsway  called.  "There's  something  like a  stairway, and
  ...hello?  Who  is  this?"  The  kender   scampered  toward
  them, then stopped and blinked  as the  Irda turned  to re-
  gard him. "Wow!" he finished lamely.
    "This one is no Hylar kin," the Irda chuckled.
    Chess  blinked  again  and  gave  the tall,  stunning crea-
  ture a slow gaze from top to toe and back. His  lips pursed
  in  a  low whistle.  "Wow," he  said again.  Then, "Chestal
  Thicketsway's  the  name.  I'm  a  kender, from  Hylo. What
  on Krynn are you?"
    "Inquisitive,"  the  Irda  murmured.  "I am  Irda, little
  one."
    "I  wondered  what  you'd   look  like,"   Chess  nodded.
  "My  great-uncle,  Tauntry  Rimrunner,  used to  talk about
  the  Irda.  I  must say,  you don't  look anything  like an
  ogre."
              Chane whirled on the kender, offended and as-

 tounded. "What a thing to say!"  But a  hand on  his shoul-
 der stopped him.
   "Ogres  and  the  Irda,"  Glenshadow  whispered,  leaning
 close,  "a  long  time  ago, they  were the  same people...
 before ogres became ogrelike and ugly.  They aren't  at all
 the same any more."
   "The  cats are  gone," Chess  noted suddenly,  turning to
 look all around the clearing.
   'They  won't  bother  you  again,"  the Irda  said. "They
 have  seen  you  with  me, and  I've assured  them. They've
 gone now to patrol the valley. Waykeep likes its privacy."
   "Those cats are  a pretty  effective way  of discouraging
 visitors," Chane noted.
   "Come  to  my  home,"  the  Irda beckoned,  turning away.
 "There  is  sweetnog for  refreshment, and  we can  talk in
 comfort."  She  headed  for  the hut  among the  trees, and
 they followed.
   Chane  paused  for  a  moment  as  he  passed  the  mono-
 lith,  and  looked  up  toward its  top. A  strange feeling
 gripped him, an intuition  that raised  the hackles  on his
 neck and sent a shiver down his spine. Just for an instant,
 he felt as  if something  atop the  monolith had  spoken to
 him...  something  that  awaited  him,  that called  out to
 him.  He  felt as  if he  had been  here before,  though he
 knew he had not. And the feeling of the place was  like the
 feeling of his dreams.
   "Is this the place?"  he muttered,  to himself.  "Is this
 where I find the helm?"
   A  large,  gentle  hand  rested on  his shoulder,  and he
 jumped, then looked up  at the  Irda, standing  beside him.
 'What  you  seek  is  not   here,  Chane   Feldstone,"  she
 crooned. "But here is where you will begin your search."
   Again she led  the dwarf  away, and  he noticed  that her
 movements  -  the  sense  of  great  strength in  her easy,
 graceful stride; the lithe, sensuous ripple of  smooth mus-
 cle  beneath  shining  ebon  skin  -  reminded  him  of the
 flowing grace of the great cats  that were  her companions.

 * * * * *

 "In ancient times, in the Age of Dreams, this was a

  place  of  men,"  the Irda  told them.  "And magic  was un-
  known  on  Krynn.  So  say the  oldest legends.  Then, from
  the  realm of  gods, came  the graystone  gem, and  with it
  magic...  and  chaos.  Some  say  the  god  Reorx  gave  to
  King  Gargath  the means  to trap  and hold  the graystone.
  Whether or not that  is so,  Garath did  capture it  with a
  device of two crystals - one to find and hold it, the other
  to counter its magic."
    "That's what  the wizard  said," Chestal  Thicketsway in-
  terrupted,  sipping  from  a goblet  of warm,  sweetnog the
  'Irda   had  provided.   "Only  he   said  there   was  one
  crystal -"
     "Hush," Glenshadow snapped. "Just listen."
     "Gargath held  it for  a time,"  the Irda  continued. "Then
  it  was lost  when the  city was  besieged by  gnomes, with
  great siege engines."
    "So that is what  those junkheaps  are," the  kender com-
  mented.
    This  time  it  was  Chane  who  hushed  him.  The  dwarf
  reached across the table, grasped  the kender's  tunic, and
  lifted him off his stool. "Just shut up and listen!" he de-
  manded.
    The  Irda continued  undaunted. "One  legend has  it that
  when  the  graystone was  freed, its  magic caused  some of
  the  gnomes  to  become  dwarves  and  kender,  thus origi-
  nating the two races."
    "Rubbish," Chess snapped. "No kender's akin to
  dwarves, and we sure didn't come from gnomes."
    "Rust  and  corruption!  Chane  chimed.   "Dwarves  were
  here first. Everybody knows that."
    "Will the two of  you shut  up!" Glenshadow  rasped, his
  voice the stuff of blizzards. "Just... shut up!"
    "But I've been slandered," Chess said.
    The wizard's eyes glinted  like ice.  He pointed  his staff
  at  the  kender  and  muttered,  "Thranthalus eghom  dit -"
  and   suddenly  went   silent.  Though   Glenshadow's  lips
  continued to move, no sound came out.
    'That  was  a mistake,"  the Irda  said, sympathetically.
  "The anti-magic in this place is very strong."
    "Very strong," something unseen echoed.

   The kender stared at the wizard. "What's the matter
 with him?"
   Chane  leaned  close,  seeing  the  stricken  look  in  the
 man's eyes. "I think he tried to cast a spell," he suggested.
 "It must have backfired. He's hushed himself."
   The  kender  cocked  his  head.  "I  wonder how  long he'll
 be like this."
   "I  don't know."  Chane shrugged.  "It's his  spell. Speak-
 ing of which, I wish you'd find a way to hush yours."
   "My what?"
   "Your  spell.  The  one that's  following you  around. It's
 spooky  to  hear  something  complaining  all  the  time when
 there's nothing there."
   "Be wary of that spell," the  Irda said.  "Its power  is so
 great that it must happen, eventually."
   "You've  met  my  spell?"  The  kender  grinned. "Actually,
 I guess it isn't mine, but it has become attached to me."
   "I know of it," the Irda nodded. "It has been in  this val-
 ley, waiting  to happen,  for two  hundred years.  Ever since
 dwarves fought near here in the Dwarfgate Wars."
   "111 bet that's where all those frozen dwarves came
 from," Chess noted.
   "This  was  where  Fistandantilus  first  interceded,"  the
 Irda told them.
   Chane shuddered. "Fistandantilus? The archmage? He
 was here?"
   "Here first, then at the final battle,  two ranges  west of
 here, on the Plains of Dergoth," the Irda told the dwarf.
   "That's  where  Grallen's  army   was  wiped   out,"  Chane
 noted. "I've heard that story all my life."
   "Both  armies  were  wiped  out  by  the fourth  and great-
 est of the  elemental spells  Fistandantilus cast,"  the Irda
 said. "The first three  spells were  cast in  the preliminary
 battle,  here  in  the Valley  of Waykeep.  Elemental spells.
 The first was fire, the second ice..."
   "Burned  forests under  ice," the  kender breathed.  "I saw
 that. What was the third one?"
   "No  one  knows,"  the  Irda   shrugged.  "It   became  en-
 trapped  in  the anti-magic  of this  place, and  hasn't hap-
 pened yet."

 "Woe and misery," something voiceless said.
 "You mean him?" Chess looked around, needlessly. "I
 mean, it?"
 "Your unexploded spell," she said calmly.
 "Wow," was all that Chess could say.
 Chane tapped  the tabletop  with his  goblet, growing
 impatient. 'What does all this have to do with me and
 my dreams?"
 The  Irda  studied  him,  her  eyes  luminous.  "I  told  you
 that  there  were  two  crystals  in  Gargath's  device. Only
 one  remains  up  there  now. It  is called  Spellbinder. Its
 presence is the reason that magic often fails in this valley.
 The  other  crystal,  Pathfinder, was  found by  Prince Gral-
 len of the Hylar -"
 "Grallen? But he died in the Dwarfgate War."
 "Grallen, son of Duncan, King - the last king - of
 Thorbardin. The  wizard knows  of your  dreams, Chane
 Feldstone. What is the thing that you have dreamed of
 finding?"
 "An old helm," the dwarf said. "A battle helmet, with
 horns and a crown-spire."
 "And a crystal at its brow?"
 "Well, yes. A sort of green gem."
 "That   green  gem   is  Pathfinder,   Chane.  The   helm  is
 Grallen's,   and   your   dreams   have   been    more   than
 dreams.  Grallen  learned   something  about   Thorbardin  on
 his way from here to  his last  battle, at  Zhamen -  what is
 now called Skullcap  Peak. He  learned that  there is  a lost
 entrance  to  Thorbardin,  and  had  he  lived he  would have
 found it and sealed it. But he died.  At present,  armies are
 amassing  in  the  north... their  forward units  already in-
 vest key areas in many of the nearer lands."
 The   Irda   paused   and   a   shadow   crossed   her  face.
 "There  will  be  war.   The  ogres   know,  and   what  they
 know  I  also  know.  Very  soon,  Thorbardin  will  be  sur-
 rounded  by  devastation.  That  is  why  you  have  dreamed,
 Chane  Feldstone.  Your  dreams  are Grallen's  spirit, call-
 ing to you, trying to  tell you  what must  be done.  You are
 to  find  Grallen's  helm  and  take  up Grallen's  quest. You
 are to seal Thorbardin's lost gate."

   The  kender  smiled,  his bright  eyes gleaming  with ex-
 citement.  "Wow,"  he  breathed. "I'm  really glad  I came
 along."
   Chane simply stared at the Irda, at a loss for words. Fi-
 nally he asked  the only  question he  could think  to ask:
 "Why me?"
   Glenshadow   tried   to  speak,   rubbed  his   throat  and
 tried  again.  "You..."  the  wizard  croaked.  He coughed,
 scowled, and tried to clear his throat.  In a  hoarse voice
 just above a whisper  he said,  "Because you  are Grallen's
 kin, Chane Feldstone. You are the last of the line  of Dun-
 can, King of Thorbardin."

 Chapter 8

     "Zap," said Chestal Thicketsway, as much to break
 the silence as for any other reason.  Almost a  minute had
 passed  since   Glenshadow's  pronouncement,   and  nobody
 had  said  or  done  anything  since. The  three creatures
 around  the  kender  seemed  frozen in  place -  the dwarf
 standing stunned, trying  to understand  what he  had just
 been told; the Irda remote  and infinitely  patient, wait-
 ing; the  wizard bleak-eyed  and gloomy  as though  he had
 spoken the prophecy of his own doom.
 When   none   of   them   reacted   to  his   word,  Chess
 shrugged and prowled about the little building's interior,
 looking for anything that might be interesting.  "Zap," he
 said again, to himself. "I'll call him Zap. Good a name as
 any for a spell that hasn't happened."

 "Need to happen," something grieved.
 "Well, I'd just  as soon  you detach  yourself from  me be-
 fore  you do,"  the kender  said. "I  don't even  know what
 kind of spell you are."
 "Old," something mourned.
 'You've  made  that  clear."  Chess  peered into  a shallow
 cabinet   containing   many  pigeonhole   shelves.  Shadows
 made  it hard  to see  what the  shelves contained,  and he
 reached  toward  them,  then  withdrew  his  hand  when  he
 felt the Irda's eyes on him. He turned. "Just  looking," he
 grinned. "Maybe I should go outside and look around."
 Kenderlike,    the    thought   immediately    became   the
 action.  Chess strode  to the  door of  the hut,  pushed it
 open, and darted out, closing it behind him.
 From  his first  glimpse of  this place,  the place  of the
 Irda, Chess had been fascinated by the tall obelisk  in the
 stone-paved  clearing. Now  he went  to it  again, directly
 to its north  face where  he had  found handholds  and toe-
 holds leading  upward. He  had intended  to see  where they
 went, but seeing  the Irda  had made  him forget  that, mo-
 mentarily.
 The  marks  in  the  north  face  of  the  monolith weren't
 really a stairway,  only a  series of  shallow indentations
 set at regular intervals up the precipitous stone face. For
 a  curious  kender,  however,  they  were   ladder  enough.
 Chess slung his hoopak on his back and started climbing.
 In  the  distance,  in  moon-shadowed  forest   beyond  the
 Irda's clearing, he could hear the rumbling purr of cats on
 patrol. And  somewhere far  away, a  hint of  sound carried
 back  on errant  breezes, a  raucous bird-voice  cawed, "Go
 away!"
 The   hand-and  toeholds   went  up   and  up,   and  Chess
 clung  and climbed.  Near the  top, he  could look  out and
 see the moon-bathed tops of the forest,  the dark  walls of
 the valley beyond to east and  west. Then,  abruptly, there
 were no more  indentations in  the face  of the  cone. With
 the  top  of  the monument  almost within  reach -  no more
 than ten feet above -  there was  only sheer,  smooth stone
 and  nothing  to cling  to. Chess  hunted around  for some-
 thing that his fingers could grasp, his toes brace into, or

 his  hoopak  reach.  There  was  nothing.  In  frustration he
 clung  there  for  long  minutes,  then  sighed  and accepted
 defeat.
   "Isn't  that just  how things  go?" he  muttered, beginning
 a  reluctant  descent. "Probably  the most  interesting thing
 in this whole place is right there on top of this spire, just
 sitting there waiting to be looked  at. Naturally  the stairs
 don't go  quite far  enough. I  wonder what  it is,  up there
 ...might  be  something  valuable,  if  a  person  could just
 reach it.  What kind  of ladder  heads for  the top  of some-
 thing  and  then  just  stops,  just  that  much  short? What
 kind of sense does that make?"
   "All things  have reason,  little one."  The voice  was the
 Irda's  voice, low  and incredibly  sweet. Chess  nearly lost
 his hold,  turning to  look. She  stood just  below, watching
 his descent.
   The  kender  scrambled  the  rest  of  the  way   down  the
 cone,  dropped  light-footed  to  the  pavement,  and turned.
 "I thought  I'd take  a look  at what's  up there,"  he said.
 "But  I  couldn't  get  to the  top. What  is up  there, any-
 way?"
   "Spellbinder," she said.
   "Pain and desolation," something seemed to whine.
   Chess   glanced   around,   knowing   there   was   no  one
 there to see.  "Hush, Zap,"  he snapped.  Then, to  the Irda,
 "Is it something the gods left lying around?"
   The  Irda  only  smiled.  "Spellbinder  has  been
 forgotten." She nodded. "But what the gods discard,
 eventually find purposes again."
   "Woe and misery," Zap's voiceless voice mourned.
   The  Irda  half-turned,  raising  her  head. She  seemed to
 be  listening  to  something Chess  couldn't hear.  And there
 was something  odd about  the light.  The fires  still flick-
 ered  in  their  sconces on  the ring  of stones,  but feebly
 now, as if their fuel were  giving out.  The rose  and silver
 glow   cast   by   the  moons   Solinari  and   Lunitari  had
 changed,  too.  The  light  glistening  on  the  dark, lovely
 face of the Irda was almost a bloody light.
   Chess  stepped  from  her  shadow  to  look  into  the sky,
 and saw a sight he had never  seen before.  The red  and sil-

 ver  moons  hung  above  the  wall  of  the  valley,   only  a
 handspan  apart,  but  the  silver moon  was only  a crescent.
 As   the   kender   watched,   the   crescent   diminished  as
 though  a  blackness  had   come  from   the  north   and  was
 eating   it   away.  Narrower   and  narrower   the  crescent
 grew.
   "What is it?" Chess wondered. "What's happening?"
   Soft  light  shone  from  the  Irda's  hut, and  there were
 footsteps.  A  moment  later  the  dwarf  and the  wizard were
 beside them,  also staring  at the  strange sky.  'What's hap-
 pening to the white moon?" the dwarf rumbled.
   Glenshadow  raised  his  staff,  useless  in this  place of
 anti-magic,  and  pointed   it.  "Dragonqueen,"   he  hissed.
 "The black moon shows itself, and eclipses the white."
   "Dragonqueen?"  Chess  stood  on  his  toes in  his excite-
 ment, staring. "Do you mean the moon or the goddess?"
   "They  are  the  same," the  Irda said.  "By any  name, they
 are   the   same.  Queen   of  Darkness,   Dragonqueen,  Nilat
 the Corrupter...."
   "Tamex the False Metal," Chane growled. "The evil
 one."
   "She  of  the  Many  Faces,"   the  kender   chirped.  "I've
 never seen  the black  moon's shape  before -  only a  hole in
 the sky where it hides stars. It's a disk, like the other two.
 Look,  it's  almost   covered  the   white  moon....   It  has
 covered it!"
   Where  the  white  moon  had  been  was   now  only   a  dim
 ring of brighter stuff in the sky - a hairline circle of radi-
 ance,  encompassing   darkness.  The   black  moon   had  cov-
 ered the white one.
   At  that  instant  Glenshadow's  staff  came  to  life.  The
 crystal  in  its  head,  which  normally  resembled  blue  ice
 but  which  had  looked  like  dull  chalk since  entering the
 Valley of Waykeep, blazed brilliant  red as  if all  the lumi-
 nance  of  the  red  moon  had  condensed  in  it.  A  beam of
 crimson shot  from the  staff to  burn for  an instant  on the
 forehead  of  the  astonished  dwarf...  only for  an instant.
 Then  the  beam  danced  away,  up  the  side  of  the conical
 tower, right to its top, where it rested, a ruby brilliance at
 the monolith's peak.

   Chane Feldstone stared at  the ruby  light with  eyes not
 quite  the  same  as his  eyes had  been before.  Without a
 word  he  walked  to  the  base of  the monolith  and found
 the  handholds  and  toeholds  that  the  kender  had found
 before.
   The rest were still staring at  the eclipsed  white moon,
 unable to tear their eyes from the omen. Little  by little,
 the  dark  moon continued  its transit,  and a  crescent of
 white reappeared - the opposite crescent, emerging.
   "The  next  omen,"  Glenshadow's  voice  was as  thin and
 cold as windblown snow. "A portent of great evil."
   Something  voiceless  and  terribly  sad  seemed  to say,
 "The time comes," and Chess glanced around.
   "Hush,  Zap,"  the  kender said.  "Spells should  be seen
 and   not  heard.   Look,  Chane...   now  where   did  the
 dwarf go?"
   Again the Irda tilted her lovely head, as  though listen-
 ing.  Glenshadow  glanced  at  her  and  frowned.  'What is
 it? What do you hear, Irda?"
   She  shook  her head,  silver hair  dancing in  the light
 that again came from  two moons.  "Evil," she  sang softly.
 "In the north an evil lives, and one  of evil  sings. Ogres
 gloat  and  goblins  march...  and  I  hear  the  sound  of
 WlllgS.
   'Where  in  blazes did  that dwarf  get off  to?" Chestal
 Thicketsway  was  prowling   the  clearing,   peering  here
 and  there.  He  looked  upward  then,  and  blinked.  "Oh.
 There  he  is. Chane!  You, Chane  Feldstone! What  are you
 doing up there? I already tried that. You can't get  to the
 top!"
   The  others   looked,  too.   High  above   them,  moving
 with  the  steady,  solid  rhythm  of  a  climbing mountain
 dwarf, Chane was approaching the top of the monolith.
   "You're  about  to  run  out   of  ladder!"   the  kender
 shouted.  "Take my  word for  it, that's  a waste  of time.
 You can't get to the -"
   The  Irda  moved  close  to  him  and rested  a graceful,
 powerful  dark  hand on  his head.  "Be quiet,  small one,"
 she sang softly.
   The  white  moon  was  whole  again,  but  now   the  red

 moon  was  diminishing as  the black  orb began  to occlude
 it. The rose tint  of the  moonlight dulled,  becoming more
 silvery.  Above, Chane  Feldstone had  reached the  last of
 the fingerholds and hesitated.
   Again   the   crystal   on   Glenshadow's   staff  winked
 alight, this time a cold white light as if the white moon's
 glow focused in it. A single shaft of white light  shot up-
 ward,  bathing  in  hard  luster  the  hammer slung  on the
 dwarf's  back.  Clinging  to  the  cone,  Chane  loosed the
 hammer,  braced  himself  and  swung its  spike-end against
 the stone above  him. He  struck again,  and a  black shard
 fell, bouncing once on  the slight  slope of  the monolith,
 ringing as it struck the pavement below.
   Snagging  the  hammer  in  his  belt,  the  dwarf reached
 up, found  purchase in  a new  handhold, and  retrieved the
 hammer to cut another one.
   "Why  didn't  I  think  of  that?"  the  kender chuckled.
 "Here  I  was  thinking  about slings  and pulleys  or some
 such."
   The red  moon was  nearly eclipsed  now, but  still Glen-
 shadow's staff glowed,  and strong  white light  bathed the
 top  of  the  spire  where  the  dwarf   worked.  Abruptly,
 Chestal  Thicketsway  remembered  the  nature  of  his  un-
 seen  companion  -  the spell  that had  somehow associated
 itself  with  him.  He  glanced around  nervously. "Wizard,
 the  light...  does this  mean that  magic is  working here
 again?"
   "No  magic  of  mortals," the  wizard breathed.  "Nor any
 that I can sense or understand."
   "The  gods are  not bound  by the  limits they  set," the
 Irda  whispered.  "Only Krynn-magic  is captured  in Spell-
 binder's net."
   "Ashes and woe," something voiceless mourned.
   "I'm  glad to  hear that,"  the kender  sighed. "I'm  not in
 any  hurry  to  find  out  what happens  when Zap  gets un-
 bound."
   Atop the tall cone, Chane  cut another  hold, then  a fi-
 nal one, and pulled himself up for a look.  The top  of the
 monolith  was  a  shallow  cup,  no  more  than  four  feet
 across, with objects lying in it. The largest was  a small,

  broken   statue   apparently  carved   from  alabaster   -  a
  weathered  and  eroded  representation  of   a  man   with  a
  beard,  face  turned  upward, one  outthrust arm  intact, its
  hand holding a two-inch oval  of dark  red crystal.  The lit-
  tle  statue,  which  would  have  stood  no  more  than three
  feet tall, lay on its back. Part of its other arm  lay beside
  it, but the hand was missing.
    The other  object in  the bowl  was a  metal ball  the size
  of Chane's fist -  deeply rusted,  but still  showing clearly
  the  dent of  ancient impact.  A green  bronze plate  was im-
  bedded  in  the  ball,  and  Chane  bent close.  The enhanced
  light  of  the  white moon  showed him  part of  the inscrip-
  tion: Size four siege projectile, specific for use with supe-
  rior flipshot...
    Gnomes, he thought.
    He  swung a  leg over  the lip  of the  cup and  extended a
  hand, meaning to set the little statue  upright for  a better
  look.  But  suddenly  the  red  crystal  pulsed  and  hummed,
  the  statue's  fingers  fell  away,  and the  crystal dropped
  into his hand.  As Chane  closed his  own fingers  around it,
  it  stilled.  He  knew  then,  beyond  question,  why  he had
  climbed  the  cone.  The crystal  had called  him. He  was to
  take it.
    Vaguely, in the dwarf's mind, a face appeared - a face
  much like his own, the bearded face of a mountain
  dwarf. But not his own face, though there was a strong
  resemblance. The face was more stern than Chane's, and
  bore the scars of battle. And it looked out at him from
  the curved portal of a studded, horned helmet with a sin-
  gle ornament - a crystal that might have been a twin of
  the crystal in Chane's hand except for the color. The hel-
  met's stone was green.
    "Grallen?" It was his own whisper that asked it.
    The  face  in  Chane's  mind  seemed  to nod,  to encourage
  ... then it faded.
    Feeling more confused than ever before in his life,
  Chane  Feldstone  secured  the  red  crystal  in  his  pouch,
  slung  his  hammer  on  his  back,  and  eased  down  to  the
  new holds he had cut.  Step by  step, hold  by hold,  he low-
  ered  himself  down  the  face  of  the monolith.  Above him,

 the enhanced  light faded  and the  spire's peak  was only
 that - a stone monolith in moonlight.
   At  the  bottom,  they gathered  around him,  the kender
 chattering questions, the wizard trying to get a  word in,
 the Irda kneeling to look closely at his face. She peered,
 then pointed at his forehead. Glenshadow bent to look.
   On the dwarf's forehead, above the  bridge of  his nose,
 was  a  red spot,  almost the  shape and  tint of  the red
 moon.
   In the Irda's hut, over mugs of spicy drink,  Chane told
 them  what he  had found.  He brought  out the  crystal to
 show  to  them,  but  when   Glenshadow  touched   it,  it
 burned  his  fingers.  The kender  also had  been reaching
 for it, but he withdrew his hand  quickly at  the wizard's
 cry of pain.
   "I  expect  you'd better  hang on  to that,"  Chess said
 prudently.
   The  two  visible  moons were  ordinary moons  again, as
 they had been before the  omen, but  there was  a darkness
 in  the northern  sky -  an absence  of stars  where there
 should have  been stars.  The black  moon hung  there, not
 seeming  to  move,  and   Glenshadow  shuddered   when  he
 looked in that direction.  The Irda  sat outside  her hut,
 facing  northward,  her  head  thrown  back  as   one  who
 listens intently.
   The  lamplight  and  the  sweetnog were  soothing. Chane
 felt  himself  nodding, then  yawned and  lay his  head on
 the table. The kender was already asleep.

 * * * * *

   Chane  and  his  companions  weren't  the only  ones who
 watched  the  omen of  the moons.  A hundred  miles north-
 west, in the glades of Qualinost, the elves  of Qualinesti
 saw  it  and sent  rangers to  spread the  word. Something
 was forecast that demanded study. Evil was afoot.
   Eighty miles due west  of the  Valley of  Waykeep, mages
 at  the  Tower  of  High  Sorcery  also  watched  the dark
 moon occlude first the  white and  then the  red. Councils
 were  called  -  councils  at which  the wearers  of white
 robes  and  those  who  wore  red were  much more  in evi-

 dence than the wearers of black.
   North of the wilderness, at the great  pass city  of Pax
 Tharkas, people lined the battlements to watch the
 moons in wonder.
   And  twenty miles  from the  ancient temple  of Gargath,
 across the ridge line separating Waykeep from the  Vale of
 Respite, ranks of  armed goblins  spread across  the north
 end of a fertile valley, awaiting orders for their advance
 southward,  where   unsuspecting  villages   lay  sleeping
 among   the   moonlit  fields.   Among  them,   aloof  and
 haughty, were some far  larger creatures  - ogres  who had
 come from their lairs  to join  the goblin  horde, knowing
 there would soon be sport for them.
   On a brushy rise above  the goblins'  dark camps  a lone
 figure stood, looking into the sky. Moonlight of  two col-
 ors  shone  on  a  horned  helmet  and   emblazoned  black
 body  armor.  The  faceplate of  the many-horned  helm was
 a  hideous  metal  mask, a  demon-faced device  from which
 dark, searching eyes peered.
   As the occlusion of the visible moons began,  the figure
 unfastened  and  removed  the  faceplate.   The  moonlight
 revealed the  face behind  it: a  woman's face,  stern and
 dark-eyed. A face that might have  been beautiful,  had it
 chosen  to  be,  but  that  had  made  other  choices from
 which there had been no turning back.
   As the dark moon of Krynn eclipsed the first of the vis-
 ible  moons,  the  woman  drew  a  thong from  beneath her
 breastplate,  a  thong  from which  was suspended  a dark,
 misshapen lump. "Caliban," she said.
   The  voice  that  responded  was  a dry,  husky whisper,
 heard  within  her  ears  -  an ancient,  querulous voice.
 'Why does she  call me  now," it  breathed. "She  does not
 need me here.  There is  nothing here  that she  cannot do
 for herself."
             The woman frowned. "Caliban, the moons. What
 does it mean?"
   '"The moons,' she  says," the  dry voice  had whispered.
 "She wants to know the story of the moons."
   "Tell me!"
   "It is another of the Queen's omens," the husky voice

  rasped. "She tells the Highlords that the time is  almost at
  hand  for  their invasion  of Ansalon,  and she  tells what-
  ever  gods may  notice that  she claims  this time  and this
  world as hers. She warns them not to interfere."
    "Another omen," the armed woman snapped. "Is there
  a message there for me?"
    "Ah," the  dry voice  said. "She  seeks messages  for her-
  self."
    "Tell me!" the armor-clad woman ordered.
    "If there is a message  for her,  it is  only this:  she has
  promised the  Highlord that  she will  take and  hold access
  to  the  fortress  Thorbardin. The  Queen will  not tolerate
  any who fail in what they promise on her behalf."
    "I will not fail!"  the woman  said sharply.  "Even though
  I  have  nothing  but...  these  -" she  swept her  free arm
  contemptuously,  indicating  the  dark  camps  of  the wait-
  ing goblin horde "- to assist me. I  asked the  Highlord for
  a strike force. He gave me stinking goblins. But I will suc-
  ceed. Thorbardin will fall when he is ready."
    "She has no need to tell me of this," the dry  voice said.
  "It is her concern, not mine. Now she will let me rest until
  there is a better reason for me to awaken."
    "I  will  do  what  I  choose!" she  started to  say, then
  hissed  through  clenched  teeth  as  tiny  lightnings laced
  from  the  dark  thing  to  sting  her  hand.  Quickly,  she
  dropped it back  into the  shelter of  her armor.  She could
  feel  it pulsate  slightly as  it came  to rest  between her
  breasts.
    "Omens," she muttered. "I need no omens to accom-
  plish what I set out to do."
    Her  gaze  fixed  then  on  the sky,  not where  the moons
  were telling their story,  but westward,  where the  line of
  ridges that formed the valley's east  rim stood  like jagged
  teeth against the night sky. There, far in the  distance be-
  yond  the  ridges, was  a crimson  glow -  a light  that was
  neither moonlight nor firelight,  but that  hung in  the sky
  beyond the mountains like an echo of Lunitari's light.
    Between her breasts the dark thing moved, and again
  she heard the dry, ancient voice. "Ah, but there is a mes-
  sage for her, it seems. Someone else  is abroad  this night,

 seeking the lost way to Thorbardin."

    Full  daylight  lay  on the  valley when  Chane Feldstone
 awoke.  For  an  instant  he  didn't know  where he  was. He
 blinked  and  looked   around.  The   hut  was   wide  open,
 shutters  thrown  back  and  door  standing  ajar.  Cabinets
 stood  open  and  empty,  and  the  cool  breezes  of autumn
 wafted  through,  carrying  the   sounds  of   birdcall  and
 small  creatures -  sounds that  Chane abruptly  realized he
 hadn't heard since coming  into this  strange valley  in the
 wilderness.  Near  the  door,  the  wizard   Glenshadow  lay
 asleep on a rush mat.
    Chane stretched  and stood,  feeling stiff  from sleeping
 at the table, his hammer still slung on his  back. Recalling
 the  night  before,  he  fumbled  with  the  lashing  on his
 pouch  and  looked inside.  The red  crystal was  there, se-
 cure.  He  touched  his  forehead,  then brought  his hammer
 around,  using  its polished  surface as  a mirror.  The red
 spot was still on his face, just above his nose, but  it was
 less vivid now, less noticeable. Still, his mind was full of
 information that he knew had not been there before.
    He looked around at a small sound. The kender was
 just strolling in through the open door.
    "The Irda  is gone,"  the small  creature said  sadly. "I
 can't  find her  anywhere. And  I guess  she took  her kitty
 cats with her, because I didn't find any of them, either."
    'Then  I  guess she  was through  here," Chane  said, as-
 sembling  his   packs  and   straps.  "It   doesn't  matter,
 though. I know which way to go from here."

     Part II

 WINGOVER'S WAY

 Chapter 9

  There was a time  once,  rumor  had it,  when trade
 routes had linked the realms of Ansalon in a more  or less
 reliable  fashion  from  Palanthas  and  Vingaard  Keep in
 the   north,   through   Solamnia,  Abanasinia,   and  Pax
 Tharkas,  all  the  way  south  to  Thorbardin.  And maybe
 even beyond.
  Wingover  had  heard  the  stories  and  felt  that  they
 probably  were  true,  though  he  had  never  met  anyone
 who could  confirm them.  He had  seen a  good bit  of the
 known world in his forty or  so years  and had  dealt with
 all kinds of people. He knew the value  that the  elves of
 Qualinost  put  on  grains  and foodstuffs  from Solamnia.
 Mountain-bound   Thorbardin   traded   for    grains   and
 spices,  as  did his  own homeland  of Abanasinia.  And he

  had  seen  in  Abanasinia  and   Solamnia  -   among  those
  who  could  afford  them  -  plenty  of  tools  and weapons
  created by the dwarves of Thorbardin, as well as  fine tex-
  tiles from Qualinost.
    Fibers  and  fabrics,  feathers and  furs... comestibles,
  combustibles,  and  exotic  baubles  -  every  land  he had
  seen in  his travels  possessed an  abundance in  some com-
  modities and shortages in others.
    Somewhere  in  the  past there  had probably  been exten-
  sive trade all over Ansalon. But  trade now  - and  for all
  the   lifetime   Wingover   and   those   he   knew   could
  remember  -  was erratic  and hazardous.  "It's the  way of
  the world," he himself  had said  more than  once. "There's
  always  someone  more  determined  to  make a  killing than
  the rest are to make a living."
    "Poor,  ravaged  Krynn,"  some  poets  called  the world.
  But  Wingover  had  no  real  quarrel  with  the  nature of
  things. It was the  only world  he had  ever known,  and in
  some  respects the  very combativeness  of its  races aided
  him in his  endeavors. Their  aloofness, their  distrust of
  one  another,  made  the commodities  they all  sought even
  more  precious.  Sometimes  Wingover hired  out as  a trail
  guide,  sometimes  as  an  escort  for  traders.  And some-
  times, as now, he  carried a  pack himself  - usually  on a
  bet.
    This time  the bet  was with  the mountain  dwarf trader,
  Rogar Goldbuckle. Over tankards of  ale at  the Inn  of the
  Flying  Pigs  in  Barter,   Goldbuckle  had   wagered  that
  Wingover  could  never  make  it alive  from Barter  to Pax
  Tharkas  and  back,  carrying  a  pack  of  goods  from his
  agents at Pax Tharkas.
    The  return  on  the  sealed  pack  would  be  small com-
  pared to what  it would  cost Rogar  Goldbuckle to  pay his
  gambling debt.
    It   had   been   no   mean   adventure,   this  journey.
  Wingover  had  chosen  his  routes  with care,  going north
  to Pax Tharkas  by one  route and  returning by  another to
  avoid  ambushers  and other  unpleasantries of  the wilder-
  ness. He had ridden alert and slept with his  senses awake,
  and still there had been incidents - the cave ogre that had

  almost  killed  him  on  a  mountain  trail  somewhere  near
  Wayreth  Forest;  the  landslide that  had blocked  his path
  just   south  of   Pax  Tharkas;   the  band   of  murderous
  thieves that had  picked up  his trail  on Regret  Ridge and
  pursued  until  he  was  forced  to  teach  them  some  man-
  ners;  the  flooded  ford  that  had  forced  him  to change
  course. It was that flooded ford that led him into  the hid-
  den  valley  where  the  bird  had  screamed  a  warning  at
  him,  and where  he had  barely escaped  with his  life when
  a pack of huge hunting cats chased him.
    All that, and goblins, too.
    Wingover shook his head now in perplexity. Why
  were  there  goblins  south  of  Pax  Tharkas? He  had never
  heard of goblins in  these lands.  Other places,  of course,
  but not here. It reminded him of  the talk  he had  heard in
  Pax  Tharkas  -  dire  rumors,  all  hazy and  confusing, of
  omens  and  prophesies,  of  strange  sightings   in  remote
  places.
    There were even rumors of people somewhere to the
  north who swore they had seen dragons.
    And  just  the  past  night  -  a  double  eclipse  of the
  moons.   Wingover  had   heard  philosophers   and  stargaz-
  ers speculate on such things, but he  had never  before seen
  such  a  sight. It  had almost  cost him  his horse  and his
  pack.  Geekay  had  spooked  at the  sight and  pulled loose
  from  his  halter, and  Wingover had  chased the  animal for
  a half-mile before catching him.
    Did  it  mean  something?  He  thought  of  Garon  Wendes-
  thalas  and  wondered  where  he  was.  Elves  usually  knew
  more   about   such  phenomena   than  most   people.  Maybe
  he would see the elf in Barter, and could  ask him  about it
  then.
    Wingover  twisted  about  in  his  saddle, easing  the fa-
  tigue of travel, and pulled his elkhide jacket tighter about
  him. The horse  was rounding  a bend  in the  sloping trail,
  and a fresh wind had sprung up.  It was  cold at  this alti-
  tude, even in early autumn.
    Cold and - he noticed abruptly - strangely quiet. He
  looked around. The usual daytime sounds of the moun-
  tains, the chittering of small  creatures, the  myriad calls

 of  cliff-birds,  had  gone  silent. The  only sound  was the
 wind sighing forlornly.
   Without  seeming  to  have  noticed  -  one   learned  such
 skills  if  one   would  survive   in  the   wildernesses  of
 Ansalon  -  Wingover  eased  his  sword  around  so  that its
 hilt rested across the vent  of his  saddle, inches  from his
 hand.  Eyes  that  missed   little  scanned   the  landscape,
 searching for anything out of place or out of order.
   Wingover's eyes were as pale  as the  frost on  his reddish
 whiskers, and  as alert  as those  of the  darting shoal-kite
 for  which  he  was  named. He  studied the  rising stonefall
 to his left, the bouldered slope falling  away to  the right,
 the   gametrail   winding   out   of   sight  ahead,   and  -
 stretching  around  as  one  too  long  a'saddle  -  his  own
 backtrail. Nothing  caught his  eye, nothing  out of  the or-
 dinary,  and  yet  the silence  hung and  all his  senses re-
 sponded to it.
   Angling near a wide cleft in the  stonefall, he  reined the
 horse  into  cover  and  stopped,  listening. At  first there
 was  nothing  to  hear,  then  from  somewhere  came  a faint
 scuffling  sound, as  of shod  feet creeping  through gravel.
 Many  shod  feet.  And now  the errant  wind carried  a smell
 that  alerted  him.  It was  an odor  he recognized.  A cloy-
 ing, unpleasant odor.
         Wingover frowned, testing the air. Goblins again!
 What were goblins doing this far south?
   Again  he  heard  the furtive,  scuffling noises,  and this
 time he heard metalic sounds as  well -  little clinks  as of
 weapons  being  drawn.   Silently  he   dismounted,  slipping
 his animal's reins into  a crack  in the  rock. He  freed the
 lashes  behind his  saddle and  righted the  flinthide shield
 there, pulling its strap onto his left arm, gripping the gui-
 don    with    hard    fingers.    Sword    drawn,   Wingover
 crouched,  slipped  from   the  cover   of  the   rocks,  and
 sprinted  forward  on  soft-soled  feet, following  the game-
 trail. Just ahead someone was in trouble.
   Fifty  yards  from  where  the  man  had  dismounted, the
 dim  trail  topped  a ridge  and disappeared.  Crawling the
 last  few  feet,  Wingover  looked  beyond. The  game trail
 veered  away  to the  right, following  a slope.  Some dis-

 tance  away  it  made  a  switchback  turn,  angling  down-
 ward  toward  a  distant,  meadowed  valley.  On  the trail
 below, a single walker strode along - a tall,  lithe figure
 clad  in  furs  and  leathers  against  the  cold. Wingover
 could not see his face, but he knew his race.  Distance and
 angle could not hide the lean,  graceful form,  the gliding
 stride of an elf.
   The  elf  turned slightly,  surveying the  landscape, and
 Wingover  recognized  him.  An   old  friend.   Garon  Wen-
 desthalas.  The  elf  carried  a  pack   and  a   bow,  and
 Wingover suspected he was going to Barter as he was.
   But  on  the  brushy  slope  between  them,  crouching in
 cover  and  watching  the  elf  approach,  were  goblins  -
 armed,  armored  goblins  waiting  in  ambush.  He  counted
 eight  that  he  could  see  and cover  where two  or three
 more might be.
   Wingover  crouched,  waiting.   There  was   no  question
 what  was  about  to  happen.  For whatever  reason goblins
 might have - curiosity about  what was  in the  elf's pack,
 perhaps, or simply for sport  - the  goblins were  ready to
 pounce on the elf, to bring him down with their weapons.
   Garon  Wendesthalas  has  been  taking  care  of  himself
 for  a  long  time,  Wingover  told  himself,  slitted eyes
 studying  the  goblins.  The  goblins  may  wish  they  had
 never met this elf.
   Still, he told himself as goblin faces turned  toward one
 another,  wide  mouths  grinning  in  wicked  anticipation,
 what are friends for, if not to interfere?
   With a shrug he got his feet under  him, howled  a battle
 cry  as  wild  as  any  goblin could  ever have  heard, and
 plunged  down  the  slope,   directly  into   the  crouched
 goblins' ambush.
   With  gravity  doubling  the  speed  of  his  long  legs,
 Wingover  descended  on  them   and  through   them,  spin-
 ning  completely  around  as  he  pierced  their  line. His
 sword  was  a  flashing  rage,  singing  around  him, first
 bright-bladed   and   then   suddenly   dark   with  goblin
 blood.  A  goblin  head  bounced  from  a  rock  and rolled
 down  the slope  ahead of  him. Two  more goblins  died be-
 fore  they  could  turn,  one  severed  from   shoulder  to

  breastbone,  one  cloven  through  the  back,   through  ribs
  and  spine.  Another  raised  an  axe  and  was  bowled  over
  by Wingover's flinthide shield. Still another tried to lift a
  short sword and failed because he had no arm.
    In  an  instant  of  howling  fury,  the  man  was  through
  them  and  beyond,  flailing  for  balance  as he  plunged on
  down the slope. "Goblins!" he shouted. "Ambush!"
    Directly  below  now,  the  elf  dropped his  pack, brought
  around  his  bow,  drew,  and  let  fly.  The  arrow  whisked
  past   Wingover,   and   somewhere   above  and   behind  the
  man  a gurgle  and a  thud sounded.  At a  glance he  saw the
  severed  head  of  the first  goblin, bouncing  merrily along
  beside him.
    A  thrown  axe  sailed  past  Wingover,   embedding  itself
  in loose stone just at the elf's feet. Another of  his arrows
  flew to answer  it. On  the path,  Wingover braced  his legs,
  skidded  and  somersaulted  to  a  jarring  halt...  then got
  his  feet  under  him  again  and  dodged  as  a  bronze dart
  whisked past him from uphill.
    "Good  morning,"  he shouted  to the  elf, then  filled his
  lungs,  let  loose another  battle howl,  and headed  back up
  the slope. The elf was right behind him.
    The  slope  above  was  a  confusion of  goblins -  most of
  them dead or dying,  but some  still very  much alive.  For a
  moment  some  of  these   scrambled,  clawing   upward,  try-
  ing to climb the slope. But one,  a creature  slightly larger
  than  the  others  and  heavily  armored,   shouted  guttural
  orders and regrouped them.
    Going uphill was far slower than coming  down had
  been, and now Wingover and the elf found themselves
  facing a ready enemy who held the higher ground.
    Darts    and    thrown    stones    landed    about   them.
  Wingover  held  the  lead,  wielding  his  shield  to deflect
  what he could.  But a  dart scored  the human's  leg, leaving
  a  bloody  gash.  Two  goblins hoisted  a huge  stone between
  them, raising it above their heads.
    Behind Wingover, the elf said, "Drop."
    He dropped, half-covered by his shield, and the elf
  loosed an arrow. It  took a  goblin full  in the  throat. The
  second  one  staggered  back  under  the  sudden   weight  of

 the stone, and fell.
   With a hiss, the goblin leader lifted the fallen creature
 to  his  feet and  gripped the  back of  his neck  with one
 strong  hand.  In  the  other  he  held  a  heavy broadaxe.
 Pushing  his  companion  ahead  of  him  he   charged  down
 on Wingover, who was  just scrambling  to his  feet. Before
 he could get his shield up,  the goblins  were on  him. His
 sword  impaled  one,  but  the  weapon  was  wrenched aside
 as  the  leader  flung  the  expendable  one   forward  and
 raised his axe in both hands.
   Dropping  sword  and   shield,  Wingover   flung  himself
 upward  and  grappled  the  creature. Goblin  stench seared
 his  nostrils as  he gripped  the axehandle,  struggling to
 keep  it from  completing its  swing. Goblin  teeth snapped
 at his throat,  grazing the  skin. Claws  of a  goblin hand
 raked his face, going for his eyes,  and a  hard-soled boot
 flailed at his legs. He twisted, thrust, and threw the gob-
 lin  onto  its  back,  going down  with it.  Instantly, the
 locked  pair  were  rolling  and  bouncing down  the slope,
 grappling and pummeling as they went.
   The  broadaxe,  jarred  free,  skidded  down   the  slope
 ahead of them and came to  rest on  the trail.  The rolling
 combat  landed  beside  it,  the goblin  on top,  going for
 Wingover's  throat.  With  a  heave,  Wingover   threw  the
 creature over his head, spun, and leaped  just as  the gob-
 lin struggled to hands and knees. Straddling  the creature,
 the man got his  toes under  the base  of its  brass chest-
 plate,  hooked his  fingers under  the back-plate,  and put
 all  his  strength into  prying them  apart. Held  by stout
 straps, the two pieces of armor closed  like a  trap around
 the  goblin's  neck. Wingover  strained harder.  Clawing at
 the man's booted feet, the goblin staggered  upright, reel-
 ing and struggling to breathe as the clamp tightened at its
 neck. Its face seemed to swell, its  eyes bulged,  it stag-
 gered and fell, carrying the  man with  it. A  broadaxe de-
 scended  and  crunched  into  the  ground,  barely  missing
 both of  them, and  Wingover's hold  slipped. He  heard an-
 other of the elf's arrows pierce armor somewhere near.
   Panting,  he  stood.  On  the  ground, the  goblin gasped
 for breath, then  rolled and  came to  its feet,  wild eyes

 glaring, taloned fingers reaching.
    "I've  had  enough  of  this,"  Wingover  decided.  With a
 long  stride he  ducked the  goblin's arms  and drove  a hard
 fist full into its face. The creature  toppled like  a felled
 tree and lay still.
    Stone   clattered,  and   Garon  Wendesthalas   came  down
 the  slope.  He  glanced  at  Wingover, then  crouched beside
 the  goblin.  "Alive,"  he said.  "One of  them got  away, up
 the hillside. He was out of  reach before  I could  bring him
 down."
    "I left my horse up there," Wingover panted.
    "Well,  if  that  goblin is  going to  find him,  it already
 has. What are  they doing  here? I  haven't heard  of goblins
 in  these lands...  at least  not any  time lately."  The elf
 looked  up  quizzically.  "And  by  the  way,   good  morning
 to you, too, Wingover."
    "Hope you didn't mind my crashing your party," the
 man said.
    "Not  at  all. There  were plenty  to go  around. Frankly,
 I'm  glad  you showed  up. I  knew they  were here  - smelled
 them  a  ways  back  -  but I  didn't know  how many,  or ex-
 actly  where  they  were.  But  I  still  can't  imagine what
 they're doing this far south."
    "That's  what  I  want  to  know, too."  Wingover squatted
 on his heels, tilting his head to study the wide,  feral face
 of  the  unconscious  goblin.  Dark  blood  seeped  from  its
 nose and mouth. "Maybe he'll tell  us about  it, if  he wakes
 Up.
    As  though  on  cue,  the  goblin  stirred   and  groaned.
 Garon knelt  and lifted  one of  the creature's  eyelids with
 his thumb.  "He's coming  around. Let's  peel this  armor off
 of him. He'll be more talkative without his shell."
    "Whatever you say. You've dealt with goblins."
    "When  I  had  to."  The elf  glanced at  Wingover, melan-
 choly  elven  eyes  curious.  "I  gather you  made it  to Pax
 Tharkas?"
    "Made it, and  the pack  I'm bringing  back will  cost Ro-
 gar  Goldbuckle  a  fine  purse.  But then,  the bet  was his
 idea."
    'What if he decides  to pay  you in  kind, by  freeing you

 of your debt of service to him?"
   "He won't. Goldbuckle's a wily old dwarf, and he
 won't put money ahead  of collectible  service. But  then, I
 don't  mind.  He  staked  me  when  I  needed  it  most... I
 owe  him  a  service  whenever  he  decides  to call  on me.
 Probably  wind  up some  day fighting  a trader's  duel with
 somebody too big for an old dwarf to handle."
   They  stripped  the  goblin  of his  armor and  threw it
 away.  No  human  or  elf  would  ever  willingly  put the
 smelly, tarnished armor next to his own skin.
   Garon   Wendesthalas   used  strong   rope  to   bind  the
 creature hand and  foot, then  drew a  slim, needle-pointed
 dagger and set its hilt in a crack in  the stone  path, the
 ~1;:v'e pointing straight  up. As  the goblin  regained con-
 sciousness, hissing and  cursing, the  elf rolled  him over
 onto his belly, dragged him forward,  and lifted  his head
 so that his right eye was directly over the dagger's point.
   Wingover watched, fascinated. "What are you doing!"
   "Creatures of darkness cherish their eyes," the  elf said.
 Holding the goblin's round head in a  strong grip,  he said,
 "Tell  us  now,  goblin...  why  are  you  here?  Who  sent
 you?
   "You can fry in molten  stone, elf!"  The goblin  tried to
 twist  away  and  could  not.  "I  won't tell  you anything.
 I'll--"
   Gyron  shrugged  and  pushed  the  head  down.   The  gob-
 lin's  scream  was  a shrill  hiss, echoing  from mountain-
 side.". Matter-of-factly,  Garon raised  the round  head and
 repositioned it. "This is a little something that elves have
 learned  -   the  hard   way  -   from  goblins,"   he  told
 Wingover. Then to the goblin  he said,  "You still  have one
 eye left. Who sent you here?"
   The  creature  writhed  and whimpered.  "I can't  say! I
 can't!"
   Grim-faced,   Garon   Wendesthalas   pushed   the  crea-
 ture's  head  down  until  eye touched  knife-point. "Yes,
 you can," the elf said. "Who sent you?"
   "I can't... ahh! Darkmoor! The commander! I an-
 swer to the - !" Abruptly the goblin stiffened. Tiny bolts
 of lightning writhed  along its  body, twisting  in bright

  weaves  around  arms  and  legs, a  dancing fabric  of blue
  bolts as fine as spider lace. The bolts lasted only  for an
  instant, then the  goblin's pale,  flabby body  went rigid,
  the  wide  spike-toothed  mouth  opened  and   heavy,  dark
  smoke gusted from it.
    The  creature  went  limp.  Garon  pulled  the  body away
  from the dagger and rolled  it over,  his long,  elven face
  twisting in disgust. "Dead," he said.
    "So  I  see,"  Wingover shrugged.  "You didn't  kill him,
  though."
    "No.  He truly  couldn't say  more. He  had a  spell upon
  him, and it killed him rather than let him tell us anything
  else.   Do   you   know   anyone   called   'Commander'  or
  'Darkmoor?' "
    Wingover  shook  his  head.  "It  isn't  a  goblin  name.
  Doesn't  sound  dwarven,  either.  It  might be  elven, but
  what kind of elf would associate with goblins?"
    "It  sounds  to  me like  a human  name," Garon  said. He
  glanced  at  the  man,  wide  eyes thoughtful.  "Maybe the
  question  is,  what  sort  of  human  would  associate with
  goblins?"
    "I guess I'd better go see about my  horse and  pack. Are
  you bound for Barter?"
    The  elf  nodded.  "There  have  been  a  lot  of  rumors
  lately,  about  trouble in  the north.  And omens.  Did you
  see the eclipses7"
    "Yes.  And  I  thought about  you, Garon  Wendesthalas. I
  thought maybe you could tell me what it means."
    "Maybe nothing,"  the elf  said. "Or  it might  mean that
  something  very  bad  is  about   to  happen."   He  looked
  around at the grim  carnage of  the goblin  encounter. "Far
  worse than this. Maybe we'll learn more at Barter. It's the
  place to listen, if there is something to be known."
    Climbing  the  slope,  Wingover  collected his  sword and
  shield,  and  paused  to  study  some  of the  dead goblins
  there.  A  scouting  party,  he  decided. But  scouting for
  what? And for whom?
    The horse was where he had left it, skittish and wild-
  eyed but still reined within the cleft of rock. Several
  yards  away,  though,  was  the  sprawled  body  of another

 dead goblin. Its skull had been crushed.
    "Don't  blame  you  a  bit, Geekay,"  Wingover reassured
 the horse. "I don't like goblins, either."
    When   Wingover   came   down   the   trail,   Garon Wenndes-
 thalas   was   waiting   for   him.   The   human   dismounted.
 "Sling your pack up  here with  mine," he  told the  elf. "I'll
 walk with you."
    Wendesthalas  tied  his  pack   to  Geekay's   saddle  skirt
 and  turned  away,  his  long  stride  setting  a  brisk  pace.
 Wingover    walked    beside    him,   leading    Geekay,   and
 found  himself  thinking  about  the  manner  of the  elf's in-
 quisition  of  the  goblin.  He glanced  at the  lithe, almost-
 human  ranger  pacing  him.   In  many   ways,  it   seemed  to
 Wingover,  the  race  of  elves  could be  the gentlest  of the
 people  of  Krynn.  And  in  many  ways  the wisest.  Yet there
 was  nothing  gentle  and  seemingly  little  wise  in  Garon's
 treatment of the goblin.
    Is  it  possible  for  me  to really  understand him  or his
 kind,  the  man  wondered.  Can  any  race  ever  truly  under-
 stand any other?
            He mulled it over for a few minutes, then decided.
 Probably not.
    Wingover  turned his  thoughts to  another race.  He had
 a  gambling  debt  to  collect  from Rogar  Goldbuckle. Not
 that  the  dwarf  would  try  to  cheat  him. Such  was not
 Goldbuckle's  way.   Still,  dwarves   could  be   full  of
 surprises.

 Chapter 10

       Thouqh it had started only as a seasonal en-
 campment,  a  meeting  place  for  those  of  various races
 whose  lot it  was to  go abroad  and trade  commodities to
 supply  their  various  realms, Barter  now was  a bustling
 little town. Resting in  a sheltered  valley west  of Thor-
 bardin, it was  a truce  village, a  place of  respite from
 whatever conflicts and hostilities  might be  currently go-
 ing  on  around  it.  A  motley  collection  of  low  stone
 cubicles -  favored by  the mountain  dwarves -  log struc-
 tures  where  hill  dwarves  could  find  comfort,  shacks,
 shanties, tree houses in the few trees large enough to con-
 tain them, mud  huts, and  a few  airy elven  lofts, Barter
 catered to any who were willing to trade in peace.
        Here elves, dwarves, humans, and occasionally ken-

 der walked the same paths and sat at the same  tables with
 robed  sorcerers  and  outlaw  clerics. Here  voices might
 be - and often were - raised in  hot discussion,  but out-
 right violence was not condoned.  Here even  the bitterest
 of enemies stayed their hands and held their tempers.
   For Barter was  Barter. As  in any  place and  any time,
 no matter  what grand  intrigues may  be afoot,  no matter
 what wars might be  raging across  the lands,  still there
 had to be a means of trade and a place to do it. As in all
 places and all  times, each  people had  need of  what the
 others had in plenty, if only for the building  of weapons
 to fight against one another.
   In  Barter, it  was said,  even an  ogre could  come and
 trade - provided he didn't act like an ogre.
   Technically,  Barter  lay  within   the  realm   of  the
 dwarves,  though  whether  its  origin  was  from mountain
 or hill dwarves' settlements none could say. And  this was
 as it should be, for the bands and tribes of  humanity had
 been  scattered  far  and wide,  and many  were wanderers,
 while of all the other races the dwarves  had the  most to
 trade, the  most need  to trade,  and the  greatest under-
 standing of how essential  trade was.  Being in  the dwar-
 ven realms  also gave  some measure  of protection  to the
 place,  as neither  mountain nor  hill dwarves  was amena-
 ble  to  having their  lands entered  by those  who sought
 trouble.
   As  they  neared  the  settlement Wingover  recalled the
 simple rules of the place. "Don't kill anybody," he chuck-
 led. "It isn't allowed."
   The faint  trail they  followed wound  down into  a val-
 ley, toward Barter, and within a mile of the  village they
 were  among  cleared fields  on a  gentle slope,  with the
 village  visible  ahead. Wingover  pointed toward  a large
 pavilion  draped  with  red   and  yellow   awnings.  "The
 mountain  dwarves  are  here,"  he  said.   "That's  Gold-
 buckle's stall."
   Just ahead, on the trail, an odd  object was  moving to-
 ward the village - a  triangular white  thing more  than a
 dozen feet from end to end and half that in width,  it had
 the  appearance of  a giant  spearhead, creeping  along on

 spindly-looking  narrow  wheels  that  glinted  in   the  sun-
 light.  Garon  Wendesthalas  studied  the  thing  ahead,  then
 shook his head and pointed, questioning.
   Wingover shrugged. "I haven't the vaguest idea what
 it is. I've never seen anything like it."
   They  went  on,  and  within  a   few  minutes   were  close
 enough  to  see  more  details  of  the  creeping  thing. More
 than  a  spearhead now,  it resembled  half a  bellows, parti-
 ally  closed.  A  series  of slender  ribs extended  back from
 the  forward point,  all covered  over with  a layer  of white
 fabric pleated so that each fold at the  rear draped  at least
 two  feet  below  the  rigid  supports.  Near  the rear  was a
 thing  like a  wicker basket,  two or  three feet  across, set
 into the fabric so that only the top of it was clearly visible
 from  behind.  Narrow,  slightly  bowed  poles   slanted  out-
 ward  below  the  basket-thing,  each  tipped  with   a  wheel
 that  was  nothing  more  than  a  metal  ring  braced  from a
 hub   by   thin,   gleaming   wires.   Beyond,   someone   was
 walking,  only his  feet visible,  the rest  of him  hidden by
 the forward point of the contrivance.
   "Maybe it's some kind of a rollable tent," Wingover
 suggested.
   "Half an umbrella?" the elf wondered.
   "That big? Nobody would build an umbrella that big.
 And why does it have wheels?"
   "Maybe because it's too big to carry."
   They  came  closer,  and  a  suspicion  arose  in Wingover's
 mind.  He  swung  into  his  saddle,  touched  heels   to  the
 horse,   pranced   ahead,   and   pulled   up   alongside  the
 strange  thing.  It  was  longer than  he had  thought, possi-
 bly  as  much as  twenty feet  from point  to rear,  and while
 its trailing end was no more than three  feet high,  its long,
 slim point was well above his head  as he  sat in  his saddle.
 He  walked  the  horse  alongside  and  leaned  down  to  look
 below  the  thing's  edge. He  sighed and  straightened. "Just
 as I thought," Wingover chuckled. "A gnome."
   The  thing  stopped  moving. Its  point lowered  a bit  as a
 metal  shaft  swung  down to  take its  weight, and  its owner
 stepped  out  to  look  up  at the  horseman. He  stood belly-
 high  to  Wingover's  horse,   and  had   a  bald   head  sur-

 rounded  by  long  white  hair  that  blended into  a silvery
 beard.  That  trait  would  have  made  him  look   very  old
 ...had   he   been   human.   "Ofcoursel'magnome,"   he  said
 in  a  voice  that  sounded  thin and  irritated. "That'sone-
 thingtheycan't takeawayfromme.      Bobbin'sthename.     I'm-
 everybitasmuchgnomeasanyofthem,         thankyou.        Who-
 areyou?"
   The  question  was  so  imperious,  and  came  from  such  a
 small  creature,  that  Wingover  couldn't  suppress  a smile.
 "If   I   understood   you  correctly,   you  want   my  name,
 which is Wingover," he  said. "But  don't take  it out  on me,
 whatever you're boiling about. It isn't my fault."
   "Of  course  not,"  the  gnome  said   more  slowly   as  he
 calmed  down.  "It  isn't anybody's  fault. These  things just
 happen.  Though  they   could  have   been  a   little  kinder
 about it, in my opinion."
   "Who could? And kinder about what?"
   "Everybody. The Transportation Guild, the Master
 Craftsgnome...   the  whole   colony.  Kinder   about  getting
 rid  of  me,  is what  they could  have been.  If it  had hap-
 pened  at  home,  I'd  have  had  my  say  about  it.  But no.
 'Out in the colonies,' they said, 'this sort of thing can't be
 tolerated.  Good  of  the  colony,' they  said. 'Best  just to
 send  the  poor  soul  packing  off   into  the   howling  no-
 wheres, than to chance his  infecting anyone  else.' So  out I
 went.  Kit,  klacker,  and  Krynnbook,  as  they  say.  Speak-
 ing  of  which,  I  sincerely  hope my  map was  right. That's
 supposed to be the village of Barter just ahead. Is it?"
   "It  is,"  Wingover  nodded.  Garon  had  come up  to them,
 and  the  man  turned.  "I  kind  of  thought  there'd  be  a
 gnome  under  this  thing,"  he  said. "And  here he  is. His
 name's  Bobbin."  He  waved  a  casual  hand.  "That's  Garon
 Wendesthalas. He's from Qualinost."
        Bobbin nodded curtly, then turned to Wingover again.
 "How much for the use of your animal?"
   'The use of... for what?"
   "To pull my soarwagon. What else?"
   "This thing? You look like you're doing all right, pull-
 ing it yourself."
   "I don't mean now, I mean later. Does your horse run

 fast?"
   "As fast as I need him to, when I need him to,"
 Wingover replied cautiously.
   "Good,"  the  gnome  said,  and  ducked  under   his  con-
 trivance,  then  turned and  peered up  at the  human again.
 "I'll look you up when I need you. 111  supply the  rope, so
 don't worry about that."
   Without   further   conversation,   the   small   creature
 hoisted  the  nose  of  his contraption  and trudged  on to-
 ward  Barter, towing  the thing  as he  went, only  his feet
 visible beneath it.
   "Did you find out what that thing is?" the elf asked.
   "He  didn't  say, just  called it  his soarwagon.  But it
 doesn't matter. Whatever  it's supposed  to do,  it probably
 won't. I've seen gnomish things before."
   "Odd," the elf said softly. "I think that's the first time
 I've ever seen just one gnome. Usually,  where there  is one
 there are dozens."
   "I gather he's an  outcast," Wingover  said. "He  was part
 of a colony, but  they kicked  him out.  He isn't  too happy
 about it."
   "That  explains  it,  then.  But I  wonder why."  They re-
 sumed  their  pace  toward  Barter,  but  the  elf  remained
 thoughtful. "Did you notice the wheels on that thing?"
   "Yes. Very nicely made.  That's a  novel idea  for wheels,
 to  use wire  spokes. Light  and practical."  Wingover hesi-
 tated,  then  turned.  "I  see  what  you  mean.  Usually if
 gnomes  set  out   to  put   wheels  under   something  that
 weighs  ten  pounds,  they'll  wind  up  using   fifteen  or
 twenty  wheels  and   each  wheel   might  weigh   a  ton...
 then  there'll  be  traction  devices,  and  who   knows  how
 many  clutch   and  brake   assemblies,  and   whistles  and
 bells and adjustable levers to  adjust the  adjustments, and
 the  whole  thing  won't  move  an  inch  under  any circum-
 stances."
   "Or it might throw itself  off a  mountain, or  dig itself
 into the ground," the  elf added.  "Whatever that  thing is,
 it doesn't look like any gnomish thing I've seen."
   Barter was busy.  First snow  shone on  the high  peaks of
 the  Kharolis  Mountains,  late  harvests  were  being com-

  pleted  in  the  valleys,  and  people everywhere  were pre-
  paring  for  winter.  The  trading  taking  place  now would
  be the last until  spring for  most who  came, and  the vil-
  lage  was  bustling with  activity. Dwarves,  elves, gnomes,
  kender,  and  humans  walked  the   ways  and   gathered  at
  stalls and pavilions. Bards, acrobats, jugglers, and elixir-
  hawkers  plied  their  trades.  Warriors,  farmers,  crafts-
  men,  and   clerics  rubbed   shoulders  with   wizards  and
  rangers, and the usual volatile peace  of Barter  held sway.
  At  any  streetcorner,  at  any  moment,  there  might  be a
  dozen separate swindlings, thieveries,  fair deals  and foul
  going   on   simultaneously,    but   weapons    were   kept
  sheathed and no blood flowed.
    "I see the Inn of the Flying Pigs  is still  in business,"
  Wingover  noted. "I'll  be  there  when  I've  done  my busi-
  ness."
    "I'll be around." The elf nodded and  started on  his way.
  "Give my regards to Goldbuckle."
    Some travelers were  staring in  fascination at  the three
  pigs  above  the inn.  On Rapping  wings, they  saiied about
  in  lazy  circles and  figure-eights, as  cheerfully content
  with their lot as any pig with wings might be.
    Wingover  grinned   at  a   gaping  newcomer.   "The  inn-
  keeper  did  a  favor  for  a  wizard  once.  No  one  knows
  what  it was,  or who  the spellcaster  was, but  the wizard
  repaid  him  by  making  that unique  sign to  advertise his
  place. The pigs fly around  up there  every afternoon  for a
  few hours, and it's  good for  his business.  Just be  a bit
  careful when you walk beneath them."
    Wingover  left  his horse  with a  liveryman and  made his
  way  to  the pavilion  of the  mountain dwarf  trader, Rogar
  Goldbuckle.
    The  pavilion,  with  its  red  and  yellow  awnings,  was
  one of the largest in Barter, for  Goldbuckle and  his party
  did  most  of  the  outside  trading  commissioned   by  the
  Daewar  merchants   in  Thorbardin.   The  pavilion   was  a
  large rectangle, with tended stalls  on three  sides. There,
  dwarves  wearing  Goldbuckle's  colors  offered  the  finest
  of  Thorbardin  commodities  -  gemstones  of   many  kinds,
  pyrites  and  hewn  stone,  minerals  in  powder  or granule

 form,  prized  funguses  famed  for  their  taste, burning-
 stone to fuel hearths  in winter,  huge varieties  of hand-
 carved trinkets  and decorations,  and -  of course  - some
 of  the  finest  arms  and  armor  available   anywhere  in
 Ansalon.
   Within the pavilion's fourth side  were the  counting ta-
 bles,  and  there  Wingover  found  Rogar  Goldbuckle.  The
 trader raised a  bushy eyebrow  at sight  of the  human and
 said, "Well, it looks to me as though you are  still alive.
 Did you give up the  idea of  going to  Pax Tharkas  by way
 of the wilderness?"
   "Give  up,  nothing,"   Wingover  chuckled.   "I've  been
 there  and back,  and I'm  ready to  collect on  our wager.
 But first, it will cost you a mug of ale to hear  about it,
 Rogar  Goldbuckle. And  none of  your trade  swill, either.
 Bring out your own supply."
   "Trade  swill  indeed!"  the  dwarf  snapped.  "I  handle
 nothing but  the finest,  and each  barrel better  than the
 rest."
   Despite  this  claim,  though,  Rogar  Goldbuckle brought
 out  his  own  stock  and  led  the man  to a  quiet corner
 where  there  was  a  table and  benches. He  poured golden
 ale into a pair of fine silver goblets, and for a time they
 sat  together  in  silence,  enjoying the  potent beverage.
 Only  when  Wingover  had  drained  his  goblet  and licked
 his  whiskers  in appreciation  did the  dwarf get  down to
 business.  'You  promised  proof,"  Goldbuckle  said. "What
 kind of proof do you offer?"
   With  a  wink, Wingover  slid his  pack from  beneath his
 bench, hoisted it, and set  it on  the plank  table between
 them. "Check the seal," he said. "It's  from your  own con-
 signee in Pax Tharkas. And it's unbroken."
   The  dwarf  inspected  pack  and  seal,  grumbling  as he
 went over  it. "It  was a  stupid wager  anyway, and  had I
 been sober at the  time you'd  not have  duped me  into it.
 How much was it, again?"
   'You  know  very   well  how   much  it   was,"  Wingover
 said.  "Now  pay  up.  And  what do  you mean,  'duped?' It
 was your idea, as I recall."
   "I was just  trying to  do you  a good  turn," Goldbuckle

 snapped.  'You  had  nothing  constructive  to  do,   so  I
 thought I'd  give you  an opportunity  for a  pleasant out-
 ing."
   "Pleasant outing?  When was  the last  time you  tried to
 cross that wilderness, you old charlatan?  I made  it there
 and back, but it's not something I'll do again for a while.
 What  with  thieves  and  waylayers  at  every   turn,  and
 cave-ogres... and cats."
   "Cats?"
   "Cats.  Oh,  yes.  And  goblins.  Why  are  there goblins
 this far south, Rogar? Have you heard anything?"
   "You actually saw goblins?" the dwarf's eyes nar-
 rowed. "There have been some rumors, of course,
 but -"
   "Not  only  saw  them,  but  fought  them.  Garon Wendes-
 thalas  and  I.  He  was  on his  way down  from Qualinost,
 and a band  of armed  goblins set  a trap  for him.  I hap-
 pened along and spoiled the  party. Half  a day  from here,
 or  not  much  farther.  Where  the  trail comes  down from
 Grieving Ridge."
   "But  -"  Goldbuckle's  eyes  widened.  "But  that  isn't
 even  the  wilderness.  That's  well   within  Thorbardin's
 realm."
   "That's what I  thought. Garon  and I  think they  were a
 scouting party, but that's  about all  we could  learn. The
 one that we kept alive - or tried to - had a spell  on him.
 It killed him before he  could tell  us anything,  except a
 name.  Darkmoor.  Do   you  know   about  anyone   by  that
 name? Or anyone called Commander?"
   The dwarf shook his head.
   Wingover shrugged. "Maybe we'll never know what
 it's all about. What are these rumors you mentioned?"
   "Oh,  just  odds  and  ends.  Someone  said  that goblins
 were  seen in  upper Dergoth  recently, and  several people
 have  mentioned  seeing  more ogres  than usual.  They said
 the ogres  seemed to  be laughing  sometimes, as  though at
 a great joke."
     "What's a joke to an ogre could be bad news for any-
 one else," the man noted. "What else?"
   "Well... they say that some of the  plains tribes  in the

 northern lands have begun migrations southward, with
 tales of strange happenings in the Khalkists."
   "What sort of happenings?"
   "Oh, people disappearing and that sort of thing."
   "People disappear all the time."
   "But not usually whole villages ... even whole
 tribes."
   "Not usually, no."
   "Tarnish,"  the  dwarf rumbled.  "It's an  uncertain world
 we live  in, Wingover,  and troubling  times. I've  heard a
 dozen predictions, just since I arrived here,  that Ansalon
 will  be overrun  by war  within two  years. Some  say less
 time  than  that. The  seers have  been studying  omens and
 comparing  notes,  along with  some of  the mages.  But not
 one  has  any idea  who, or  what, may  be involved  in the
 war  if  the  time  should  come.  Ah,  me.  What's  a poor
 trader to make of it all?"
   Wingover  grinned at  the dwarf.  "Every profit  the mar-
 ket will bear, as usual.  Speaking of  which, I'm  ready to
 collect on our bet, in case you've forgotten." He  held out
 his hand, palm up.
   "Corrosion!"  Goldbuckle  snapped.   'That's  a   lot  of
 money. Do you think all  I have  to do  is snap  my fingers
 old -
   Wingover  nodded.  'You  old  skinflint,  that's  no more
 than petty coin to you, and you know it.  So hand  it over,
 and I'll stand the first  round at  the Flying  Pigs. Garon
 will  meet  us  there,  and we  can compare  goblin stories
 and sinister rumors."
   Still  the  dwarf  hesitated,  and  Wingover  crossed his
 arms on  the table.  "If you're  thinking about  trying for
 double  or  nothing,  forget  it,"  the  human   said.  "Of
 course,  now, if  you'd like  to just  keep your  coins and
 cancel my debt of service instead...."
   "I can't do that," the dwarf  muttered. "Oh,  very well!"
 Without  looking  around  he  raised   a  sturdy   arm  and
 snapped his fingers.  Within seconds  a counting  clerk was
 at his side. The trader whispered to  the young  dwarf, and
 the  clerk  scurried away  to return  moments later  with a
 fair-sized leather purse. The bag  made a  resounding, sat-

 isfying  whack  when  Goldbuckle slapped  it down  on the
 table.
   "Ill-gotten gains  if ever  I saw  such," the  dwarf rum-
 bled. "But I've never been one not to pay a just debt."
   "I  never  doubted  it  for  a minute,"  Wingover assured
 him. "By the way, what's in the pack I brought you?"
   "Money," Goldbuckle said, blandly.
   "Money?"
   "A  year's  accumulated  proceeds  from  my  ventures  at
 Pax  Tharkas. You'd  be amazed  at how  difficult it  is to
 make shipments of coin these days, Wingover."
   The  human's  mouth  hung  open  in  disbelief.   'You  -
 you  had  me  set  out  through  the  wilderness  with your
 year's  fortune  in  a  pack?  Do  you  know  how  much I'd
 have charged  you to  take that  responsibility? Even  if I
 took it all?"
   "Of course I know," the old dwarf  said blandly.  "It re-
 ally was far cheaper to make a bet of it."
   'You scoundrel! You... you..."
   "Try,  'bedamned  old  thieving  dwarf,'  " the  dwarf sug-
 gested. "Some good human swearing might make you
 feel better."
   Wingover  sputtered,   steamed,  and   finally  subsided.
 There  was  no  way  around  it.  He  had  been  fairly and
 thoroughly  swindled,  and  had gone  along with  it whole-
 heartedly.
   Finally  he  sighed,  retrieved  his  gambling  winnings,
 and thrust them away in  his tunic.  "Well, at  least it's
 over," he said. "I've had enough of that wilderness to last
 me for a time."
   "About that," Goldbuckle said.
   "What about it?"
   "Well if you recall, I said I  couldn't release  you from
 your debt of service. The reason is,  I have  assigned your
 debt to a... ah, friend of mine."
   "Assigned? To whom?"
   "Her." Goldbuckle nodded, looking past the man.
   Wingover turned, and his mouth fell open. A yard
 away,  standing patiently,  was as  stunning a  young dwar-
 ven  girl  as he  had ever  seen. Not  much more  than four

  feet tall, she had the wide, strong face of her kind, with
  large,  wide-set  eyes and  a smallish,  full-lipped mouth
  nicely set  between a  button nose  and a  stubborn little
  chin. And she wore a broadsword strapped to her back.
    "This  is Jilian,"  Goldbuckle said.  "Jilian Firestoke.
  Don't bother trying to  talk her  out of  what she  has in
  mind. It can't be done."

 Chapter 11

     "May the moons fall on me if ever do business
 with  a  dwarf  again!"  Wingover  bellowed  as  he strode
 along Barter's main pathway, causing heads to turn  in cu-
 riosity. Many paused to  stare after  the tall,  angry man
 who wore the  boots and  leathers of  a ranger  or barbar-
 ian, but whose  sheathed sword  and flinthide  shield sug-
 gested  a  warrior...  and at  the striking  young dwarven
 girl - hardly more than half his stature - who  tagged af-
 ter him, scampering to keep pace with his long strides.
 The sight, to most,  was another  entertainment in  a vil-
 lage that offered many entertainments.
 "How  you  feel  about  it  doesn't  matter,"  the dwarven
 girl shouted at the man's stiff back. 'You must take me to
 find Chane. Rogar Goldbuckle said you would."

   "It's  a  fool's  errand,"   Wingover  snapped.   "First  he
 cheats  me  out  of  an  honest  fee,  then he  sends me  on a
 fool's  errand. May  the curl-winds  carry me  away if  ever I
 do business with a -"
   "It shouldn't be a difficult trip," the girl puffed, wishing
 he  would  slow  down.  "At least,  I don't  imagine it  is. I
 have   a   map,   you   know...  of   where  Chane   was  last
 seen."
   Wingover   stopped   abruptly   and   swung   around,   tow-
 ering  over  her.  'You're  crazy,"  he  snorted.   "One  lone
 dwarf - and  a girl  one at  that -  out in  that wilderness'!
 You  wouldn't  live  an  hour.  Don't  you  know   what's  out
 there?"
   "Not  really.  I've  never  been  out of  Thorbardin before.
 But  how  bad  could  it  be?  People  do go  there sometimes,
 don't they? Oh, look!"
   "What?" He glanced around.
   "There's  a gnome!  That is  a gnome,  isn't it?  I've never
 seen a gnome before. They're very small, aren't they?"
   "So  it's  a  gnome,"  Wingover   snapped.  "The   world  is
 full of gnomes. Just like the world is full of elves, and this
 part  of  it  is  mostly  full  of  dwarves...  what   do  you
 mean, small?  That gnome  is nearly  as tall  as you  are." He
 set off again, heading for the  Inn of  the Hying  Pigs. "I'll
 tell you a few other things the world is full of,  that aren't
 nearly  so  pleasant.  Goblins,  for  one.  And  things  worse
 than goblins, too. There are hobgoblins and trolls -"
   "I have a sword," the girl pointed out, calmly.
   "And ogres," he continued. "Thankfully not as many
 of those, but there are some. What you should do is go
 back home and -"
   "Oh,  look!"  she said,  interrupting, and  pointed. "Look
 over there!"
   Nearby,  a  dark  bird  had  flapped   from  the   sky,  de-
 scending to  light on  the shoulder  of a  wizard. Now  it was
 talking to him, its beak just at his ear but its voice clearly
 audible  to  those  around...  though  it  spoke   a  language
 few among them understood.
   The  wizard  listened  intently, then  raised his  staff and
 muttered   something.   Atop   the   staff   a   milky   globe

  seemed  to swirl  with bright  color, and  a loud  hum came
  from it. It sounded  like bees.  Abruptly there  were other
  wizards   hurrying   toward   him,  pushing   and  bustling
  through  the  crowd.  As  some  of  them  reached   him  he
  said,  'The  omen  is  confirmed.  It  was  seen  from  the
  Tower  of  the Orders.  Nuitari crossed  the orbits  of So-
  linari and Lunitari. Both were edipsed, each in its turn."
    The  ensuing  babble  of  excited discussion  wasn't lim-
  ited  to the  robed sorcerers,  but spread  rapidly through
  the crowd.
    "What  does  that  mean?"  Jilian  asked  Wingover. "Are
  they talking about the moons? What did they do?"
    "They eclipsed," the man  said. He  strode on  toward the
  Inn  of  the  Flying  Pigs... three  long strides,  then he
  tripped and  sprawled full  out on  the ground.  All around
  there were  cheers and  laughter. Wingover  raised himself,
  shaking  his  head.  Jilian  stood over  him, her  sword in
  both hands. He stared up at her. "Did you trip me?"
    "I certainly did," she said, returning  the sword  to its
  sling.
    He got to  his knees  and dusted  himself off,  glaring at
  her. With him on his knees, they were nearly face  to face.
  "Why?"
    The  triumphant  slight  smile  on Jilian's  wide, pretty
  face was enough  to bring  choking sighs  from a  number of
  young  male  dwarves  nearby.  "Because  you have  been be-
  having rudely," she said. "And  because if  we are  to have
  any sort of discussion, you shall have to slow down."
    "There's  nothing  to  discuss,"  he  snapped.  "I  told
  you -"
    "Well,  you  really  have  no  choice,  anyway.  And  the
  sooner you realize that, the happier we both will be."
    Wingover  muttered  horrific   curses  in   several  lan-
  guages, and got to his feet. "If you aren't the most obtuse
  button I ever -"
    "Jilian," she said, coolly.
    "What?"
    "My name is Jilian. Not Button. But you don't need to
  apologize. You can call me anything you like, as long as
  you help me find Chane Feldstone like you promised."

 "I didn't promise any such thing!"
 "Thereyouare!" a voice behind Wingover said. The
 human  turned  as  the gnome  trotted forward,  waving at
 him.       "Thermodynamics,       Iheardyoubellowingfrom-
 clearacrossthesquare.  Ijustwantedtotellyou, I'llbeready-
 withinthehour."
 Wingover stared down at the little creature, blankly.
 "It'sme,"  the  gnome  said.  After  noting  the confused
 look  on  Wingover's  face,  he  took  a deep  breath and
 spoke  more  slowly.  "Bobbin.  Oh,  I  know.  Humans al-
 ways say if you've seen one gnome  you've seen  them all.
 Somehow  I  thought  you  might  be  above  that  sort of
 thing. But it doesn't matter. A deal's a deal, right  All
 right. There  is an  open meadow  just off  there, beyond
 those  huts.  Meet  me  there. And  bring your  horse, of
 course.  Don't  worry  about  rope.  I  have  some." With
 that, the gnome turned and hurried away in  the direction
 he had pointed.
 Wingover stared after him, feeling dazed.
 "What was that all about " Jilian asked.
 "I haven't the vaguest idea."
 Somewhat     disoriented    and     thoroughly    cranky,
 Wingover  once  more  headed for  the flying  pigs, which
 were just ahead now, gliding in  happy circles  above the
 inn. The man walked  more slowly,  though, and  cast cau-
 tious glances at the dwarven girl and her sword.
 The  place  was  busy,  as  usual. During  trade seasons,
 Barter  was  always  busy.  A  few  tables  back, though,
 Garon Wendesthalas sat alone. The elf  stood as  they en-
 tered,  and  beckoned  to  Wingover.  As  they approached
 he said, "Well, did  Goldbuckle pay  you off  without a
 quarrel?"
 "I  don't  want  to  talk  about it,"  Wingover snapped.
 "Did you learn anything about the goblins?"
 "Not  much.  Just  a lot  of rumors  about all  sorts of
 strange things. How about you?"
     "About the same. But I have a problem. I'm heading
 north again tomorrow. Goldbuckle called in his debt."
 "More trading packs?" the elf asked.
 "Escort  service."  He  turned a  surly thumb  toward Ji-

  lian, who stood just behind his hip.  "This is  Jilian Fire-
  stoke," Wingover said sourly. "I'm to take  her out  to find
  a missing dwarf. Jilian, this is Garon Wendesthalas."
    "Oh, my."  Jilian looked  up at  the tall,  melancholy be-
  ing. 'You're an elf, aren't you? I'm pleased to meet you."
    They  sat  down to  mugs of  cool ale,  and the  human and
  the  elf  compared  what  they had  heard. Neither  had any-
  thing  definite  to  report,  only  various versions  of the
  same   stories.   Something   very  ominous   was  happening
  somewhere  far  to  the  north,  but  nobody  had  any  very
  clear idea of what it was.
    Jilian listened for a time, then said, "That sounds a lit-
  tle  like  Chanc's  dream. It  told him  that bad  times are
  coming,  and that  it's his  destiny to  protect Thorbardin.
  That's why he's out looking for a helmet."
    Garon looked at her, then at Wingover.
             The human spread his hands and shook his head.
  "That's why I'm going back north," he grumped. "Be-
  cause some dwarf had a dream about a helmet."
    "Oh,  not  just  one dream,"  Jilian corrected.  "He's had
  the same dream for years. It's only lately that it  told him
  what he is supposed to do. It's his destiny."
    "Then why do you want to interfere?" the elf asked.
    "Oh,  I  don't want  to interfere,  just... well,  he proba-
  bly  needs  help.  The  guards  who   went  with   him  came
  back,  and  I  learned  they  had  robbed  him and  left him
  alone in the wilderness. But  we'll find  him, and  he'll be
  all  right.  Rogar Goldbuckle  says Wingover  is a  very re-
  sourceful person... even if he is human."
    "Resourceful.    Hmph!"    Wingover    snorted   dismally.
  "I'm resourceful, all right. A resource that old villain has
  mined to its limit."
    Someone  jostled  against  Wingover,  then  tugged  at his
  sleeve.  He  turned,  to  find  the  gnome   there,  looking
  peeved.
    "I  thought you  had gone  to get  your horse,"  the small
  one  griped  in  slow  clipped  words.  "My   soarwagon  is
  ready  and  waiting,  and  we'll lose  our light  soon. Come
  along, now. We have to hurry."
         "I don't know what you're talking about," Wingover

 began.
   "What are you supposed to be doing?" Jilian asked.
   Wingover  shrugged.  "I  don't  know.  Nobody  has told
 me."
   'You're  supposed  to  be   pulling  my   soarwagon  with
 your  horse,"  the  gnome  explained.  "What could  be sim-
 pler  than  that?  Come  along,   now.  There   isn't  much
 time."
   "I'll  come  and  watch,"  the elf  said. "Where  did you
 leave your horse?"
   Without  much   choice  in   the  matter,   Wingover  was
 hustled  from the  Inn of  the Flying  Pigs to  the stables
 where  his  horse  waited,  then  across  town  to  a clear
 meadow,  where  a  marvelous  thing  sat  glowing  in  late
 sunlight.
   When  first  they  had seen  the gnome's  contraption, it
 had vaguely  resembled a  flat parasol,  folded. It  was no
 longer  folded,  now,  and no  longer resembled  a parasol.
 More than  anything else,  it looked  like a  huge, spread-
 winged  seagull sitting  on spindly  wheels in  the meadow.
 Great, delicate wings of white fabric extended  thirty feet
 on each side of the basketlike  contrivance in  its center,
 and  its  pointed  nose  had become  a square  framework of
 dainty metal rods. Fabric  covered four  sides of  the bas-
 ket's six, with the front and rear remaining open.
   The   gnome   scampered   on  ahead   of  them   and  was
 busily tying one end of a  long, thin  rope to  the thing's
 nose  when  the   dwarf,  human,   and  elf   arrived.  All
 around  the  meadow,  but  holding  their  distance, people
 of  several  races  waited,  curious  to  see   what  might
 happen next.
   "Polish  and  shine!"  Jilian  chattered  as  she  walked
 around the contrivance. "Isn't this pretty? What is it?"
   "It's  my  soarwagon,"  the  gnome  said.  "Please  stand
 back. You, bring your horse around here  in front,  and get
 mounted. I'm almost ready."
    What is it supposed to do?- Jilian asked.
   "It's supposed to fly," the gnome snapped, momentar-
 ily losing his composure. He sighed and took a deep
 breath. "That's why I brought it here. To let people see it

  fly, so I can sell it  and make  some more  of them.  I intend
  to go into the soarwagon business."
    "Well,  we  know  what  it  won't  do,"  Wingover  told  the
  elf. "Fly." He did,  though, lead  his horse  to the  front of
  the  contrivance,   and  stepped   into  the   saddle.  "Don't
  worry  about  it,  horse,"  Wingover  muttered.   "That  thing
  will fall apart in about ten steps,  then we  can get  on with
  what   we   came   for."   The   gnome   scampered   to   him,
  looped  his  rope,  and  raised it.  "Here, attach  this some-
  place, but just as a slip. Give me the other end. I'll release
  it when I want loose from you."
    Obediently,  with  an  ironic  grin,  Wingover  slipped  the
  rope  through  his  pommel-clasp  and  pulled  it   until  the
  free  end came  clear, then  handed that  end back.  "Just out
  of  curiosity,"  he  asked  the  gnome,  "why did  your colony
  drive you away?"
    The  gnome  glanced  up.  "Because   I'm  insane,   is  why.
  Insanity  can't  be  tolerated,  you  know."   Bobbin  hurried
  back  to  his  machine, carrying  the loose  end of  the rope,
  and climbed into the basket between its wings.
    "Insane," Wingover told himself. "I should have
  known."
    "Well,"  the gnome  shouted at  him, "let's  go. Just  go as
  fast as you can, and as soon as I'm  airborne I'll  unhitch us
  and take it from there. That's all I need you for."
    "Insane," Wingover breathed. 'Ye gods." He looked
  back at the gnome in the fabric-and-metal gull.
    "Go!" Bobbin shouted. "Go!"
    With an oath, Wingover snapped the reins and dug
  heels  into  the  horse.  The  animal  surged,  took   up  the
  slack,  and  stretched  out  to   a  belly-down   run.  Behind
  him,  Wingover  heard  a  shout,  but  he  didn't  look  back.
  The  rope  sang  in  his  open  pommel, and  he heard  its end
  snap  free.  He listened  for the  sounds of  wreckage astern,
  then   ducked   as   something   huge   and   white  whispered
  past  him,  just  overhead.  With  another  oath,   he  veered
  the  horse  aside,  hauled on  his reins,  and watched  in as-
  tonishment  as  Bobbin's  soarcraft  gathered  speed.  It  re-
  ceded with distance, then raised  its nose  and rose  into the
  sky.  All  around  the  meadow  were  cheers,   applause,  and

 shouts of surprise.
   The soarwagon climbed higher and higher, flashing
 bright in the slanting sunlight. At some distance  it dipped
 a wing, circled gracefully to the left, came about, and cir-
 cled above the village, high and tiny in the sun.  It looped
 and soared, dived and turned, as gracefully  as a  giant ea-
 gle riding the air currents of a mountain range.
   With  his  mouth  hanging  open  in   disbelief,  Wingover
 walked  his  horse  back  to  where  the others  waited, and
 dismounted.  Jilian  Firestoke  was  jumping  up  and  down,
 clapping  with  glee  as she  watched the  beautiful machine
 perform   high   overhead.   Garon  Wendesthalas   stood  in
 brooding thought.
   "I  can't believe  it," Wingover  said, shaking  his head.
 "That thing actually works! It flies!"
   "I'm  not  that surprised,"  the elf  said. "I  heard what
 Bobbin told you, about being insane."
   'What does that have to do with it?"
   "It's  the  whole point.  He really  is insane.  An insane
 gnome. What he invents works."
   "But they drove him out."
   "Well, of course  they did.  They had  to. Can  you imag-
 ine  what  might  happen  if  some great,  monstrous gnomish
 engine were to  have one  part in  it that  works perfectly,
 among all those other parts  that don't?  A thing  like that
 could be devastating. It could wipe out a colony."
   Wingover  thought  about  it,  staring  at  the  Hying ma-
 chine in the sky. "I see what you mean," he said at last.
   For a  time the  soarwagon cavorted  over Barter,  then it
 began  to  descend  and  headed  back  toward   the  meadow.
 It  slowed,  came  to within  ten feet  of the  ground, then
 suddenly  shot  upward   again,  climbing   away,  regaining
 speed.
   Again  it  approached,  and  again,   and  each   time  it
 whisked away aloft. On the fourth pass, as  it crept  by di-
 rectly  overhead,  seeming  almost  to  hang in  the evening
 air,  Wingover  cupped  his   hands  and   shouted,  'You've
 proved your point, Bobbin! You can come down now!"
   "Ican't!"  the  gnome's   exasperated  voice   came  back,
 growing  fainter   as  the   soarwagon  once   again  gained

 speed  and  began  to   climb.  "Itgoesupallright,butI-
 can'tgetittogodown!"
   "He may be insane," Wingover told  the elf,  "but he's
 still a gnome."
   In evening dusk, after  giving up  on ever  seeing the
 gnome land, the three went back into the village. Jilian
 had   lodgings   at   Rogar   Goldbuckle's   camp,   and
 Wingover would sleep in the stable loft.
   "You're leaving in the morning?" Garon asked.
   "Apparently  so," the  human said.  "On a  blamed fool's
 errand."
   "111 go part way with you," the elf  offered. "There's
 nothing more to learn here, and I've sold my goods."
   "Glad  to  have  you along,"  Wingover told  him. "Any
 special reason?"
   "There might be more goblins," the elf said darkly.

 Chapter 12

      Jilian Firestoke's map - obtained under duress
 from a ruffian in  a Thorbardin  tunnel -  was not  so much
 a  map  as a  sketch of  landmarks with  a wavy  line mean-
 dering   among   them.    When   she    finally   persuaded
 Wingover  to  look  at it,  on their  second day  of travel
 northeastward  from Barter,  he squinted  at it,  turned it
 this way and that, then scratched his head.
   "Is this all you have to go on?" He turned it again. "You
 can't  find  anybody  with  this.  It  has  no coordinates.
 Nothing  to  trace  from...  what  is it  supposed to  be a
 map of?"
   They had stopped to rest on a small meadow that was
 little more than a wide shelf on the side of a mountain,
 but  a  place where  Wingover's horse  could graze  and the

 travelers could  drink from  a tiny  spring that  flowed from
 porous stone to  trickle down  the rocky  slope where  it fed
 a  shallow  pool.  As  usual  when they  halted, the  man and
 the  elf  spread  along  the trail,  Wingover going  ahead to
 where  he could  see for  a distance,  Garon falling  back to
 keep an  eye on  the trail  behind them.  It was  an unspoken
 agreement, simply  a thing  that two  travelers, wise  in the
 ways of wilderness country, would do.
   Wingover  squatted on  his heels  and spread  Jilian's map
 on  the  ground. "It  doesn't even  have an  orientation," he
 said. 'Which way is which?"
   She  stood  behind  him,  to  see  over his  shoulder. 'You
 can  tell that  from where  the X's  are." She  pointed. "One
 of  them is  the Southgate  of Thorbardin,  and the  other is
 where those ruffians last saw Chane Feldstone."
   'That   doesn't   tell   me  anything,"   Wingover  sighed.
 "Even  if  we  knew  which  X  was  which  -  and we  don't -
 all that would tell us is that this edge of the map - or this
 opposite  one  -  should face  north. But  how far  apart are
 the X's?"
   "About  six inches,"  Jilian shrugged.  "We can  measure it
 if you -"
   "I don't  mean that.  I mean  how far  is this  supposed to
 represent in real distance?"
   "The  distance  from  Southgate  to  the  northern  wilder-
 ness," she explained,  wondering again  at the  man's inabil-
 ity to remember simple things. "However far that is."
   He  sighed  again,  shaking  his   head.  'That   might  be
 twenty miles, or it might be fifty. Gods, girl, there isn't a
 boundary,   you  know.   There  isn't   some  kind   of  line
 drawn  across  the mountains  with signs  that say,  'This is
 Thorbardin's  realm and  that side  is wilderness.'  The wil-
 derness  is  anywhere  beyond  where  the  latest  patrol pe-
 rimeter  happens  to  be,  and  that  changes  all  the time.
 Didn't  the  person  who  drew  this  give  you  any  idea of
 what to look for... or where?"
   "He  wasn't  very  happy  with   me,"  she   admitted.  "He
 had  a  bump  on  his  head  and  was  shackled  to  a wagon-
 track at the time. All he  said was,  'This is  Southgate and
 that's  where  he  got  away  from us.  We supposed  the cats

 would get him.' "
   "Cats?"  Wingover  looked  up  sharply.  "What  kind of
 cats?"
   "I don't know. He just said cats. Oh, and he said  a bird
 told them to go away, so they went. Does that help7"
   "Cats."  Wingover  opened  his  pouch  and  withdrew  his
 own  maps,  found  the  one  he  wanted  and   studied  it.
 'There is a valley, north of here, that seems to  go almost
 due  north  and  south."  He  paused  and   considered  the
 map. "I wandered into it, but I didn't get a chance  to ex-
 plore it. There were cats  there. Big,  black cats  half as
 high as my horse.  If your  young dwarf  has gone  there, I
 don't  expect  you'll find  him." The  human laid  the maps
 side by side, looked at them together, then turned Jilian's
 map around. "That could be it,  I suppose.  I saw  the val-
 ley  at  the  other  end,  but  it  would  have   come  out
 about -" He pointed at his own map "- about here."
   "Then that's where we must go," Jilian said. "Is  it very
 far?"
   "Not far," the  man said.  "A day  from here,  maybe. But
 that isn't where we're going."
   "Why not?"
   "Because of the  cats. Look,  Button, I  said I'd  help you
 find that  X. But  if your  dwarf went  there, we  might as
 well just turn back."
   "But if  that's where  Chane went,  then that's  where we
 must go. You promised, you know."
   "How many  times do  I have  to tell  you, I  promised no
 such thing?" He  stood and  put his  map away,  handing Ji-
 lian's back  to her.  "You know,  your father  probably has
 people  out  looking  for  you  by now...  or does  he even
 know you're gone?"
   "He knows I've gone to look for Chane," Jilian
 snapped. "I told him I was going to."
   "And  he  didn't  stop  you?  Somehow  I   can't  imagine
 that, unless -" He looked  down at  the wide,  pretty face,
 a suspicion  dawning. "Where  does he  think you  are look-
 ing?"
   Jilian looked at her feet. "All  over Thorbardin,  I sup-
 pose. I didn't tell him I had talked to his ruffian."

  "Ye gods," Wingover breathed. "And Rogar Gold-
 buckle?"
  "Well... I told him that I had  told my  father I  was go-
 ing to look for Chane Feldstone, and  that my  father said,
 'Go  right  ahead.  Look  all  you want  to.' I  suppose he
 might have taken that to mean that it was all right  for me
 go  to  outside. But  what difference  does that  make? Now
 that we know where Chane is, all we  have to  do is  go and
 find  him. That  valley might  be where  Chane is,  but how
 will you know  for sure  if we  don't have  a good  look at
 it?"

  Wingover sighed.  "Because of  those cats.  No one  in his
 right mind would -"
  "Oh, rust!  Will you  stop harping  about cats?  If that's
 where  Chane went,  then I'm  sure he  has attended  to any
 cats that might be there, so you don't need to worry."
  Wingover gritted his teeth. "Talking to you is  like talk-
 ing  to a  wall! Can't  you understand,  Button? If  one of
 those cats found your dwarf..."
  Jilian  turned  away,  then  paused.  "I see  people," she
 whispered,  gesturing  toward  the  edge  of  the  clearing
 where  the  mountain  fell away.  Excitement glowed  in her
 eyes.  She  pointed  again,  and  Wingover  sprinted toward
 the ledge and dropped flat just short of it, to  crawl for-
 ward to where  he could  see beyond.  Jilian was  right be-
 hind him, and he  saw at  a glance  that Garon  had spotted
 the activity and shifted his position to where he could see
 up and down the trail.
  At first,  there was  nothing in  sight below,  only steep
 mountainside  dropping  away  toward  the  hazy  depths  of
 a  canyon  between  slopes.  Then  he  saw   movement,  and
 focused on it.
  Far  below,  tiny  with  distance,  a  line  of  creatures
 moved  along  a  faint  trail,  going  southward.  Sunlight
 flashed  on  armor,  and Wingover's  breath became  a hiss.
 Goblins.  A  small  party  of  them,  with a  taller figure
 leading  them  -  a figure  wearing dark,  glistening armor
 and  what  seemed  to  be  a  horned  helmet.  Human?  Elf?
 He  couldn't  tell.  Reaching   for  his   pouch,  Wingover
 brushed  an  elbow against  a stone,  which in  turn rolled

 over,  balanced  for a  moment on  the shelf's  edge, then
 fell,  bouncing  down  the  slope.  The  human  muttered a
 curse, then found his spyglass and brought it to  his eye.
 Dwarven-made,  it  was  a  brass  tube  with lenses  and a
 quartz prism - not as precise or as  delicate as  some el-
 ven  glasses he  had seen,  but well-crafted  and adequate
 for his purposes.
   Adjusting  its  focus-ring,  he  sighted on  the company
 below and frowned, trying to  count them.  Not all  of the
 goblins were in sight at one time since parts of the faint
 trail were hidden by ridges and features in  the mountain-
 side. But there were a dozen or so. And these  were better
 armed   and   more   heavily   armored   than   the   ones
 Wingover  and  Garon  had  encountered  north  of  Barter.
 They moved with a  discipline and  precision he  would not
 have expected of goblins.
   Easing  his glass  along the  line of  goblins, Wingover
 studied  the taller  figure in  front. Dark  armor, richly
 made:  lacquered  steel  breastplate;   epaulettes  embla-
 zoned in gold;  oiled, fine  chain; shin-and  armguards of
 polished bronze;  a plain  black oval  shield; embellished
 sword  hilt  exposed  from  bejeweled  sheath.  The figure
 carried  a  light  footman's  lance  or javelin,  as well;
 Wingover could not tell which.
   The  helmet  was  multiply  horned,  and bore  a strange
 and unique  mask that  was fashioned  to resemble  an ani-
 mal's face, but like no animal Wingover had ever seen.
   As he looked, the figure halted, raised  a hand  to halt
 the  goblins  following,  and  turned.  The  hideous  mask
 turned  to  watch  a  pebble bound  across the  path, then
 looked up - directly at Wingover.
   With a shock, he realized that the  being below  saw him
 clearly,  that  the  shadowed  eyes  behind  the grotesque
 horned-lizard  mask  were  staring  at  him  intently,  as
 though  his  spyglass  worked  both  ways.  Wingover  low-
 ered  the  glass  and  edged  back,  away from  the ledge,
 making the girl retreat with him.
           "What is it?" Jilian whispered. "Who are those
 people?"
   Garon  came  and  knelt  beside  him,  leaning  out just

 once for a glance down at the lower path. "Goblins?"
   Wingover nodded. "And someone else leading them.
 Someone taller. We had better be on our way."
   The  elf  glanced  down  again. "Out  of sight  now," he
 said. "Did they see us?"
   "The leader  did. But  it would  take a  day to  get from
 there to here. That leader... I've never seen  a face-plate
 designed like that."
   "Describe it," the elf said.
   Wingover  described it,  and the  elf listened  in thought-
 ful  silence, then  nodded. "A  dragonmask," he  said. "The
 mask, the helm... the face of a dragon."
   "There  are  no  dragons,"  Wingover  said.  'That's just
 old legend."
   "There   were  dragons   on  Krynn,"   Garon  corrected.
 "Not  legends.  They  were  real.  And  somewhere,  I sup-
 pose, they still are real."
   "Well,  that  was   no  dragon   down  there."   The  man
 headed  for  his  horse,  gathering pack  and saddle  as he
 went.  "But  whoever  it  was  knows  we're  up  here,  and
 those were real goblins. So it's time to move out."
   They  made  camp  that  night  on  a  mountainside  miles
 away, north and  a little  east of  where they  had rested.
 Wingover made good use of his  maps and  his skills  to put
 distance  behind  them,  and they  were exhausted  when fi-
 nally he called a stop. But it was a good place to rest - a
 sheltered  cove  between  broken  ridges,  where   a  small
 cookfire  would  not  be  seen,  but where  a guard  on the
 ridgetop above could see for miles in any direction.
   Wingover  and   the  elf   took  turns   standing  guard.
 Wingover was not ready yet to  trust Jilian  Firestoke with
 such a responsibility.
   Morning's  sun  found  the  travelers awake,  packed, and
 on  their way,  threading a  narrow ledge-trail.  When they
 stood  atop  the  next  pass,  Wingover  halted   them  and
 pointed.  'There's  your  second   X,  Button.   Off  there
 where  the  peaks  still  shadow  the  land  between.  Just
 about  where those  mists begin.  That's where  Chane Feld-
 stone was seen last, if your armsman was  right. A  mile or
 two  beyond  should  be  where  that  valley  begins... the

 one with the cats."
   "Good,"  the  dwarf said  happily. "We  can be  there in
 time for lunch."
   Wingover  started  to  argue,  then stopped.  Jilian was
 standing,  hands  on hips,  gazing up  at him  with deter-
 mined bright eyes that held not a hint of compromise.
   He sighed. "Oh,  all right.  We'll go  to where  the valley
 begins. You can  take a  look from  there, then  we'll circle
 and  search  the  ridges. But  if we  see so  much as  a cat-
 whisker along the way, we turn back."
   "I've  never  met  anyone  so  obsessed with  cats," Jilian
 scoffed. "I think they're sort of cute."
   "You  haven't  seen  these  cats,"  Wingover   snapped.  He
 took up the horse's  reins and  led off.  When they  had cov-
 ered  a mile,  the trail  pitched steeply  downward, dividing
 just ahead  into two  faint trails.  One ran  straight ahead,
 the  other  branched off  to the  right. Wingover  glanced at
 his map.
   "That goes to the Vale  of Repsite,"  he said,  pointing to
 the  right-hand  path.  "Two  or  three  days'   travel  from
 here.  If  I  were  your  dwarf,  that's  where I  would be."
 Probably resting his sore  feet in  some village  over there,
 the  human  thought,  but  did not  say it.  Probably cozying
 up to some hill dwarf's daughters... if he's still alive.
   Garon  Wendesthalas  stood  in  thought,  looking   at  the
 forked  trail,  then  back the  way they  had come.  "I think
 I'll leave you here, Wingover," he said finally.
   "Why?"
   "Oh,  just to  sit and  watch the  traffic. Maybe  we'll meet
 farther along, somewhere."
   Wingover  scratched  his  bearded  chin.  "It's  those gob-
 lins, isn't it?"
   "They  might  be  coming   along  here."   Garon  shrugged,
 then a cold smile spread across his elven face. "I still have
 plenty of arrows, and nothing better to do."
   "That's  why  you came,  isn't it?"  the man  said, perhaps
 a bit sadly. "You said there might be more goblins."
   "Have a nice outing, Wingover." The elf turned away.
 "Maybe we'll meet again." In the somber elven eyes, just
 as  they  turned  from  him,  Wingover  saw   something  cold

 and  determined.  Something  deadly.  This  elf had  a pure
 hatred for goblins.
   "I hope we do meet again," he said.
   Another mile down the trail,  Wingover turned  to look
 back.  There  was  no sign  of the  elf... but  then, there
 wouldn't be. No one  was likely  to know  he was  there un-
 til he was ready to show himself.
   Distant   movement  caught   Wingover's  eye   then,  and
 he peered westward.  The man  shaded his  eyes. Far  in the
 distance, something was moving.
   As Wingover's eyes  adjusted to  the distance  the object
 grew  from  a small  speck of  white to  a bigger  speck of
 white.   It   was  coming   rapidly  in   their  direction.
 Wingover  stared,  then  saw  a  shadow  below   the  thing
 and realized that it wasn't on  the ground.  It was  in the
 air, flying.
   It took shape,  and its  shape was  that of  a spread-
 winged gull, soaring aloft on air currents.
   'Ye  gods,"  Wingover  muttered.  "It's that  crazy gnome."
   Within    moments    the    soarwagon   was    abreast   of
 Wingover  and  Jilian,  coming  about  in a  wide, graceful
 turn fifty feet  above the  trail and  a few  hundred yards
 ahead. As it turned it settled and slowed, until  it seemed
 almost to hang in air, fifteen feet  above the  surface. In
 that position it  crept upslope  toward them,  rocking gen-
 tly from side to side. When it was near, they could see the
 white hair and irritable-looking face of the  gnome sitting
 in its basket.
   He  peered  out  at them  and raised  an arm  to wave.
 "Ho, there!  It's me!  Bobbin! Do  you have  anything to
 eat?"
   "We know who you are!" Wingover shouted. 'What
 are you doing way out here?"
   "I got caught in  a crosswind!"  the gnome  responded. "I
 don't  know  where  I  am,  but  I'm  hungry!  Do  you have
 food?"
   "I  can  make you  a nice  sandwich!" Jilian  called. "Do
 you like cold roast elk?"
   "Did  you  ever  get  that   thing  to   land?"  Wingover
 shouted.

    The gnome  glared at  him, fighting  to control  his rock-
  ing  craft,  now  just  fifty  feet  away  and no  more than
  twenty feet above. "If  I had  come down,  do you  think I'd
  still be up here? A roast elk sandwich  would be  just fine,
  thank  you.  With  raisins,  preferably.  And  I  could  use
  some cider, but water will do if that's  all you  have. I'll
  drop  a line,  and you  can send  it up.  Where are  you go-
  ing?"
    "We're going to see if Chane Feldstone  is in  that valley
  ahead,"  Jilian  told  him,  pulling  food  from  the travel
  pack.
    "We  are  not,"  Wingover  snapped.  "We're just  going to
  the rim of it. That's all."
    "He thinks there are cats in  there," Jilian  explained to
  the flying gnome. "He worries all the time about cats."
    "Do  they  have  wings,  like  the innkeeper's  pigs?" the
  gnome wondered.
    Jilian giggled. "Of course not. They're just cats."
    "Very big cats," Wingover added.
    "Seems  to  me  you  need a  scouting service,"  the gnome
  said. "After I eat, I guess I could go  fly over  the valley
  and  look  around  for you,  if you'll  tell me  what you're
  looking for."
    "Chane  Feldstone,"  Jilian  said.  "He's  a  dwarf, about
  this tall and very handsome -"
    "Cats,"  Wingover  said.  "We're on  the lookout  for cats."
    For  a  moment  the  gnome  didn't  answer.  An  air current
  had  caught  his soarwagon,  and he  was struggling  to hold
  it  in  place.  His  controls  seemed  to consist  mostly of
  strings that ran from the basket to the fabric panels of the
  thing's  boxy nose,  strings that  controlled the  angle and
  pitch  of  the  panels.  The  soarwagon rocked,  bucked, and
  settled into position  again, twenty  feet above  them. Bob-
  bin peered down, his gnome-face ridged with irritation.
    "I  don't  mind  looking  around," he  said. "It  isn't as
  though I had anything better to do right now."

 Chapter 13

   "I'll  bet  you  never saw  anything like  this before,"
 Chestal  Thicketsway  said happily,  turning full  circle to
 scan the breadth of the  ice field  with its  jumbled, vague
 shapes, frozen in combat. "Just look at this! Didn't  I tell
 you?  Bumps!  Ice-bumps,  everywhere   you  look.   And  in-
 side  every  bump  are  frozen  dwarves...  still  fighting,
 except they don't move any more."
   Chane  Feldstone  didn't  answer.  With  haunted  eyes  he
 looked  around,  needing  to  see  what  was  here  but  not
 wanting to. To one raised in the  sheltered delves  of Thor-
 bardin,  the  Dwarfgate   Wars  were   just  old   legend  -
 stories of the defense of  Thorbardin's gates  in a  time of
 great  crisis,  tales  of  heroes who  had manned  the gates
 and  the  pathways  beyond,  who  had  fought  at  King Dun-

 can's order so that Thorbardin could live.
   These  are  some  of  them,  Chane  thought,  approaching
 a great, jumbled mound of ice rising from the ice field - a
 chaotic  feature,  like  a  miniature mountain  range twice
 his height and fifty to a hundred feet across in any direc-
 tion. Within  the ice,  dark shadows  hinted at  shapes. He
 knelt in front of a sheer plane  of ice  and rubbed  at it,
 smoothing  and  clearing  its face.  Polished, the  ice was
 transparent.
   The  dwarf  leaned  close,  peering within.  Just inside,
 only  a  few feet  away, two  dwarves were  locked together
 in  combat,  hammer  against   sword,  shield   to  shield,
 straining each against the other  - violence  captured just
 as it had been the instant the ice had covered  the combat-
 ants.  Beyond these  two were  others, receding  into vague
 translucence. A  dwarf on  the ground  held a  shield above
 him, desperately fending against a slicing blade  frozen in
 descent.  Another, arms  outspread, flailed  motionless for
 balance, frozen in the act of  falling over  the body  of a
 dwarf cleft from shoulder  to midriff  by some  lucky blow.
 Within the ice, the spilled blood  remained crimson  on the
 black ash beneath.
   These  are some  of those  who went  out to  defend Thor-
 bardin's  gates,  the  dwarf  thought.  And  these  are who
 they  fought.  Which  are  which,  though?  Did  even  they
 know?  There  might  be a  hundred or  more locked  in com-
 bat,  just  within  this  one  mound of  ice -  dwarves who
 came  out  from  Thorbardin,  and  dwarves  who  fought  to
 go  within.  All  dwarves,  and  all  alike  now  in frozen
 silence.
   No one ever returned to Thorbardin to  tell of  this bat-
 tle,  he  realized. No  one ever  went anywhere  from here.
 They are all still here. Encased in ice, with  ashes under-
 foot.
   Three spells  did Fistandantilus  cast. The  words echoed
 in Chane's mind. The first was fire, the second ice...
   Fire  and  ice. Chane  turned away  from the  ice window,
 feeling very cold.
   "Isn't this great?" The  kender hurried  past, chattering
 his  enthusiasm. "Dwarfcicles!  Imagine! There's  one over

  there  you  should look  at. That  little tall  lump... there
  are  four  dwarves really  going at  it. One  of them  has an
  axe and he's fighting  the other  three. Better  hurry... but
  then again, I suppose  he'll last  as long  as the  ice lasts,
  won't  he?  Wow,  this  is  like  a  museum of  statues, with
  frosty windows!"
    The  dwarf turned  to glare  at the  kender, but  Chess was
  already heading off to look at more lumps.
    Chane  growled,  and  the  growl  became  a  sigh.  I don't
  want to be here, he  told himself.  I don't  want to  look at
  this.  And  yet,  he  went  on,  from mound  to mound  in the
  field of  frozen death,  peering here,  kneeling there  for a
  better view  within the  ice, searching.  And through  it all
  he felt  the faint  tingling of  the little  red spot  on his
  forehead - the mark of the red moon - driving him on.
    None  who  were  on  this  field  when  those  spells  were
  cast  ever  left  here,  Chane  thought glumly.  They're here
  still. Yet, according to the old stories, Grallen did not die
  in this place. The son of  King Duncan  died in  this ancient
  war,  but  not  here.  Somewhere  else,  sometime  later. An-
  other  battlefield,  somewhere.   The  place   where  Fistan-
  dantilus cast his last and greatest  spell, they  said. Chane
  tried  to  remember  all  he  had heard  of the  old legends.
  Where  had  that  final  battle been?  He wasn't  sure... ex-
  cept that it  was somewhere  other than  here. East  of here,
  he seemed to recall. A place called Skullcap.
    Grallen,  warrior  prince  of  the  Hylar, who  had learned
  a secret  in his  final hours,  had learned  of a  secret way
  into Thorbardin, too late to find and defend it.
    Had Grallen been here, then?
      The red spot on Chane's forehead tingled. Yes, he felt,
  Grallen had been here... and gone on. But to where?
    Again  in his  mind he  saw the  image, of  a face  not un-
  like his own, the face that  the dream  - or  the red  moon -
  had  shown  him.   Grallen,  son   of  Duncan.   Chane's  own
  ancestor. Could that be true?
    Everywhere,   ice.   Ice   whose  convoluted   shapes  con-
  tained  dwarves  frozen  in  combat.  In  some  of  them, the
  frozen  shapes  struggled  amid  dark  swirls  of  smoke that
  were kept as still as  they were.  What kind  of mage  had he

 been,  this  Fistandantilus?  What  kind  of   sorcery  had
 availed him, that he could  have done  this? Yet,  the leg-
 ends said, what he had done later was far worse.
   The  kender  skipped  past  again,  as  happy as  a child
 with  a  roomful  of  new  toys.  "See  anybody  you know?"
 he   asked   Chane.   "Wonder   what  they   were  fighting
 about..."  He  hurried  on,  toward  a  new  mound  that he
 hadn't  yet  explored.  Then  he paused,  thoughtfully, and
 turned  back.  "Have  you  thought  about taking  that ham-
 mer  and  breaking some  of them  out of  the ice?  I mean,
 just to see if they'd go on fighting?"
   Chane rounded on him, furious. "I wish you'd just
 shut up! You might at least show a little respect."
   "Then  don't break  them out."  The kender  shrugged. "It
 was just a thought, anyway." He went on his way.
   "That  kender  would  rob  a  graveyard  and   not  think
 twice about it,"  the dwarf  muttered. Still,  the question
 was intriguing.  Were they  really dead  in there?  Or were
 they only  suspended? He  thought about  it and  decided he
 didn't want to know.
   Chane  went  on, searching  this way  and that,  not sure
 what he was looking for except that the tingle on his fore-
 head  became  more   pronounced  as   he  worked   his  way
 eastward.  Something  here,  it  suggested, would  tell him
 where Grallen had gone all those long years ago.
   As  he  knelt  beside another  clustered mound  - inside,
 dwarves  with  pikes  held  their  ground  against  dwarves
 with  swords  and  axes  - the  kender appeared  again from
 somewhere   and   stopped   beside   him.   "Find  anything
 yet?" Chess asked.
   "More of the same. I  don't know  what I'm  supposed to
 find.  I  almost  wish  that  wizard  had   stayed  around.
 Maybe he would have had an idea."
   "If he had, it seems like he'd have mentioned it."
   "Did he say anything about where he was going!"
   "Up  on  a  mountain.  Said  he  couldn't see  down here.
 He  didn't   say  which   mountain,  though."   The  kender
 shaded his  eyes, gazing  into the  distance. "What  do you
 suppose that is?"
       Chane looked up, saw where the kender was pointing,

 and gazed in that direction. "I don't see anything."
   "I don't  either, now.  But I  thought I  saw a  big white
 bird." Chess squinted, then  cocked his  head. "There  it is
 again.  See?  Way  off  there  to the  north. I  wonder what
 that is."
   Chane saw it  too, then  - a  white, winged  shape gliding
 over the forest, miles away. It looked vaguely like  a giant
 seagull. "I don't know," he said. "But whatever it  is, it's
 not  what  I'm  looking  for."  He  stood,  glanced  around,
 then headed east  again, toward  a very  large mound  of ice
 some distance away from any others.
   Chess  watched  the  distant  white thing  for a  few min-
 utes, then tired of that. He couldn't tell what it  was, and
 it didn't show any sign of  coming close  enough for  a bet-
 ter  look.  He  climbed  one  of  the  mounds -  beneath his
 feet,   vague   dwarf-shapes   did   perpetual,   motionless
 battle - and looked around. "Now what?" he wondered.
   "Go west," something voiceless seemed to say.
   "I  wasn't  talking to  you, Zap,"  Chess scolded.  "I was
 talking  to  myself. Besides,  the only  reason you  want me
 to  go  west  is  to  get far  enough from  that Spellbinder
 thing the dwarf has so that you can happen. Right?"
   "Right," something mournful agreed.
   "I've been west, anyway," Chess added.
   "Woe," Zap grieved.
   "I  wish  that dwarf  would find  what he's  looking for,"
 the  kender  muttered.  "I'm  ready  to  go   see  something
 new."  He  started  down  from  the  ice-mound,  then ducked
 as a huge shadow  swept over  him. Clinging  to the  ice, he
 looked  up.  The  white  thing  was no  longer far  away. It
 was    directly    overhead    now,    spiraling   downward,
 slanted wings carrying it in great descending circles  as it
 came lower and lower. Fifty feet up  it leveled  out, seemed
 to  stall,  then  crept  toward him  and hovered  just over-
 head.  A  head  appeared  alongside  one  wing, and  a voice
 floated down. "Hey! Are you from around here?"
   "Of course not!"  Chess called  back. "I'm  just visiting.
 What is that thing?"
   "It's my soarwagon. It still needs a little design modifi-
 cation  but  I'm  working  on  it.  Right  now,  though, I'm

 looking for cats. Have you seen any cats?"
   "Not  lately,"  the  kender  admitted.  '"There  were some
 dandies around here when I first got  here, but  they've all
 gone now. Are you going to come down?"
   "I can't."  The flier  shook his  head. "Ground  effect, I
 think. Do you have any foods"
   "A  little.  Dried  meat  and  flatbread. Why?"
   "How  about  raisins?  Do  you  have  raisins?"
   "I don't think so."
   "Well,  whatever  you  have  will just  have to  do," the
 flier  called.  A  rope  began  to  descend  from  the white
 thing,  with  a  small basket  tied to  its end.  "How about
 sending some up?"
   Chess  dug around  in his  pack. There  were all  sorts of
 things in it, mostly just odds  and ends  he had  picked up,
 and in most cases he didn't  recall where  or why.  The ken-
 der  found dried  meat and  a few  flatbreads he  had picked
 up  in the  Irda's hut.  The basket  descended on  its rope,
 and  when he  could reach  it Chess  deposited some  of what
 he had in it. The food was hauled upward.
   "Why are you looking for cats?" Chess called.
   "Some people wanted to  know about  them. Man
 called Wingover. He's sure this valley is full of cats, so I
 came to see. I haven't found any."
   "They're  the  Irda's  cats.  She went  away, and  I guess
 they went with her. You're a gnome, aren't you?"
   "I am. Bobbin's the name."
   "I'm Chestal Thicketsway. Do you know anything
 about  old  gnomish  engines? Like  siege engines  from ages
 back? There are several of those off  that direction,  but I
 couldn't tell much about them."
   "Neither can I," Bobbin said. "I'm insane."
   "Oh. I'm sorry."
   "Not  your  fault.  Another  thing  that Wingover  and his
 bunch  asked  about   was  a   dwarf.  Any   dwarves  around
 here?"
   "Hundreds,"   Chess   waved    his   arms    around   him.
 "Everywhere  you  look,  but they're  frozen under  the ice.
 Been there a long time."
   "No,  the  one  I'm  looking  for  is  more  recent. Dwarf

 named, er, Chain something -" The gnome pointed.
 'Who's that?"
   Chane  Feldstone  had  appeared  from behind  a distant
 mound,  and  was  hurrying  toward  the  kender  and  the
 soarwagon.
   "He's  a  dwarf,"  Chess  said.  "He  might  be  the one.
 Name's Chane Feldstone. What do they want him for?"
   "I don't know. Does he  always dress  like that?  What is
 that outfit? A bunny suit?"
   "Catskin," the kender explained.
   A  vagrant  wind  whispered  across  the ice  field and
 made  the  white  bird  dip  and  bobble.  The   gnome  did
 something,  and  abruptly  the  flying  thing shot  high in
 the sky, so high that it  was only  a winged  dot overhead.
 Slowly  it  seemed to  steady, then  started going  in wide
 circles.
   Chane reached the mound where the kender stood.
 "Who is that?" he demanded. "What is he  doing up
 there?"
   "His name is Bobbin. He's a gnome."
   "What is he doing?"
   "Looking for cats."
   "Up there?" Chane squinted upward, trying to follow
 the circling path of the flying thing. "What is he riding?"
   "Something  unreliable,  it  seems  to  me,"  Chess said.
 "All he  said was  that some  people sent  him to  look for
 cats  and  he  hasn't  seen  any.  Oh,  and  somebody named
 Wingover asked about you."
   "Me?"
   "Might be you. Do you know him?"
   Chane  scratched  his  beard. The  name did  sound famil-
 iar,  as  though  he  might have  heard someone  mention it
 sometime.   Then  he   remembered.  "Wingover's   a  human.
 Rogar Goldbuckle thinks he's crazy."
   "No, it's the gnome who's crazy. He said so himself."
   "Why   would   Wingover   ask  about   me?  I   don't  even
 know him."
   "Maybe   you're   becoming   famous,"  the   kender  sug-
 gested.  "Look,  the  gnome  is  coming  down  again. Every
 time he goes in one of  those circles  he gets  lower. Wow!

 That looks like fun."
    "Fun," something voiceless said.
    Chane  jumped  and  looked  around,  then  clenched  his
 teeth. "I wish that spell would stop talking,"  he growled.
 "It makes me nervous."
    "Shut up, Zap," the kender  said offhandedly.  'You just
 want to get away from the Spellbinder."
    "Need to," Zap whispered.
    "Oh, he's going away," Chess sighed.
    "Your spell?"
    "No,  the  flying  gnome. See?  He's heading  south. Oh,
 well. Easy come, easy go."
    "It doesn't matter," Chane said. "I found something, fi-
 nally." He walked away, back in the  direction he  had just
 come.  The  kender  climbed  off  the  mound  and scampered
 after him.
    The  large  mound  was east  of all  the rest,  and well
 apart  from  them.  It  was a  grotesquely shaped  mound of
 ice more than a  hundred feet  long, stretching  from north
 to  south in  a shallow  curve. Even  from a  distance, the
 shadowy figures inside were visible  as dark  silhouettes -
 a line of armed  dwarves in  defense position,  fighting to
 hold off a force twice their strength.
    "It looks like a rear-guard action," Chess decided.
    "It does to me,  too. But  what I  found is  beyond it."
 Chane  led  the  way  around  one  end  of the  long mound,
 then  part  way back  along its  opposite side.  He stopped
 and pointed. "See?"
    The  kender  looked,  blinked  and  looked  again,  then
 shrugged. "See what? The end  of the  ice field?  The slope
 beyond? That range of peaks?"
    "The path,"  Chane said.  "Look. It  looks like  a faint
 green trail, heading east. Can't you see it?"
    "I don't see anything like that. Are you sure you  -" He
 stopped  and  stared  at  Chane. "Do  you realize  that the
 red spot on your forehead turned green for a moment?"
    Chane  raised a  tentative hand  to touch  his forehead.
 His  eyes  widened,  then  he  opened  his  belt  pouch and
 took out  the Spellbinder.  He took  a deep  breath. "Well,
 the gem's still red. I thought  for a  minute maybe  it had

 turned green, too."
   The  crystal  was  still  red,  but something  seemed to
 pulse dimly, deep within  the stone.  With each  pulse the
 faint green trace of  an ancient  trail renewed  itself to
 Chane's eyes.
   "It's  showing  me  where Grallen  went from  here," the
 dwarf said. "He went east."
   "Where Pathfinder went," something voiceless
 whined.
   Chane jumped. "I don't think I'll ever get used to that.
 What did it say?"
   "It  said,  'where Pathfinder  went,' "  Chess repeated.
 "Zap, what are you talking about?"
   Where  nothing  was,  something  sighed.  "Spellbinder's
 other," the unfired spell whispered.

 Chapter 14

        High on a Mountain slope, where biting winds
 came   down   from  the   snows,  Glenshadow   the  Wanderer
 paused in his climbing to inspect the head of his sorcerer's
 staff.  No  longer  chalky,  it was  again a  cold, flawless
 stone of swirling transparencies.
  The  wizard  pulled  his collar  tighter against  the chill
 and raised the staff a foot or so. He  muttered a  word, and
 the  stone  burst  into  cold,  bright  light.   He  nodded,
 doused  it  with  a  word,  and  looked  around.  Some  dis-
 tance away,  a large,  serrated stone  lay against  a jagged
 cliff,  half-buried  in  wind-blown  snow.  He   raised  the
 staff, pointed it at the stone, and  uttered other  words. A
 tight  beam of  silver light  shot from  the gem  and struck
 the  boulder,  which  exploded  into  shards,  some  of them

 bounding away down the mountainside.
   Satisfied,  Glenshadow  climbed  again  until he  came to
 a high place where patches of ice lay  like white  pools in
 the weathered stone.
   He gazed into a  small ice-covered  pool. "Master  of the
 tower,"  Glenshadow  said in  a voice  as cold  as winter's
 winds,  "Grallen's  descendant  has  the  Spellbinder,  and
 has begun his search  for the  helm. Is  there word  of the
 outlaw?"
   "The  Black One  lives," said  the ice-image  that formed
 on  the  frozen  pool.  "Though  he  was  certainly  put to
 death long ago, there is no  doubt now  that he  lives. His
 magic is known. Other searchers have tasted it, just in re-
 cent days."
   "Can you tell me where he  is, then,  or must  I continue
 to follow the dwarf?"
   "He is  somewhere to  the east,"  the hooded  image said.
 "Nearer to you than  you are  to me,  but though  his magic
 is  sensed  he  goes  hidden...  shielded somehow  from our
 seekings.  If  you  would find  him, you  must go  with the
 dwarf."
   "Does the outlaw know yet of the dwarf and his
 quest?"
   "We think he knows  that something  is amiss."  The ice-
 image  told  him.  "The  Black  One is  pledged to  a quest
 against  the  dwarven  realm  of  Thorbardin. This  much we
 know,  from  those  of  our  order  in  the  Khalkist Moun-
 tains. Two died  and a  third was  horribly burned  just to
 bring  us  the information.  Tell me,  does the  dwarf know
 his purpose?"
   "To  go  where  the   Hylar  Grallen   went."  Glenshadow
 said  and  nodded.  "To  seek  the  helm  of  his ancestor,
 which  alone  might  save  Thorbardin from  infiltration by
 its enemies.  He has  an artifact  - an  ancient god-stone,
 the twin  of the  one his  ancestor wore  on his  helm. One
 stone will lead him to the other, and thus to the helm."
   "And  should  he  find  this  helm...  will he  then know
 where Thorbardin's weakness lies?"
   "If his ancestor Grallen  saw the  secret gate,  then the
 stone in  the helm  may also  show it  to its  next wearer.

 Both are god-stones, as  was suspected.  Their magic  is be-
 yond sorcery."
   "Then the thread is not frail," the ice-pool said. "If the
 dwarf poses a threat, the Black  One will  know it.  He sees
 more  clearly  now  than  when  he  was  alive...  before he
 was  put  to  death.  Follow  the  dwarf,  Wanderer,  if you
 would find the  Black One;  the Black  One will  surely seek
 him.  Follow  the  dwarf  toward  shattered  Zhaman,  if you
 would  seek  again  to  destroy the  outlaw mage."  A pause,
 and  then  the  faint voice  asked, "Did  you see  the omen,
 the eclipse of the moons?"
   "I saw it. What does it mean?"
   '14one  knows  for  sure,"  the voice  said. "But  all the
 omens point to  a great  darkness from  the north.  Evil has
 its  pawns  a'play,  and  moves  across  the  gaming  board.
 Beware."
   The  pool  darkened,  cleared,  and was  simply a  pool of
 ice.  Glenshadow  shivered,  drew   his  bison   cloak  more
 tightly  around  his  shoulders, and  again touched  the ice
 with his staff.  This time  the image  that appeared  was of
 the  valley  from  which  he had  come. Chane  Feldstone and
 the kender stood at the  edge of  a patterned  ice-field and
 looked eastward.
   "Toward  shattered  Zhaman,"   the  mage   whispered.  "He
 follows Grallen's path,  toward the  resting place  of Gral-
 len's helm."
   He  started  to  turn  away from  the pool,  then stopped.
 Another  vision  had  formed  there,  coming  without  call.
 In inky blackness swirled  indistinct shapes,  coalescing at
 the  center  in  a  pattern  that  become  a face...  or not
 quite a face, just the ghostly outline of one; but  one that
 Glenshadow had seen before, long years ago.
   And a voice as dry as dust  - a  voice that  seemed shriv-
 eled  with  hatred  and  age  - hissed  from the  image. "He
 seeks  me,  does  he?"  it  said.  "The puny  red-robe would
 try  again  to  do  what  he  thought  he  had  done before'
 Hee-hee. He  asks the  ice whether  I know  there is  an ob-
 stacle  in  my way.  A puny  obstacle it  is, too.  A dwarf.
 Only  a  dwarf.  Did  I  know  before,  he wonders?  No mat-
 ter.  I know  now." Giggling,  the dry  voice faded  and the



 ice cleared. Long after the vision was gone, Glenshadow
 knelt by the ice, shaken and unsure.
   "Caliban," he muttered. "Caliban."

 * * * * *

   Viewed from the south, the  valley was  a long,  deep cut
 among  towering  mountains.  Miles   wide  and   many  more
 miles long, deep enough that fall foliage still livened the
 forests below, it swept away to the  north. The  valley was
 straighter  than  most  Wingover  had explored,  and inter-
 esting to his explorer's mind because, while its sides were
 crested by precipitous cliffs, its approach from  due south
 was a long, fairly gentle slope.
   It  seemed  to  almost  offer  itself  as  a  route,  and
 Wingover  found  that  irritating.  He  had seen  the great
 cats who lived in this valley, and he  knew the  valley was
 a  trap.  He  wondered  if  any who  had entered  there had
 ever come out again.
   The  man  was  moody  and  irritable  as the  hours passed,
 tired of waiting for a  crazy gnome  in a  sailing contriv-
 ance,   who   probably  would   never  return   anyway.  He
 brooded upon the  fates that  had brought  him to  be here,
 back out in  the wilderness  again, pursuing  an impossible
 quest  -  to  find one  lost dwarf  in ten  thousand square
 miles of barely explored territory.
   It didn't help Wingover's attitude that  Jilian Firestoke
 seemed to have decided  that it  was her  responsibility to
 fill the idle hours with  constant chatter.  He had  heard a
 dozen  times  now  about  Chane  Feldstone's dream,  and at
 least a half-dozen  times about  the perfidy  and downright
 churlishness  of  Jilian's father,  Slag Firestoke.  He had
 been  belabored  by  gossip  -  most  of it  meaningless to
 him  -  about  the  feud  between  the Tinturner  and Iron-
 strike families, which had kept  the fifth  level downshaft
 neighborhood  of  Daewar  in  an  uproar for  months; about
 how  Silicia Orebrand's  sister was  not on  speaking terms
 with  any  of  the  Silverfest  Society members;  about the
 uncouth  mannerisms  of  Daergar  dwarves  who   seemed  to
 think  they  owned  the  Fourteenth  Road;  and  about  the
 scandal  that  had  risen  when  Furth   Undermine  accused

 the East  Warren overseers  of bribing  the executor  of the
 Council of Thanes.
   "Far stars, Button,"  Wingover finally  erupted, "doesn't
 anybody  get  along  with  anybody  in  Thorbardin?  To hear
 you talk, I'd  think the  intrigues and  hostilities outnum-
 ber the population by five to one."
   She blinked in surprise. "Oh, it isn't like that  at all,"
 she said. "Thorbardin  is the  nicest place  imaginable. Re-
 ally. I've  just been  telling you  the juicy  stuff because
 that's  what  most  people  prefer to  hear. But  then, most
 people  -  at  least  most  people  I  know  -  are dwarves.
 What do humans like to hear?"
   "Silence, occasionally," he snapped.
   For long  minutes, he  had his  wish. Jilian  sat facing
 away  from  him,  her  sturdy  little  back  arrow-straight.
 She had  tried to  entertain him.  Now she  made a  point of
 ignoring him, which, for his part, Wingover liked better.
   Soon,  though,  she  asked,  "Do  you mind  if I  tell you
 one other thing?"
   "I knew it was too good to last," he said. "What?"
   She pointed. 'The gnome is coming back."
   He  saw  it,  then -  the gliding,  erratic flight  of the
 gnome's   machine,   coming  toward   them,  low   over  the
 valley's forested floor.
   "It's about time," Wingover snorted.
   The  white  kite came  closer, rising  as it  neared the
 climbing  slope,  seeming  to  shoot  upward  on  wind  cur-
 rents  until  it  was  a  tiny thing  far overhead.  Then it
 dipped its wing and began  the wide  circling that  they had
 seen  before.  It  seemed that,  once up,  the only  way the
 gnome  could  come  down  again  was  by  this  tedious pro-
 cedure.
   The  soarwagon  circled  and  descended,  circled  and de-
 scended, and finally  crept to  a halt  hovering just  a few
 yards up - but in the  wrong place.  It was  a quarter  of a
 mile  from  them, above  a jagged  cliff where  the valley's
 west wall began.
    "What is he doing?" Wingover growled. "Why doesn't
 he come over here?"
   "He's probably trying to," Jilian said. "I don't think his

 machine really works all that well."
   "It's  a  wonder it  works at  all," Wingover  pointed out.
   For  a  moment,   the  soarwagon   hovered  where   it  was.
 Then  with  a  shudder  it  shot upward  again, and  the cir-
 cling  began all  over. This  time the  gnome seemed  to have
 corrected  his  navigation,  and  when  next  the  thing hov-
 ered it was just above Wingover and Jilian.
   Bobbin  leaned out,  his face  pinched with  irritation. He
 looked  from  one  to  another  of  them,  then   settled  on
 Wingover.  "I'm  back,"  he   announced,  "It's   me...  Bob-
 bin. I'm here."
   "I  know  you're here,"  Wingover called  back. "I  can see
 you. Did you find anything?"
   "Quite a lot of valley, with various things in  it. Several
 miles north, there's a  ring of  stones with  a thing  in the
 center  that looks  like a  really big  thermodynamic inflec-
 tor, though I'm sure it isn't that. There's a sort of little,
 broken  statue  on  top of  it, and  paving all  around. Then
 there's  a hut,  though if  anyone lives  there he  wasn't at
 home, and  there is  a winding  black path  that goes  off in
 both directions from it. I saw  a river  and enough  trees to
 make  a  woodnymph   think  she'd   gone  to   paradise,  and
 several  nice meadows  that I  could have  landed in...  if I
 could  land.  And  an  ice field  covered with  lumpy shapes,
 and what's left of an old wall - older  than I  can calculate
 from  up  here, but  I imagine  it was  old before  anybody I
 know was old enough to understand old -"
   "How about cats?" Wingover called.
   "How about what?"
   "Cats! That's what you went to look for. Cats!"
   "No.  No  cats.  One  kender,  but no  cats. Though  I did
 see  someone wearing  a bunny  suit made  out of  cathide, if
 you  can  believe  anything  a  kender  tells  you.  What  do
 you want cats for?"
   "I  don't  want  cats!  I just  wanted to  know if  you saw
 any!"
   "Well,  I didn't.  Some bison,  here and  there, and  a few
 elk, though..."
   "How  about  Chane  Feldstone?"  Jilian  called.  "Did  you
 see him?"

 "Does he wear a bunny suit?"
 Jilian had started to shout something else at the
 gnome,  but  suddenly  his  invention  was  off  again, shoot-
 ing away  in a  sharp climb  that carried  it toward  the dis-
 tant peaks to the west.
 The  girl  sighed,  then  slung  her  pack  and her  sword. "I
 guess that settles that," she said. "We'll  just have  to look
 for ourselves. Are you ready?"
        "Hold on, there, Button," Wingover snapped. "I'm in
 charge here, remembers I decide where and when we go."
 "Then decide," she said and headed for the valley.
  They  camped  that  evening  in  a  clearing  well  within the
 valley, where a chuckling  little river  flowed cold  from the
 mountains  to  the  west,  and  a  strange,  black-gravel path
 wound aimlessly northward through deepening forest.
 At   day's   final   hour,   Wingover   scouted    ahead   and
 found   nothing  to   alarm  him   except  an   odd  emptiness
 about the valley. "It's strange," he told  Jilian when  he re-
 turned. "It's as if this place has been lived  in -  but isn't
 now.  Recently  vacated.  I  had  the  same feeling  once when
 I  stumbled  across  a village  of the  Parwind people  on the
 plains. At least it had been one of their villages;  the tents
 had  all  been  folded and  the people  were gone.  That place
 felt the way this place feels. It's as though the area had ac-
 customed  itself  to  being  home  to  someone,  and   now  it
 doesn't quite know what to do with itself."
 Jilian  gazed  at  the  man  thoughtfully,   then  shrugged.
 "Humans  are  very  strange  people,"  she decided,  and set
 about cooking their supper.
   A shadow flitted across the twilight clearing  and a
 sharp, high-pitched voice called from overhead, "I'm
 hungry! How about sending up some supper?"
  Bobbin   and   his   soarwagon   were   with   them   again.
 Wingover  looked  at  the  contrivance  hovering  above  the
 camp  and  shook  his  head.  He had  seen gnomes  from time
 to  time,  but  he  had  never  encountered  a  mad  one. He
 cupped  his hands  and called,  "I want  to know  about this
 valley."
 "What about it?" the gnome called back.
 "Everything that you see that might be useful to me.

 Like how far north does it go, and are there dangers
 ahead, and where does it come out?"
   "It's a big place. I haven't seen the whole thing."
   "How about scouting for dangers, then?"
   "I can do that, if  you ask  me nicely.  What sort  of dan-
 gers are you looking for?"
   "Any that might be there. Like cats."
   "There aren't any  cats. I  already told  you that,  but I
 don't   suppose  you   remember.  There's   a  wizard   on  a
 mountainside  off  there  somewhere,   but  he's   miles  and
 miles  away.  And  a  kender  and  a dwarf  in a  funny suit,
 east  of  where  you  are...  or  north,  I'm  not  sure. And
 way off  over there  I saw  a bunch  of people  crossing over
 from the next valley. They're really a mess, all cut  up like
 they've  been  in a  fight, and  carrying their  wounded. Re-
 ally a mess, it looked to me. I -"
   The   soarwagon   pitched,  nosed   up,  and   shot  toward
 the sky,  the exasperated  shout of  the gnome  trailing back
 from it, "Save me some supper!"

 * * * * *

   Bloody,  battered,  stripped,  and staked  out on  the cold
 ground,  Garon  Wendesthalas  was   only  vaguely   aware  of
 those  who  stood  over  him.  For  hours,  the  goblins  had
 tormented  him  while  the  one  in  the  lacquered  armor  -
 their  leader  -  stood  quietly  and watched.  Torture after
 torture they had  applied, gleeful  in their  sport, stopping
 just  short  of breaking  his bones  or drawing  enough blood
 to  kill  him.  The  leader  wanted  information   from  him.
 Did  he  know  of   a  mountain   dwarf  somewhere   near,  a
 dwarf  who  might   have  Hylar   featuresl  Where   was  the
 dwarven  girl  they  had  seen  traveling  with him?  And the
 human, who - and where - was he?
   The  elf  had  not  uttered  a  sound  throughout.  Nor had
 he let his attention fix on the pain they inflicted. Instead,
 he  drifted  in  his  mind, remote  and aloof,  savoring mem-
 ories,  recalling  pleasant  times...  remote  and  unreacha-
 ble.  He had  removed himself  to such  distance that  he was
 barely  aware  of  the goblins  around him.  But he  knew the
 leader  now.   A  human   female,  Kolanda   Darkmoor.  Corn-

 mander,  the  goblins  called  her.   And  he   knew  that
 someone  - or  something -  else was  with her,  though he
 had seen no  one. Distantly,  he had  heard bits  of their
 conversation...  the  woman's  voice  impatient  and quer-
 ulous, the other's a dry, shriveled husk  of a  voice that
 whispered  in  tones of  venom and  mockery. He  had heard
 her call the other's name. Caliban.
   Garon shut  out all  other awarenesses.  In his  mind he
 walked  the  patterned  forests  of the  Qualinesti, drank
 cool water from a brook, listened to the songs of elves in
 a nearby glade....
   "We're   learning   nothing   here,"   Kolanda  Darkmoor
 snapped,  beckoning  to   an  armored   hobgoblin.  "We've
 wasted enough time. This elf will tell us nothing."
   "Kill him now?" the creature asked hopefully.
   "No,  bring  him  along.  He's  strong.  He will  make a
 good slave."
   "Elf," the hobgoblin snarled. "Make trouble. Run
 away, sure -"
   Kolanda turned fierce eyes on him. "Did  I ask  for your
 opinion, Thog?"
   The  hobgoblin  stepped back  quickly, then  lowered his
 face in submission. "Forgive, Commander."
   "Assemble  your  patrol,  Thog.  Or  what's left  of it.
 We're  going  back to  Respite. The  valley should  be re-
 duced by now, and there are things to  do. Bring  the elf,
 but first cut the tendons in his legs.  Then he  won't run
 away.  When  we  rejoin, put  him to  work tending  one of
 the carts."
   She  turned  away,  cold  and angry.  No elf  would ever
 make  a  worthwhile slave,  but this  one would  live long
 enough to serve her. He had killed nearly half of  her pa-
 trol before they brought him down.

                         Chapter 15

        As the sunset shadows op Westwall climbed the
 slopes  of  the  ridge  above  the  Valley of  Waykeep, Chane
 Feldstone cut a final hold in a rock cliff, pulled himself up
 and over the lip of a ledge,  and gawked  at the  kender sit-
 ting  there  idly,  waiting for  him. The  sound he  had been
 hearing for the past  half-hour, virtually  since he  had be-
 gun  to  ascend  the  sheer  cliff,  was  louder  and  nearer
 now  -  a  wailing,  keening,  heart-rending  song  of misery
 with no apparent source.
   "You   always   do  everything   the  hard   way,"  Chestal
 Thicketsway  chided  him. "I  guess it's  just the  nature of
 dwarves,  to  tackle  everything   headlong  no   matter  how
 difficult it is.  Do you  suppose you  just can't  help being
 that way?"

   "How  did  you  get  up  here?"  the  dwarf  puffed. "It's
 taken me half an hour to climb  this cliff.  How did  you do
 it so fast?"
   "I  didn't,"   the  kender   shrugged.  "I   went  around.
 There's  a  perfectly  good  by-path  just over  there. Easy
 climbing, for anybody who'd take the trouble  to find  it. I
 brought  your  sword  and  your  pack,  too.   They're  over
 there  on  that  rock.  Do  you  want to  camp here  for the
 night, or do you want to scale the next  cliff? If  you want
 to do that, I've  found another  by-path so  I can  meet you
 up there."
   Chane  shook  his  head.  "What is  that awful  noise? It
 sounds like somebody in pain."
   "Oh,  that's  just  Zap." The  kender looked  around, then
 shrugged   again,   remembering   that  Zap   wasn't  really
 anywhere to be seen. "It's his latest talent, wailing like a
 stricken soul. He's been doing it for quite a while now."
   "I  know.  I've  heard  him most  of the  way up.  Can you
 get him to hush?"
   "I  don't  know  how. I  don't even  know what  he's wail-
 ing  about.  Maybe  he  misses  the  valley  or  the  frozen
 dwarf place. That's where I found him, originally."
   "Well, I wish you'd shut him up. He gets on my
 nerves."
   Chess turned. "Zap! Shut up!"
   The  eerie,  voiceless  wailing  faltered, then  began again
 with new enthusiasm - only now it added occasional
 sobs to its repertoire.
   "That's  even  worse,"  the   dwarf  growled.   "How  come
 he's following you, anyway? I  mean, it.  That isn't  a per-
 son,  you  know.  It's  just  an old  spell that  never hap-
 pened."
   "I  don't  know  why he  follows me,  but he...  it does.
 Zap! I do wish you'd be quiet!"
   The   wailing,   sobbing  almost-sound   continued.  Chane
 sighed,  stood,  and  looked  around. They  were on  a wide,
 rubbly  ledge  with  another  wall  of  shorn  stone  ahead.
 But, as the kender had  pointed out,  the wall  diminished a
 short  distance  away and  a path  began there,  angling up-
 ward.  Abruptly  evening  had  come,  with  the  setting  of

  the sun beyond the valley's other rim, but there  still was
  lingering twilight.
    "We have time to go on a little farther," Chane decided.
  "I wonder if we're anywhere near that green path."
    "The one I can't see?" Chess spread his hands. "I
  haven't the vaguest idea."
    Chane  looked  one  way,  then   the  other,   along  the
  mountain's  slope.  He  rubbed  his  forehead,  feeling the
  tingle there, but saw no green trail.  Still, he  knew from
  last sighting that he was  somewhere near  it. From  a dis-
  tance, it  had appeared  there was  a shallow  pass between
  peaks  above,  and  the  dwarf had  assumed that  the trail
  was going there. But by what route'! He  went to  his pack,
  fumbled  around  inside  it, then  looked up.  "Where's my
  gem?"
    "Your what?"
    "Spellbinder! Where is it?"
    The  kender  looked  thoughtful,  then  snapped  his fin-
  gers  and  reached  into  his  own  pouch.  "Do   you  mean
  this?" He pulled  out the  red stone,  which pulsed  with a
  steady  rhythm  as  the  dwarf  reached  an  angry  hand to
  take  it.  'You  must  have  dropped  that  somewhere," the
  kender said innocently. "I guess  I picked  it up  for you.
  Don't bother to thank me."
    "What else do you have in that pouch that isn't
  yours?" Chane growled.
    Chess  peered  into  his  pouch.  "I  don't know.  I lose
  track. Here's a marble of some  kind that  I found  on that
  old battlefield. And some nice pebbles, and a  toad's skull
  ...a couple  of candles,  some twine,  an earring,  a twig.
  What's  this?  Oh, a  pair of  nice cat-tooth  daggers." He
  pulled out one  of the  daggers. "Didn't  you used  to have
  one like this?"
    "I had two like that," the dwarf rumbled.
    "Did you? What did you do with them?"
    "Give me that!" Chane growled.
    Chess handed over the dagger, then closed his pouch.
  "If you're  going to  expect me  to replace  everything you
  lose -"
    "Oh,  shut  up!"  Chane   stopped  abruptly   and  looked

 around.  "Well,  one  good thing.  Your spell  has stopped
 wailing."
   The  kender  listened  for a  moment, then  grinned. "He
 has, hasn't he? Thank you, Zap."
   "Agony," something voiceless mourned.
   With  the Spellbinder  gem in  his hand,  Chane pointed.
 'There it is. The  green line.  It goes  up the  by-path." He
 hoisted pack, sword, and hammer. "Are you ready?"
   "Look  at  that!"  The   kender  pointed   upward.  Over-
 head,  great  flocks  of  birds  flew,  coming from  the high
 peaks, winging toward the valley. Birds of  all sorts,  a mi-
 gration of panic.
   Chane watched them, wave after wave coming past.
 "What do you suppose  caused that?"  he wondered
 aloud.
   "Whatever it was,  the birds  are in  a hurry,"  the kender
 said.  "See  those   out  ahead?   Those  are   pigeons.  And
 mountain   kites,   and   jays,   and  ducks,   and...  stand
 back!" Chess  swiftly pulled  a pebble  from his  pouch, fit-
 ted the sling to his staff, placed the pebble, aimed, and let
 go.  The  pebble  streaked  skyward, and  an instant  later a
 large  bird  crumpled  in  flight and  fell, thudding  to the
 shelf almost at Chane's feet.
   "Goose,"  the  kender explained.  "I'm getting  tired of
 dried cat. We'll have this for supper."
   Chane gaped at him. "How did you do that?"
   "With a pebble. I thought  you saw."  He picked  up the
 goose and slung it over his  shoulder. "See  if you  can find
 some   berries   along   the   way.   Snowberries   will  do.
 They're  the  yellow  ones  on  the  thorny  vines.  Snowber-
 ries  go good  with goose."  Chess started  up the  path, and
 the  dwarf  followed, still  glancing in  awe at  the smaller
 creature's forked hoopak.
   Overhead,  the   waves  of   fleeing  birds   continued  to
 pass.  And   now  Chess   and  Chane   had  company   on  the
 slope.  The kender  and the  dwarf dodged  aside as  a lithe,
 furred  creature  with  sharp  horns  bounded  past  them.  A
 few  yards  farther  along they  hugged the  stone wall  as a
 line  of  other creatures,  these with  heavy coats  of thick
 wool,  surged  past them,  bleating in  panic. At  the higher

 ledge, where the trail cut  back toward  the peaks,  the two
 dived  for  cover  as a  pair of  panting wolves  loped down
 the path, followed by several elk.
   "Do  you  suppose  winter  is  coming  early  this year "
 The  kender  stepped  out on  the trail  to look  after the
 strange  procession,  then  dodged  back  as  more  of  the
 woolly creatures charged past him.
   "They're   running   from   something,"  Chane   said.  "I
 guess that settles it. We'll camp here.  A person  could get
 hurt  going  up  that  path,  with  everything  else  coming
 down."
   Two  huge  highland  bison  charged  past  the  ledge  and
 veered  away,  following  the  downward  path.  Another  elk
 was  right  behind  them,  cavorting  in desperation  as the
 heavier  animals  blocked   its  way.   Then  more   of  the
 woolly creatures. One of them wore a collar with a bell.
   "Somebody's  sheep,"  Chess  noted.  "111  bet  there's  a
 pretty unhappy herder up there somewhere."
   "I think we'd better get a little farther from this path,"
 Chane  decided.  "Camping  here  would  be  like  trying  to
 sleep  in a  tunnelwagon turnaround.  Rust, but  the traffic
 is heavy."
   They  trudged  along  the  ledge,  away  from   the  path,
 rounded  a  sheer bend,  and saw  a rubble-slope  ahead. Af-
 ter  testing  it,  Chane  began  to  climb. The  kender fol-
 lowed, carrying his  goose. The  bird was  almost as  big as
 he was.
   They  were  climbing  by   moonlight  when   they  reached
 a  quiet  swale  higher  up  -  well  beyond  and  above the
 noisy  switchback  with its  stampeding animals.  "This will
 do," Chane said. "I'll  make a  cookfire back  there, behind
 that outcrop. You can cook the goose."
   "Did you get some snowberries?" Chess asked hope-
 fully.
   "I haven't had a chance. We'll do without."
   By the time the goose was roasted, both the white
 moon and the  red stood  above the  peaks, giving  their di-
 chromatic glow to the  steep slopes  and the  forest-tops of
 the distant valley. The two ate in silence, except for occa-
 sional  outbursts  of  commentary  and  chatter by  the ken-

  der,  most  of which  Chane Feldstone  chose to  ignore. The
  dwarf sat deep  in thought,  occasionally rubbing  his fore-
  head,  which  tingled  when  the  light  of  the   red  moon
  touched  it.  A  secret  way  into  Thorbardin,  and Grallen
  had learned of it. Like a third gate,  he thought.  One that
  nobody knew about.
    He thought  of Thorbardin,  exploring in  his mind  all of
  the  myriad  ways   and  working   clusters  of   the  unde-
  rmountain  kingdom  -  as  much  of  it as  he had  seen and
  could recall. Clearest  to him  in memory  were the  city of
  the  Daewar,  the  only  home  he  had  ever known,  and the
  warrens  where  he  had  worked  for his  keep from  time to
  time - first tending fields, then helping with  the constant
  delving  by  which the  dwarves sought  to expand  their un-
  derground  crop  lands.  Clearly  he recalled  Twelfth Road,
  which he had passed so of ten as a child. Less distinctly he
  knew  the  Tenth,   Eleventh,  Thirteenth,   and  Fourteenth
  Roads,   by   which    Daewar   conducted    commerce   with
  other cities of Thorbardin.
    Dimly,  from  one  brief  visit,  he recalled  the awesome
  Life-Tree, home of the Hylar. Their city  was delved  into a
  giant  stalactite  above  the  great,   subterranean  Urkhan
  Sea.  As  an  orphan  Chane  had  possessed  the  appearance
  of Hylar in his build and  features, and  later even  in the
  manner  in  which  his  beard  lay  back against  his cheeks
  rather   than  hanging   resignedly  downward.   The  Hylar,
  he  had  thought  as  a  child,  had  a  fierce   and  noble
  appearance   -   and   undoubtedly   some  among   them  had
  such qualities,  though there  were plenty  of Hylar  who in
  practice were no more noble than the average Daewar.
    Still,  Chanc's  beard grew  in the  Hylar manner,  and it
  did not displease him  that it  made him  look as  though he
  were  standing  sturdy  and  proud,  facing  down  a  strong
  wind.
    The Valley of the Thanes,  noblest place  in all  of Thor-
  bardin,  Chane  had  seen  only  once.  He  wondered briefly
  if the supposed "secret  way" could  lead there.  The valley
  was  sacred  to  the  dwarves,  for  it contained  a magical
  floating tomb - final resting place of  the great  King Dun-
  can,  some  said.  And  the  tomb  of  Grallen,   which  lay

  nearby on the lakeshore, was,  after all,  the only  place in
  Thorbardin  that  was  open  to  the  sky.  Yet the  only ac-
  cesses  to the  Valley of  the Thanes  were three  roads from
  within  Thorbardin itself.  And certainly  if there  were the
  slightest   passage-point   through   the   Guardian   Walls,
  somebody within would have noticed it.
        Not the Valley of the Thanes then, Chane decided.
    And not Southgate, which was the common entrance
  to  Thorbardin  since  the Cataclysm,  nor likely  the mostly
  abandoned  Northgate,  with   its  shattered   portal  ledge.
  Northgate  might  be  unused,  Chane  told himself,  but it's
  not  undefended.  It  was  equipped  for the  same impenetra-
  ble defenses as Southgate.
    Possibly  some  long-forgotten  tunnel  or   shielded  pass
  breaking  through  into  one of  the warrens,  or one  of the
  lower  cities?  Kiar,  Theiwar...  Daergar?  It  didn't  seem
  likely to him. Surely someone would have noticed.
    "There's  a  creature with  long, flexible  arms and  not a
  bone in its body."
    Chane looked up. "What? Where?"
    "In  the  Sirrion  Sea,"  the kender  said. "Aren't  you pay-
  ing  attention? That's  what I'm  talking about.  The Sirrion
  Sea.  They  also  say  that  there is  a gigantic  island out
  there, just far enough from the  Isle of  Sancrist to  be out
  of sight, that isn't an island at all. It's really  a gnomish
  ship,  hundreds  and  hundreds  of years  old, that  was sup-
  posed to  drive itself  by a  geared rod  with a  weight atop
  it. The  reason it's  in the  sea, they  say, is  because the
  gnomes who  built it  set out  westward and  that was  as far
  as they got before the falling rod buried itself in the ocean
  floor.  They've  been  working  on it  ever since,  trying to
  iron out all the bugs, and it just  keeps getting  bigger and
  bigger."
    With  a  low  growl,  Chane   Feldstone  returned   to  his
  own  thoughts.  The  First  Roads  One of  the Halls  of Jus-
  tice?  There  was  so  much  to  Thorbardin, so  many differ-
  ent  parts  and places  in the  kingdom beneath  the Kharolis
  Mountains.  Chane  Feldstone  had  seen   so  few   of  them,
  and  almost  none  of  the  outside  perimeters  and  capping
  peaks that protected the dwarven kingdom.

 Chane sighed and tried another tack.
 Grallen  had  learned...  so the  Irda said...  that there
 was  a  secret  entrance,  and  that  Thorbardin   would  be
 threatened  by  invasion  because  of  that   entrance.  But
 where  was  it'!  Grallen  had not  been in  Thorbardin when
 he learned of  that; he  had been  outside, fighting  in the
 Dwarfgate  Wars.  Grallen  had  not  returned alive,  but he
 had tried - or at least intended - to  find the  secret pas-
 sage and block it somehow.
  The  dwarf  rubbed  his  chin.  Where,  then,   did  Grallen
 go? Using his crystal, Chane could see a green line  that he
 intended  to  follow.  It was,  he trusted,  Grallen's path.
 And yet, where did it lead?
 "Five unicorns," Chestal Thicketsway said.
 Again the dwarf glanced around, startled. "Where7"
  "What?"
  "You said 'five unicorns.' Where?"
  "Oh,  all  over," the  kender shrugged.  "I'm not  even sure
 I  believe  him,  you  know.  Capstick Heelfeather  has been
 known to exaggerate.  But that's  what he  says. He  says he
 has personally seen five  unicorns. So  far, I've  only seen
 one."
  "I wish that wizard would come back," the dwarf
 muttered.
  "Why? I thought you didn't like him."
 "I don't. I wouldn't trust that mage as far  as I  can spit,
 but he  knows a  lot of  things about  outside that  I don't
 know."
  "Is  that all?"  The kender  brightened. "I've  been outside
 all my life. What do you want to know?"
  "Well,  to  begin  with,  where  exactly was  Grallen when
 he died?"
  "I  haven't  the  foggiest  notion,"  Chess  said happily.
  "Ask me something else."
 Shaking  his  head  in  exasperation,  Chane  went  back  to
 his puzzle. How am I supposed to find  a secret  entrance if
 no one has a  clue to  its location?  he wondered.  And even
 if there is a secret entrance, and I find it, what am I sup-
 posed  to  do  about it?  Apparently the  only one  who ever
 knew  anything  about  any  of  this  was  Grallen,  and  he

 died  a  long, long  time ago  and never  told anybody...
 did he?
   Chane  shook  his  head.  If  Grallen did  tell someone
 about  the  entrance,  why  didn't somebody  do something
 about it back then? Or since? Why me?
   "Dwarves  and  humans,"  the  kender  said.  "At  least
 that's what I -"
   "Will  you  please  be  quiet?"  Chane  stormed. "Can't
 you see I'm trying to think?"
   "I'm just trying to tell you, there are dwarves and hu-
 mans down there."
   "Where?"
   "On the path, where all  the animals  were. But  the ani-
 mals  are  mostly  past  now, and  there are  people over
 there, going down that path as fast as they can.  Some of
 them are bleeding, too. I wonder what's going on."

 Chapter 16

      From the top op a rock outcrop, Chane and
 Chess had a view of the  path. It  was below,  and some
 distance  away,  and the  moonlight cast  eerie shadows
 where the slopes rose above it. But it was a  view, and
 Chane  crouched there,  staring in  wonder at  the dark
 shapes moving down  the cutback  slope. Dozens  were in
 view, people of all sizes. Some were dwarves,  and some
 were  taller  - humans,  perhaps. Some  scampered along
 the  downward path,  turning often  to look  back. Some
 moved more slowly, clinging to  one another;  some sup-
 porting others, some being carried.
  Behind the first wave of refugees came a small knot of
 figures brandishing spears and swords, moving slowly.
 A few  were shouting  at those  ahead, urging  them on.

 Others at the  rear faced  back up  the path,  their weapons
 at the ready.
   "Somebody's  chasing  them,"  Chess  said.  "That's  their
 rear guard. I wonder who's after them."
   Slowly  the  fleeing people  made their  way down  the an-
 gled  by-path,  disappearing  by  twos  and  threes  as they
 reached  the   cutback  below   and  rounded   the  shoulder
 there.  Shouts and  cries carried  upward, distorted  by the
 spires and tumbles of the mountainside and by distance.
   "Let's get closer," Chane decided. "I can't  tell anything
 from here." He rose and  turned to  find the  kender already
 gone,   scrambling   across   tumble-slopes,   leaping  from
 stone  to  stone,  heading for  a better  view of  the path.
 Chane hurried after him.
   For  long  moments  the  dwarf  and  the  kender  were out
 of sight of the path, but then they emerged  on a  ledge di-
 rectly above it and looked  down the  length of  the sloping
 angle  between  cutbacks.  The  path was  empty now,  as far
 as they could see.  But just  opposite the  two, in  a shad-
 owed  canyon   from  which   the  path   emerged,  something
 was  moving,  coming  toward   the  turn.   Heavy  footfalls
 crunched  in  the  rubble  of the  path. Footfalls...  and a
 deep, harsh voice that broke into cruel laughter.
   "See   'em   run!"   the   voice   rumbled  up   from  the
 shadows.  "Blood  an'  gore.  Me,  I  go  an' find  me more.
 Bash  'ere skulls  an' break  'ere bones!  Let 'em  go? Haw!
 Not me. Not Loam!"
   The  figure  that  emerged  from the  darkness was  huge -
 a  massive,  wide-bodied  thing  that  loped  down  the path
 on  bowed,  gnarled  legs.  It  carried a  huge club  in one
 hand, which it flailed as though it were a twig.
   '%lake  'em  run!"  the  thing bellowed  as it  passed di-
 rectly  below  the  dwarf  and the  kender. "Make  'em fleet
 Make 'em die... in agony. Hee, hee!"
   It skidded in the  rubble, faltered  for just  an instant,
 and  changed   course,  heading   down  the   cutback  where
 the fleeing people had gone.
   "What in tarnish is that?" Chane whispered.
   "Ugly, isn't it!" the kender said. 'They're even uglier in
 front. Here, I'll show you."

   Before  Chane  could  react, the  kender stood,  drew his
 hoopak-sling,  and  sent  a large  pebble flying  after the
 monster. The pebble bounced  off the  thing's skull  with a
 distant  thud.  Howling,  the  monster  slapped  a  massive
 hand  to  its  insulted  head  and  spun  around.  Moon-red
 eyes  in  a  massive,  heavy-browed  face  darted  this way
 and that, then came to rest on the dwarf and the kender.
   "Oops," Chess said.
   With  a roar  that reverberated  off the  mountain peaks,
 the  great  creature  started  up  the  path  toward  them,
 swinging its club.
   "Anyway,"  Chess  said, "now  you have  a better  look at
 it. I'll bet you've never seen an ogre before. Have you?"
   "Puny  things!"  the   ogre  roared,   gaining  momentum.
 "Throw rock at me? Loam last thing you will see!"
   "What  did  you  do  that for?"  the dwarf  growled. "Now
 look what -"
   "I didn't expect him to  be quite  so cranky,"  Chess ex-
 plained,  interrupting.  His  hoopak-sling  sang   and  an-
 other  pebble  -  this  one  larger  -  smashed   into  the
 advancing ogre's face, full  on his  wide nose.  Dark blood
 spurted, then  dripped downward,  veiling the  thing's gro-
 tesque  mouth.  The  ogre  roared  again  and  sprinted to-
 ward them.
   "I think he's really angry," the kender said. "This one's
 yours. I'd better look around and see if there are others."
   "What?"  Chane  turned,  but  the  kender   was  already
 gone,  leaping  nimbly  from  one  rock  to   another,  up-
 slope, pausing here and there to peer  down into  the shad-
 owed pathway below.
   "Rust  and  tarnish!"  Chane  stared  at   the  advancing
 monster.  The  thing  was  tall  enough  to reach  him with
 its  club,  even  from  the  path below  the rock  where he
 still crouched.  And it  was coming  fast. He  fingered the
 hilt of his sword, then decided against it and  unslung his
 hammer.
   "Kharas aid me now," the dwarf breathed.
   Backing  up  a  step from  the edge  of the  rock, Chane
 glanced quickly at its moonlit top,  then knelt  and swung.
 He struck  stone with  the spike-end  of his  hammer. Again

 he swung.  Then the  dwarf ducked  as a  hand the  size of
 his  back  appeared above  the stone  and swung  a massive
 club that whuffed over him.
   Chane's  hammer  rang  again  on  the  surface   of  the
 stone, and again. The great  club rose  above him  and de-
 scended,  crunching  into  the  stone  beside  him  with a
 sound of thunder. Again the cudgel  was raised  aloft, and
 this time Chane had  to throw  himself to  one side  as it
 smashed  down  where  he  had  been.  He  rolled,  righted
 himself,  and  swung  his   hammer  again.   The  weapon's
 spike sank into stone,  making another  hole in  a precise
 line of holes that - he hoped - followed a faint flaw line
 in the rock.
   Just  beyond  and  below  the  rock  outcrop,  the  ogre
 leaped upward.  For an  instant its  eyes were  level with
 Chane's.  The  dwarf  dodged,   and  the   club  descended
 again,  raising a  cloud of  stonepowder. The  ogre's roar
 was a rising, echoing  thunder of  rage. The  club thudded
 here  and  there,  searching  for  Chane...  then  paused.
 The  sounds  beyond told  the dwarf  that the  monster was
 climbing. He sighted on the fault line and swung again.
   The  top of  the ogre's  head came  into view,  then its
 eyes. The creature bellowed in huge  pleasure when  it saw
 that the dwarf was trapped there with  sheer cliff  at his
 back and no place to go. The ogre clung  to the  stone and
 raised  its  massive  club. Chane  scooped stone  dust and
 threw it into the huge, grinning, bloody face.
   The  ogre  roared in  rage, lost  its hold,  and dropped
 from  view.  Quickly, though,  it started  climbing again.
 Chanc's  hammer  rang. The  sound of  its impact  was dif-
 ferent  now,  a  slight,  hollow  echo  accompanying  each
 stroke.  And  the spike  sank deeper  into the  stone with
 each  swing.  Again  the  massive  hand appeared  with its
 club,  and  descended  a  blow  that would  have flattened
 and crushed  the dwarf,  had it  found him.  Chane panted,
 concentrating  on  his  work.  The  scrabbling  sounds  of
 clumsy  climbing  began  again, and  the ogre's  head came
 into view.
   Chane  raised  his  hammer  one  last  time,  whispered,
 "Reorx, guide my maul,"  and brought  it down  against the

  stone. The  sound of  the impact  seemed to  go on  and on,
  the  ringing  strike  becoming a  deep, low  grinding sound
  as the fault  opened... a  hair line  that became  an inch,
  then another inch... then a cleft a foot across,  that wid-
  ened  abruptly  and  crashed  away  into  the  walled path-
  way below, carrying the ogre  with it.  Chane crept  to the
  newly  sheared  edge  of  the  outcrop  and   looked  down.
  The  pathway  beneath  was  a jumble  of fallen  stone, its
  walled  opening  filled  halfway  to  the  top. A  cloud of
  stone dust hung above it, veiling the moons' light.
    Slinging  his  hammer,  Chane  took  his  sword  in  hand
  and  bounded  down  to  the  rockfall, searching  for open-
  ings. He found a wide slit, thrust his  sword into  it, and
  prodded  as  far as  the blade  would go.  Somewhere under-
  foot,  distant-sounding  and  muffled,  the ogre  howled in
  outrage. Chane went looking for wider fissures.
    He was  still darting  back and  forth across  the tumble
  of  slab-stone  when  the  kender  reappeared,  just above,
  crouched  on  the  sheared  ledge. "What  did you  do with
  your  ogre?"  the  smaller one  asked. "I  hear him,  but I
  don't see him."
    "He's  under these  rocks," the  dwarf snapped.  "I can't
  reach him."
    "Well, that's not so bad,"  Chess shrugged.  "That means
  he can't reach you, either. Of course, if you'd  killed him
  first,  then  buried him,  you wouldn't  have this  sort of
  problem. Don't you know anything about ogres?"
    "This is the first one I ever saw," Chane  growled, prod-
  ding  into  another  crack  with  his  sword.  Beneath  the
  rocks something yelped, and the pile of stone shuddered.
    "Well,  you may  have the  chance to  see some  more, if
  that's what  you want.  There's something  else up  there -
  quite a distance away, but definitely up the path. It might
  be  another  ogre...  maybe  several.  They  tend  to  come
  in bunches, you know."
    "No, I didn't know."
    "Kind  of like  goblins," the  kender said.  'You hardly
  ever  find  one goblin  without finding  a lot  of goblins.
  Which reminds me, I thought for  a minute  up there  that I
  could smell goblins. Have you ever smelled goblins?"

  "Not intentionally. What do they smell like?"
  "Oh, I don't know." The kender pondered it, finding
 the  challenge  interesting.  "They  smell  like, uh,  maybe a
 sort of  a mixture  of fresh  manure and  dead frogs.  I don't
 know.   Goblins   smell  like   goblins.  Anyway,   you  don't
 generally  find ogres  and goblins  in the  same place  at the
 same time. That's why I was surprised to smell goblins."
  Chane  made  a  final  pass  from  one  end  of  the rockfall
 to  the  other,  but found  no opening  large enough  to reach
 the buried  ogre with  more than  just the  tip of  his sword.
 The  kender,  watching  him,  went  to one  of the  cracks the
 dwarf  had  already  tried  and inserted  the butt-end  of his
 hoopak,  then  plunged  it  downward  as  hard  and   as  deep
 as he was able. Beneath their  feet, the  pile of  stones rum-
 bled  and  quaked,  and  a trilling  bellow emerged  from var-
 ious crevices.
  "I think he's ticklish," Chess observed.
  "I  think  we should  get out  of here  before he  really be-
 comes  irritated,"  Chane   said.  Thoughtfully,   he  reached
 into  his pack  and touched  the hard,  warm facets  of Spell-
 binder.  Instantly  the  faint,  green  guideline  was  there,
 leading up  the switchback  trail, heading  for the  pass high
 above.  Yet  the  kender  said  there   were  more   ogres  up
 there,  and  maybe goblins,  as well.  Chane realized  that he
 had never seen a goblin either. He didn't  relish the  idea of
 meeting  some  of  them  just  now,  though.  The  ordeal with
 the ogre had left him shaken.
  'maybe the thing to  do," he  told himself,  "is to  go after
 those  people  who  were  running  down  the  path   and  find
 out what they know about what's waiting above."
  Chess looked around, frowning. "Don't you want to
 see for yourself? I do."
  "I'd  just  as  soon know  what I'm  getting myself  into be-
 fore I get into it," Chane decided aloud.  "I'm going  to talk
 to  some  of  those  people.  You can  go on  up there  if you
 want to."
       "Good idea," something soundless seemed to say. "Let's
 go."
  "Hush, Zap," the kender said. "I know what you're try-
 ing to do."

  "Misery," the spell mourned.
 The dwarf glanced around. He was growing accus-
 tomed to the ditherings of the kender's companion, but it
 still bothered him.
  "Zap  thinks  if  I  take  him far  enough away  from you
 and Spellbinder, that he can happen,"  Chess said  with a
 shrug.
  The  dwarf  had  already  started  back  down  the zigzag
 trail, so the kender followed him. Chess looked  back to-
 ward  the  distant heights  now and  then and  wished the
 old spell hadn't attached itself to him.
  Full  morning lay  on the  valley by  the time  Chane and
 the kender rounded a bluff on  the mountain's  long slope
 and  saw  people  ahead.  Where a  stream came  down from
 the  heights,  two  rough camps  had been  established, a
 few hundred yards  apart. The  larger camp,  and farthest
 from  the rising  mountain, was  of dwarves.  The nearer,
 smaller camp - no more than a few  cookfires and  bits of
 bedding where injured people  rested -  held a  few dozen
 humans.
  As  the  dwarf and  the kender  neared, those  humans ca-
 pable of  holding weapons  came out  part way  and formed
 a defensive  line, watching  the newcomers  carefully. In
 the dwarf camp  beyond, people  scurried here  and there;
 twenty or thirty dwarves soon came at a  run to  join the
 human fighters.
  When   they   were   near   enough,   Chane   cupped  his
 hands at his cheeks and called, "Hello there! Can we join
 you? We're peaceful!"
  There  was  hesitation, then  a burly  human with  a full
 beard stepped out of the line and called, "Who are you?"
  "I'm  Chane  Feldstone,"  the  dwarf   returned.  "That's
 Chestal  Thicketsway.  We were  on our  way up  the moun-
 tain when you passed us. I want to talk to you."
 "There  were  ogres  and  goblins  behind  us,"  the  man
 said, shading his eyes against the  morning sun.  "If you
 came from there, how did you get past them?"
  "We  only  saw  one  ogre," Chane  called, "and  no gob-
 lins, though there may have been some higher up."
  "How did you get past the ogre you saw?"

   Chestal   Thicketsway   danced   forward,   past   Chane.
 "Chane  Feldstone  is  a famous  warrior," he  shouted. "He
 dumped rocks on your ogre and buried him."
   "I'm  not  famous,"  Chane  hissed  at the  beaming kender.
 He  turned  his attention  to the  people ahead.  Closer now,
 he  could  see  them  clearly.  Many   of  them   had  fresh,
 bound  wounds,  and  those  huddling  in  the  two  camps be-
 yond  were  in  a  sorry  shape.  "Who  are you  people?" he
 called. "Where have you come from?"
   The   humans   and   dwarves  -   and  women   among  them,
 Chane  noted,  of  both races  - relaxed  visibly as  the two
 strangers  came  near  and  they saw  that they  weren't gob-
 lins.  The  burly  man  lowered his  pike and  tapped himself
 on  the  chest  with  a  grimy   thumb.  "I'm   Camber  Meld.
 That's  Fleece  Ironhill  over  there."  He pointed  toward a
 gray-bearded  hill  dwarf  standing just  ahead of  a phalanx
 of  armed  soldiers.  "We're  chiefs  of  our   people.  We
 have - er, had - villages a mile  apart in  the Vale  of Res-
 pite. That's the next  valley over.  His people  are herders.
 Mine  are  growers.  Or  were."  He  looked   around,  blank-
 eyed. "I guess what you see is all that are left."
   Chane  stopped  just a  few paces  from the  leaders, look-
 ing from one to the other. "What happened?"
   "They  fell  on  us  just at  daybreak," the  dwarven chief
 said. "An army of goblins  and several  ogres. First  my vil-
 lage, then Camber's. We didn't have a chance."
   "We  fought,"  the  man  corrected.  "For  three  days,  we
 fought, first in the villages, then retreating up the slopes.
 But  there  were  too  many  of  them,  and  we  weren't pre-
 pared   for   defense.  There   haven't  ever   been  goblins
 around here, and not many ogres."
   "But there are now," Fleece growled.
   Chane stared at them bewildered. "What did they
 want? Why did they attack you?"
   "Base for the Commander," the dwarven chief said.
 "One  of  my  herders  hid  in  a  ravine  and heard  some of
 them talking.  That's what  they said.  'The Vale  of Respite
 would  serve  as  a  base  for   the  Commander.'   And  they
 were taking slaves."
     "Is that why they followed you over the ridge?" Chane

 asked.
   "Ogres followed," the dwarven chief muttered. "Two
 of  them,  at  least, though  one may  have stopped  to tor-
 ture a  few of  our people  who fell  behind. The  other one
 was right behind us."
   "Why   do   ogres   follow   anyone?"   the   human  leader
 snarled  at  Chane.  "To  torture, to  mutilate, to  kill." He
 looked at Chane curiously. "But you got him, huh?"
   "I didn't kill him," Chane said. "I tried to, but all I man-
 aged was to bury him under some rock."
   "We irritated him, though," Chess said helpfully.
   The  dwarven  chief  also  was  gazing at  Chane, studying
 him. 'You don't look like a hill dwarf," he said.
   "I'm not. I'm from Thorbardin."
   The  hill  dwarf sucked  in his  breath, his  eyes narrowing
 to slits.  He half-raised  the axe  he carried,  then shrugged
 and  let  it  down.  "Mountain  dwarf,"  he  rumbled.  "But I
 guess that war was over a long time ago."
   Chane  thought  abruptly  of  the ice-field  - only  a few
 miles  away  -  where  two  kinds  of dwarves  remained fro-
 zen in bloody, ancient conflict. "I hope so," he said.

 Chapter 17

     The dwarf and the kender rested that nigtt in
 the humans' camp. Despite Fleece Ironhill's concession, a
 mountain  dwarf  still  was  more  welcome  among  humans
 than  among   hill  dwarves.   What  remained   in  their
 packs - a few pounds of dried cat,  some rolls  of goose,
 and a piece  of flatbread  - they  shared. The  humans in
 turn shared some of the meager  provisions they  had car-
 ried in their retreat from the goblin marauders.
 It  was  a  sad  and sorry  camp, as  was the  dwarf camp
 just  beyond.  Everywhere,  there  were  injured  people.
 And everywhere there was grief.
 Chane sat apart for a time, talking with the human
 chief, Camber Meld. Then he curled up and went to
 sleep, wondering how  he was  to follow  the path  of the

 old warrior, Grallen, if that  path led  right into  a fresh
 nest of armed goblins and bloodthirsty ogres.
   Chestal  Thicketsway,  still  wide  awake  and  excited by
 the  rate  at  which  new  adventures  were   coming  along,
 roamed  about  the  two  camps  for a  time, then  climbed a
 hill and sat on top of it, watching  the moons  creep across
 the sky.
   In the distance, he could see the hooded fires of the ref-
 ugee  camps,  where  Chane   Feldstone  slept.   The  kender
 felt  at  his  side and  frowned. He  didn't have  his pouch
 with him. He had left it with  his pack,  back there  at the
 camp.  And  he  had  his  hoopak,  but  no  pebbles. Immedi-
 ately  Chess  scouted  around  and  found several  good peb-
 bles. He then felt much more comfortable.
   It  was  oddly  quiet,  he  noticed.  Not  so  much  as  a
 whimper   from   Zap.   Chess's   eyes   widened,   and   he
 whirled to look again at the distant fires, abruptly realiz-
 ing  that  he  was  a long  way from  Spellbinder. 'Whoops,"
 he  muttered.  Turning  full  circle, slowly,  speaking dis-
 tinctly, he said,  "Now, listen,  Zap, I  think we  ought to
 talk  about  this.  I'm  sure  we can  find a  civilized way
 to....  Zap?  Are  you  listening? I'd  really just  as soon
 you behave yourself for  a while  longer. There's  no reason
 to go off half... Zap? Zap! Where are you, anyway?"
   Nothing  responded. There  was not  the slightest  hint of
 the old spell's presence.
   "Zap,  are  you  hiding  from me?"  The kender  peered all
 about  even  though  he  knew  that  there would  be nothing
 to  see.  "Look,  if  you're tired  of following  me around,
 that's all right with me. No problem at  all. I  never could
 figure  out  why  you  were  tagging after  me in  the first
 place." He paused and listened again. "If  you want  to just
 head  out  on  your own,  I certainly  won't hold  a grudge.
 In fact, that might be the best thing you could do.  Just go
 along by yourself - the farther the  better, of  course, and
 do  your destiny,  whatever that  is. You  might get  a real
 bang  out  of  that,  don't you  think?" The  kender frowned
 at  the  absolute  lack  of  response.  "Zap! I  know you're
 around somewhere. Where are you?"
      Still there was no answer. The kender sat on a rock,

  deep  in  thought.  Maybe  the  spell  had  come  up  with a
  new  tactic,  he reasoned.  Maybe it  would try  to convince
  him that it was gone, to lull him into taking it to where it
  could  explode.  On  the  other  hand,  maybe  this  was al-
  ready far enough away for it to explode.
    Then  again,  maybe  it wasn't  here at  all. But  if not,
  where was  it? It  had been  attached to  him since  the day
  on  the  old  battlefield  where  he had  first met  it. How
  could it be unattached now? Unless....
    Chess snapped  his fingers  and grinned.  He had  left his
  pouch  and  his  pack   at  the   humans'  camp.   Maybe  it
  wasn't him  that Zap  was attached  to, but  his belongings.
  Maybe  it  was  attached  to his  pouch! That  could explain
  the  awful  wailing  the  spell  had been  doing, up  on the
  mountainside. If  it was  attached to  his pouch  and Spell-
  binder  had  been  in his  pouch... well,  he could  see how
  Zap might have been pretty unhappy about that.
    With  a  grin,  Chestal Thicketsway  realized that  he had
  found a solution to a problem.  If Zap  was attached  to his
  pouch,  all he  needed to  do was  make a  new pouch  and go
  off and leave the old  one. Then  he'd be  rid of  the pesky
  spell once and for all. He  began to  think about  the mate-
  rials he would need for a pouch.
    "Hellothere," a voice said. "Isthatyou?"
    Chess jumped to his feet, spinning around.
    "Up  here,"  the voice  said more  slowly. "It's  me, Bob-
  bin. Do you have any raisins I"
    Overhead,   the   wide-winged  soarwagon   floated,  shad-
  owy in  the light  of the  two moons.  Chess waved,  and the
  gnome  did  something  to  his  controls,  bringing  the ma-
  chine lower still.
    "I  don't  have  any  raisins,"  the kender  said. "Sorry.
  What are you doing here?"
    "Scouting,"  Bobbin  explained.  "I've  sort of  signed on
  as  chief  scout  for  the   Wingover  company...   since  I
  have  nothing  better  to  do.  I'm  looking for  danger. Do
  you have any?"
    "Not right now," Chess admitted. "I had an ogre a
  while back, though. That's pretty dangerous. And from
  what I hear, there's  plenty of  danger beyond  those peaks,

  over in the Vale of  Respite. Goblins  and ogres  have taken
  the place over. Those people out there by the fires are ref-
  ugees. Why don't you talk to them?"
    "I've   been   trying   to,"   Bobbin  snapped,   "but  my
  soarwagon   needs   some   adjustment  of   its  aerodynamic
  equivalences... which I will attend  to if  I ever  get back
  on the ground. I've been trying since  early evening  to get
  to  that  camp,  but  I  keep winding  up somewhere  else. I
  guess  you'll  have  to  give  me  my  report.  Goblins  and
  ogres,  you  say?  And you  actually met  one of  the ogres?
  What's his side of the story?"
    "I don't know. I didn't stop to chat."
    "Well, where's the ogre now?"
    "He's up  on the  mountain, buried  under several  tons of
  rock. Chane Feldstone buried him."
    "Chane Feldstone? I've heard that name."
    "I  wouldn't  be  surprised.  He's  famous, you  know. Not
  rich,  but  well  on his  way to  being famous.  I'm helping
  him." The  kender grinned  proudly. 'You  can help,  too, if
  you'll  spread  the word.  Just tell  anybody you  happen to
  see that Chane Feldstone is a famous warrior."
    "I suppose I  can do  that," the  gnome agreed.  "Where is
  Chane Feldstone?"
    "He's  over  there  where  those  people are  camped. He's
  asleep, though. Burying ogres is tiring work."
    "Well,  Wingover  wants  to  know   what's  going   on.  I
  wonder   -"   The   gnome   paused,  thinking,   then  said,
  "Maybe  we  could  offset  the lateral  drift ratio  in this
  thing, if you'd help."
    "What do you want me to do?" the kender asked
  doubtfully.
    "I'll drop  a line.  You grab  it, and  maybe you  can tow
  me over to where those people are."
    A  length  of  stout  rope  snaked  downward from  the un-
  derside  of  the  soarwagon.   Chess  dutifully   slung  his
  hoopak  on  his  back and  grasped the  rope in  both hands.
  "Now what?" the kender called.
    "Now  just  start walking,  and I'll  try to  follow along."
    Chess  shrugged,  hauled  the  rope  tight,  and  started to
      walk. For a dozen steps, the gnome's craft crept along

 above him,  obediently. Then  it stalled  in a  draft and
 edged to one  side. The  kender took  a tighter  grip and
 hauled it back toward the proper course.
   "This  may  work  out,"  the  gnome called  down. "Just
 keep going and hold tight to that line, and... oh, cross-
 current! Hang on!"
   Chess clung to the line as the soarwagon nosed  up, and
 suddenly realized  that his  feet were  no longer  on the
 ground.  He  looked down.  The hill  where he  had rested
 was falling away  below, as  was the  rest of  the world.
 Moonlit   landscapes   widened  beneath   him,  shrinking
 away to miniature forests,  streams, trails,  and ridges.
 Higher and higher the  soarwagon soared,  the bit  in its
 teeth now and the winds of altitude under its wings.
   "Would you look at that,"  the kender  breathed. "Wow!
 What a view!"
   Above  him,  the  gnome  muttered  and  swore,  working
 at his controls. "Linkjoint!" he  said in  obvious annoy-
 ance. "The zag and the zig have reversed again. I thought
 I had that fixed." He leaned out from his basket, squint-
 ing as he peered downward. "Are you still there?"
   "I certainly  hope so,"  Chess assured  him. "Otherwise
 I'm in a lot of trouble."
   "Well,  don't  just  hang there  gawking! Come  up here
 and help me. You can hand me my tools."
   "How do I get up there?" Chess asked.
   "Just  a minute.  When I  get my  hands free,  I'll winch
 you up. Don't go away."
   "I wouldn't dream of it," the kender assured him.
   Moments passed, then  Chess felt  the rope  inching up-
 ward toward the  belly of  the gnome's  invention. Winch-
 teeth  rattled  above,  and  the  great,   shadowy  wings
 seemed to close down on the kender like storm  clouds de-
 scending.  He  rotated  slowly as  he rose,  and suddenly
 there was a wickerwork surface before him.
   "Climb  in,"  Bobbin  ordered.   "Then  hand   me  that
 wobble-wrench. I have to readjust the nose attitude."
   Chess climbed into  the basket,  found and  handed over
 a  strange-looking  tool,  then resumed  his sightseeing.
 "Where are we going?"

    "I  don't  know,"  the  gnome   snapped.  "How   should  I
  know?  I  never  know  where  I'm going  from one  minute to
  the next. I spend all my time just trying to get  from where
  I didn't want to go back to where I  shouldn't have  been in
  the first place. Hand me the washer-pull."
    An  hour  passed,  and  then  another,  while   the  gnome
  did  things  to his  controls and  the kender  passed tools.
  Rising  mountainscapes  crept  by  below, cliffs  and crags,
  moonlit  steeps  and  shadowy   canyons.  Then   high  peaks
  appeared  to  either   side.  Finally,   another  landscape,
  which fell  away toward  a distant  wide valley  where fires
  burned  and  smoke  clung  like  fog  in the  lower reaches,
  spread below them.
    "I'll bet that's where all those goblins are," Chess said.
  "I'll bet that's the Vale of Respite."
    The gnome paused to look. "Is there danger there?"
    "From what I hear, there is."
    "Then  I'd  better  tell  Wingover about  it -  ah! There,
  now.  Here,  Chess, you  hold these  two strings.  Just hang
  on to them,  and don't  let them  slip. I  think I  can turn
  around now."
    Bobbin  drew  a  pair  of strings  and let  several others
  slacken.  The  soarwagon  tipped its  wings and  soared into
  a wide turn, spanning several miles of  valley below  in the
  process.
    "Can we go down for a better look?" Chess wondered
  aloud.
    "What do you want to look at?"
    "Whatever's  down  there.  Let's go  see." In  his excite-
  ment  the  kender  eased his  hold on  the two  strings, and
  the  soarwagon's  nose   pitched  downward.   Abruptly  they
  were in a screaming dive, straight  down, with  terrain ris-
  ing to meet them.
    "Oh,  let  me have  those!" Bobbin  leaned over,  took the
  strings  away  from  the  kender,  and  pulled on  them. The
  dive flattened out, and  the flying  machine raced  over the
  tops of leafless trees toward a pall of smoke just ahead.
    "This is a lot  better," Chess  observed, leaning  far out
  from the basket for a better view.
       The smoke was a thick darkness underlit by the flames

 of  many  fires  -  burning  houses,  burning  sheds, huts
 ablaze, and  haystacks smoldering.  An entire  village was
 burning, and in the distance  another lay  in ash  and em-
 bers. As the flying  machine swept  over the  fires, Chess
 saw dozens of goblins below, tending the fires  and bring-
 ing things to throw  upon them.  A few  slit-mouthed faces
 turned  upward  as  the  soarwagon  passed,  and  gaped at
 the  contrivance  sailing  through  the  smokes. Something
 struck  the  soarwagon's  frame  and  glanced   away.  The
 basket  twanged,  and  Chess  glanced  around  to  find  a
 bronze  dart  protruding through  the wicker,  inches from
 his thigh.
   "Do  you  suppose  we've  seen  enough?"  he  asked Bob-
 bin.
   A  flaming  bolt  arced  upward ahead  of them,  and the
 gnome veered his machine  to the  right. "If  those people
 set my wings afire -"
   "Those aren't people. Those are goblins."
   Another  bolt  whisked  by.  Without  hesitation,  Chess
 unslung  his  hoopak,  dug  a pebble  from his  tunic, and
 twisted around in the basket to send the stone  zinging on
 its  way.  Below  and  behind  them,  a  goblin  howled in
 pain.
   Bobbin glanced at the hoopak  thoughtfully. "I  wish I'd
 thought  to  mount  something  like  that  on  the soarwa-
 gon," he said.
   The kender shrugged. "It's just a hoopak."
     They were past the burning village then, and closing
 on the second village,  which was  little more  than glow-
 ing  sparks  wafting  from  piles  of  ash.  Chess pointed
 ahead. "Aha!" he said. "Ogres."
   "Where?"  Bobbin  leaned  to  look,  and  the  soarwagon
 executed a barrel roll at treetop level. The  kender clung
 to the basket as the gnome worked  frantically to  get the
 contrivance right side up again. When finally it  was fly-
 ing upright and level, Bobbin said, "Sorry about that."
   Chess shook his head. "I  have an  idea.... You  tend to
 the navigation, and I'll do the sightseeing."
   "How many ogres did you see?"
   "Three, I think. Can you turn around and go over

 again? I'll count them."
   "Never  mind,"  the  gnome  said.  "In  certain  circum-
 stances an informed estimate is as acceptable as quantita-
 tive data. I'm going to try to -"
   The  soarwagon's nose  lofted, and  the Vale  of Respite
 fell away behind them as the machine  headed for  the sky.
 Bobbin wrestled with his control  strings and  muttered to
 himself:  "Don't  know  why  it  does that...  only trying
 for  a reasonable  rate of  ascent... something  about the
 angle of trim on the horizontal vanes, I suppose."
   When  he  succeeded  in leveling  the soarwagon  out, it
 was  approaching  the  peaks again,  heading more  or less
 west.
   "Would  you  classify  what  we saw  back there  as dan-
 ger?" Bobbin asked.
   "It  certainly  looked  dangerous  to  me,"  Chess  said
 brightly.
   "Then I expect I should tell Wingover about it. I agreed
 to do that, you know."
   "Do you suppose you can drop me off on the way?"
   "I'll  try."  The  gnome  manipulated  strings,  and the
 soarwagon  sailed  over moonlit  ridgetops, then  down to-
 ward the refugee camps a few miles  beyond the  slopes. "I
 think we can -"
   A crosswind fluttered the box-kite nose of  the contriv-
 ance, and it veered aside,  then nosed  up and  headed for
 the sky  again, straight  up and  gaining speed.  "Oh, no.
 Link failure!" the gnome cursed.

 Chapter 18

   "This is Chane's," Jilian stated, turning the rough
 hammer over in her hands. "I'm positive it is."
 It was a crude tool, obviously wrought by someone
 who   had   almost   nothing   to   work   with.  Wingover
 crouched  beside  the  primitive  stone forge  and brushed
 his hand across the cold ashes in its firepit, then turned
 his attention to a mudstone thing beside it, puzzling over
 what it  might be.  A piece  of rock  - tough,  flaky mud-
 stone that had been shaped into a rough  oval with  a flat
 top  -  its   sides  were   bound  with   sapling  withes.
 Wingover glanced at the firepit forge again, then realized
 that the mudstone  thing, bound  as it  was atop  a fallen
 log,  had  served as  an anvil.  A contrivance  beside the
 forge  might  have served  as a  bellows. Flakes  of stone

 fallen  around  the makeshift  anvil indicated  that someone
 had done something here recently.
   "Interesting," the man muttered. "Whoever was here
 certainly made do with what was at hand. But how can
 you be sure it was Chane?"
   "He made this  hammer," Jilian  said cheerfully.  "See, it
 has his mark on it. CF. Just like on his nickeliron dagger."
   She  handed  the  tool  back to  Wingover, and  he studied
 it. "I thought it might be a  hammer," he  said. "So  we can
 suppose  that  Chane  Feldstone  did  stop  here   and  make
 himself  a  hammer.  Why  would  he have  gone off  and left
 it?"
   "Oh,  Chane  wouldn't  have   wanted  anything   as  crude
 as that," the girl explained, wondering again at  the vagar-
 ies  of  the human  mind. This  human seemed  quite intelli-
 gent  in  many  ways,  but  there were  some things  he just
 didn't  seem  to  grasp.  Things  any  dwarf   would  under-
 stand immediately.
   The man stood and  frowned at  her. "Well,  if he  made it
 and didn't want to keep it, what did he do with it?"
   "He used it to make another hammer, of course."
   Wingover  sighed  and  shook  his  head. Jilian  was prob-
 ably right, he decided. It sounded like good dwarven
 logic.
   "The inscription is right there."  She pointed.  "Right on
 top.  Here..."  Opening  her  small  pack,   Jilian  brought
 out  a  beautiful dagger  with a  mirror-bright blade  and a
 grip of ebony and brass. "Here, see the inscription  on this
 blade? It's the same as the  one on  that hammer.  I imagine
 we'll find him just any time now. Don't you think so?"
   Wingover   didn't   answer.   He   was    walking   slowly
 around the forge site, looking at the ground. He  circled it
 twice,  stopped,  and squatted  for a  closer look  at some-
 thing. Then he circled it again and  stopped to  look again,
 in a different place. "There's no clear trail," he  said fi-
 nally.  "He  might  have  gone  anywhere  from here.  But he
 wasn't alone. There  were others  with him  - at  least one,
 maybe more. One was a human, about my size."
   She blinked up at him. "How do you know that?"
   "The same way you know this thing is Chane's ham-

  mer, I guess. I know what to look for. It's called reading
  signs."
    "Outside certainly is  different from  Thorbardin," Jilian
  observed.  "In Thorbardin,  signs are  written on  planks or
  linen  and  hung  on  walls  for  people  to  see.  They say
  things like, 'Trespassers Will  Be Mutilated,'  or 'Gorlum's
  Friendly Furs,' or 'No Aghar Allowed.' "
    "Those are signs,"  the man  said. "This  is a  sign... in
  this case, footprints. But they've been here  a while,  so I
  can't tell where the trail leads from here."
    "Then  let's  keep  going the  way we  were going  and see
  what else we can find," Jilian decided.
    He  shrugged  and  stepped  toward  the  horse.  "Come on,
  then. 111  help you  up onto  Geekay," Wingover  said. "I'll
  walk and lead for a while. Maybe I can pick up a trail."
    "I'll  walk,  too," the  dwarf said,  backing away  a step.
  "I've had enough riding for a while."
    "Geekay doesn't  mind," he  told her.  "Ride if  you like."
    "He may not, but I do. I hurt."
    "You hurt?" He glanced around at her. "Where?"
    "That's none of your business," the dwarven girl
  snapped, her cheeks turning pink.
    "Oh,  I  see," he  grinned. "Saddle  sores, huh?  It won't
  last long. I'll bet this is the first horse you ever rode."
    "I never even saw a  horse until  I left  Thorbardin," she
  admitted.  "I  don't  mean  the  people  there   don't  have
  horses,  of  course.  A lot  do, but  they don't  bring them
  into  Thorbardin.  They  keep  them  outside,  in  the  pas-
  tures beyond Southgate."
    "I  know  that,"  he  said  a little  testily. He  took up
  Geekay's reins and led off, heading north.  Jilian followed,
  grateful to have her feet on solid  ground again  instead of
  bouncing  along  on  her  bottom,  behind  Wingover  in  his
  hard saddle. Riding  a horse  was just  one of  thousands of
  interesting new experiences she would  have to  tell Silicia
  about when she returned to Thorbardin.
    They  had  gone  nearly  two  miles  and  had   come  into
  open,   rolling   land   when  Wingover   glanced  westward,
  shaded  his  eyes,  and  then  pointed. Above  distant tree-
  tops, wide  wings tilted  in a  descending turn.  Bobbin was

 back.
   Jilian squinted, shading her eyes as Wingover had
 done. "I think he has someone with him," she said.
   The  flying  thing  closed until  it was  directly overhead,
 sixty  feet  above.  Two  heads appeared  at the  wicker rail,
 silhouettes  against  bright  sky. The  one farthest  aft cup-
 ped his hands and called, "Do you have any raisins yet?"
   "Sorry!"  Wingover  shouted.  "Still  no  raisins,   but  we
 have  some  other  food."  He  beckoned  to  Jilian.  "Can you
 get something together to send up to him?"
   She nodded and began opening packs. "Right away."
   Wingover shouted aloft, "What do you have to re-
 port?"
   There  was  hesitation  above,  then  the  gnome  replied,
 "Chane  Feldstone  is  a famous  warrior!" More  dimly, they
 heard him ask his passenger, "How was that?"
   "Perfect,"  another  voice said  aloft. "Tell  enough people
 that, and he'll be really famous in no time  at all.  Then all
 he has to worry about is how to get rich."
   "That's  a  kender,"  Wingover  noted.  'Where   in  Krynn
 did  that  gnome  get a  kender?" he  asked, not  really ex-
 pecting an answer. "And what kind of report is that?"
   He  started  to  repeat his  question, but  Jilian Firestoke
 had  jumped  to  her  feet,  dancing  with  excitement.  "Have
 you   seen   Chane  Feldstone?"   she  shouted.   "That's  who
 we're looking for!"
   "All  I  know  is,  he's  famous."  Bobbin  responded.  "Oh,
 yes, and we saw danger. If that food is ready, I'll try to let
 down  a   line."  Without   warning  the   soarwagon  lurched,
 nosed  upward,  and  shot  away, straight  up into  the bright
 sky. In  a moment  it was  a tiny  dot, circling  wildly, this
 way and that.
   An  hour  passed,  and  part of  another, before  the flying
 thing  approached  Wingover  and  Jilian  again.   This  time,
 as  it completed  its final  pass, a  rope descended  from be-
 neath  it  and  a small  figure slid  down to  the end  of the
 rope  and  clung  there.  He  touched down  on nimble  feet as
 the soarwagon again hovered just overhead.
   Jilian  ran  to  meet  the  newcomer,  took  the  rope  from
 him, and  attached a  parcel of  food to  it. A  winch creaked

  over their heads, and the rope rose as it was reeled in. Ji-
  lian  gaped at  the newcomer.  She had  never seen  a kender
  before. He was no taller than herself  and slight  of build.
  His  clothing  was strangely  colored, and  he had  a forked
  stick slung at his  back. He  grinned at  her -  a friendly,
  open grin on  a childlike  face that  was neither  human nor
  elf and certainly not dwarf -  but was  not so  very differ-
  ent  from  any of  them. What  she had  first thought  was a
  beard,  she now  realized was  a great  mane of  hair coiled
  and looped around his neck, resembling a fur collar.
    "I'll bet you're Jilian," the kender  said. "That  dwarf -
  ah,  I  mean  Chane  -  has  mentioned  you  several times."
  He  executed  a  slight,  courtly  bow. "I'm  Chestal Thick-
  etsway.  I've  been  helping  Chane  become rich  and famous
  so  he  can  go  back  to   Thorbardin  and   do  unpleasant
  things to your father."
    "Where is he?" she managed to say.
    "Your  father?  I  don't  know.  I  haven't seen  him. Oh,
  you  mean  Chane?  He's  out  there a  few miles...  kind of
  that  direction...   camping  with   a  bunch   of  refugees
  from the Vale  of Respite.  I'll bet  you won't  even recog-
  nize  him  in  his  new  suit. Does  he know  you're coming?
  He didn't mention that to me."
    Wingover  hurried  to  them  and  glanced  at   Chess.  "A
  kender,"   he   muttered.   Throwing   back  his   head,  he
  shouted  at  the  gnome  above.  "What  was that  about dan-
  ger? What kind of danger?"
    "Ask   him!"   Bobbin   shouted   back.  "He   knows  more
  about  it  than  I  do. I  don't suppose  you have  a number
  eleven sprocket on you, do you? I think  I'll try  to modify
  the trim-bracing to see if that will - oh, gearslip! Here it
  goes again!"
    With  a  shudder,  the  soarwagon edged  off to  one side,
  dropped  its  nose,  and  ran  straight  at  those   on  the
  ground.  As  one,  Wingover,  Jilian,  and   Chess  sprawled
  face-down.   The  soarwagon's   wire  wheels   whisked  over
  them.  It leveled  out just  above the  ground and  sped to-
  ward the base of a tall tree  a hundred  yards away.  At the
  last moment it nosed up  and climbed,  clipping twigs  as it
  shaved the treetop and  headed for  distant skies.  A stream

 of angry words drifted back on the breeze.
   Those on the  ground got  to their  feet and  stared after
 the  contrivance. 'What  was that  he was  shouting?" Jilian
 asked. "What kind of words were those?"
   "Gnomenclature,"  the  human  sighed.  He  turned  to  the
 enthralled kender. "My  name is  Wingover," he  said. "I'm
 in charge of this expedition... or at  least I  keep telling
 myself that. And I guess if we're to learn anything, it will
 have to be from you."

 * * * * *

   The  refugees  from  the  Vale of  Respite had  moved far-
 ther  west,  deeper  into  Waykeep  Valley. Pens  were being
 built for livestock,  and a  few huts  had been  erected for
 the sick and  injured. Exploring  parties were  ranging out-
 ward, followed by  gatherers gleaning  field and  forest for
 supplies to help  last out  the winter.  And a  strong guard
 perimeter  was  maintained  to  the  east, though  there had
 been no evidence of any further pursuit.
   Though  he  was  anxious  to  be on  his way,  Chane Feld-
 stone had put off his quest  long enough  to build  a sturdy
 pit-forge and begin the  making of  tools that  the refugees
 would  need.  Scavengers  from  both  the  human  and  dwar-
 ven  camps  were  sifting  through the  ruins of  nearby an-
 cient gnomish artifacts,  recovering metal  to be  fired and
 beaten into  tools and  weapons to  replace things  they had
 left behind when the goblin force attacked.
   Chane  was  shaping  a   serviceable  anvil   and  showing
 some  of  the younger  hill dwarves  how to  cut blade-stock
 when  the  hum  of  conversation  around  him  died,  and he
 looked up. And gawked.
  Jilian  Firestoke  stood  before  him,  staring  in profound
 disbelief. Jilian Firestoke, who was  supposed to  be safely
 home  in  the  Daewar  district  of  Thorbardin.  She  stood
 just yards away, here in the  wilderness, dressed  in rugged
 trail  garb  and sturdy  boots, with  a broadsword  slung at
 her back. Still, beyond all  doubt she  was the  same Jilian
 Firestoke  who  so  often  filled  his  dreams.  Morning sun
 danced  in  her  hair and  gleamed in  her bright  eyes, and
 Chane simply stared at her.

   "What  on  Krynn  are  you  doing?"  she  asked. "Those
 clothes...  I  never  saw anything  like those.  And your
 cheeks  are  ruddier  than before.  You look  older, too.
 What is that?" She pointed at his face.
   Chane groped for words and found none.
   "That spot  on his  head?" the  grinning kender  beside Ji-
 lian  asked.  "The  red moon  gave him  that. It  has some-
 thing to do with the crystal he has. The Spellbinder."
   Chane tried again. "J - Jilian?"
   "I told you he'd be surprised," the kender chatted.
   "Surprised?"  A  tall  man  with  sword  and  flinthide
 shield  came  into  Chane's  shocked  and  narrowed view.
 "I'd say he's speechless."
   "Wh - What are you... ah... Jilian?"
   "Of  course  I'm  Jilian." The  dwarven girl  shook her
 head.  "Chane,  you look  so strange.  Where did  you get
 that clothing?"
   "He hollowed out a  kitty cat."  The kender  giggled. "It
 was his first step toward becoming rich and famous."
   The   words   crowding   and   jostling  each   other  at
 Chanc's lips finally sorted themselves out. In a  roar that
 stunned  those  facing  him and  set them  back a  step, he
 said, "Jilian, what are you doing here?"
   "Why..."  She  blinked  large,  startled  eyes.  "Why, I
 came to find you. I  found out  what my  father did,  and I
 thought you might be in trouble."
   Chane's  mouth  hung  open  for  a  long moment,  then he
 closed  it  with  a  snap.  His  eyes  blazing,  Chane came
 around the forge. He strode to Jilian  and pointed  a shak-
 ing finger at her nose. "That is the stupidest thing I ever
 heard! Of  all the....  Don't you  know it's  dangerous out
 here?  You  could  be  hurt!  You  could be...  Jilian, for
 Reorx's  sake!  You  have  no  business outside,  much less
 out here in the wilderness!"
   Her  voice  shook  and  her eyes  blinked rapidly  as she
 pointed out, "You're here."
   "That's different! I can take care of myself!"
   Jilian was silent  for a  moment, the  set of  her face
 changing  from  bewilderment  to  a  smoldering  anger. She
 threw  back  her  shoulders  and planted  her hands  on her

 hips. "Well, by all that's rustproof, so can I."
   Chane  glanced  at  the  kender.  "Where did  you find
 her?"
   Chess indicated the man with the flinthide  shield. "She
 was with him."
   Chane  pivoted  toward  the  man  and  raised  his ham-
 mer. "You brought her here? By what right -"
   "Don't  shake that  thing at  me," Wingover  warned. His
 hand was at the hilt of his sword.
   "I'm  here  by  my own  doing, Chane  Feldstone," Jilian
 snapped. "I thought you'd be glad to see me."
   Chane turned from  the human.  "I am  glad to  see you,"
 he admitted. "But, Jilian, you don't belong here.  You be-
 long in Thorbardin, where you're safe."
   "I'm  safe  here,"  she said.  "You're here.  Besides, I
 brought you something. I thought you might need it."
   "What?"
   "This." She drew a dagger from her  tunic and  handed it
 to him, hilt-first.
   Chane held the dagger, turning it  in his  hands, barely
 seeing it as a sudden,  embarrassing moisture  clouded his
 eyes. It was his nickeliron knife  - the  very one  he had
 cherished for so  long, then  had lost  to the  toughs who
 routed  him   from  the   realm  of   Thorbardin.  'You...
 came all this way to bring me this?"
   "Well,  yes.  You always  said it  was important  to you."
   Chestal  Thicketsway  stepped  close  to  look at  the or-
 nate dagger. "That's pretty," he said.
   Chane glared at  him. 'You  keep your  hands off  of it.
 It's mine."
   "I wouldn't doubt it for a minute," the kender  said in-
 nocently. "Besides, I don't need it. I have a matched pair
 of  nice  cat-tooth  daggers.  Why  would  I  need another
 dagger?"
   Quite  a  crowd  seemed  to  have  gathered,  Chane  no-
 ticed.  Fleece  Ironhill  and  Camber  Meld  were  nearby,
 with  a  number of  their people  from the  refugee camps.
 Also, there was a horse.
   "Speaking  of  daggers," the  kender chattered,  "I hope
 you took  care of  my pouch  while I  was gone,  because I

 think that's what Zap is attached to."
   "That  thing  has  been  hanging  around ever  since you
 left," Chane noted absently.  "So maybe  it is  your pouch
 it's attached to."
   "Well, I plan to get rid of that pouch," Chess said.
   Near  at  hand,  something  silent  seemed  to  say, "Yes,
 do. Please."
   Several of those  present jumped,  and some  turned full
 circle, searching.
   "What was that?" Jilian Firestoke asked.
   "That was  Zap." Chess  shrugged. "Spooky,  isn't he?"
   "It's an unexploded spell," Chane told the  girl. "Chess
 accumulated it somewhere."
   "He  wants to  happen," Chess  explained, "but  he can't
 because he's too close to Chane, and Chane has  the Spell-
 binder."
   "Well,  when we  come to  someplace harmless,  you can
 throw  away  your  pouch  and  that should  put an  end to
 that," the dwarf said.
   "Soon, please," Zap's soundless voice sounded.
   "All right," the kender agreed. "But  you'll have  to wait
 until I make a new pouch to  keep all  my things  in. I've
 got  some pretty  good stuff  in that  pouch, and  I don't
 want to lose any of it."
   For  a  moment  there  was  silence, then  the silence
 seemed to weep a thin, bitter wail of frustration.
   "Look, I don't know  what all  this is  about," Wingover
 said, "but I'd sure like to have a serious talk with some-
 body."
   "You  will."  A new  voice spoke  - a  voice as  cold as
 winter's  frost. "Tis  time you  knew where  you're going,
 man of the far places. Not that you've a choice,  any more
 than anyone else."
  No one, apparently, had seen him arrive. But he stood
 among them now, tall and thin, leaning  on his  staff. Be-
 neath his bison cloak, the hem of his faded red robe iden-
 tified him.
   "A wizard," Wingover muttered.
   "There you are," the kender grinned.
   "Glenshadow," Chane Feldstone growled.

   By  reflex,  Wingover's  flinthide  shield drew  across his
 breast,  and  the  wilderness  man   glared  at   the  wizard
 across  its  notched  edge.  "What's  that  about  having no
 choice? I make my choices, wizard."
   "The    moons    have    made    an    omen,"    Glenshadow
 breathed.  "One  here  has  a   mission,  stamped   upon  him
 by  Lunitari.  Others  are  chosen  to  accompany him,  and a
 magic   beyond   magic   binds   the   bargain."   He  looked
 around, his  eyes falling  upon the  kender, then  on Jilian,
 and  again  on  Wingover.  Finally  the  wizard   raised  his
 eyes  and  gazed into  the high  distances. Far  off, against
 the  face  of  a  mountain  peak,  Bobbin  the  gnome's soar-
 wagon glided in great circles.
       "An odd assortment," the wizard muttered. "Very odd,
 indeed."

 * * * * *

   Through   waning   day   and   into  evening,   there  were
 councils.  News  was  exchanged,   stories  told   and  plans
 discussed.   Camber  Meld   and  Fleece   Ironhill  recounted
 again  what  had  happened  in  the  Vale of  Respite, beyond
 the  Eastwall  peaks.  An  army  of  goblins, they  said. And
 ogres  among  them.  Camber  Meld's  eyes  were  moist  as he
 described  the  sudden,  all-out  attack  on  the  human vil-
 lage of Harvest - the  slaughter, the  rout of  survivors un-
 prepared  for  battle,  the  blood   and  the   burning.  Old
 Fleece Ironhill's voice was a cold  growl as  he told  of the
 similar  struggle at  the hill  dwarf village  of Herdlinger.
 The  dwarves   had  been   slightly  better   prepared.  They
 had  seen  the  smoke  above  Harvest.  But  except  for  the
 fighting lasting a bit longer, the story of Herdlinger's fall
 was the same.
   Chane  Feldstone  recounted  the  pursuit  of  the refugees
 by ogres, as  he had  seen it,  and Chestal  Thicketsway told
 with  glee of  the mountain  dwarf's defeat  of the  ogre be-
 neath.  The  kender  also  told  of  what  he  had  seen from
 aloft,  in  the  Vale  of  Respite.  Camber  Meld  and Fleece
 Ironhill glanced at each other,  their faces  stricken. Noth-
 ing was left of the places they and  their people  had called
 home. There was nothing to go back to.

   "How  many  were  there?"  Wingover  asked.  'You say
 an army. How much of an army was it?"
     Camber Meld shrugged. "Two hundred. Five hundred.
 We couldn't tell."
   "Nearly eight hundred,"  a cold  voice from  outside the
 circle put in. Everyone turned. "I saw  it from  the moun-
 tain,"  Glenshadow  added.  "Possibly  eight  hundred gob-
 lins, at least  a dozen  ogres among  them... and  a human
 leader."
   "Where  were  you,  to  see  all that?"  Chane Feldstone
 frowned.
   The  wizard  lifted  his  staff.  'When  I am  away from
 you - and that accursed stone you carry - I have  eyes far
 better than my own."
   "Chane has the Spellbinder,"  Chess told  Jilian. "Magic
 doesn't work when it's around."
   "A  human  leader?" Wingover  was leaning  toward the
 wizard, frowning. 'What can you tell me of him?"
   "Darkmoor,"  the  wizard spoke  almost in  a whisper.
 "Commander of goblins."
   "What  can  you  tell  us  of him,  wizard?" Wingover
 asked again.
   "Not  him,"  Glenshadow   said  slowly.   "Her.  Kolanda
 Darkmoor. This much the mirror of the  ice could  tell me.
 This  much, and  one thing  more, the  thing the  moons in
 omen told. It is the  intent of  someone -  who, I  do not
 know  -  that  the wilderness  between Thorbardin  and Pax
 Tharkas be occupied and held."
   "They  will  come  here,  then?  The  goblins?"  Fleece
 Ironhill looked at Camber  Meld, then  at the  rest. "My
 people - our people - will flee  no more.  But how  can we
 fight   them   when   they   come?   We   have    so   few
 weapons...."
   Chane  Feldstone  stood,  looking   like  one   who  had
 come to a difficult decision. "There are weapons here," he
 said.  "I will  show you  where... or  he can."  He nodded
 at  Chestal  Thicketsway.  'You  will  have to  break them
 out of ice,  but they  will serve."  He indicated  the old
 sword slung to his back. "This is one  of them.  There are
 many  more.  But  I  demand  a  thing  of  you,   on  your
 honor."
   "And that this?" Camber Meld asked.
   Those you find here, with the weapons, are to be treated
 gently and with respect. They hve had enough of fighting."


                       PART III

                THE FORCE OF GOBLINS

Chapter 19
On a winding trail high on a mountainside, the
group halted its climb at a place where broken rock was
strewn across a hundred yards of trail and onto the rises
above.
"He's gone," Chane Feldstone said. "This is where I left
him, but he isn't here now."
'You should have killed him," Wingover said. "Burying
an ogre doesn't mean he'll die. Earth is their natural ele-
ment. Probably another one came along and dug him out.
You'll have to be very watchful now. Ogres don't forget a
slight or a defeat. This one won't forget you, Chane."
"Loam," the dwarf muttered. "His name is Loam."
"His buddy's name is Cleft," Chestal Thicketsway of-
fered. "I saw him farther up, that day. But I didn't know

ogres helped each other."
"Against anyone else, they will," the man told him.
"They are not pleasant to have as enemies."
Jilian clung closely to Chane, her wide eyes alert and
darting about the mountainscape. She had never seen an
ogre, but she had heard of the creatures. If Chane had
ogres after him, she had a feeling he would need all the
help he could find.
Wingover scanned the skies, wishing abruptly that
Bobbin and his flying whatzit would show up. 'You can
never find a gnome when you need one," he muttered.
Chane glanced around. "Why do you need the
gnome?"
"It would be nice to have some idea what's beyond the
next turn," the man said. "I still think he could scout for
us, if he would just stick around."
"He doesn't have much control of the soarwagon,"
Chess pointed out. "It just sort of goes where it pleases
most of the time."
Wingover busied himself with trying to calm Geekay.
He kept a firm grip on the animal's lead, scratched its
ears and stroked its nose. The horse had been skittish for
the past hour, and Wingover wasn't sure whether it was
the recent presence here of an ogre, or possibly some dis-
tant scent of goblins that worried him. Geekay shared
one characteristic with the elf, Garon Wendesthalas.
Geekay simply did not like goblins.
Thinking of the elf, Wingover wondered where he
was. Probably on his way back to Qualinost by now, he
decided.
With Geekay somewhat mollified, Wingover got out
one of his maps and studied it, then put it away. "We had
better go on," he told them. 'There should be a goat-trail
up ahead somewhere, leading off to the south. We'll fol-
low that until we find a better path. I'd guess we're about
three days from safety."
Chane glanced around at him again. "Safety?"
"Thorbardin," Wingover said. "If we make good time
and stay to the high ground, it should be no more than
three days until we run into a border patrol. From there,

it's an easy trip home for you two, and I can head for Bar-
ter and start spending Rogar Goldbuckle's money."
"I'm not going to Thorbardin," Chane said levelly. "I
told you, I have something I have to do first."
"Then I'll just take Jilian home." Wingover shrugged.
"Either way, I'll have kept my pledge."
"You won't do anything of the kind," the girl snapped.
"I'm going where Chane goes, and you're supposed to go
along with us."
"Now look, Button, all I agreed to do was to escort
you into the wilderness to look for Chane Feldstone,
then to get you home safely. All right. We've been to the
wilderness. We found Chane Feldstone. Now it's time to
go home. It's as simple as that."
Nearby, the wizard Glenshadow sat on a rock, listen-
ing. At Wingover's statement, he shook his head slowly,
but said nothing.
Jilian glared at the man. 'You made a debt of service.
Do you intend to break your pledge?"
Wingover frowned. "I intend to keep it. I just told you
that."
"Well, then, you'll have to wait a while longer because
Chane has to find Grallen's helm. It's his destiny."
The man stared at the dwarven girl, then at the
bearded young dwarf behind her. Two of a kind, he
thought. Each one more stubborn than the other. He
turned to Glenshadow, sitting on his rock. 'You talk to
them," he said.
"What about?" the wizard asked, his voice hardly
more than a whisper. "She's right. Chane does have a
destiny. And as I said, you have no choice in the matter."
'%fell, as I said, I make my own choices," Wingover
growled. "East across this ridge is a valley swarming with
hostiles. A person would have to be crazy to go there."
Jilian stepped back and took Chane's hand in hers.
"Then I release you from your pledge," she told the man.
"We will go on without you, and you owe us nothing
more. Good-bye."
Geekay tossed his head, broke his reins free from
Wingover's grip, and pranced a few steps up the path,

past the glowering dwarves. He stood there, facing up-
ward and away, snorting and pawing at the rock path.
"You, too?" Wingover snapped. He pointed a stern fin-
ger at Chane. "You're going to get everyone killed," he
warned. "And for what? A dream."
"The dream was real," Chane said, his voice level.
"Grallen called me to go and find his helm. Thorbardin is
at stake, and the power to protect the kingdom is in that
helm. But you heard Jilian. You're free to go wherever
you want to go. We don't need you."
"And where do you intend to go from here?"
"Where Grallen went. I have the Spellbinder. It shows
me the way."
Wingover took a deep breath, then released it in a
sigh. "That's how it is, then." He strode past them, recov-
ered Geekay's lead, and started on without looking back,
though he could hear them following.
After a time, the old trail wound to the right along a
shoulder of the ridge, then switched back, climbing. At
the turn, a faint trail parted from it, leading southward.
The goat-trail. Wingover turned south, leading a reluc-
tant Geekay, and walked a hundred yards before turning
to see the others going away, following the climbing trail
upward. At that distance, they looked very small. Two
dwarves, a robed mage, and a kender. Of them all, only
the kender turned to look back at Wingover; Chess gave
him a sad wave of the hand.
"Crazy," Wingover muttered. "They're all crazy."
He shrugged, put a toe in a stirrup, and swung into his
saddle. Ahead lay three days of wilderness, then the rela-
tive security of the dwarven realm and the road back to
Barter. And he was free now of the debt of service. He
had been released. It would be good to get back to Barter,
to rest a bit, carouse a bit and spend Rogar Goldbuckle's
wager money....
Wingover turned in his saddle for another look back.
Far off on the climbing slope, Chane Feldstone and Jilian
Firestoke were just disappearing around a shoulder of
rockfall, the wizard plodding along behind them. Higher
up on the slope, the kender was scampering off ahead,

looking for whatever kender looked for.
"By all the moons," Wingover muttered, "I must be as
crazy as they are." He reined Geekay around, touched
heels to the animal, and went to catch up to the others.
When he finally came up to them, near the crest of the
ridge, he reined in. Dismounting, Wingover pointed a
demanding finger at Glenshadow. "There's just one thing
I want to know," he said. "What is your interest in all
this? Why are you with these people?"
"I have my own reasons," the wizard said.
"That's not good enough," Wingover growled. "If I'm
to face danger with someone, I want to know why he is
there."
Chane Feldstone rubbed his whiskers. "That sounds
like a fair question to me," he noted. Wide-set dwarven
eyes studied the wizard. "What's in it for you, anyway?"
Glenshadow sighed and slumped, leaning on his staff.
"A long time ago," he said slowly, "there was a renegade
mage. A wizard of the black who rejected the robes and
the order. Three of us went in search of him. One of each
order. We went to find him, to... deal with him."
"Deal with him?" Jilian raised a pert brow. "What does
that mean?"
"A rogue mage cannot be tolerated," Glenshadow said.
"He must be persuaded to return to one of the orders...
or he must be eliminated. We tried to persuade him." He
paused, staring off into the distance. "We tried. And of
the three who went out, only I came back. Caliban's
powers were greater than we had known."
Glenshadow paused again, then added, "Caliban died
in the conflict, as well. And yet, somehow Caliban still
lives. I have set myself the task of completing what I
thought was through back then. Caliban lives, and he is
with those who oppose Chane Feldstone and his quest. I
seek Caliban."
Wingover looked at the mage with hooded eyes. "To
kill him I"
"If I can."
* * * * *

Sunlight lingered on the peaks when the group came
down through a meandering pass and looked out across
the Vale of Respite. In the distance, smoke trailed above
two burned-out villages -- no longer the smoke of de-
struction, but now the smoke of cookfires where an
army rested, occupying what had been a peaceful valley.
Chane stepped into the lead, raised a hand to halt the
column, and gazed into the distance. His hand closed
around the pulsing crystal in his pack. For a time he sim-
ply stood there, the high-mountain wind ruffling his
beard. Then he turned away, and the others gathered
around him.
"Grallen's path leads east," he said. "On and on...
through the valley, and up the mountains beyond. I had
hoped it -- wherever I have to go -- would be closer."
"Toward Skullcap," Wingover said. "I thought as
much."
Chane gasped. 'You know where Grallen went?
"I've heard the stories," the man said. "From Rogar
Goldbuckle, and others. Grallen died at Shaman, or
somewhere nearby. It's called Skullcap, now. That
would be roughly northeast from here." He turned to see
the last of sunlight above the peaks to the west, then
turned back. "Point where it goes, this green trail of
yours."
Chane pointed, due east across the valley.
"Well, that doesn't tell us much," Wingover sighed.
"There's an easy path through the mountains over there.
But it's farther north. Where you're pointing -- that high-
est peak off there, that's called Sky's End. My map
doesn't show a trail there."
"I can only see what the stone shows me," Chane ad-
mitted. "We'll have to cross over, and look from there."
"Easy enough to say," Wingover snorted. "Just cross
over. Of course, there's a little matter of several hundred
goblins and some ogres between here and there. Do you
have any ideas on that score?"
"We have the element of surprise," Chane suggested
uncertainly.
'That's the ticket," Chess said. "We'll slip up on them


and catch them off guard."
"That seems like a lot of goblins for us to attack," Jilian
pointed out. "Maybe it would be better if we just went
around them."
"If we can figure out where 'around them' is,"
Wingover noted. He turned to the wizard. "Don't you
have powers that might help us out?"
"Not here," Glenshadow said. "Not in the presence of
Spellbinder. Here I have only my eyes."
"Your magic doesn't work at all?" Wingover asked.
"It might or might not. And if it did, it would be unreli-
able."
"A little invisibility might come in handy," the kender
said. "I saw a lot of invisibility at Hylo the time the bird
came from... well, I didn't see it, exactly. What I did
was not see it. That's what invisibility does."
"I wish we had the gnome here now," Wingover said.
"I wonder where he is."
"Right here," a voice came from aloft. Wingover stared
up at the flying contraption, barely ten feet overhead.
"It's me," the gnome said. "Bobbin. Do you remember?"
"Of course I remember! Where have you been?"
"I'm not quite sure. Somewhere northwest, I think.
Where are you going?"
"Across that valley," Wingover shouted. "I'd like for
you to scout for us."
"All right, if that's what you want. But I don't think it's
such a good idea to go across there. There are surly peo-
ple all over the place. Look here." He tossed something
over the side of the basket. It rang against stone, and
Chane picked it up. It was a bronze dart.
"Somebody shot me in the hub with that thing," Bob-
bin griped. "Would have cost me a wheel, if I still had my
wheels."
Wingover blinked, realizing for the first time that the
flying craft no longer had its delicate silver-wire wheels.
"What did you do with your wheels?"
"While I was in the northwest, I found some people --
elves, I think -- with raisins. I traded them my wheels for
a half-bushel of raisins. Fat lot of good wheels do me up

here, anyway."
"Take a look at this," Chane handed the goblin-dart to
Wingover.
The man looked at the object closely. It was a slim
bolt, about eighteen inches long, with a broad, sharp
head and airfoils of shaved wood. Darts were a favorite
weapon of goblins, and they often fired them from short,
stiff crossbows. Wingover started to shrug, then looked
more closely. "This isn't sand-cast," he said. "It looks as
though it has been forged, or turned on a wheel." He
handed the dart to Glenshadow.
"Not goblin work," the wizard judged.
"Well, it was a goblin that flung it at me," Bobbin
called down.
"I'd like to see a few more of these," Chane said. "If I
could compare some of them, I'd know whether they
were forge-turned or ground on a cold lathe."
Chestal Thicketsway snapped his fingers and opened
his large pack. "Like these?" He drew out two more
goblin-bolts.
"Where did you get those?"
"The other night, when I was flying with Bobbin, these
came along. I'd forgotten that I had them." He dug deeper
into his pack, lifting out various other things one by one,
to look at them. "I have some pretty good stuff in here. I
should check it more often."
"Lathe-turned," Chane Feldstone pronounced, com-
paring the darts. "No goblin ever made these. I wonder
who did."
"Somebody whose purpose was to turn out a lot of
them in a hurry," Wingover said.
"Somebody equipping an army?" Chane asked.
"Somebody who isn't a goblin, outfitting goblins?
That's crazy," Wingover scoffed.
Chane shook his head. "No crazier than the idea of a
human -- a human female -- being in command of a gob-
lin force."
"Speaking of females," Wingover said as he looked
around, "where's Jilian?"

Chapter 20
Jilian was tired and cold. Wtile the others dis-
cussed plans and situations, she wandered about the
area, looking for a place to rest out of the wind. The pass
here was a snow-dusted trough between rising peaks,
with little cover from the wind's biting teeth. Not far
away, though, an outcropping had sheared away in
some bygone age, forming a mazelike rockfall where
slabs of stone lay against one another and dark crevices
beckoned.
She stooped to peer into one of these, a shadowy cave
where slate walls broke the wind. The cave was deeper
than it appeared, and another, darker opening, offset
and aslant, lay beyond it. The wind gusted again as Jilian
stepped into the shelter, leaning down to avoid the rock

above. It was cold within, but not as sharply so as out-
side, where the relentless wind played. Her back to the
deeper cave, she crouched there, watching the rest of the
group. She hoped they would make up their minds soon.
It would be a relief to get off this cold mountain pass, to
be moving downward for a time, instead of toiling and
climbing.
Mountain winds sang around the opening in the rocks,
then died abruptly. In the silence Jilian heard a furtive
sound. As she started to turn, the dwarven girl was
seized by massive hard hands. She tried to struggle, but
the strength of whatever held her was immense. She tried
to scream... and could not. She was hauled backward,
beyond the crevice and into the dark cave. A huge, leer-
ing face appeared directly above Jilian -- a face twice the
size of any she had ever seen, with a wide, grinning
mouth and little glittering eyes set close beside a great
snout of a nose.
"Pretty toy," the thing whispered, a low rumble of
sound at her ear. "Nice for Cleft. Maybe Loam can have
what's left." Crouching, the thing turned and headed
down into darkness, carrying Jilian as a child would
carry a doll.
Jilian's dwarven eyes adjusted quickly to darkness.
Even in her shock and panic, she noted that the tunnel
along which she was carried was of dwarven design. Like
the load-shafts in Thorbardin that led from one level to
another, it was a long, delved curve, spiraling down-
ward, turn after turn.
She tried to struggle against the hands that held her,
but it was no use. The monster's hands completely encir-
cled her, binding her arms to her sides so that all she
could move was her head and her feet. The pressure of
the thing's grip was crushing. Jilian fought desperately
just to breathe, and her spinning mind registered spiral
after spiral of descending tunnel, its walls echoing to the
thud of the creature's feet.
After a time, the girl twisted her head around, trying
to get her teeth into a huge thumb. The thing glanced
down at her, saw what she was trying to do, and chuck-

led, a deep, evil rumble of mirth. It shifted its grip
slightly and increased the pressure. Jilian felt as though
her ribs were breaking. Ogre, she thought. This is an
ogre! Maybe the same ogre that has a grudge against
Chane. Maybe it's doing this to get even with him... or
maybe to lure him into a trap!
  Jilian made herself hold very still. After she pretended
to go limp, the creature's grip eased slightly. There was a
little more light now, and she could see that the tunnel
widened out, then widened again, becoming a vaulted
cavern twenty or thirty feet across.
A staging area, she thought. Whatever dwarves had
delved this place, in some bygone time, had crafted a ca-
vern here -- a place to store and sort things to be carried
up or down the spiral shaft. A resting place. She had seen
such places in Thorbardin. Dim marks on the floor might
even have been the bases of ancient cable-track, though
there was no hardware in the place now. All this she no-
ticed in an instant, as the ogre slowed its pace and raised
her higher in the dim light.
"Far enough," the creature rumbled. A mouth like a
yawning slit revealed spike teeth. "Well underground.
Let's see what pretty thing I have found."
Jilian lay limp in its grasp, and let her head loll to one
side, feigning unconsciousness. Higher she was lifted as
the ogre peered at her in the dim shaft-light, turning her
this way and that. It relaxed its grip, holding her now
with one hand while the other poked her with large fin-
gers. Finally, the ogre took hold of her tunic and started
to tear it away. Close enough, Jilian decided. With a
heave, she freed herself from some of the fingers, twisted
around, and delivered a solid kick, directly into a leering
eye.
The ogre roared as it staggered back and dropped Ji-
lian. She hit the cavern floor and scooted away on hands
and knees. Suddenly, though, she remembered that her
borrowed sword was still slung on her back. Ignoring the
monster's roars, she got to her feet and loosed the sword,
then ducked as the ogre's hand whisked past her. She
turned and ran into the descending tunnel beyond the

staging cavern.
In this lower spiral there was no light at all.
Surrounded by complete darkness, Jilian ran as she
had never run before, counting her steps, trusting her
dwarven instincts and the skills of the tunnelers who had
built this place long ago. The lower spiral would be a
twin of the upper... she hoped. She put her faith in the
dwarven passion for symmetry and ran. The thudding
footfalls of the ogre echoed off walls around her, and its
rumbling curses were thunder in her ears. The monster
was no more than a half-turn behind, and she wondered
for a moment how something that big could move so
quickly in a black tunnel. Then she recalled something
Wingover had said about ogres. Ogres are at home un-
derground. It's their natural element.
Well, it's mine, too, Jilian thought fiercely. And no
ogre built this place. Dwarves did. "You don't belong
here, you ugly rust-heap!" she shouted. "You aren't fit to
use a good delving!"
Behind her the ogre roared again and quickened its
pace.
Again counting her steps, and putting blind faith in the
good judgment of dwarven delvers, she sprinted another
dozen paces, then stopped, turned to her right, and scur-
ried forward. In the upper spiral there had been a small
cubicle opening to the left. In the lower tunnel, midway,
there should be one to the right.
It was there. Jilian found the opening and scurried
through, holding her breath as the ogre raced past...
and stopped. For a long moment there was silence, then
she heard its rasping breath, returning. It knew she had
eluded it, and it was coming back to search.
Quickly, Jilian felt around on the floor. Her hand
closed on a small, flat stone. She eased herself to the por-
tal, edged partway into the tunnel, and threw the stone
upshaft, toward the staging room. The stone rang
against rock wall, and the ogre chuckled in the darkness.
Jilian ducked into the cubicle again as it charged past,
heading back up the tunnel. Then the girl darted out into
the tunnel and ran.

She hadn't gained much. Within seconds the ogre was
in pursuit again and closing. She ran and let dwarven in-
stinct guide her flying feet.
Abruptly, she realized that she could see the walls.
There was light ahead, and it was growing. The lower
end of the spiral-shaft was ahead.
Another hundred yards and the tunnel bent slightly to
the left, straightened, and ended. Jilian sprinted between
fallen stones and emerged on a cleared shelf on the side of
a mountain -- a shelf that once had been the terminus of a
path. But there was no path now. It had sheared away in
some long-ago rockfall. It would be a tedious climb, to
get down to better ground, but at least now there was
light.
"So far, so good," Jilian panted, then turned as a thun-
derous growl erupted behind her. Only yards away, the
ogre had emerged from the tunnel. It still held a hand
over one eye.
"I'm warning you," Jilian shouted, "I'm getting very
tired of this. You'd better go away and leave me alone."
The ogre growled again and started for her. Jilian
picked up a rock and flung it, aiming for the thing's other
eye. The rock bounced off the monster's nose.
"Oh, rust," Jilian swore. "That's only made things
worse." She hefted her sword and squared her stance
sideways to the approaching ogre. "I didn't want to have
to do this," she muttered.
As the monster charged, Jilian braced her feet and
swung the sword with all her strength.

Chapter 21
Atop the pass, the others had split up. Wiwgover
sent Bobbin sailing off westward to have a look at the
backtrail, then swung into his saddle and spurred his
horse down the twisting, perilous path that led away into
the Vale of Respite. Chane Feldstone started after him,
then glanced aside and recognized the cavern behind the
rockfall. "Tunneling," he muttered. Without a backward
look, he dashed into the cavern and ran, his hammer at
the ready. Within a few yards, his nostrils caught the
earthy scent of ogre, and he gritted his teeth. "Jilian," he
whispered. "Ah, Reorx. Jilian...."
Chestal Thicketsway was right behind the dwarf, fol-
lowed by a whining, complaining, voiceless voice that
seemed to object fiercely to being dragged through sub-

terranean places.
The wizard Glenshadow watched them go, then chose
a peak and began to climb. He noticed almost immedi-
ately that the crystal atop his staff had cleared as soon as
Chane Feldstone went underground. It was something
important to remember, regarding Spellbinder. Glensha-
dow climbed, seeking an ice pool that would give him
seeing eyes.
Down and down the searchers went, the dwarf and the
kender pounding down a long, corkscrew spiral in the
heart of the mountain; the mounted man descending the
slope, looking everywhere, trying to see everything.
In the cavern with the light shaft, Chane found prints in
the dust on the stone floor and paused, then hurried on. Ji-
lian was ahead somewhere, with the ogre in pursuit.
As one, Chane and Chess darted into the far tunnel
and continued downward, running as fast as they could
in the darkness. The kender's natural balance and simple
luck were all that kept him abreast of the tunnel-wise
dwarf.
The downward slope eased, and the tunnel began to
straighten. Chane put on more speed. Just ahead, he
knew, the shaft should emerge into open air. And if Jilian
had managed to escape the ogre in the tunnel -- how, he
couldn't imagine -- her fate would be sealed when the
monster had room to maneuver. Outside, she would
have no chance.
The tunnel wound slightly to the left, and then there
was light ahead... light and an abrupt, heart-stopping
sound. A shrill, agonized scream reverberated back into
the tunnel from just beyond its end.
Chane put his head down, filled his aching lungs, and
plunged ahead into the evening light. Off to one side, he
heard a horseman coming downslope, rocks clattering
beneath charging hooves.
The dwarf raised his hammer. As Chane skidded to a
halt, the kender bumped into him from behind, then
dashed aside to wield his hoopak.
But there was nothing to attack. Chane and Chess
gathered there, staring in wonder.

Jilian was a spinning top, just beginning to run
down -- a flashing, tilting, dancing blur spewing blood
from the point of an extended sword. Cloven carnage
was just collapsing, almost at her twirling feet. The head
and shoulders of an ogre thudded down on top of a tan-
gled pile of bloody parts, just as the dwarven girl's sword
flashed around again and took off the top of its skull,
above its eyes.
"By the Hammer of Kharas," Chane swore.
"Yuk," Chestal Thicketsway said.
"What in the name of all the gods?" Wingover's voice
came from just upslope. "Jilian? Are you... are you all
right?"
Jilian pivoted a few more times, then got her balance.
Wordlessly the girl lowered the point of her sword and
rested on its hilt as she tried to catch her breath. She
stared at the pile of sliced ogre, then turned away, wrin-
kling her nose. At the sight of Chane, she ran to him. "I
knew you'd come," she puffed, "but that... he didn't
give me any time to wait for you."
Chane simply stared at the dismembered ogre, speech-
less.
"He was rude," Jilian explained. "He wasn't behaving
well at all."
Chane began to shake his head, slowly.
"That's Cleft," Jilian introduced, pointing at the stack
of ogre parts.
"That's one way to put it," Chess noted. "Although
'sliced' would be a better word. Wow! Look at that! Feet
...shins... knees... hands... thighs... nothing is
connected together. Even his head's in two pieces. Wow!"
Wingover had dismounted, and now he, too, stood
and stared.
"I never realized that ogres had two stomachs," Chess
remarked, poking around in the gore of the monster with
a stick.
Chane took Jilian's sword and began to clean it, still
shaking his head. "Were did you learn to use a sword?"
he asked dazedly.
"In Silicia Orebrand's parlor," she said. "It didn't take

much practice. I seem to be a natural. Now aren't you
glad I came looking for you?" She strode to Wingover's
horse, led the animal a few yards away, positioned it be-
side a boulder, and said, "Excuse me for a minute,
please." Dropping its reins, she climbed up on the rock
and began unlashing one of the packs.
Wingover was still gawking at the cloven ogre, but
now he noticed Jilian with his horse, and hurried across.
"What are you doing? Those things are mine."
"Then make yourself useful and convince your animal
to stand still," she said. "He keeps sidling away."
Wingover stilled the horse, caught up its reins, and
scowled across the saddle at the dwarven girl. "Those are
my private things. What are you doing?"
Rummaging deep in the open pack, Jilian drew out a
long garment of stained white linen. It was longer than
she was tall, but by holding it high and turning to the
edge of the rock, she could study it full-length. "This will
do, I suppose," she decided. "What is it?"
Wingover tried to reach across the saddle, to grab the
garment out of her hand, but couldn't reach it. "Put that
back," he demanded.
"That ogre ripped my clothing," Jilian said. "But what
is this thing, anyway?"
"It's a cleric's robe," Wingover snapped. "I traded some
deerhides for it."
"Why? What did you want it for?"
"I intend to sleep in it! Sometime, if ever I find a quiet
room in a civilized place. Now, let's drop the subject. If
you can use it, go ahead, I guess. Do you want me to -- 7"
"I think I can tend to the fitting." Jilian smiled, folding
the robe and turning back to the open pack to see what
else might be useful. She had help now. The kender had
lost interest in ogre internals and was up on the boulder,
helping her rummage.
'You have some nice stuff in here," Chess told the man.
"There are goblins or something all over down there,"
Chane said, peering down at the valley. 'They're out in
squadrons, patrolling all over the place. We won't be
able to go around them."

"Through them, then?" Chess asked, looking up from
a saddlebag.
"I wish we had Bobbin to sort out a route for us," the
man said. "But he went the other way, and there's no tell-
ing when he might show up again. By the way, where's
the wizard? I haven't seen him since we came down from
the pass."
"He went up," Chane said.
"I guess we'll just have to find our way, then."
Wingover looked at the sky. "Daylight will be gone in an
hour. I guess we can try to cross by night. It's only a few
miles, straight across... unless we decided to change
our minds and just make for Thorbardin." He had their
attention, and the expressions forming on various faces
brought a grin to his own. "Just checking," he said. "I
wouldn't want to try to slip through a valley full of gob-
lins unless I was pretty sure everybody with me is as de-
termined as I am."
Chane Feldstone's thoughtful frown didn't relax. The
dwarf stepped closer to the human, looked up into his
eyes, and held his gaze. "I never wanted to get involved
in anything like this. I didn't want to wind up in the wil-
derness, or fight ogres and goblins, or be singled out to
finish some task that was begun before ever I was born.
But I won't turn back now. I wouldn't if I could. Do you
know why? It's because something very bad is happening
...or is going to happen. I happen to be here, and I hap-
pen to have a chance to do something about it. If I don't,
then who is going to?"
"I wouldn't miss it for anything," Chestal Thicketsway
assured Wingover. "And I think that goes for Zap, too."
He glanced around at nothing in particular. "Doesn't it,
Zap?"
"Misery and confusion," something silent seemed to say.
The kender grinned. "That means he can hardly wait
to see what happens next."
Jilian Firestoke peered out from behind a screen of
mountain brush, where she was doing something. "What
Chane said goes for me, too," she said.
"Any further doubts?" Chane asked the man.

  Wingover shook his head. "Not a single one."
  "Then let's stop talking about it and go on," Chane
snapped.
"Someone is coming." The kender pointed. A moment
later brush parted on the rising slope and the wizard
Glenshadow came into view. He looked haggard and
cold, but his steps were firm.
 "The valley is full of goblins," Chane told him. "We are
going to try to cross at night."
 "I've seen them," Glenshadow said. "They are all over,
and they're moving around. Where is the crystal? Where
is Spellbinder?"
 "Right here." Chane reached into his belt-pouch. As
his fingers touched the artifact it pulsed warmly, and
again he saw the luminous green path leading away
across the Vale of Respite, toward the slopes beyond. He
drew it out. It glowed, rosy in the half-light.
"Put it in a hole," the wizard said.
"Why?"
"Because I'm curious about something. Don't worry, I
won't trick you. There. That hole in the rock, put it
there."
Suspiciously, Chane squatted beside the indicated
hole. It was little more than a foot deep, just a pocket
where erosion had widened a crack on the stone. The
others gathered around, curious.
"Go ahead," the wizard insisted. "Put it in there. You
can take it out again in a moment."
Chane lowered the crystal into the hole, rested it on
the bottom, then stood and stepped back. Glenshadow
backed away, his eyes nearly closed. The crystal device
on his staff glowed feebly. "There is an effect," he mut-
tered. "It makes a difference."
Chestal Thicketsway blinked and looked up. A drop
of rain had fallen on his head.
"Are you finished?" Chane asked the wizard. "It's time
to go."
"Yes," Glenshadow noted thoughtfully. "It is time to go."
"What was that all about?" Wingover asked. But the
wizard had turned away.

Chane retrieved the crystal, put it away, and lashed his
pack. Jilian came from the screen of brush, now clad in a
tunic of stained white linen, scaled down to fit her by a
series of clever tucks, folds, and ties. She handed most of
the once-robe back to the human.
Wingover stared at her. "I don't know why I ever
thought that old robe was for me," he said.
Chane took the lead, and they started down the dark-
ening slopes, toward the Vale of Respite, where goblins
now occupied what had once been a vale of peace.
When they were gone, something massive came from
the rocks and paused to look at the heap of chilling gore
that once had been an ogre.
He prodded the mess with his toes, then stepped over it
and went to where the dim trail led downward. He
growled, a noise that rumbled like distant thunder.
"Cleft was careless," he muttered. "Cleft is dead.
Should have waited for Loam, instead. But puny ones
are still in sight. Loam will have a sport this night."
Without looking back, the ogre took the trail where
the searchers had gone.

Chapter 22
Full night lay on the valley, a nigtht of moons in
crescent pale above the smoke that hung like a layer of
smudgy cloud just at the treetops. Bonfires, dozens of
them, glowed at ragged intervals along the course of the
winding stream that fed the valley from the south. Out in
the meadows, near the treelines that marked the grazing
fields and burned-over stubbles, other fires marked a pe-
rimeter. And through it all, suffusing the acrid pall of
smoke, was goblin-stench.
Mounted, Wingover ranged out on the forward flanks
of the little band of travelers -- first warning and first de-
fense for the group, should they be discovered. He went
silently, keeping to shadows where he could. Chane Feld-
stone led the rest, his hammer ready in his hand, the an-

cient path of Grallen visible before him as a faint green
mist.
Chestal Thicketsway was a small, darting shadow,
sometimes among them and sometimes not, but never
far away. The kender's sheer, wide-eyed excitement and
curiosity was a source of real concern to the rest, but
there was little enough anyone could do to curb him. A
kender was always a kender.
Had Chess been as tall as a goblin, Wingover might
well have chopped off his head when the kender ap-
peared unexpectedly in shadows beside him and said,
"I-"
The sharp sword that whisked past the top of Chess's
head would have taken a goblin at the gullet.
"Oops," the kender said. "Did I startle you? Sorry."
"Keep your voice down!" Wingover whispered. 'What
are you doing here?"
"I'm part of this group, remember?" Chess held it to a
whisper now. "I just wanted to tell you, there are goblins
moving back and forth among the fires. I saw a handful
of them right over there, just a minute ago."
"A handful?"
"Five. They have a dead sheep."
"I wish you'd stay with the dwarves," Wingover
hissed. But there was no answer. Chess was gone again,
off on some adventure of his own. At least, Wingover re-
assured himself, the little creature could move silently
when he felt like it.
They were nearly a mile into the valley when
Wingover saw movement near the end of a hedgerow a
hundred yards away. He signaled, a downward thrust of
his spread hand, and reined into shadow. The stench of
goblin and smoke was everywhere, and the sky above
was a low, drifting fabric with fireglow on its belly. Only
rarely was any trace of the moons beyond visible.
Crouching in silence, Wingover chanced a glance back
and saw that the rest were out of sight. They had seen the
signal and faded into a clump of trees at the edge of a
field.
At first there was nothing to see, then there was move-

ment just ahead. Dark shapes appeared, coming over a
low knoll, directly toward Chane's party. Wingover
counted three silhouettes with wide, round heads, wear-
ing inverted-bowl helmets. The glint of weapons showed
amongst them.
The shadows came on, moving quietly, their only
sound an occasional muted clank of metal on metal.
Wingover dismounted and raised his shield an inch,
peering over the top of it, his sword ready. The goblins
were so close that the man could hear their guttural
voices:
"... not much farther. Don't get too close. Want to
ring them, not run into them." A few steps more and they
stopped. Wingover saw a tiny flare of light made by a
hooded lamp, its top lifted an inch to light a straw.
They had torches! Suddenly Wingover realized what
they were doing. They were part of an encirclement, pre-
paring to flare torches.
Somewhere a hoopak whistled, and one of the goblin
shadows stiffened, gurgled, and fell. The human didn't
hesitate. Still crouching, he launched himself at the re-
maining two, clenching his teeth to stifle the battle cry
that built in his throat. Like a darker shadow, Wingover
was on them, and his sword sang softly as it clove be-
tween the helm and collar of the nearest one.
Without stopping, Wingover thrust at the remaining
goblin, and his blade rang on metal. In the fitful light he
saw its glittering eyes, wide with surprise, saw its mouth
open to shout alarm. He clubbed the goblin with the edge
of his shield. It crumpled at his feet. Before the hooded
lantern could strike the ground, Wingover caught and
covered it. Then he took a quick look around, raised
himself slightly, and signaled.
In moments the others were with him.
"They know we're here," Chane said.
"They know, all right. Stay close and follow me --
straight out across that field. And hurry!"
They moved, trusting to no more than luck to see them
to the next cover. The searchers crept across a narrow
field of stubble, where dead things they could not make

out were beginning to rot, then down a slope into a gully
that would carry seasonal runoff toward the main flow-
ing stream.
"Lead," Wingover whispered to Chane. "We need dis-
tance, quick!"
The dwarf went ahead silently, and they increased
their pace, staying low in the gully.
Wingover glanced back, looking over the cut just
where it deepened. There, where they had been, torches
were springing alight by twos and threes -- a wide ring of
lights that would have bathed them in glowing fire had
they been there.
He went on, catching up to the rest, counting them as
he passed. There was no sign of the kender. Chane eased
back to cover the rear now, and Wingover led, choosing
the best and most silent route down through the gully.
"How do they know we're here?" Jilian whispered.
"Worse than that, they knew exactly where,"
Wingover pointed out. "They may find us again." He
motioned ahead. "This cut winds around farther on.
There could be an ambush. One of us should scout
ahead."
"I'll go," Jilian said, then paused. Just ahead a small fig-
ure was running toward them. It was the kender.
Chess reached them and pointed back the way he had
come. 'There are goblins ahead, waiting," he whispered.
"I think they know we're here."
Somewhere behind, there were guttural shouts.
"They've found the dead ones," Wingover said. "If
they didn't know before -- which they probably did --
they certainly know now. How many are ahead?"
"I don't know." Chess shrugged. "A bunch."
"Hold up here," the man hissed, and Chane came for-
ward to see what was happening.
"There's an ambush ahead," Wingover said. "They've
found us, and now they'll close in."
Chane turned to the wizard, who had remained silent
for much of the trek. "Do you have any ideas?"
"I can't rely on magic here," Glenshadow rasped. "Not
with you carrying that crystal."

"Not even a little spell?" Chess suggested. "Just some-
thing innocent, like conjuring fifty or sixty armed fight-
ers to back us, or --"
"Make us invisible," Chane said. "Can you do that?"
"A spell of invisibility? Easily... except for Spell-
binder. I don't know what would happen."
'You had the dwarf put that thing in a hole earlier,"
Wingover said. -How about trying it that way? I saw
your staff glow when he did."
"I'm going back down there to look at those goblins,"
the kender said. "Let me know what you decide." He was
gone before anyone could stop him.
"It might not work," Glenshadow said. "Spellbinder's
power is --"
"We'll try it," Chane decided. He looked around, then
crawled on hands and knees to the edge of the gully, ex-
plored there for a second, and whispered, "Here's some-
thing. Like a small animal's burrow. it's -- ouch!"
"What happened?" Jilian asked.
"Something bit me, then ran up my arm and across my
head. It's gone now, though. This hole is... uh!...
arm's length. I'm putting Spellbinder in here! Try it, wiz-
ard. It's our only chance."
A fat drop of rain splatted into the dust at the wizard's
feet, then several more. Faint thunder rumbled over-
head, and the murk deepened. "I'll try," Glenshadow de-
cided. He raised his staff, its own crystal device glowing
faintly, and spoke sharp words in a language that meant
nothing to the rest.
For a long moment, nothing happened. Then
Wingover looked around and drew a sharp breath.
Nearby, Jilian had begun to glow -- a rosy pink light ema-
nated from her, haloed about her. And beyond, the oth-
ers glowed, too. Even the horse had a fine gray patina
that reflected off the walls of the gully. The man looked
at his own hands. He, too, was shining -- a distinct
yellow-gold glow. Even the wizard was lit... had a
glow on, Wingover corrected. Glenshadow shone a deep
ruby-red, as though light came from within him and car-
ried the color of his blood.

Down the gully, guttural voices were raised, and
something small and bright green came racing toward
them from that direction. 'You call this invisible?" The
kender's exasperated cry echoed ahead of him. He skid-
ded to a stop. "Wow! You look like lanterns with legs!" he
said, pointing back down the gully. "They'll be here in a
minute. They're yours to play with. I'll go see if I can find
some others."
Like a small, green torch, Chess bounded to the wall of
the gully, up it to the top, and away across open land.
Shouts of pursuit came from where he had gone.
The sprinkling rain that had started moments before
had eased, but now, abruptly, it came again, a soaking
curtain of rain with winds behind it. High lightnings
danced, and thunder rolled.
"Now that's more like it," Wingover snapped at the
wizard. "Come on, we have to get out of this gully. Here,
I'll take the horse. Where's Chane? Chane?"
"I'm right here beside you," the dwarf said. "Go on, Ji-
lian. I'm right behind you."
Of them all, only Chane was not aglow. He had never
released his grip on Spellbinder.
The rain came harder, a blinding, driving downpour
that began to fill the gully as they climbed to its high
bank. Through the noise of the storm, Chane and the
others heard the voices of goblins coming up the cut,
then the sounds of splashing in water and mud.
Clouds had rolled in above the lingering smoke, hid-
ing the dim moons. The rain doused the goblins' fires.
Within moments, the only light in the valley was the
bright glows from the heroes themselves.
"I wish you'd done the second spell first and just
skipped the first one," Wingover told the wizard.
"My spell recoiled," Glenshadow said. "Spellbinder is
too powerful."
'"I mean the rain," the man said, hurrying them along.
"If we can get a little distance, the downpour might help
US.
"I didn't bring the rain," Glenshadow admitted.
"You mean it just happened?" Chane Feldstone

growled, a shadow among glowing people. "I don't be-
lieve it."
Glenshadow shook his head. "No, it didn't just hap-
pen. It's magic... but not mine."
"There are goblins coming from both directions in that
cut." Wingover pointed back. 'When they meet, they're
going to come out. Even in this rain, they'll see us, the
way we're shining. Come on, we'd better run for it."
He lifted Geekay's reins, turned to run, and stopped.
He listened. "I hear something," he said.
The rest turned, listening intently. Rain hissed and
thunders rolled overhead, and through it came the
splashing, shouting menace of goblins converging in the
gully. For a moment there was nothing more, then the
others heard it.
Below the other sounds, lower-pitched and barely au-
dible, a rumbling grew, coming from their right, from
higher ground.
"What is it?" Jilian hissed. "That sound."
Then Wingover knew, and he arched a thoughtful
brow. Flash flood. Massed waters filling the lowlands
upstream, overtopping the deep gully, rushing down to-
ward the stream somewhere below.
"Floodwaters," he said.
"The goblins in the gully," Jilian added.
"They're wearing armor," Chane concluded.
Wingover dropped his reins and ran back toward the
gully. He heard the others coming behind him. By the
light of his own glow he saw the gully's rim, saw heads
coming up over it, and saw a pair of hasty bolts flick past
as he halted, just a few yards from the edge. A flung
stone toppled a goblin backward into the dark cut he had
just left. The rumble had become a roar, and was coming
closer.
Wingover felt a bronze bolt tear at his shield, ducked a
second missile, and howled a chilling war cry as he
charged down on the shadowy figures coming over the
edge. His sword, glowing with golden light, traced rapid
patterns up and down and around, clattering against ar-
mor and blades, darkening itself with goblin blood.

Two creatures fell before Wingover, and four more
took their places, coming up from the roaring, water-
filled gully. He fended the strokes of two with his blade,
took another cut on his shield, and saw the dark, furred
shape of Chane Feldstone as the dwarf's hammer pierced
a goblin's helmet.
At Chane's side, Jilian was a rosy blur in the dark, a
whirling blade with a spinning top at its axis.
The roar from the gully became a crashing, tearing
screech of sound, and a wall of spray swept down the
draw, sparkling in the light of the glowing fighters as it
passed. After the wall of water passed, there seemed to
be nothing left to fight.
How many goblins had there been, there in the cut?
Wingover wondered silently. There was no way to
know. They were gone, drowned and carried away to-
ward the main watercourse.
On the bank, a shadow moved and another, darker
shadow sprang toward it. Chane's hammer went up, and
the dwarf rolled another goblin into the torrent. He
stood, staggering, and Jilian caught him as he started to
fall. The dwarven girl raised her glowing face, wide-
eyed, and beckoned to Wingover. He reached the two in
two steps and knelt.
Chane was down, his teeth gritted with pain, and by
their own light they saw the bronze bolt standing in his
shoulder. Jilian reached for it, but a glowing, red hand
stopped her.
"Let me," Glenshadow said. "I know what to do."
With Chane's own nickeliron dagger, the wizard cut
out the goblin-bolt, then peeled back the dwarf's fur tu-
nic to cut away the rag of linen beneath. He studied the
wound. Setting his thumbs at each side of the gash, he
squeezed it closed. "Get me a flame," he told Wingover.
The man fumbled in his pouch for his fire-maker, a
cunning device obtained from hill dwarves long ago. He
fumbled again, then peered into his pouch. "It isn't here,"
he said.
"Never mind," the wizard said. "Jilian, see how I'm
holding the puncture? Can you do that?"

Jilian took Glenshadow's place, and the wizard
reached into his own belt-pouch and brought out a
small, silver object with a lid. "Phosphors," he said. "It
will do as well."
"Phosphors," Wingover muttered, an idea dawning.
But there wasn't time to consider it now.
Glenshadow smeared a bit of paste from the container
over the hole in Chane's shoulder, then took another,
darker substance and knelt beside Jilian. "Let go now,
and get back," he said.
She withdrew her hands, and Glenshadow touched
the second paste to the first with a knife-blade. Suddenly
a brilliance flared on the dwarf's shoulder, and Chane
moaned.
The light subsided as quickly as it had flared. A puff of
white smoke, lifting away to be dispersed by the pound-
ing rain, rose into the air.
"Bandage him," "Wingover said grimly. "We have to
move on. It's still a long way across this valley."

Chapter 23
When Chestal Thicketsway went looking for
more goblins, it didn't take him long to find them. Unfor-
tunately, he had momentarily overlooked the fact that he
was glowing bright green.
By the time the kender saw the double platoon of
armed hostiles coming at him across a field, they had al-
ready seen him. All he could do was run. Rain danced
and sizzled around him as he fled, every step taking him
farther from his friends and deeper into enemy territory.
He tried dodging into a hedgerow, and realized there was
nowhere for him to hide. In the thickening blackness of
the rainy night, he shone like a green beacon. Even
shielded by the pouring rain, which increased steadily as
he fled from a growing pursuit, his light gave him away.

Sure evidence of that was the sheer number of metal
bolts that whisked and sang around him, coming from
various directions.
The goblins couldn't see him well enough to aim care-
fully, Chess realized -- at lease if he kept moving and
managed to evade dose contact with any of them. But
the bolts kept coming, and he had to admit that simple
luck would guide some of them his direction.
"This may not have been a very good idea," he told
himself, diving into a wash half-filled with dark, racing
water. A pair of bronze bolts slapped water into the ken-
der's face, and he ducked. Soon Chess was fighting an in-
creasing current. It carried him one hundred yards
downstream before he made it to the far bank.
His glow preceded him, and as he clambered out of the
wash a grinning goblin charged into the light, brandish-
ing a sword. Chess braced his hoopak, thumped the butt
end of it into the creature's face, then brought it around
full-circle. The shaft struck the goblin across the back of
the neck and laid it out.
Chess grabbed up the creature's sword, and his nostrils
twitched at the smell of goblin. He changed his mind and
flung the sword from him, point-first. In the darkness
somewhere close, a goblin gurgled and fell, pierced be-
tween breastplate and buckler. Chess didn't wait to see
what would happen next. He turned and ran, following
the course of the filling wash.
All about him was storm -- pouring rain and driving
winds, sheet lightning and rumbling thunder. Chess ran,
and something hung with him, something that was part
of the storm. It- seemed to expand, to flex invisible mus-
cles. A voice that was no voice said, "Ah!"
"Ah?" Chess panted. "What do you mean, ah? Do you
have something to do with this... aha! You do! Well,
nice going, Zap. Just keep it up, will you?"
"More," something seemed to demand. "Much more."
"Just behave yourself!" The kender dodged through a
small wooded lot, where trees exploded into fiery kin-
dling as great bolts of lightning struck them. The thunder
was deafening. Goblin feet pounded behind Chess, pur-

suing the globe of bright green light. A bronze bolt
zipped past the kender's ear and buried itself in a tree
trunk.
As Chess dodged past a clump of brush, lightning re-
vealed a wedge of goblin-warriors coming at the kender
from ahead, only yards away. Crossbows went up, and
Chess went down, diving flat onto a sheet of water
inches deep. Bolts sang over him and found targets
among the goblins pursuing. Chess rolled aside and set
off at right angles, cursing the bright green glow that
shone about him. "Invisibility," he hissed. "That's some
wizard we found!"
Hazy boles of trees danced past the kender, reflecting
his own green light through the pouring rain, then he was
in a cleared field and someone was just ahead. Chess
skidded to a halt, soupy mud sheeting from his feet.
More goblins... and something else. A creature taller
than goblins, wearing dark armor with intricate designs
and a grotesque barbed helmet with a hideous mask. The
creature raised a sword, beckoned, and the goblins
around it charged.
"If you have any more tricks, Zap," Chess breathed,
"now's the time."
"Much more," something silent said.
Lightning crashed and crescendoed, huge brilliant
bolts striking all around. The kender's long hair fell from
around his neck, unraveled itself, and seemed to stand
straight out from his head, a huge crown of dark bristle.
Bolt after bolt of lightning cracked and seared, before
Chess and behind, and in the flashes he saw goblins tum-
bling through the air, falling here and there; goblins
thrown aloft; goblins that smoked and sizzled and fried.
A wind smacked Chess aside. The kender's racing feet
barely touched the ground as he flew.
"Wow," he whispered, nearly blinded by his own
streaming hair.
Somewhere behind, he heard a voice -- authoritative
and furious -- shouting orders. She sounds cross, he told
himself. Better keep going.
Driven by a howling wind that seemed to try to lift

him from the ground, lashed by huge drops of rain that
stung his back as they flew in almost horizontal sheets,
blinded by his streaming hair and deafened by thunders,
the kender gripped his hoopak and leaped high over a ta-
pering rock ledge. Through the tunnel of his hair he saw
trees ahead, lit by stuttering flashes and his own green
glow. He bounded down a sloping bank toward heavy
growth and tried to slow himself, without much success.
Then directly ahead, something huge and ugly raised
itself and spread wide arms, bracing itself against the
screaming wind. An ogre. Chess even recognized the
huge, grimacing features.
Loam.
At gale speed the kender closed on the brute, his eyes
wide. At the last instant, he thrust out his hoopak,
dropped its butt, and vaulted. A tumbling leap carried
him up and past the creature's crushing hands, almost
high enough to clear its head.
Almost, but not quite. Instead, the kender's feet
smacked the ogre's jutting brow. Chess's free hand
caught a tangle of Loam's hair, and the kender completed
his flip upright, standing on top of the ogre's head.
"I can't wait to tell them about this at Hylo," he mut-
tered. "Of course, they're never going to believe it."
Before the ogre could react, wind hit them like a fist
and Chess was thrown tumbling, into a grove of trees.
He got his feet under him and dodged among the trees,
downslope. Behind him he heard a crash and an angry
roar. Loam had run into a tree.
Among the trees, the wind was diffused a little, and
the kender slowed a bit. But then he was in the open
again, on a broad, shoaling bank with raging flood-
waters beyond. Wind swept down on him, caught him,
and threw him head over heels into the churning mael-
strom.
Tumbling and fighting, the kender bobbed away
downstream. Above him a voice that was not there
seemed to moan, "No-o-o! Other way-y-y!"
* * * * *

Four brightly shining figures and one dark one fled
across storm-blown fields in a murk lighted only by stac-
cato flares from above. Sheets of rain hissed around
them, and thunder reverberated. The ground was a flow-
ing morass of runoff.
Chane Feldstone led now, holding to the slim green
trace that was their only means of direction in the turbu-
lent darkness. The dwarf was a blackness against the
dark, staggering sometimes from weakness. He was sup-
ported by the rosy-glowing Jilian, who refused to leave
his side. The golden brightness of Wingover, leading a
glowing gray horse, and the ruby-red Glenshadow,
struggled along after the dark dwarven shape.
The worst of the storm seemed to be to the south, a
few miles away at most. The curtained darkness in that
direction was broken by a constant blaze of lightning,
and the gale winds swirling from there carried the sharp,
sweet breath of ozone.
They had tried to persuade the dwarf to ride, but he
would have none of it. Wingover suspected that Chane,
like many of his race, simply disliked horses. Some
dwarves were excellent riders, but not all.
Since leaving the gully, they had seen no goblins -- or
any other living thing. Possibly the kender, going off
alone as he had, had led the main forces away. If so,
Wingover thought, then the gods help the little creature.
He would never stand a chance out there alone.
Two miles of travel brought them to a descending
slope with forest beyond, and beyond that the sound of a
torrent raging. The valley's stream would be out of its
banks by now, a rushing beast that no one could cross.
While Chane rested, with the attentive Jilian chatter-
ing at his side, Wingover scouted. When he returned, he
had news. Upstream a half-mile was a well-worn path
going east. If there was a bridge, it should be there.
"And if the alert went out, that's where the goblins on
the other side will be waiting," the wizard pointed out.
Chane got to his feet. "We'll weld that joint when we
find it," he said gruffly.
Wingover shrugged. 'Then lead on, Grallen-kin," he

said.
Again, then, they were on the move. The path
Wingover had found veered eastward, downslope and
into forest, beyond which the torrent raged. The little
stream that Camber Meld had called Respite River was,
in normal conditions, a tame and pretty brook. Now,
though, it was rushing, whitecapped black water nearly
a hundred yards across -- but spanned yet by a raised
footbridge wide enough to allow carts to pass from one
side to the other.
Beyond the stream was rainy darkness.
"I'll go first." Chane took a deep breath, drawing him-
self up. "I'm the only one who might get a look at the
other side before he's spotted."
Without waiting for argument, the dwarf trotted
down the streaming bank, waded through knee-deep
water to the bridge's ramp, and disappeared in pouring
darkness. He was back a short time later, appearing out
of the darkness like a black-furred shadow with a glint-
ing hammer in its hand.
"The bridge is sound," he told them. "There have been
goblins on the path beyond, but they aren't there now. I
took a good look around. Maybe the rain drove them to
shelter."
"I've heard that goblins have no love of clean water,"
Wingover noted.
With Chane leading, pale but clear-eyed, they started
across. The bridge shivered with the force of the torrent
below it, and creaked and groaned when the horse was
led onto it, but it seemed secure. The searchers were half-
way across when they noticed that the wind had died and
the pouring rain was letting up. The storm was dissolv-
ing as quickly as it had begun, and through clouds
above, the visible moons could be seen in crescent.
"Our shine is outlasting our shield," Wingover
growled, not looking at the wizard. In a way, he felt the
blame had to be shared. The mage had at least tried to
give them cover.
Jilian stopped and raised a hand, pointing upstream.
"Look," she said.

Far up the stream, a greenness glowed -- a widening
point of light that sparkled the torrent's surface and glim-
mered along both banks. Even as they watched, the
green glow grew, coming toward them rapidly.
"The kender?" Chane wondered.
"Oh, rust," Jilian said. "I hope it isn't the poor little
thing's corpse."
"He's still shining," Wingover reassured her.
As Wingover made that hopeful statement, the ap-
proaching green light winked out and there was only
darkness on the stream. Jilian gasped.
And gasped again as her own rosy glow dimmed and
failed.
"We're losing our glow," Jilian said.
Wingover's gold radiance held for a moment more,
then blinked off abruptly. Now they were only huddled
shadows on a dark bridge, highlighted by a glowing
horse and a radiant red wizard. The horse's light
dimmed, lingered for a moment, and was gone.
The dark torrent raged beneath the footbridge, and
now there were specks of light upstream. A blaze of
torches was coming along the bank, on the side they had
left. Wingover pointed. "They were following the kender."
"I think it would be a good idea if you doused your-
self," Jilian Firestoke told Glenshadow. Still the wizard
shone with a bright ruby glow.
"Come on," Chane urged. "Let's get across. They're
coming."
"How about somebody giving me a hand?"
The voice that came from below the bridge was high-
pitched and excited. Chane and Wingover hurried to the
edge and peered down into dark, rushing water. They
quickly stepped across to the other side. Just below,
barely visible, Chestal Thicketsway clung to a hoopak
jammed between bridge pilings.
"Give us some light here," Wingover ordered, pulling
Glenshadow to the edge of the bridge. Ruby glow lit
rushing dark waters and the childlike face, grinning up at
them. Chane Feldstone started to crouch above the ken-
der, then winced as his wounded arm took his weight.

"Get back," Wingover snapped, pushing the dwarf
aside. "I'll get him." Kneeling, clinging to a bridge sup-
port, the man reached down and lifted the drenched ken-
der, hoopak and all, to set him on his feet on the
structure. The others stared at Chess. His hair falling
around him, the kender looked like nothing more than a
dark mushroom with a forked stick.
He pulled back long, soggy hair, shook it aside, and
grinned at them. "Hello," he said cheerfully, water cas-
cading from him. "Did you know there are just a heck of
a lot of goblins out there I I'm glad we stopped shining."
He looked at the wizard critically. "If you intend to go on
doing that, maybe you should go somewhere else."
After watching the torches come closer for a moment,
Chane and his allies could see goblins... and creatures
that were taller. Dragging the glowing wizard with them,
trying to keep him shielded behind the horse, the search-
ers scurried for the far end of the bridge and the darkness
beyond. When they were clear, Wingover waved the rest
ahead, except for Glenshadow. "Your phosphors gave
me an idea," he told the wizard. "I think it's time to try it."
Wingover dug into one of his packs and brought out a
pair of hand-length cylinders that glowed silvery in the
faint, murky moonlight. "Phosphor flares," he ex-
plained. "I got them from a Qualinesti traveler, Garon
Wendesthalas." He dug deeper into the pack. "I still can't
find my oil striker. Can you light these with that phos-
phor thing?"
"I can try. What do I light?"
"This thing here, on each one. It's a fuse." Wingover
hurried to the foot of the bridge and placed a flare on
each side, at the main supports. "Hurry," he said.
The wizard knelt at first one and then the other of the
flares, preparing the wicks. His glow was dimming
slightly, and he squinted in the gloom.
"Will this help?" It was Chess, coming back to see
what they were doing. The kender held a small metal ob-
ject, which he manipulated with his thumb. A merry lit-
tle fire appeared above his hand. But the wizard set the
flares then. Harsh, bright sparks spewed forth, and

Wingover said. "All right, get back!"
They retreated a dozen paces, then several more as
bronze bolts sang past them from beyond the stream.
Suddenly the flares erupted in furious blinding bril-
liance, beyond which a flood of armed goblins were run-
ning up the far ramp, onto the bridge.
Another bronze dart flew past, and Wingover
snapped, "Put out that light." Then he turned to the ken-
der as the little flame went out. "Where did you get
that?"
Chess shrugged. "I don't know. Found it somewhere.
What is it?"
"It's my oil striker!" Wingover growled.
"Is that what it is? Why do I have it, then?"
"I don't know why you have it. Give it back!"
Chess handed the thing over. "You must have dropped
it along the way. Lucky I found it for you. Looks a lot
handier than flint and steel."
"It is flint and steel. With a wick. And oil. I --"
Wingover stopped and stared. The flares on the bridge
had done their job. The bridge blazed merrily now, a
wall of fire from edge to edge, barring passage from the
other side. A few wooden planks were even falling away
to hiss in the dark waters below. But on the other side, a
person had pushed through the clamoring crowd of
goblins -- a taller person, wearing gleaming black, orna-
mented armor and a horned helmet with a beaten mask.
As Wingover, and now the others, stared across the fire,
the person removed the mask. The wilderness man
caught his breath. For the first time, he saw the face of
Kolanda Darkmoor.
The hideous mask across the bridge was lowered, and
the woman behind it was -- no, might have been --
stunningly beautiful. But she was something else instead.
Wingover sensed absolute evil there. She only glanced at
him, though, for her gaze swiftly locked on Chane Feld-
stone. She put her hand to her throat and lifted some-
thing from her breastplate.

Chapter 24
"How could you let them get away?" the woman
shouted. "I set a net across this valley, and you... you
sniveling excuse for a troopleader... you let them slip
through!"
  Thog,aparticularly ugly hobgoblin, and six goblins
cowered before the Commander, afraid to respond.
"Two platoons dead or missing!" The horned helmet
turned from one to another of them, its dragon facemask
seeming to boom with each syllable. "Did any of you
even see them clearly? Do you know how many there
were?"
Thog scuffed his toe and raised hiseyes. "Fiveof the
lighted ones, Commander... but one of them was a
horse."

Furious eyes blazed at the hobgoblin from behind the
mask. "Five, but one was a horse. There were six! Count-
ing the horse. I counted them. Why couldn't you?"
When there was no answer, the Commander paused a
moment, shaking with fury.
"Double shifts!" she said then. "Double shifts for ev-
eryone until further ordered. Now, get out of my sight!"
The hobgoblin and the goblins turned and hurried
away, almost scrambling in their haste. When they were
gone, she muttered, "And you... I found the dwarf for
you. All you had to do was destroy him. Why didn't
you?"
A dry, twisted voice that seemed to come from within
the Commander's armor said, "Ah... she questions
me? Does she dare?"
"I dare question you, yes," Kolanda hissed. "Why
didn't you strike down that dwarf? Why didn't you
strike them all down? I gave you the chance!"
"Magic failed," the voice said. "But there will be an-
other chance. Glenshadow knows."
"Glenshadow?"
"Glenshadow," the thin voice repeated bitterly. "He
knows I will kill him when next we meet."
Kolanda Darkmoor walked to a high, clear ridge to
oversee the reorganization of her troops. Though it was
unthinkable that the dwarf with the knowledge of Thor-
bardin's secret -- and his companions -- had somehow
managed to get past all her defenses, she let her fury sub-
side somewhat and resumed her planning. The dwarf
had to be stopped. She turned and looked at the range of
mountains to the east.
Goblin trackers had reported at morning's first light.
The group had gone almost straight east across the valley
... at least as far as they had been able to track them.
Someone with the group, it seemed, was skilled at cover-
ing trail. But they had gone east, and due east lay the
soaring peak of Sky's End. Kolanda knew from her
scouts that there was an old, climbing trail that curved
around the mountain's slopes, but it would be a tedious
and difficult journey. It would have been far better for

them to take the pass road, farther north. It crossed
heights more scalable than giant Sky's End, and there
was a bridge beyond that crossed the chasm and led to-
ward the Plains of Dergoth. And it was to those plains
that the dwarf must be going, because it was there that
Grallen fell.
Kolanda smiled. Several of the captured humans and
dwarves had died in the process of their inquisition, but
she had a serviceable map and a great deal of informa-
tion as a result.
The northern pass would place her on Dergoth well
ahead of the fleeing group.
There was still one other matter to attend to here. The
refugees who had crossed the ridge into the next valley to
the west were still at large, and she wanted them. Only a
small force would be necessary for that.
When the troops were assembled, Kolanda Darkmoor
sent a group to find the fugitives from Harvest and
Herdlinger, and bring back all those fit to be put to work.
The unfit would simply be killed.
"Go south a few miles," she told them, "then cross over
into Waykeep and turn northward. Trap them, subdue
them, and bring back slaves."
* * * * *
Bobbin was growing more and more irritated as the
days passed. He was irritated with himself, irritated with
his soarwagon, and irritated with the world in general.
And much of his irritation came of being bored. Except
for sightseeing, there was hardly anything to do when
one was stuck aloft in a contrivance powered by the very
air currents on which it floated. And the soarwagon was
far more responsive to the wind's vagaries than to the
feeble controls the gnome had managed to build into its
structure.
For the past day or so, there hadn't even been anyone
to talk to. Since leaving the pass between Waykeep and
Respite, Bobbin had tried any number of times to return,
but the soarwagon wouldn't go. He kept winding up in
other places, or over familiar places but too high in the

sky to make contact with anyone. And he was running
low on raisins.
In a way, that could be a blessing, he realized, because
it was the half-bushel of raisins that had caused his
present set of problems. The raisin basket -- resting just
in front of him in the soarwagon's wicker cab -- had
shifted and fouled his control lines, and so far he had
been unable to correct them. His lateral and pitch pulls
were crisscrossed in some fashion, somewhere beyond
his reach. The result was that he could gain altitude more
or less at will. To descend, however, he had to wait for
the air currents to make proper adjustments on the vehi-
cle's forward foils, and hope that the positioning would
hold long enough to get near the ground again before it
reversed itself and climbed. Worse still, he could not turn
left. Only right.
The dilemma was symptomatic of the basic control
problem in the soarwagon's design. In building it, Bob-
bin had underestimated the craft's buoyancy and mis-
judged the sensitivity of its control surfaces.
The other gnomes were right, he told himself. I am in-
sane. Had this contrivance been built in proper gnomish
fashion -- designed by a committee, sublet out among
several guilds, and then assembled by a task force, it
wouldn't have these problems. But then, it wouldn't fly
at all.
The problem of the airfoils and their controls wasn't
insoluble. Within the first week of his plight, Bobbin had
deduced what was wrong and how it could be corrected.
Part of it was the result of something unforeseen, a phe-
nomenon that Bobbin simply had not known existed.
The air near the ground was denser and more turbulent
than that higher up, and all drafts within twenty or thirty
feet of the ground were updrafts.
Obvious enough, now that he understood it. But he
hadn't known about such things when he had designed
the soarwagon. His assumption had been that air was
air, anywhere.
He had even named the phenomenon of the near-
surface currents. Ground effect, he called it. And he had

worked out the control requirements to correct for it.
Only one problem remained. The soarwagon couldn't be
repaired in flight. He would have to land first.
And he couldn't land until it was repaired.
Feeling grumpier by the minute, Bobbin tugged his
strings and helped himself to some more raisins. He
wished he had some cider to go with them. Raisins with-
out cider were like a sundial without a pointer. Ade-
quate, but hardly timely.
Through a long morning he had been drifting in wide
right-hand circles, while the soarwagon descended from
an abrupt, screaming climb to an estimated twenty thou-
sand feet -- a maneuver executed entirely without Bob-
bin's assistance. Once at that lofty altitude, the device
had seemed satisfied to begin a slow, languid descent.
Bobbin had set the soarwagon in an easy right-hand
pitch and spent the intervening hours dozing, fuming,
and eating raisins.
After Bobbin finished his breakfast and washed it
down with rainwater collected during the previous
night's storm, he looked over the side of his wicker cab to
see if he could identify where he was. He frowned and
shook his head in disgust. A half-mile below was that
same valley he had been trying to leave when his raisins
shifted: the long, wooded valley between ridges, the one
those people had called Waykeep. The place with the
winding black road.
Off to Bobbin's left was the smoke of the refugee
camps, the people who had come across from the next
valley, fleeing an invasion of goblins. Ahead, just a few
miles, was the textured ice-field where he had first met
the kender, Chestal Thicketsway.
An old battleground, the creature had said. The lumps
of ice on the field contained fighting dwarves, frozen in
place. Bobbin saw no reason to doubt it, though why it
mattered was beyond him.
There were people out there now, on the ice. People
moving around. He squinted. Dwarves... and either
humans or elves. From such a distance, it was hard to
tell, except that some of them seemed to have beards.

Humans, then, he decided. Elves don't have beards.
Other movement caught the gnome's attention then,
far off to his right, to the south. He squinted, trying to
see details. A large group of... something... crossing
a clearing between stands of forest, coming north. Sun-
light glinted on metal. Armor?
The soarwagon's lazy circle brought it over the edge
of the ice field, and Bobbin leaned out to wave. "Some-
body'scomingyourway!" he shouted excitedly, waving
his arms and pointing. But he was ton high. The people
down there, dwarves and humans, obviously from the
refugee camps, were intent on the ice itself, and what
was under it. No one looked up, and within moments
the soarwagon was past them, continuing its descend-
ing spiral.
Long minutes passed, then the other group was in sight
again below, now dead ahead. The gnome leaned out to
squint at them. He saw them clearly now. Armored gob-
lins, a company of them marching in rough phalanx or-
der, with a slightly larger figure in the lead -- a waddling,
greenish-colored thing in bright misfitting armor. Bob-
bin had never seen a hobgoblin before, though he knew
what they were. If anything, he decided, hobgoblins
were even uglier than ordinary goblins. Without its
bright garb, the thing would have resembled a big, mis-
shapen frog.
The soarwagon closed on the marching company be-
low, lower now, only a few hundred yards up.
Well, Bobbin told himself, I'll circle over those other
people again pretty soon. I can tell them then that there
are goblins coming. None of my business, I suppose, but
then nobody needs goblins.
As he sailed over the marching goblins, Bobbin heard
their shouts and leaned out to look down at them. Cross-
bows and blades were brandished at him, and guttural
taunts drifted upward. On impulse, the gnome looked
around for something unpleasant that he could drop on
them. The only thing that came to hand was an empty
line-spool wedged between the raisin basket and the lat-
eral courses. He gripped it, pulled it loose... then

grabbed the rails of his cab and hung on for dear life as
the snagged tilt controls of the soarwagon suddenly
broke free and the vehicle responded.
The left wing dipped sharply, the nose went up, and
Bobbin's contrivance came around in a hard turn, climb-
ing. Righting itself, the soarwagon pointed its nose at the
sky and shot straight up, then completed a perfect roll
and reversed itself in a blistering dive, directly at the gob-
lins below. They stared, shouted, and began to run in all
directions. Bobbin cursed as he fought his lines and eased
the dive. But the craft had a mind of its own and re-
sponded with a neat half-roll.
Upside down and frantic, Bobbin shot over the heads
of the goblin troops, raining raisins down upon them. By
the time he managed to turn the soarwagon right side up,
he was four miles south and climbing, again coming
about in a wide right-hand turn.
Bobbin clung to his lines, pounded his wicker rail with
a frustrated fist. "Gearslip!" he cursed. "Threadbind and
metal fatigue! You misassembled piece of junk, can't you
behave yourself just once? Stress analysis and critical
path i If I ever get my feet on solid ground again, I'm go-
ing to take you apart and make camel davits out of you!"
At a half-mile relative altitude, the soarwagon soared
serenly over the scattered force of goblins, over the inter-
vening forests, over the ice field where humans and
dwarves worked to gather old weapons. Finally, it
passed over the huddled encampment beyond, where
refugees tended their children and wounded compan-
ions, then raised its nose and climbed.
Bobbin closed his eyes and shook his head. Things
were bad before. Now he was out of raisins.
High above the ridge that separated two wilderness
valleys, and miles north of the pass, the gnome repaired
and rerouted his control lines and prepared to come
about one more time. At least now he had controls
again, after a fashion. He could turn east, then south,
and possibly find the people he had lost at the mountain
crossing.
Then movement of an entirely different sort caught

Bobbin's eye, and he raised himself high in his wicker to
peer dead ahead. Something was coming from the north,
coming toward him, a speck against the horizon but de-
finitely coming his way... and flying. Where exaspera-
tion had been, hope surged forward, brightening the
gnome's gaze.
Flying! Someone else is up here in another flying ma-
chine, Bobbin thought gleefully. I'm not alone. Grinning
eagerly, he settled into his wicker seat and lowered the
nose of the soarwagon gently, aiming for the approach-
ing flier. Someone to compare notes with! Someone who
might have an answer to my dilemma! Someone else in
the sky!
At a mile's distance, the gnome studied the stranger.
Red in color -- bright, crimson red -- with movable wings
that flapped rhythmically, and a long, trailing append-
age of some sort. And legs? Yes, definitely legs. Not
wheels or runners, but jointed legs, like an animal's.
And who was flying it? Bobbin could not see a cockpit
or basket, not even someone mounted on a bench.
Closer still, Bobbin moved. Then his eyes began to
widen in incredulous astonishment. The thing looked --
he would have sworn it -- like a flying dragon.
Ridiculous, he told himself. There are no dragons on
Krynn. There were dragons once, they said. Ages ago.
But not now. Not in the memory of anyone living had
there been reports of dragons.
Closer and closer the two fliers came, and more and
more Bobbin had to admit that it did look like a dragon.
A huge, red, flying dragon, coming along the line of
peaks, coming directly toward him.
Fear washed up and down the gnome's spine, a com-
pelling, sweating fear that was like cold fingers gripped
him. Then a voice spoke to him. "Who are you?" it
asked, seeming to be right there beside him.
Bobbin gasped and looked around, this way and that,
trying to see who had spoken. The dragon was a half-
mile away now, and there was no doubt in the gnome's
mind that it was, indeed, a dragon. Again the voice at
the gnome's shoulder asked, "Who are you?"

 "Who are you?" the gnome shouted. "Where are you?"
 "You're looking at me," the voice said. "Yes. Me. And
yes, little creature, I am what you think I am. Now, calm
down and tell me who you are?"
 "Bobbin," Bobbin said. "I... I'm a gnome. Are you
really a... But of course you are. You wouldn't say so if
you weren't, would you?"
 "Bobbin," the voice seemed to purr in his ear. "Just
keep coming, Bobbin. You will have no further doubts,
in a moment or so."
Whether it was Bobbin's own numb hands trembling
at the control strings, or some vagrant current of air, the
soarwagon chose that instant to slip to the right, stall,
and go into a nosedive. Suddenly the gnome saw spin-
ning mountaintops straight ahead, and somewhere be-
hind him the air crackled with fire.
 "Oh, gearslip?" he muttered, struggling with his con-
trols.
 "Aha," the voice at his shoulder chuckled. "A fine
dodge, gnome. You were lucky that time. But you won't
be so lucky again. I can't let you live, you know."
 "Why not?" Bobbin tugged strings, wrestling the
plunging soarwagon out of its spin.
 "Because you have seen me," the calm voice said.
 "That is your misfortune. None who see me must live to
tell of it... not yet, anyway. You see, that could spoil
the Highlord's plan."
"I wouldn't want to do that, I suppose." Bobbin hauled
on his lines, and the soarwagon's nose edged a few de-
grees down. Bobbin glanced back and gasped. The red
dragon was less than a hundred yards back, wings
folded, gaping jaws displaying ranks of glittering teeth.
The soarwagon screamed into a dive, strained its fab-
rics, and flattened out of the descent, its wake currents
spewing a small snowstorm from the icy top of a rock
peak. Behind the contraption the dragon spread great
wings and dodged the pinnacle.
 "That was a nice stunt," the deep voice said in Bobbin's
mind. "But awfully chancy."
 "I'm insane," the gnome explained.

'What a shame," the dragon voice purred. "Well, you
won't have to worry about that much longer."
Bobbin glanced around again. He had gained some
lead, but now the dragon was winging around, making
for him in a flanking attack. The creature was huge, far
larger in both length and wingspan than Bobbin's
soarwagon. It fairly radiated power and dominance and
a mastery of the air. Its very presence was enough to in-
spire an awful fear, like nothing the gnome had felt
before.
"I don't suppose we could come to some... ah...
less terminal agreement?" Bobbin suggested, throwing
the soarwagon into a side slip that plunged it directly be-
low the dragon. He soared into a climb beyond his pur-
suer.
"Don't be ridiculous," the dragon voice was tinged
with anger now... and something else that tingled just
beyond the gnome's understanding. "You might as well
stop this dancing around. You don't have a chance of es-
caping, you know."
"I'm sorry," Bobbin said. "No offense intended, of
course, but self-preservation is a difficult habit to break."
He increased the soarwagon's pitch and reached for the
sky. Behind him, the red dragon beat great wings, pow-
erful in full pursuit. Yet, somehow, the beast seemed a
trifle sluggish.
Could the creature be tired? the gnome wondered. The
hint in the voice, that subtle something... could it be
fatigue?
"Stop this, now!" the dragon commanded. "I don't
have all day."
"I'm wrestling with my instincts," Bobbin assured it. "I
suppose you've come quite a long way."
"Nearly five hundred miles," the dragon snapped.
"Not that it's any of your business."
"Aerodynamics," Bobbin muttered. "Mass and energy
coefficients."
"Stop babbling and come back here!"
"You certainly are big," the gnome remarked, his mind
racing. "I'll bet you weigh a ton."

 "Closer to three," the dragon voice sneered.
 "Five hundred miles, you said?" He dug out a carbon
marker and did rapid calculations on the trailing edge of
his wing. "At say... twenty knots? That means you've
been in the air for more than twenty-four hours. That's a
long time. Do you have far to go?"
"Not much farther. Now let's get this over with. Turn
around?"
 "I'm still having problems with my autonomic re-
sponses," the gnome apologized. Glancing around one
more time, he readjusted his lines, dropping the craft's
nose in a sudden forty-five degree dive. He wondered
how much longer he could stay out of the dragon's reach.

Chapter 25
Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill stood at the
center of a ragged, determined line of refugees, watching
goblins advance across the ice. Twenty-eight fighters
formed the motley line, dwarves and humans, most of
them male but with a few females among them. A few
held weapons of recent make, but most were armed with
ancient blades, hammers, axes, and shields broken from
the smoking ice -- weapons that had been dropped or cast
aside by those still under the ice. The two chieftains
looked each way along their ragged battle line, then
glanced at each other. There was nothing more to say,
and nothing now to do except wait for the attack and
hold the line for as long as possible while the helpless
ones -- those in the refugee camps -- made their escape.

It was all they could do. The refugees were outnum-
bered four to one, poorly armed and poorly equipped, a
handful of herders and planters against a force of gob-
lins. They all knew that the best they might achieve
would be a little time.
The refugees had been exploring the ice field when
they saw the goblins coming from the south, no more
than a mile away. There had been time to do no more
than send a runner to warn the camps, and break out as
many weapons and shields as they could find under the
shallow ice. Wisps of ancient dark smoke, trapped from
trees and grasses caught blazing by the ice, had drifted
from the breaks with each new crack.
Now they waited as grinning goblins, a hobgoblin
leading them, surged across the ice, eager for slaughter.
Crossbows were aimed, and a deadly rain of bronze
darts lashed out at the defenders. Shields took most of
the missiles, but two dwarves and a gray-haired man fell.
The goblins shouted as they slung their bows, raised
swords and pikes, and charged.
All along the line, blades struck from behind shields as
the foes closed, and goblin blood steamed and stank on
the ice, mingling here and there with the crimson blood
of humans and dwarves.
The little line of defenders took the first assault and
turned it back, then closed ranks and retreated slowly,
drawing the barely disciplined goblins out of their for-
mation and into single -- or more often double or triple --
combat. For long minutes, the skill and sheer
desperation of the defending line held the field. But the
goblins were too many, and the refugee army retreated
again... and again. Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill
found themselves fighting side by side, and knew that
this would be the final strategy. Hold and retreat, hold
and retreat, until none were left to face the goblins. It
was, simply, a buying of time.
At the edge of the ice field they retreated yet again, no
more than a dozen of them now against at least seventy
goblins. The goblins formed another charge, then
halted. Goblin mouths dropped open, and goblin eyes

stared aloft, beyond and above the line of defenders.
Fleece Ironhill glanced around just as something very
fast skimmed over his head and swept upward on wide,
pale wings. He didn't see what it was, nor did he try to
follow it with his eyes. Instead he stared at the second
flying thing, plunging down from above. A huge red
dragon, its mouth opened wide and a rush of fire coming
from it. The dragon flared its wings and soared over the
line of battle.
Without warning, the dragon's fire-breath smote the
ice field behind the goblins.
* * *
Bobbin was in trouble. For a brief time, he had held his
distance ahead of the dragon, the soarwagon diving
earthward on rippling wings. But he had waited too
long, gone too low, and lost his edge. The dragon had
managed to get above him, and now was closing with
deadly speed. The gnome heard the long, deep rumble of
in-drawn breath and knew what it meant.
"Thermodynamics," the gnome muttered, praying that
his final calculation was correct, that the same ground ef-
fect that had been his undoing might just this once work
to his advantage. How many times since he had gone
aloft had the soarwagon abruptly shot skyward in a
screaming climb, propelled by the extra buoyancy of the
near-ground air?
"Don't change your ways just yet," Bobbin muttered,
taking a firm hold on his lateral controls. The ice field
sped by just a few yards below.
Closing his eyes, he pulled the strings. Behind and be-
neath the soarwagon's tail, a torrent of terrible flame
seared the air and flowed in waves of heat across the ice
field, which seemed to explode in great clouds of steam
and soot.
The soarwagon went nearly straight up, a pale sliver
flung by its own dynamics and given added speed by up-
rushing air currents ahead of the rising clouds of steam.
Bobbin opened his eyes and looked around. Behind him
was a tiny, distant landscape, where finger ridges of

mountains lay like furrows in a field. And barely visible,
far below, was the red dragon, just coming out of its dive
and beginning to circle to the east.
"How did you do that?" The dragon voice in his ears
seemed genuinely impressed.
"I bounced off the ground effect," the gnome ex-
plained. "It's nothing especially new. I've been bouncing
off it for weeks."
"Ground effect?" The voice seemed fainter now.
"That's what I call it. The air near the ground is denser
than the air higher up. It's why I can't land."
"You can't land? You mean you can't get down?"
"No, blast it! I can get near the ground, but I can't
quite reach it. Uh... are you coming after me again? I'd
rather you didn't. I have enough troubles without you."
The diminishing voice in Bobbin's ear seemed to
chuckle. "I've heard of gnomes being standoffish, but
you're the first one I've found who was actually stuck up!
But I have no more time for you, so I suppose this is your
lucky day. Goodbye, Bobbin." Again there was a fading
chuckle, then the voice was gone.
The gnome had managed to level out his climb, and
he looked over the wicker rail. In the distance below,
the red dragon was winging for the mountains east of
Waykeep. Bobbin circled and watched until the mythi-
cal beast cleared the peaks there and descended into the
smoky mists beyond. Then he sighed and tugged on his
descent strings. He was cold and hungry, and ready to
go down. Apparently the soarwagon was, too. At the
slightest pressure on its vanes, it dropped its nose and
plummeted straight down, its wings rippling and whin-
ing.
"Stress and derailment!" the gnome swore, and began
another adjustment on his controls.
** * * *
When dragonfire rolled over the frozen battlefield, the
effects were instantaneous. Ice splintered and fell away,
becoming great spreading clouds of steam mixed with
ancient smoke. Gray mist roiled outward, obscuring the

goblins and the defenders beyond, then drifted upward
on heated drafts. A wide, thick cloud shadowed a fore-
shortened land where everything seemed to writhe and
rumble. Goblins retreated, wide-eyed, then turned and
retreated again when the blades of the handful of human
and dwarf refugees drew blood.
The evil minions fell back, turned again, and stopped
in confusion. From the rolling clouds came dwarves,
hundreds of dwarves. Dwarves armed and armored.
Mountain dwarves and hill dwarves with dead eyes in
frozen faces that had not known change in more than
two centuries -- faces that grimaced and twisted in the ex-
act ways they had when they fought against one another
in a burning forest at the instant the spell of ice had been
cast by an archmage.
But they were not fighting among themselves now.
Mountain dwarves and hill dwarves stood shoulder to
shoulder, spread out beneath the dark plume of choking
steam. They were silent and relentless, and fell on the
panicked goblins without a hesitation or a sound.
The hobgoblin leader screamed, turned to run, and
fell, his helm pierced by Fleece Ironhill's spiked hammer.
Two jibbering goblins following him died under the
sword of Camber Meld. The cooling cloud of dark steam
above was descending now, settling as a dense fog
streaked with ash, slanting before a wind that came
across the old battlefield, carrying the dry scent of ages.
For long minutes there was only silence and the blind-
ing mist. Then, slowly, the cloud thinned. Five humans
and six hill dwarves, the last of the combined fighting
force led by Camber Meld and Fleece Ironhill, stood
alone at the edge of a great, blackened plain littered with
bodies, dropped arms and ancient burned stumps. Most
of the strewn bodies were goblins, many of them still
pierced by the weapons that had killed them. And every-
where, among and around them, were little heaps of
clothing and armor -- all that remained of the dwarves of
Waykeep, fighters released from an ancient spell for one
last cut, one last thrust, at an enemy.
The refugees looked around in awe. Nothing moved

except the wind... the wind, and a sliver of white far to
the east, something that flew like a bird with still wings,
riding on the air. Something going away.
 * * * * *
On a forest-shrouded knoll in the Vale of Respite,
some distance south of the encampments of the goblins,
a red dragon burrowed into leaf-mold and slept the sleep
of exhaustion. Even the most powerful of creatures had
its limits, and this one had been in flight for nearly thirty
hours and more than five hundred miles. It had flown
from a lair deep in the Khalkist Mountains to a secret
place near Sanction, then had spanned the entire width
of Newsea, past Pax Tharkas, and now lay in the wilder-
ness ranges between Qualinost and Thorbardin, in the
Kharolis Mountains of western Ansalon.
It had chosen the knoll, sent a mind-call northward,
then burrowed in and slept. Through the remainder of
that day it rested, and through the night and most of the
next day. The sleep restored its strength, and the dragon
dreamed the comfortable dreams of one who by birth-
right can be absolute lord over anyone or anything that it
cares to dominate... except others like itself, and one
beyond, the one the dragon called the Dark Queen.
The dragon slept for twenty-eight hours, then awoke
briefly to be aware of its surroundings.
The one it had called was there, waiting. The dragon
went back to sleep and dozed for another three hours.
Finally, when it was rested, the red dragon stirred,
shook away the forest leaves, and lifted its huge head. Its
long, sinuous body moved, and the beast stretched its
wings deliciously. The dragon felt renewed, restored.
Nearby, a small fire burned, and the person beside it
came to her feet. "Have you slept enough?" she asked
sourly.
"I always sleep enough," the dragon said. "It is you
who should worry about sleep. The Highlord would be
displeased if you should fail in your mission."
"I have not failed," the woman said. "All of the lands
between Pax Tharkas and Thorbardin are in my control

...or will be by the coming of spring. My goblins are in
place, and all that remains is the gathering of slaves to
build some decent fortifications."
The dragon's gaze was mocking. "If that is all that re-
mains, why are you aligning your troops to cross over
into the Plains of Dergoth beyond the mountains?"
"A minor matter," she snapped. "It would not interest
the Highlord."
"It might," the dragon purred. "Or would you rather I
just report that you didn't care to discuss it?"
"It's nothing! There is a dwarf who has learned of the
invasion gate to Thorbardin and thinks he can block it. I
simply intend to eliminate him."
"Interesting," the dragon said. "As I recall, you told the
Highlord that no one except you and your... ah, co-
inhabitant... knew of the lost gate. You assured the
Highlord that Thorbardin will stand open to him when
he comes, and that he can make it his base of operations."
"So I did, and so it will be. Do you doubt me?"
"So many of the best-laid plans," the dragon chuckled.
"Especially those of humans...."
"I will not fail!"
"I wouldn't, if I were you," the dragon whispered. "Is
there anything you would like reported to the
Highlord?"
"Report what you have seen," Kolanda snarled. "I'm
doing my job, so I assume you can do yours."
The woman glared at the dragon, then turned without
a word and walked away. The horned mask under her
arm stared back at the lizard through hollow eyes.
The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuri-
ously. It would be time soon to spread great wings and
begin the long flight back to the region of Sanction. The
Highlord would be waiting for his report.
The Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north
now, amassing armies, sending out spies and patrols,
plotting and securing lines of march, organizing systems
... petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the
Dark Queen would unleash them across Ansalon and be-
yond. They would then secure for her -- once and for

all -- the world she wanted and was fit to rule.
The dragon pondered for a moment whether to report
the gnome in the flying thing who had seen him and
somehow escaped. He thought about it, but decided that
there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a
gnome.
                      * * * * *
Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting
place, Chane Feldstone led a tired and dusty little group
along a winding ledge. Mountain winds sang in towering
crags above them, and mists hid the depths below.
"Do you know where we are?" Wingover asked the
dwarf for the second or third time in an hour.
'Why don't you leave him alone?" Jilian Firestoke
snapped. "Can't you see he's tired?"
Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.
Still weak from his shoulder wound, he sometimes stum-
bled and rarely spoke, though he pushed on with grim
determination. Chane was following -- the rest could
only assume -- the green line that marked the path where
Grallen had gone centuries before.
In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover
kept questioning him. The dwarf was showing signs that
to the wilderness man spelled sheer exhaustion -- a flat-
eyed stare that never seemed to blink; paleness that came
and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.
Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and
for the past day or more the man had been looking for a
place to do that. The problem was, except for a pair of
wide places on the trail where bitter winds had chilled
them and the last of their provisions had run out, there
had simply been no place to rest.
Their current trail along the mountainside was one
Wingover had never explored. The human marveled at
the idea that a dwarven prince had once led armies this
way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what
most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves
more often called the region the Plains of Death.
Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the lead stumbled

again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught
Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. "Are you all
right?" he asked, looking into the dwarf's exhausted
eyes.
"I'm all right," Chane growled. 'We have to keep go-
ing."
"Do you know where we are?"
"I know where I'm going. The path is clear."
"Yes, but do you know where we are?"
"Not exactly. Where?"
"I didn't think so," the man said gently. "Look off
across there... across the gorge, over on the face of the
next peak."
Chane looked, his eyes blank. There was a feature
over there, tiny in the distance but somehow familiar.
 "What is it?"
"I don't suppose you've ever seen it," Wingover said.
"At least not from this side, but I thought you might
want to know what you're looking at. That's Northgate."
"North... You mean... ?"
"Exactly," the man told him. "That is the Northgate of
Thorbardin."
"But the green line doesn't go there," Chane said. "It
goes east... I think that's east, anyway. Out there,
across those plains. Toward that lone mountain, what-
ever that is."
"Skullcap," Wingover breathed. "The ruins of what
was once the most feared tower of sorcery, Zhaman, lie
there."
Chane sighed. "Then that is where Grallen went. But
the line... it doesn't seem to go all the way. I can't really
see what it does. We have to go on. We have to get
closer."
"We have to rest," Wingover said flatly. He shielded his
eyes, peering ahead. Somewhere near, there should be a
place safe to rest. He squinted, then his eyes widened and
breath hissed through his teeth. On the trail ahead, just
where it wound out of sight, a large, black cat stood,
looking back at them. Even as Wingover saw it, the ani-
mal turned languidly and slunk out of sight.

Chapter 26
"Cats!"
With a visible shudder, Wingover drew his sword,
gripped his shield, and eased past the weakened dwarf.
He had seen the great black cats of Waykeep only once.
But once was enough. On stiff legs he started toward the
bend, certain that at any moment a bounding, snarling
pack of the giant creatures would appear there, coming
for him. And it would be up to him to defend the others.
Glenshadow's magic would not work in Spellbinder's
presence. Chane Feldstone was hardly strong enough to
stand off cats. Still, Jilian might make an accounting of
herself with that sword she carried. After seeing the re-
mains of her ogre, the man was willing to believe almost
anything.

Small feet scuffed just behind Wingover, and Chestal
Thicketsway's voice said cheerfully, "What are you
doing?"
"Stay back," the man snapped. "There are cats ahead."
"Cats? Kitty cats or the Irda's cats?"
"Just stay back, out of the way," "Wingover shot a quick
glance back, felt something brush past his legs, and
turned to shout, "Come back here!"
"I'll just take a quick look," the kender said, scamper-
ing ahead. "If they're like the Irda's cats, I've seen a lot of
those."
"Ye gods," the man swore and quickened his pace, will-
ing the rest to stay where they were. Ahead of Wingover,
the curious kender disappeared around the bend.
Wingover ran, then stopped. Just past the bend, the
trail widened, then widened again, and became a deep,
sheltered cove in the mountainside. Clear, cold water
flowed from a tiny spring and pooled before overflowing
its rock tank and disappearing again into crevices in the
mountain. Conifers grew in abundance, and rich, chill-
bleached grass was everywhere. Beside the pool were
several bundles, all securely wrapped in sacking, and the
kender knelt beside the nearest one, untying its straps.
He glanced up, grinned, and pointed. "Look."
High on a rock ridge beyond the cove, several of the
big, dark cats were climbing, going away. Some of them
turned to look back, feral eyes seeming to glow in the
pale light, But they only hesitated, then went on. Within
seconds, they were gone.
"Food!" the kender chirped. "Look at this. Biscuits!
And honey, and oats, and cabbage... wow!" With one
pack open, he went on to the next one.
Wingover heard the thump of a staff and turned. Glen-
shadow stood a few paces back, cold eyes peering from
the shadows of his bison cloak. 'The Irda," he said. "She
has provided for us. She said that would be done."
"But those cats --"
"Are hers. In a way, I suppose they are her."
"Where is she, then, this Irda?"
The wizard gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged

and turned away. "She is an Irda. I suppose she is wher-
ever she chooses to be."
"Irda," Wingover breathed. "Irdas are ogres, from
what I've heard."
Glenshadow shook his head. "No. The Irda is what
ogres may once have been. They are not the same."
'You'd know that if you'd seen her," the kender said.
"Look at this! Raisins. How about that? And cider."
The others had appeared, Jilian helping Chane and
leading Wingover's horse. At the cove, they all stopped
and stared. Jilian nodded. "This is more like it. Let's get a
fire going, and I'll make tea. And soup. Don't you think
some soup would taste good, Chane? Here, you sit down
over here. Eat a biscuit while I'm cooking."
'There is danger ahead of us, then," the wizard noted
ominously. 'The Irda knows."
"How does she know any such thing?" Wingover spun
toward Glenshadow, tired and angry, confused and feel-
ing as though everyone but himself had a hand in this sit-
uation. "Does she use magic?"
"Only a little... of the kind I use, when I can use it at
all," Glenshadow said. "The kind you so despise, though
it is a part' of your world and not always to your disad-
vantage. The Irda is a shapechanger. That much is
magic, though natural to her kind. And she is a singer.
Some have said the Irda carry magic in their voices,
though I think now it is simply that they have... such
voices." He paused and considered the point for a mo-
ment. "Perhaps they have another magic that is outside
the magic of Krynn. I believe they do, but who can say
for certain. If they do, then it is used entirely for their
own purposes and not for or against any other being. It is
the nature of the Irda."
"You haven't answered my question," Wingover
snorted. "How could such a creature -- as you say --
know that there is danger ahead for us?"
"She listens." Glenshadow shrugged. "The world has
many voices, and eyes everywhere. The world itself
knows what passes upon it. It speaks of it to itself, and
the Irda listens. How else could she do what she does...

observe the purposes of the gods' things, the ones that
the gods themselves no longer observe? Who else could
inform the Irda, except the world itself'"
Wingover shook his head, wondering if the mage was
in fact deranged. What he said almost made sense...
sometimes, but not in any way that Wingover could see.
He turned away and went to start unpacking his horse.
"Don't do that," Chane Feldstone shouted, getting to
his feet. 'We have to go on."
"We aren't going anywhere for a while," Wingover told
him. "We are going to rest here until we're fit to travel."
"But I see the path now," the dwarf said, his face going
pale again. "I see where Grallen went, and I have to go
there. Spellbinder --
Jilian Firestoke was at Chane's side then, bracing him
with strong little hands. "The man is right, Chane," she
said gently. "You must rest. Then we can go on. Please,
sit down."
A sheen of sweat had erupted on Chane's forehead,
and his eyes seemed glazed. Still, he tried to struggle free.
"Can't you see the path? Can't any of you see it? It goes
down this mountain and out onto the plain, then it dou-
bles back... just out there. It turns back and stops. See?
Why can't any of you see?" The dwarf slumped and let
himself be eased down to a sitting position.
"Jilian?" Chane murmured. "Jilian, I think your father
was right. I don't deserve you. But he was wrong, too.
He was wrong in... deciding he could decide. It is for
you to decide, Jilian..."
Chane's voice trailed off, and quickly he was asleep. Ji-
lian covered him gently with a wrap from her own pack,
and when she looked up her eyes were moist. "He's so
tired," she said.
Wingover knelt beside the dwarf and touched a palm
to the sweating forehead. Then he stood, nodding. "It
was the goblin dart. It has sickened him. He needs rest."
To Jilian he added, "Chane will be all right. If the wound
were going to kill him, it would have before now."
Leaving Jilian hovering over the sleeping dwarf,
Wingover walked to where the wizard stood, looking

eastward. The mage raised his hand and pointed.
Far out in the distance, where the slopes ended and a
flatter land began, there was movement. Wingover and
Glenshadow were too far away to be sure, but they sus-
pected who was there. The Commander of Goblins was
ahead of them, and with her was her army.
"They know we're here," Wingover growled. "But if
they didn't follow us, how did they find us"?"
Maybe they don't know exactly where we are," the
bison-robed wizard offered, lowering his hand. "But
they know which way we were going. And they know
why."
"The mage?" Wingover muttered. "The one who died,
but didn't?"
Glenshadow only nodded.
A flash of white in the distance flickered above the
gorge where the path bent around the mountain slope. It
wasn't bright, but the flash was enough to catch
Wingover's eyes. He turned. "It's that gnome," he
growled, pointing. 'Where has he been, anyway ?"
The soarwagon neared the mountainside, skimmed
away, and did a wide turn. As the gnomish contraption
came about for another approach, Jilian Firestoke waved
and Chestal Thicketsway ran to the ledge to watch.
"Tell him to come in and lower his line," the kender
said. "Tell him we have raisins. And cider."
The flying thing approached carefully this time, fi-
nally hovering on updrafts just above the cove. The
gnome in the wicker seat leaned out and waved. "Hello!"
he called. "Do you remember me? I'm Bobbin."
"I remember you!" Wingover shouted. "What news do
you have?"
"About what?... Ah, yes! You're the one who's look-
ing for cats. Well, I saw some, up the mountain from
where you are. But they're going the other way."
Wingover scowled. "We know about the cats! Any-
thing else?"
"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 excite-
ment. "A real dragon? Where?"
Wingover shook his head in disgust. There was no tell-
ing what the gnome had actually seen... if anything.

Part IV
GRALLEN'S HELM

Chapter 27
Solinari and Lunitari had set hours ago. Beside a
small fire, set far back in a mountain cove, Chane Feld-
stone 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 fire-
light 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 ill-
ness. 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 ken-
der 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, wher-
ever 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 dis-
turb 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 rav-
aged 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, al-
ways 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 it-
self."
"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 Path-
finder 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."
"Sold?"
"Yes, according to the dream. A human has learned of
the hidden way, and traded knowledge for power. There
was a voice in the dream that told me that. It was as
though Spellbinder itself spoke to me... right here, on
my forehead."
"If you've seen Grallen --" The man rubbed his whis-
kers thoughtfully "-- then you know why he was here on
Sky's End. I've wondered about that. I've heard the tale,
you know, from Rogar Goldbuckle and others. But they
said that Grallen and his army went north, from

Northgate, and across the Plains of Dergoth to meet Fis-
tandantilus in the final battle. What was he doing over
here, so far west?"
Chane nodded. "His army went north and awaited the
archmage on the plains. But I... Grallen, I mean, and a
small force went west first, to unite the skirmishers of
Coal Delvish and the border guards under Melden Cop-
pershield. Grallen had word from the king's spies that a
massed army of hill dwarves was preparing to march
from southern Abanasinia. They had to be stopped.
Otherwise the mountain dwarf army at Dergoth would
have been caught between two enemies.
"Somehow Fistandantilus was there, at Waykeep, and
joined the battle, casting spells of fire and ice. Those who
came this way were all that remained from that battle."
"And nobody in Thorbardin knew of that, since no-
body came home after Zhaman," Wingover muttered.
"What else did you see? In your dream, I mean?"
The dwarf's eyes narrowed. "Another battle. A greater
one taking place across Dergoth toward the old fortress
standing there. I knew, Wingover. I knew... did I
know then? Did he know that it was the last battle?
"Callan Rockreave led the main assault. I wonder if
any in Thorbardin know that. And Derek Hammerthane
carried the king's pennant. Others joined us, too...
joined them, I mean. Some humans among them, who
fought courageously alongside Grallen and the others.
"I... Grallen, I mean. In the dream, he actually took
the tower, then confronted the old wizard in his lair. He
intended to exact an oath from Fistandantilus... or to
kill him. The prince was in a hurry, though, and dis-
tracted. He wanted to finish the fight and get back to
Thorbardin because of something the gem above his
noseguard had revealed to him. He was worried, and he
underestimated the old wizard."
Chane paused and closed his eyes. "I saw it in the
dream. The wizard was in a rage. His eyes... there is no
way to describe such eyes. They were not the eyes of any
living thing. They were... evil. Then the wizard smiled
and set loose his final magic. And Grallen... and every-

one and everything... were gone."
Chane's voice had gone soft as he spoke, and was
barely audible in the final words. As he opened his eyes a
tear welled in one of them and started to trickle down his
cheek. He snorted, shook his head, and brushed it away.
"Everything ended there, you know. They all died."
The dwarf sighed heavily, glancing around as though
he were just awakening. The kender had come to listen
and was holding one end of a long pole with leather
loops on it. Chane realized this was probably the first
time he had ever seen the kender speechless.
"But you said you saw Skullcap," Wingover persisted.
"Grallen couldn't have seen that."
"No. It was as well that he never saw it. It was like the
mountain... melted, changed into something hideous.
Grallen didn't see it, Wingover, but I did. In the dream."
He tapped his forehead. "The stone in Grallen's helm --
Pathfinder -- saw it, and I've seen what Pathfinder saw.
"Grallen must have put his helm aside... or lost it in
the tower or something. But I know where it is now, and
why the green trace out there looks so odd, as though it
doubles back on itself." He walked to the ledge and
pointed, not toward distant Skullcap, but south of there.
"Zhaman's spire," he said. "It was blown entirely away
from the tower, and bits of the upper portions with it.
Grallen's helm -- and Pathfinder -- are there, where the
wreckage fell."
* * * * *
Morning sun was on the peaks of Sky's End when the
soarwagon appeared again, spiraling down from high
above in a series of precipitous loops and tumbles -- for
all the world like a stricken bird falling away from a rap-
tor. And as it tumbled closer, Chane and his allies
squinted at it. The contrivance seemed to have added
something since its last visit. Thrust upward from its top
side was a slim thing like a narrow mast.
Over the gorge, just out from the cove, the soarwagon
leveled out and its nose-vanes shifted. It hovered on ris-
ing mists while Bobbin leaned out to shout, "Get the sup-

plies ready! I've solved the problem!"
"What do you mean, you've solved the problem?"
Chess called back. "I worked all day on solving the prob-
lem."
"Hurry!" Bobbin tugged the control lines, ignoring the
kender, and eased the soarwagon toward the ledge. As it
had done before, the contraption began to tilt, aligning
itself to the slope of the mountain steeps above. Closer it
came, and closer, and the slender mastlike thing began to
extend from its underside, toward the cove. Chess and
the others could see what it was: Bobbin's rope. But
somehow it was stiff, snaking toward the ledge at an
angle.
"Hurry!" the gnome shouted. "And don't forget the
cider!"
Chess danced about the ledge, his eyes bright with ex-
citement. "Look at that! He's made the rope stiff. It's
coming right to us."
Bobbin worked his controls and continued feeding out
the rope, doing all he could to settle the soarwagon in
close to the ledge.
"How did you do that I" Chess shouted. "That's really
something! Come on! The raisins and cider are right
here, all lashed together. All we have to do is hook them
...oops!"
The rope had come within five feet of the ledge, almost
within reach. Then, abruptly, it sagged and went limp.
The rope dangled from the flying craft, its hook swinging
fifteen feet out from the cliff.
"Oh, breakdown!" the gnome cursed. "It melted!"
"Melted?"
"Right. I used up the last of my water, soaking it, then
spent the night at least ten thousand feet up, freezing it. I
thought that would work."
"Well, don't worry," the kender called. "Just try to hold
still."
Strutting with pride, Chess brought out his supply
pole -- twenty feet of slim sapling, with loops at its ends.
He attached the narrow-end loop to the raisin-and-cider
pack and lifted it, then began to feed out pole toward

Bobbin's dangling hook.
Leaning over his wicker rail, the gnome watched with
worried eyes. "That isn't going to work," he said. "You
can't lever that much weight that far out without a coun-
terbalance."
Chess braced himself, struggling to feed out the pole.
The weight of the supplies seemed to double with each
foot of extension. "I may need some help," he admitted.
The others had gathered around him, watching with a
mixture of amusement and disbelief.
"You need more than help," Wingover advised. "There
isn't enough pole there."
"This just has to work," the kender panted, beginning
to stagger at the leveraged weight of the supply pole. "It's
the only idea I have."
With the last of his strength, Chess hauled the supplies
back to the ledge. He carried the pack twenty feet to the
left and ran back. Lifting the butt-end of the pole, the
kender put his shoulder to it.
"Don't!" Wingover started.
"Wait!" Chane shouted.
"Youcan'tdothat!" Bobbin called.
But the kender already had. With a tremendous heave,
Chess swung the pack off the ledge, trying to hoist it out
to the soarwagon's hook. Pack, pole, and kender disap-
peared over the edge. Jilian screamed.
Instantly Wingover loosed his sword, plunged its
blade deep into a crack in the rock, and swung himself
outward and down. Chane Feldstone jumped over him,
cleared the ledge, and scrambled down the man's length.
The dwarf hung from Wingover's ankle and grabbed
Chess's free hand just as the kender lost his grip on a
snag.
"Got him!" Chane called. "Pull us back up!"
Wingover pulled, but nothing happened. His grip on
his sword held them suspended -- man, dwarf, kender,
pole and pack hanging over the misted gorge -- but no
amount of muscle-wrenching effort would lift them.
"I thought I was the one who was crazy," Bobbin called
from the hovering soarwagon.

Just at the cliff's edge, Jilian had her feet braced and
both hands on Wingover's forearm. Her nails bit into hi!
skin as she pulled. "Let go!" he shouted at her. 'You're
making it worse!"
"Somebody get a rope!" Chane called from below.
"I have a rope," Bobbin mentioned. "A fat lot of good
it does me, now that it's melted."
Jilian scrambled back from the ledge, then turned and
ran, returning with Wingover's horse and a length of
rope from his packs. Working quickly, the girl secured
the rope to the saddle, carried its free end to the ledge,
and leaned over to tie it around Wingover's arm.
With Jilian pulling on its headstall, the horse braced it-
self and hauled. Wingover appeared at the ledge and was
dragged to safety, snatching up his sword as he came.
Then came Chane and finally the kender. Chess had one
hand firmly grasped in the dwarf's fingers; the other held
the pole's loop.
"Remarkable," Bobbin sighed, watching from the limit
of ground effect.
When finally the pole and packs were safe, Chane
Feldstone released his grips on the man's ankle and the
kender's hand. The dwarf stood up, brushed himself off,
and took the pole away from Chess. "Get out of the way,"
he growled.
Angrily, the dwarf reversed the pole and thrust its
butt-loop out toward the gnome's dangling hook, hand
over hand.
Chess watched for a moment, then shook his head.
'That won't work," he said.
"Why not?" Chane kept feeding out the pole.
"Because then I'll lose my supply pole!"
"What do you want it for?"
"Well, it's for sending raisins and cider out to where
Bobbin can get them."
"And when he has the pole, he'll have the supplies,
too," the dwarf rumbled. "Mercy!"
"Oh." Chess backed off, considering the logic of it.
"Well, there is that."
Using the supply pack as a counterweight, Chane fed

the pole out and neatly dropped its loop over Bobbin's
hook. The gnome began to winch in his line, and the
pack slid off the ledge and fell. The heavy bundle of sup-
plies swung at pole's end, making the soarwagon dance
in its hover. The contraption held for a moment, then
sensitive vanes reacted to the shifting currents and it
soared away over the gorge, circling and climbing as
Bobbin's angry voice trailed away.
"You're welcome!" Chess shouted, watching soarwa-
gon, rope, supply pole, and raisin-and-cider pack dimin-
ish into the distance.
"At least he has provisions," Jilian pointed out. "I'm
sure he was getting hungry."

Chapter 28
Hiqh ox a chill slope, where whining winds
drove scudding clouds below and whipped snow from
peaks above, the wizard Glenshadow knelt beside a pool
of ice. The hooded face looking up at him was grim.
 "Only a few days ago you were within an arrow-shot of
the Dark One, Wanderer. Did you see him?"
 "I saw something," Glenshadow replied. "The warrior-
woman lifted something from beneath her breastplate.
Something small and dark, it seemed, like an amulet."
 "It was the Dark One," the face told him. "You could
have killed him then... or he you."
Glenshadow shook his head. "His magic would no
more work for him than mine for me," he said. "Not in
the presence of Spellbinder."

"The dwarf still carries the stone, then," the voice mut-
tered. "Has he seen where it directs him?"
"He sees the trail of Pathfinder, and thus the way to
Grallen's helm. He may know soon where it lies, for he is
on the east face of Sky's End now. All of Dergoth is visi-
ble beyond the chasm."
"All of Dergoth... and the woman, Darkmoor. The
Dark One is with her. They are ahead of you, Wanderer.
They await you."
"Then so it must be," Glenshadow rasped, his voice as
chill as the whining winds on the mountain. "Tell me, has
the riddle been tested? The omen of the moons?"
"We think it means there will be war," the ice-face said.
"A war like none Krynn has ever known."
"When?"
"Soon. The preliminary games are in play even now
...as you have seen."
"But, a war of the moons? What kind of war must that
be?"
"Of the moons, Wanderer? Or of the gods? We believe
the omens mean a war for dominion. Some say a contest
among gods, to once and for all determine which of the
triad alignments shall rule on Krynn... But, of course,
there are always those who speak of ultimates and finali-
ties. Even so, those of the dark robes are gleeful these
days, while those of the white are silent and anxious."
The figure in the ice seemed to shrug. "We shall see what
comes of it all. Most of us are not overly concerned."
The ice faded, went blank. The mirror surface re-
flected only cold sky above -- that, and the cold,
thoughtful face of the wizard who knelt beside it.
"Not overly concerned," he muttered, and his cold
words were carried away by the wind. "Not concerned?
It was not only the white moon that was eclipsed, but the
red, as well."
Glenshadow passed the glowing tip of his staff over
the ice pool, and again it shifted. He knew from past tri-
als that it would show him nothing of Chane Feldstone
and his companions. It was, after all, only magic. It
could not see within the realm of Spellbinder. But it

would show him other things, in other places.
A scene emerged: a sundered plain where goblins
marched, and in the background the blind, leering
death's-head of Skullcap, hideous monument to the
power of magics drawn from Nuitari, the black moon.
"Chislev!" the wizard said.
The ice scene flowed, spanned across miles, and refo-
cused on a barren hillside. There, a figure stood
motionless -- a curious, oddly-jointed thing that might
have been a horse... or some woodcarver's interpreta-
tion of a horse. It was obviously a carven figure, wooden
with pin-hinged joints like a child's toy. As the ice eye
closed on the figure its carved head turned. Painted eyes
looked at the wizard.
"Which are you?" Glenshadow asked the ice.
"I am Hobby," the carved horse told him. "What wish
do you have?"
"The helm of the dwarven prince, Grallen. Do you
know where it is?"
"I know nothing except what Chislev wills," Hobby
said.
 "And I have called upon Chislev and found you.
Therefore it is the will of Chislev. Hobby, where is Gral-
len's helm?"
The carved horse turned away, seeming to look about
uncertainly. Suddenly its hinged joints came alive, and it
sprang away, running at an awkward, loose-legged gal-
lop that seemed slow -- except for the blur of landscape
flashing past. Hobby ran, and the ice image followed it.
Hills sped past, and wild steppes where raw wind flat-
tened scrub. The torn and savaged land was seen just in
glimpses by the mage.
The carved horse ran, then slowed and halted atop an-
other hill. "There," it said. "Hobby has found it."
The wooden horse looked away, and the ice image fol-
lowed its steady gaze. At the foot of the hill was a tumble
of rocks. Great boulders lay here and there in a field of
smaller, broken stones, which stretched across a quarter-
mile of barren waste. Only here and there among the
rocks was there indication that they had once been part

of a structure -- a squared corner, a wedge-cut face of flat
stone.
Hobby's gaze narrowed, and so did the scene in the ice
pool. Among the stones, a point jutted up, tilted at a
slight angle, its lower parts buried under sand and de-
bris. It was a piece of what must once have been a mighty
structure, now only wreckage among rubble.
A wide crack ran from the covered base part way to-
ward the upright point, and Hobby's painted eyes fo-
cused on that crack. In the shadows within the fissure,
something glowed for a moment.
"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 moun-
tains 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... Cali-
ban, 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 Thor-
bardin."
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 build-
ing 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, seek-
ing 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 com-
mand 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 king-
dom 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 de-
stroyed. 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 dis-
patch 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 eight-
een inches across. It towered over the woman. "Puny hu-
man," 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 breast-
plate. 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 breast-
plate and pointed at the second ogre. 'You heard my or-
der," 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 Com-
mander 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 devel-
oped between her breasts. She held it up, gazing at it
with revulsion.
"Why did she wake me?" the thing asked, its voice a
dry, husky whisper in her ear. "Does she need me to deal
with ogres?"
"You didn't have to kill it," Kolanda said. "It might
have proven useful."
"She criticizes me," the thing whispered. "What does
she want?"
"I need you to tell me where my quarry is," she said.
"Ah? Needs me, does she? Hee-hee!" The ancient, wiz-
ened voice was a whispered cackle. "Needs Caliban, she
does. Very well, Caliban is awake. But she knows the
price."
With a shudder of revulsion, Kolanda dropped to her
knees and held the wrinkled thing before her face. Low-
ering her head the woman said, "Caliban lives forever.
Caliban's power goes beyond death. Caliban will never
die again. Caliban offered me his help..." Her voice
trailed off in a choking whisper.
"Hee-hee!" the dark thing rasped. "She has to say it
all."
"Caliban offered me his help," she continued, "and I
accepted. I sealed the bargain with the blood of my own
brother, and thus Caliban owns my soul."
In her ear, the wispy voice chortled and cackled. 'Very
good. She always remembers... as she must. What
does she ask of me now?"

"I cannot see my prey, Caliban," Kolanda said. "See
them for me, and tell me where they are."
"She wants to know where people are," the voice
breathed. "Kiss me, Kolanda."
With a shudder, she brought the thing to her lips and
kissed it, then held it against her forehead and looked
again toward Sky's End. She could see them -- the dwarf
and his companions -- across the miles but as if they were
only a few feet away. Caliban's magic magnified the
scene, and she counted them there. A pair of dwarves,
one male and one female; a rangy, bearded man dressed
as a ranger or forester; a horse carrying packs; a kender.
There was something odd about the kender, almost as
though someone else walked beside him, but there was
no one else there to see. They were coming down a steep
trail, toward the gorge that faced the plains. A stone
bridge arched across, just ahead of them.
"They are near the lost gate," she whispered. "But they
aren't all there. Where is the wizard?"
Kolanda raised her eyes and saw him. High on the side
of Sky's End, he stood alone, a cloaked wizard of the red
robes.
The heart of Caliban became hot against her skin.
"Glenshadow!" the husky voice rasped. There was a siz-
zling sound, a ringing in the air, a massing of powers to
be unleashed. The figure on the mountain raised his staff
and vanished.
Puzzled, Kolanda Darkmoor withdrew the wrinkled
black thing from her brow and gazed at it. "What is it?"
she asked. "Why were you so... ah. Aha, I think I see.
He was one of them, wasn't he! One of those who killed
you?"
The husky voice no longer chortled. Now its whisper
breathed of deadly hatred. "She must hold me aloft now.
I will find him again. I will kill him."
Quickly, Kolanda lowered Caliban. She dropped the
thing back beneath her breastplate and smiled, a cruel
smile on a face that should have been beautiful. "I owe
you no favors, sorcerer," she said. "Our accounts are
square. Go back to sleep."

Caliban stirred for a moment between her breasts, and
then became still. She shuddered in revulsion as she al-
ways did. Years before, Kolanda had made her pact, a
pact between herself and the withered heart of an old
renegade wizard, hunted down by wizards of the various
orders. Caliban was a black-robe who had set himself be-
yond the bounds and had paid the price. But Caliban was
also a mage who even in death had somehow torn out his
own heart with his two hands, and willed his spirit into
it.
This was Caliban, and this was the pact between them.
As long as she lived, she would keep and use the thing
that owned her.
The slaves had been brought forward to set up the
Commander's pavilion. They were mostly hill dwarves,
with a few other creatures among them -- a few miserable
Aghar, an elf shackled and mutilated almost beyond rec-
ognition, a few humans. Kolanda Darkmoor watched
the work, wrinkling her nose. So pitifully few, they
were. But there would be more. One day she would have
all the slaves she wanted, to use as she wished.
It was a thing she had learned from Caliban, or maybe
had always known. People are of value only if they are
owned.
She glanced at the slaves again. Among them, the lone
elf was clinging to the rails of a forage cart, staring at her.
Both legs made useless by cut tendons, still he clung to
stay upright and looked at her with eyes that held no ex-
pression at all. Drivers goaded him, marked him with
whips, and he ignored them. I should kill him, she
thought. But this was the one who had ambushed her
scouting party -- had cost her half her escort -- and she
wanted him to live and suffer for that.
Among the wounds the elf carried were recent ones.
His face had been battered, and one of his ears was gone.
Bitten off, by the look of it.
Kolanda looked around for Thog, one of her hobgob-
lins, and summoned him. "The elf has been beaten
again." She pointed at the slave accusingly. "I want him
alive."

"Tried to 'scape," Thog growled. "Han's an' knees, an'
he brained one of th' drivers wi' a rock."
"All right," she said. "Just see that he isn't killed. I'm
not ready to release him yet."
When the hobgoblin was gone, Kolanda once again
drew the withered wizard-heart from her breast and
said, "Caliban."
Instantly he was awake.
"You can tell me where that wizard is now," she or-
dered. "But after that we do things my way. And no more
ritual grovel, do you understand? Don't forget, I'm all
that keeps you alive."
"She is arrogant," the thing whispered. "But for now, I
agree. For now."
She held the old heart against her forehead and looked
into the distance.
Later, when the slaves had erected her pavilion, Ko-
landa Darkmoor called for Thog again. "Have them take
it down and pack it away," she said. "And get your troops
together. We're moving out."

Chapter 29
The stone bridge across the gorge, at its nar-
rowest point near the foot of Sky's End, was old. Not
truly ancient, in the sense that Gargath's monolith and
such constructs as Pax Tharkas and the ruins of Zhaman
were ancient, but it was old. Obviously, it had been built
since the Cataclysm, because prior to that there was no
gorge between the mountain peaks and the Plains of
Dergoth.
  Andobviously,it was of dwarven construction. A
high-arched bridge, it was built entirely of stone -- huge
blocks of cut and shaped granite rising a hundred feet or
more in its center as it spanned three hundred yards of
abyss. Its floor was a precise nine feet in width. That was
the same width as the cable-cart tunnels in Thorbardin.

As he approached the structure, Wingover studied it
intently. "I hope you know what you're doing," he told
Chane. "Once we cross the gorge, we're going away
from Thorbardin, not toward it. And there are some
very unfriendly goblins over there somewhere."
"At least I know where to look for Pathfinder," the
dwarf noted. -It s just at the edge of the plains, on a hill-
side. Probably not more than three miles from here."
"When you have it, it will lead you back toward Thor-
bardin," Wingover noted. "The bridge will be between us
and the city, then. I can't think of a better place for those
goblins to trap us."
"What's why I'm going on alone, after we cross the
bridge," Chane said. "The rest of you can wait at the
other abutment, to make sure we can come back."
"I'll do no such thing, Chane Feldstone," Jilian
snapped. "If you go out there, then I'm going too."
"I don't have much choice about it," Chestal Thick-
etsway pointed out. "I'm with you, Chane. At least until
I do something about Zap."
"I'll leave Spellbinder here," the dwarf said. "Wingover
can hold it for me. That way you can stay here, too,
Chess. 1 don't know, you might be handy to have around
if Chane has to hold the bridge. I've seen you use that
hoopak."
'Yeah, I'm pretty good with it, don't you think?"
"Isn't that what I just said?"
"No. You said you'd seen me use it."
'You're good with it, so stay here."
"I don't have much choice, if Spellbinder's here. Unless
... I don't suppose you'd want me to hang on to Spell-
binder until you get back. That way I could --"
"No-o-o!" something that wasn't exactly a voice
seemed to wail.
"Oh, yeah," the kender remembered. "I don't want to
have to listen to that again. Of course, I could leave my
pouch, but then what would I use to carry hoopak
pebbles?"
"Stay!" Chane growled. "All the rest of you, too. I
know where I'm going, and I'll go faster alone."

But Wingover was ignoring the dwarf. Quickly, the
man stripped the packs from his horse, down to just sad-
dle and gear. As he swung aboard, he snugged his flint-
hide shield to his left forearm in riding mode. Wingover
then pulled his sword around, ready to hand, and looked
down at the glowering dwarf. "When it comes to travel-
ing fast, you're about the worst choice we have at the
moment. So it's up to me. Where is that hillside?"
Chane glared up at him. "How do I know you'll come
back?"
"How do you know you would?" the man bristled.
"Do you want my help or not?"
"I never asked for your help," Chane grumbled. "Jilian
did."
Wingover leaned down to match the dwarf's pugna-
cious glare with one of his own. "I believe you could ag-
gravate the horns off a minotaur, dwarf, but I don't think
you're stupid. Tell me where to find that helm of yours,
or I'll go search for it anyway."
Jilian tugged the sleeve of Chane's black fur coat. "Tell
him, Chane. He'll bring it back."
"How do you know he...?" Chane looked around
and paused. "Oh. Well, I suppose you're right. It's just
that humans are so hard to trust."
"Well?" Wingover asked.
"Beyond the bridge is a broken slope, with a trail
winding down through rock outcrop for about half a
mile. The trail is easy to see... or it used to be, any-
way, when I...I mean when Grallen saw it. After you
get out of the breaks, you'll see a few low hills ahead,
and the trail will fork around the first one. Take the left
fork. The right leads to the bog." He paused, and
Wingover nodded.
"Past that hill you'll see two more a mile or so away --
little hills that look alike, with a gap between and the
sundered plains beyond. The right-hand hill is where
Grallen's helm is, with Pathfinder. The hillside faces
Skullcap, and the helm's near the foot of the hill. There's
rubble there, so I guess you'll just have to search through
it."

"What if it's buried or something?"
"It isn't buried. But it's in a dark place with a tall, tilted
opening -- like a crack. Jagged, kind of. And where it is,
it can't see Thorbardin."
"How do you know that?" Wingover asked.
Chane shrugged. "Because it wants to, and it can't. I
don't know. The Irda said the two gems are god-things,
left over from something a god did. Maybe they are in-
terested in whatever that god is concerned about."
"And what god is that?" Wingover said with a frown.
 "Assuming, of course, that there really are gods. I'm not
sure I believe any of that."
"I don't know if I do, either," the dwarf admitted. "But
the Irda did. And Reorx is the highest of the gods... if
there are any."
"Reorx? Wingover scoffed. What about Gilean?
And Paladine, and Kiri-Jolith? Reorx isn't any higher
than them!"
"Who?"
"Gilean."
The dwarf nodded. "He's all right, I suppose. I meant
Reorx was greater than those other two you named. I've
never even heard of them."
"You never heard of Paladine? He's the highest-
ranking of --"
"He means Thak and Kijo," Chess butted in, grinning.
 "A lot of people call them Paladine and Kiri-Jolith."
They both looked at the kender. Chane frowned and
snapped, "What are you grinning about?"
"Oh, I was just thinking, for two people who don't be-
lieve there are gods, you both certainly have your favor-
ites."
"And how do you know so much about it?"
"I listen a lot."
"Pure superstition, anyway," Wingover snorted,
straightening in his saddle. He looked at the rising stone
bridge ahead and lifted his reins.
"I'll be back," he said. "Just hold the bridge for me if
trouble comes."
He touched heels to the horse and trotted it to the foot

  of the stone bridge.  The horse  abruptly turned  tail and
  tried to throw him off. He clung, cursing, and finally got
  the animal under control.
    "Maybe he's afraid of the bridge," Chane suggested.
    "Geekay has never been afraid  of a  bridge in  his life!"
  Wingover shouted. "Or a goblin, either! He's just  full of
  vinegar from not being exercised."
    "Geekay? Is that his name? What does it mean?"
    "He named himself. It's Goblin Killer." Wingover
  hauled  the  reins.  The  horse  spun,  dug  in  haunches-
  down, and hit the bridge at a full gallop.  Wingover's di-
  minishing voice came back to them:  "Blast it,  horse! Not
  so fast!"
    In seconds the thundering  horse had  topped out  at the
  crown  of the  high-curved span  and was  out of  sight. A
  moment later the ring of hooves on stone  faded to  a dis-
  tant clatter, beyond the gorge.
    "Well, the bridge is  still there,"  Chestal Thicketsway
  decided. "I guess it's safe to cross."
    "Of  course  it's  safe,"  Chane growled.  "It's dwarven
  work." Picking up his pack, he started up the  bridge, the
  others following after him.
    "If a gnome can fly," the kender muttered, "then I guess
  a dwarf might miscalculate rocks and  things from  time to
  time."

                       * * * * *

    By  the  time  Wingover  got  the  bridge-spooked  horse
  under tight rein, they  were through  the breaks  and into
  rolling, open country.  Holding Geekay  to a  steady trot,
  the  wilderness  man scanned  the lands  ahead. A  few low
  hills lay  ahead, about  a half-mile  away, just  as Chane
  had said. Wingover eased  the reins  and headed  for them,
  looking for signs of a trail.
    At first there was none, then in a low place  that might
  once  have been  a mudflat  he saw  tracks. They  were old
  tracks, but still clear - at least  three horses,  and the
  short,  wide .prints  of dwarven  boots. The  trail disap-
  peared short of the hill, but Wingover made left  and cir-
  cled around it, his eyes  roving the  landscape. Sometimes

  he raised his shield to  eye-level and  peered over  the top
  edge of it. An old trick, it was a way to see distinct move-
  ment that might otherwise lose itself in  mirage. So  far he
  had seen nothing, but vagrant breezes  carried the  stink of
  goblins.   Wingover   knew   they   were  out   there  some-
  where.
    As  much   as  he   watched  the   land  around   him,  he
  watched  the  ears  of  his horse.  The animal  smelled gob-
  lins,  too, and  was wary.  Its ears  swiveled this  way and
  that,   pausing   sometimes.   When   they   did,   Wingover
  scanned in their direction.
    The   hill   was   a   smooth   mound,  and   as  Wingover
  passed  it  he  saw  two  more,  just as  the dwarf  had de-
  scribed.  They  lay  about  a  mile  ahead, with  some draws
  and gullys lacing the lower ground between.
    Geekay's ears turned, fixed  on a  direction ahead  and to
  the  left,  and  a  tremor  ran  along  his  mane.  Wingover
  lifted  his  shield, peering  over its  edge. Atop  a narrow
  draw,  barely  a  hundred   yards  away,   something  moved.
  It  looked  like  a  twig  twitching  in the  wind... except
  that  twigs  twitch  rhythmically, and  this one  didn't. It
  moved,  disappeared  below  the  rim  of  the draw,  and re-
  appeared  a  few yards  away. Its  direction was  toward the
  point where his own path would cross the draw.
    So  they're  waiting  for  me there,  he decided.  But how
  many?
    Wingover  reined  a  little  to  the  left,  holding  hard
  against the bit, then let  Geekay have  his head.  The horse
  had  never  been  trained  as a  warhorse -  not as  some he
  had seen, great  steeds in  armor, ridden  by men  in armor,
  silent   men   who   had  come   down  from   Solamnia  once
  many years before  in search  of a  fugitive -  but Wingover
  and  Geekay  had  traveled  far  together  and  had  been in
  some scrapes.
    With the bit eased and the  scent of  goblins in  his nos-
  trils, 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 rear-
 most  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 fol-
 lowing  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  remain-
 ing 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 re-
 bounded 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 ar-

 mor  mask  that  hid a  face that  should have  been beauti-
 ful.
   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, gap-
 ing  at  him.  Even his  clothing and  his hair  were bright
 green.  Leaning  from  his  saddle,  he  asked,.  'What hap-
 pened 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 set-
  ting. 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."

                       Chapter 30

        Because the goblin army was so widely spread,
 fanned across the plains in three troops, miles apart, Ko-
 landa  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 immedi-
 ately.
   "We got foragers workin' those gully-washes," the run-
 ner 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  be-
 came 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 swerv-
 ing to climb the hill, then shifted to the  hilltop, Kolanda
 stiffened.  The  wizard  there  stood  immobile,  arms  out-
 stretched,  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 with-
 ered thing, letting it hang on its thong outside her breast-

 plate. '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?"
   "She  oversteps,"  the  voice  whispered, distant  and dry.
 "She will pay when the time is right. It must be so."
   "Another  time,  we can  discuss it,"  she said.  "But now,
 do you agree?"
   "How  can  we  fight as  two?"  the ancient  voice insinu-
 ated.  "When  I  am  at rest  her armor  hides me,  and hides
 all  from me  except her.  When I  am in  use, she  must hold
 me in contact with her; she can do nothing else."
   "Do you agree?" Kolanda demanded.
   "I agree,"  the distant,  evil voice  said. "For  now. But
 how?"
   "Like  this,"  she  said.  Reaching  behind her,  the Com-
 mander  loosed the  lacings on  her breastplate,  then pulled
 it off and threw it aside for the slaves to pick up and place
 in the  cart. The  blouse beneath  it she  tore from  neck to
 waist,  exposing  her  breasts.  Caliban  hung  now   in  the
 cleft between them, and his voice was no longer distant.
   "I can draw from her heart to  fight, as  well as  from her
 head," it admitted.
   Immediately,  Kolanda  felt the  tingling again,  this time
 through her  chest, and  the surrounding  air seemed  to siz-
 zle.  "My  way,"  she  reminded. "You  can have  the wizard,
 but not at risk of  the man  and the  thing he  carries." The
 distant  vision  came  again,  but  only  vaguely   now  that
 Caliban was not at her eyes. Still, it was enough.
   The wizard was mounting the horse, swinging up be-
 hind its rider.
   Kolanda   beckoned   a   hobgoblin.   "Noll,"    she   com-
 manded,  "take  the  platoon  at  double-time  and go  to the
 bridge.  Take those  you find  there. Kill  them if  they re-
 sist."  She  motioned  the  troops  forward,  and  they lined
 out at a run, followed  by the  cart drawn  by slaves  and by
 the  swamp  goblins  searing  them  with  whips  to  get more
 speed from them.
   Only Kolanda and her personal guard of six selected
 fighting goblins remained. With them at her heels, she set
 off at a steady  trot toward  the edge  of the  breaks. Where

 the trail emerged, she would  wait for  the two  riders com-
 ing from the hills. Caliban  could have  his revenge  on the
 wizard. He  could have  the other  man, too,  as far  as she
 was  concerned,  but intuition  told her  that the  thing he
 carried with him  must not  reach the  dwarf at  the bridge.
 It  must  not  reach  Thorbardin, of  course, but  more than
 that she herself must have it.
      Whatever it was, it had the power to punish Caliban.
    The two men on the horse were still nearly a mile away
 when   Kolanda  Darkmoor   and  her   guards  took   up  am-
 bush positions along the  trail, just  where it  entered the
 broken lands.
   Half a mile to the west,  Noll and  his platoon  of goblin
 warriors   crept   through   narrow   ways    among   heaped
 boulders,   approaching   the   abutment   of    Sky's   End
 Bridge.  Behind  them came  the cart,  pulled by  slaves. In
 the   same   cart   Kolanda   Darkmoor's   lacquered   steel
 breastplate lay atop  bundles of  lathed bronze  darts, for-
 aged  weapons  and  supplies,  and bits  of booty  picked up
 along the trail. Where it lay, it almost  hid a  sleek long-
 bow  of  elven  design and  a single  arrow... the  last ar-
 row of Garon Wendesthalas.
   Weak  and   battered,  beaten   and  mutilated,   the  elf
 clung to the side of the cart for  support as  swamp goblins
 harried  the  slaves  along.  He  clung,  and  his  hand was
 never far from the bow and the single arrow.

                       * * * * *

   Wingover  was  long  since  out  of  sight  by   the  time
 Chane  and  the others  had crossed  the arched  bridge, and
 they settled in to wait between a pair of pillars that might
 once have been guard towers,  flanking the  east end  of the
 bridge.   Guard   towers   or,   Chane   thought,   possibly
 counting towers for  inspection of  wares in  transit. Idly,
 the  dwarf  found  himself  thinking:  this might  once have
 been  a  trade  road.  Wingover had  spoken of  trade roads.
 Probably  there  had  been  such  a  road,  going  out  from
 Thorbardin  to  points  north  by  way  of Pax  Tharkas. Ob-
 viously  there  had  once been  a lot  of trade  between the
 undermountain   kingdom   and  other   realms  -   far  more

 than  the  modest  efforts of  Rogar Goldbuckle  and other
 traders produced now.
   Thorbardin  itself  was  full  of  things  not  dwarven.
 Elvenwares  of  great  beauty  were  treasured  under  the
 mountains,  as were  tapestries and  feather arrangements,
 cunning  table  services  of  carved  wood made  by humans
 somewhere,  toys  and  folding screens,  vine-laced frames
 for paintings, small  bits of  treasured ivory.  Chane had
 seen such things all his life in Thorbardin, but had never
 thought  much  about  them.  Now  he  realized  that  they
 were  relics  of  some  long-ago time  when the  gates had
 been  open  and  roads  had  been in  use for  caravans to
 come and go upon them. Chane  thought of  it, and  felt as
 though  some  grand  thing  had been  lost along  the way.
 Wars and hostilities and conflicts  among peoples  had de-
 stroyed the roads,  and put  an end  to the  commerce they
 had represented.
   This  very  bridge,  this soaring  arch across  a misted
 gorge, might have been part  of that  same old  route from
 Thorbardin  to  Pax  Tharkas  to  the lands  of Abanasinia
 ...destroyed  in  the  Dwarfgate  Wars.  The  bridge might
 have  been  a  point  of registry  for dwarven  goods out-
 bound,  and  a point  of inspection  for the  treasures of
 other  places,  coming  to the  dwarven realm.  The broken
 lands  beyond  would  have made  ideal trading  grounds. A
 hundred camps  could be  set up  within a  half-mile, each
 in its private corner, and all interconnected by  the maze
 of stone-walled paths. It  would have  been a  trading ba-
 zaar like  nothing ever  seen in  Thorbardin, even  in the
 great centers of the Daewar city.
   It was a pity, that such things no longer were.
   "If  ever  there  is peace,"  Chane muttered,  "real peace
 and  cooperation,  it  will be  warriors and  fighters who
 bring it. For they are the ones who have seen the  most of
 chaos."
   Chess  glanced  around at  him. 'You  sound like  an elf."
   "Or  a  human,"  Jilian  observed.  "That  does  sound aw-
 fully human, Chane."
   "I  wonder,"  he said.  "I wonder  if there's  that much
 difference."

   "I think  I'll take  a look  around," Chess  said. "Things
 are getting dull around here."
   Before  he  could  turn  away,  though, the  kender looked
 up  and  grinned.  'Things may  perk up  a little,  I guess.
 Bobbin's back."
   Like  a  speck  against  the  mountainside,  rapidly grow-
 ing,  the  soarwagon  dipped   and  tumbled   toward  Chane,
 Jilian,  and  Chess.  The kender's  supply pole  dangled be-
 low it, horizontal, attached to the  hook on  Bobbin's life-
 line. They walked a  few steps  out on  the bridge  to watch
 its  approach,  and  Chane's  foot  bumped   something  pro-
 truding from the bridge rail. He knelt for a better look. It
 was a metal  ring the  size of  the palm  of his  hand, just
 inches  above  the  bridge's  floor.  He  raised  his  eyes,
 searching  along  the rail.  There was  another a  few yards
 away,  and  another  beyond  that...  and  the   same  along
 the base  of the  south rail.  Metal rings  were set  in the
 stone  at intervals,  as far  up the  bridge as  Chane could
 see.  He  knew what  they were.  Every cable-cart  tunnel in
 Thorbardin  had  such  rings  at  every  change   in  grade.
 Such winch  rings were  used for  the hoisting  and lowering
 of laden carts along slopes, by use of pulleys.
   Just like in Thorbardin.
   But why equip an open-road bridge with winch-rings?
 Unless....
     Chane stood, gazing past the rising bridge, across the
 gorge  at  the  sheer  face  of  Sky's  End.  They  had come
 down  from  a high  ledge, along  a narrow  switchback trail
 that  approached  the   bridge  from   a  sharp   angle.  No
 straight  approach  from  the  west  was  possible,  because
 the bridge footings ran nearly to the sheer,  clifflike face
 of   the   cutaway   mountain.  It   had,  now   that  Chane
 thought  of  it,  seemed  odd  that a  bridge should  end at
 right angles to the foot.of a diff, but he had  other things
 on his mind when they'd first encountered it.
          Chane took a deep breath and nodded. Intuition so
 strong it was beyond question poured through him.
   "I know where it is," he muttered.
   Beyond the west end of the  bridge, at  the foot  of Sky's
 End's towering cliff, was a rockfall.  And behind  the rock-

 fall... it had to be. An ancient tradeway,  under the
 mountain. A tradeway that would lead to the warrens.
   The forgotten entrance to Thorbardin. Forgotten be-
 cause an old war had brought an end to trade.
   "Hello!"
   Chane blinked and turned. Just a few yards away,
 level  with  the  bridge,  the  soarwagon  hovered  over  the
 gorge.  The  gnome  waved   at  them.   "Do  you   want  this
 pole back?" he called. "I don't have any use for it, and it's
 a clumsy thing to carry around."
   "Why don't you just drop it?" the kender asked.
   "It's  a  nice pole,  and you  might want  to send  over some
 more raisins some time. Why don't you keep it?"
   Chess smiled. "All right. Let it down,  and I'll  keep it."
   "Not here," Bobbin said. "I'm afraid to  get too  close to
 that bridge. But I can let it down just past those towers."
   The   soarwagon   edged   upward,   dipped,    and   soared
 out over the gorge in a wide  circle. It  settled to  a hover
 again just past the foot of the bridge.
   "I'll go get the pole," the kender said.
   Bobbin began lowering the horizontal pole, working
 his winch, then paused, looking toward the breaks. He
 cupped his hands and shouted, "Did you know there are
 goblins here?"
   In  the instant  the gnome  took his  hand from  the winch,
 the  pole dropped  free. In  that same  instant a  company of
 armed  goblins  surged   out  of   hiding  just   beyond  the
 bridge abutments and charged.
   The  pole and  the lead  hobgoblin arrived  at the  gap be-
 tween the pillars at  exactly the  same time.  The creature's
 midsection  hit  the  pole, jamming  it against  the pillars,
 and he flipped over it  and fell.  Several goblins  fell over
 him,  and  others over  them; the  pole splintered,  and Bob-
 bin's  line  broke  free.  The  soarwagon  bobbed  skyward as
 Chestal  Thicketsway  turned  and  ran, back  up the  rise of
 the bridge.
   "Goblins!"  Chess  shouted  needlessly,  for   the  sprawl-
 ing,  shouting  mass  of  creatures  behind  him  would  have
 been difficult to overlook.
   Chane  leaped  to  Jilian's  side,  grabbed  her  arm,  and

  pulled her to the nearest vertical riser  on the  bridge rail.
  Without a word, he thrust her down behind it.
    Chess  turned  and  drew  his  hoopak  sling.  As  the  hob-
  goblin  tried  to  get  to his  feet, spilling  goblins around
  him,  the  kender  bounced  a  rock  off his  helmet, knocking
  it askew.
    Momentarily blinded, the hobgoblin waved his sword
  and screeched, "Rush 'em! Cut'm down!"
    A goblin free of  the rest  started to  charge, and  a whin-
  ing  pebble  took  him  in  the  eye.  He went  over backward,
  screaming.
    Jilian  Firestoke  had  no  intention  of  hiding  behind  a
  vertical pillar of a bridge  rail, when  there were  things to
  be   done.   Holding   her  sword   in  launch   position  she
  rushed past Chane and headed for the enemy.
    Chane started  to shout  at her,  then saw  one of  the gob-
  lins  beyond  her  raise  a  crossbow. He  drew his  sword and
  threw it, as hard as  he could.  End over  end, it  flashed in
  the  sunlight...  over  Jilian's  head  and   downward.  Point
  first it hit the goblin's breast armor,  and the  sheer weight
  of  it  drove it  through. The  goblin fell,  skewered through
  the brisket, and his dart sailed out over the gorge.
    Jilian  swung  at  the  nearest  goblin,  missed,  and  spun
  around,  clinging  to  her  centrifugal blade.  The creature's
  laugh  was  cut  short as  the sword  came around  again, this
  time full across his luring face.
              Chane hoisted his hammer and waded in, following
  Jilian.
    "Fall  back!"  the  hobgoblin shouted.  "Fall back!  Use th'
  darts!"  He  sprinted  for  cover  as  Jilian  whirled  toward
  him.  Her  blade  took the  tassel off  his helmet,  the stock
  off his crossbow, and the tail off his kilt before he  got out
  of range.
    For  a   moment  there   was  scrambling,   fleeing  goblins
  everywhere,  then  the  bridge  was  clear.  Chane  dived  un-
  der  Jilian's  flashing  sword  to  keep from  being beheaded.
  "Stop  now!"  he  roared,  catching  her  around the  waist in
  a  diving  tackle.  They  tumbled  across  a  dead  goblin and
  rolled against the bridge rail.
    "I said, stop," Chane panted.

   Jilian picked  herself up  and smoothed  her hair.  "I was
 trying  to.  You  didn't  have  to  be  so grabby  about it.
 Honestly!"
   A  bronze  dart  ricocheted off  stone beside  the dwarven
 girl.  Chane  glanced  around,  then  grabbed  her  hand and
 headed   up   the  bridge,   seeking  cover.   Darts  zipped
 around them, and pebbles flew in answer.
   The  kender  was  dodging  in  and  out  of  the  cover of
 stone  uprights,  stepping  out  to  use  his  weapon,  then
 darting back to cover to  reload. But  as the  dwarves piled
 in  behind  him,  he  reached  into his  pouch and  his hand
 came  out  empty.  He  was  out  of  pebbles, and  there was
 nothing on the bridge to throw.
   Chess  dug  deeper  into the  pouch. "I've  probably got
 some things in here that I can shoot."
   He  searched,  found  something, and  slipped it  into the
 hoopak's sling just  as a  goblin peered  around one  of the
 bridge spires. The kender let fly, and his missile burst and
 splattered on the creature's face.
   "What was that?" Chane called.
   "Pigeon  egg,"  the  kender admitted.  "Not a  very good
 choice, I guess."
   Darts  continued  to  fly and  zing around  the defenders.
   "We'd  better  retreat,"  Chane  rumbled.  "Come  on. Fol-
 low me across the bridge."
   Chess  glanced  around,  and  his  eyes widened.  "I don't
 think so," he said. "Look."
   Above  and  behind  them  on  the  bridge  stood  an  ogre
 with a  huge club  in his  fist. As  the dwarves  turned and
 saw  him,  the  creature  grinned.  He  pointed his  club at
 Chane  Feldstone.  "You  see  me,  dwarf?" he  thundered. "I
 see you, too. You think Loam don't remember you?"
   The  darts  stopped  flying,  and  goblin  cheers  sounded
 below.  The ogre  stood, gloating,  his stance  nearly span-
 ning the width of the bridge.
   "Maybe  I  can  slice  him,"  Jilian offered,  but Chane
 pushed  her  back.  The  dwarf  stood, balancing  his ham-
 mer  for  combat.  In  return, the  ogre licked  its lips,
 grinned again, and came for him.

                        Chapter 31

   Out  on  the   plains,  Thog   had  gathered   the  sepa-
 rate  segments  of  Kolanda's  command,  and   was  marching
 toward  the  breaks.  From  the  bridge-trail  gap,  Kolanda
 saw  the  troops  funneling between  the distant  hills, and
 knew there would be little for them to do.  It would  all be
 over  before  they  arrived.  Already,  she  could  hear the
 hoofbeats  of  the  approaching  horse.  Edging   back  into
 the  shadows  of  a  stone  slab,  the  Commander  waved her
 six guards farther back into their hiding places  across the
 trail. In moments, the riders would be between them.
   "You  can  have  the   wizard,  Caliban,"   she  muttered.
 "The goblins and I will deal with the barbarian."
   "Glenshadow,"  the  withered  thing  at  her  breast whis-
 pered.  "Caliban  has  waited  a  very  long  time. Glensha-

 dow  will die  many times  now, before  he is  released to
 death."
   Kolanda  felt  the  tingling of  magic being  amassed, and
 was  satisfied.  Caliban  would  have  no  time to  think of
 other  things  until he  was through  taking his  revenge on
 the  red-robed  mage.  By  then,  she  would have  the thing
 the  wilderness  man  carried,  the  thing  that  would make
 Caliban truly her slave.
   The  horse's  hooves  clopped  on  stone, only  yards from
 the  ambushers,   and  the   Commander  gripped   her  blade
 and  held  her  breath,  counting  the  seconds.  Closer and
 closer  the  sounds  came.  There  was  motion   beyond  the
 stone,  and  a  horse's  head  appeared. Kolanda  raised her
 sword...  and  stopped.  There  were   no  riders,   only  a
 horse  with  an  empty saddle.  Looking straight  ahead, the
 creature  trotted  on,  seeing  none  of them...  though its
 ears  swiveled  toward  the  goblin guards  in hiding  as it
 passed.
   Kolanda  stepped  out  from  her  hiding place  and peered
 back  the  way  the  horse  had  come.  Nothing.  She turned
 and stared after the horse. It trotted on  up the  trail and
 disappeared around a turn, its hoofbeats fading.
   "They've  tricked  me,"  Kolanda  breathed.  "Well,  we'll
 see  who  gets  the last  trick." She  waved at  her guards.
 "Come out! Follow me, on the double!"
   They fell in behind her, glancing at  one another  in con-
 fusion, and headed up the trail. At a dark cleft in the bro-
 ken  stone,  the  rearmost  goblin  saw  the others  pass by
 ahead  of  him,  then  paused  as  something seemed  to move
 in the cleft. Slowing,  he approached  and stepped  close to
 the  darkness.  It  was  the  last thing  he ever  did. Hard
 hooves  lashed  out,  with  great  haunches   driving  them.
 One caught the goblin in the face, the other in the chest.
   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 gray-
 stone. 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 fol-
 low  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 ham-

 mer. 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, tight-
 ened 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,  en-
 joying  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 sud-
 denly,  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 beck-
 oned  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 blood-
 chilling 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. Ig-
 noring the kender's prodding hoopak,  the ogre  raised his
 club to crush the dwarf.
   Chess flailed at the ogre's back, then blinked  as some-
 thing fell across his arm... a metal  hook, attached  to a
 rope.  He  dropped his  hoopak and  grabbed the  rope. Af-
 ter throwing it around the ogre's massive ankle,  the ken-
 der 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 soarwa-
 gon  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 an-
 swered.  "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 soarwa-
 gon  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.
   Chess   danced   on   tiptoes,   shouting,   "Come   back!
 You've got Zap!" But it was far  too late  for his  words to
 be heard.

    Wingover  cut  and slashed  his way  through a  gaggle of
  panicked goblins at the foot of the  bridge, the  stench of
  goblin blood  a miasma  around him.  His battle  howl still
  echoing  from  the  stone  walls  of  the breaks,  he clove
  through them, wading in  dark gore.  Stab, slash,  and cut,
  his blade was a dancing tongue of death, his shield  a dark
  battering ram. Goblins fell, and goblins fled. A  pain like
  searing  fire  lanced   through  Wingover's   shoulder  and
  down   his  shield   arm.  He   lunged  forward   and  spun
  around.
    An  armored  hobgoblin  faced  Wingover,  its  sword  red
  with  blood  and poised  to strike  again. The  human tried
  to raise his shield, but couldn't. He dodged aside instead,
  barely   escaping   the   thrust.  The   hobgoblin  hissed,
  feinted, and  thrust again.  Wingover felt  the cut  on his
  thigh as his own blade  descended, leaving  a deep  dent in
  the creature's helmet.
    A random thought teased Wingover: the hobgoblin
  was hiding. It waited and got behind me.
    Again   the   hobgoblin   struck.  Wingover   managed  to
  deflect the cut with his shield, and lunged  forward, blade
  extended.  The  point  ground  against   metal  breastplate
  and  slid  away,  and  Wingover  felt  blood  dripping down
  his cheek. He realized  dimly that  he wasn't  standing any
  more.  He  sat  spread-legged  and  dazed, and  the hobgob-
  lin's wide mouth split in a sharp-toothed leer. Raising its
  sword  above its  head, the  creature charged,  then stiff-
  ened  and  gurgled  as  Wingover's  blade slid  between its
  breastplate and its buckler.
    Slowly,  shaking  his head  to clear  the mists,  the man
  got  to his  feet and  pulled his  sword free.  Someone was
  beside him, helping him. It was Jilian,  her eyes  wide and
  excited.  Wingover  staggered,   then  stood.   All  around
  was   stench   and   carnage...   and    silence.   Nothing
  moved,  and  the  only  sound was  an odd,  distant singing
  as of great winds building aloft.
    The air felt still and heavy. Where is the  sunlight, the
  wilderness man wondered vaguely. Why is it so dark?
    Feeling  dizzy  from  shock,  Wingover  raised  his head.
  Heavy  clouds   were  forming   above  -   dense,  swirling

 clouds  to  the  east,  above  the  Plains  of  Dergoth;  dark
 ropes   of  cloud   sweeping  outward   from  the   slopes  of
 Sky's   End.   Odd,   he   thought.   Odd  weather.   But  his
 wounds  put  thoughts  of the  clouds aside.  He was  hurt, he
 knew. But how hurt? Jilian tugged at him and pointed.
    Beyond   the   bridge,   someone   was    coming.   Shadows
 from  the  swirling  clouds  interefered,  then  Wingover  saw
 clearly.    Kolanda    Darkmoor.    The    Commander.    Bare-
 breasted,   her   woman's   body  contrasted   strangely  with
 the  hideous  helmet  and  the  weapons  she  carried. Goblins
 ran  beside  her.  Five  of  them that  he could  see, better-
 armed  than  the  ones  he  had  fought  on  the  bridge. More
 disciplined. Crack troops.
    Partway   up   the   bridge,    Chane   met    them.   Wingover
 had  to  lay   down  his   sword  to   remove  the   dwarven  helm
 from  its  sling  at his  back. It  was smeared  with blood  - his
 own, he knew.
    He  handed  it   to  Chane   Feldstone.  "Here's   your  ances-
 tor's hat," he said  gruffly. "Jewel  and all.  I hope  it's worth
 it."

    Chane turned the helm in his hands, studying it.
    "Well, don't just stand there," Wingover gritted. "Use
 it."

    "You're hurt," the dwarf said.
    "It's  nothing  much.  I'll  be  all right.  But we  don't have
 time to discuss it. Use the helmet!"
    Chane pushed back the cat-eared hood of his black
 cloak, and Chess gaped at him.  Somehow, he  hadn't no-
 ticed  how  much  the  dwarf  had changed.  The dwarf's
 swept-back beard, his intense,  wide-set eyes  were the
 same,  but Chane  was different  now. Somehow  the ken-
 der couldn't see him now as an amusing dwarf in a bunny
 suit. He might almost have been someone  else entirely.
 Chess wondered if the old warrior, Grallen,  had looked
 like this.
    The  dwarf  set  the  helm  on his  head. It  fit as  though it
 had   been   made   for   him,   and   seemed   as   though   none
 other  had  ever  been  intended  to   wear  it.   Grallen's  helm
 settled  over  Chane's  head,  and  the  green  stone   above  the
 noseguard began to glow.

   Chane  seemed  to stiffen.  His eyes  closed, and  when he
 spoke his voice had changed.
   "I, Grallen,"  he said,  "son of  King Duncan,  rode forth
 on the morning of the last battle in the great charge of the
 Hylar  dwarves.   From  the   Northgate  of   Thorbardin  we
 had  come,  then  westward  to  where  the  roving companies
 encamped,   then  across   Sky's  End   to  the   Plains  of
 Dergoth,  to  join  the main  force of  Hylar. My  troop as-
 saulted  the  mountain   home  of   the  wizard   there.  My
 brothers  fought  with  courage  and  valor; many  fell with
 honor at my side."
   They  stared  at  him  in wonder.  Even Jilian  had backed
 away, her eyes wide.
   "Yet when the tide of battle turned  in our  favor," Chane
 recited,  "and  I  confronted  the  wizard  in his  lair, he
 smiled, and a  great magic  rushed from  his being:  a flame
 of power and horror that broke through stone and steel.
   "Thus in his rage and despair, he  destroyed both  his al-
 lies and his enemies.
   "Thus  did I  die, and  thus now  I am  doomed to  live in
 the  remains  of  the  fortress,   now  known   as  Skullcap
 Mountain,  until  the   day  when   someone  will   take  my
 helm and return it to the land of my fathers  so that  I may
 find rest."
   Clouds seethed and churned overhead, darkening the
 land. Whining winds aloft echoed in the chasm below.
 Chane stood a moment longer  as one  entranced, then
 shuddered and opened his eyes. "Grallen," he said.
   He  turned  to  stare  at  the massive  face of  Sky's End
 across  the  bridge, and  a green  light glowed  there among
 the fallen stone. It looked to the  dwarf like  light coming
 from an open door.
   "Go," Wingover said.  "I'll hold  them here  as long  as I
 can. Go and do what we came for... whatever that is."
   Chane  hesitated,  then  nodded.  "It  is  what   we  came
 for," he said. Abruptly he  held out  his hand.  "Good luck,
 human."
        Wingover took the hand in his good one. "Good jour-
 ney, dwarf."
   Chane  turned  toward  the  crown  of  the bridge  and the

 mystery  beyond,  Jilian  following.  Chess  looked  after
 them, started to tag along, but changed his mind.
   "He's  probably about  to become  rich and  famous," the
 kender muttered. "And probably insufferable. I  think I'll
 stay."
   Just  beyond the  foot of  the bridge,  Kolanda Darkmoor
 stood,  looking  up  at  them. Her  stance was  a warrior's
 stance. A victor's stance. Her eyes behind her  steel mask
 glittered  with  anticipation,  and something  between her
 breasts glowed darkly. A faint, sizzling sound lingered in
 the air.
   And then there was no  more time.  Out past  the breaks,
 goblin  troops  raced  toward  Chane  and  his companions,
 and   just  beyond   the  foot   of  the   bridge  Kolanda
 Darkmoor   signaled   her   guard  to   advance.  Wingover
 picked  up his  sword and  braced himself,  estimating how
 long it would take for the dwarves  to reach  safety under
 the mountain.

                         Chapter 32

    An   eerie   darkness    walked    across   the   land,   a
 darkness   of   writhing   black   clouds   that   swirled  and
 coiled,  defeating  the  sunlight.  West  of the  bridge, Sky's
 End  was  veiled,  its  slopes  immersed  in  flowing darkness.
 To the east, the  breaks, the  low hills,  and the  vast plains
 beyond  were  a  dancing  mosaic   of  deepening   shadow.  To-
 ward  Skullcap  the   clouds  circled   and  tumbled   in  upon
 themselves,  twisting   in  clockwise   rotation  as   the  de-
 scending  belly  of  the  storm  dropped  lower and  lower, be-
 coming   a  funnel   miles  across.   Above  the   gorge  winds
 swept   down  from   mountain  passes   and  howled   in  murky
 glee.
   Wingover  set  his   sword  upright   against  a   stone  and
 used his right hand to lift his left arm, shield and all, until

  the flinthide's edge was just  below his  eyes. With  a strip
  of fabric from his tunic he  tied the  useless arm  in place,
  then retrieved his sword.
     The  woman  in  the  horned  helmet gazed  up at  him, her
  pose  arrogant, speculative.  After a  moment she  called, "I
  want  the  thing  you  brought  from  Dergoth!  Give   it  to
  me!"
    Wingover waited.
    "You  won't  kill  me,"  the  woman called.  "You can't."
  Her laughter cut across the  wind as  she lifted  the hideous
  mask, letting Wingover see her face.
     "I don't know what you want," Wingover shouted.
     "You  know,"  the  woman laughed.  "The thing  your wiz-
  ard had. The thing you brought here. Give it to me!"
    Wingover  faced  Kolanda,  trying   to  hold   her  gaze,
  counting silently.  It was  only three  hundred yards  to the
  rockfall  beyond  the  bridge.  The  dwarves should  reach it
  any   moment.   Once   within   that   hidden   portal,  they
  might  be  safe.  He  didn't know  how he  knew that,  but he
  knew.
    "You've come  too late  for that,"  he shouted.  "It's gone."
    "Gone? Gone where?"
    Above  and  just  beyond  the  woman  and  the  goblins,  a
  figure  appeared on  top of  a rock.  It was  Glenshadow. Bi-
  son  cloak  whipping  in  the  wind,  long  hair   and  beard
  streaming,  he  leaned  for  a  moment  on  his  staff,  then
  stood  erect as  the staff's  crystal cap  winked to  life. A
  clear  crimson  beacon  blinked  to  life  in  the  darkening
  murk.
    "They  made  it,"  Wingover  muttered.   "Spellbinder  is
  beneath the ground."
    On  the  flat  top  of  a sundered  stone the  wizard Glen-
  shadow  raised  his  glowing  staff  and  shouted,   "I  know
  you,  Caliban!"  His  voice  carried on  the wind  like flung
  ice, and a brilliant flare of crimson shot out from his staff
  toward  Kolanda  Darkmoor  -  shot  out,  and   stopped  just
  short  of  reaching  her,  swallowed  up  in a  darkness that
  had a voice of its own.
      The sibilant, withered voice said, "And I know you,
       Glenshadow. You are the last." Blinding light blazed

 where  the  crimson  beam  ended,  and  crackling thunder
 rolled.
   Glenshadow's  beam  receded,  swallowed  by  a  wave  of
 darkness  that  rushed  toward  Glenshadow.  Rushed,  then
 hesitated.  Wingover's  mind  reeled.   Which  Glenshadow?
 There wasn't  just one  any more.  There were  three. Then
 five.  Then  a  dozen,   and  more.   Myriad  Glenshadows,
 everywhere, all moving  in perfect  unison as  they willed
 their  magics back  upon the  darkness centered  at Kolan-
 da's breast.
   "Trickster!"  the  withered  voice   rasped.  "Red-robe,
 you'd fight  me with  illusion?" Blacknesses  writhed out-
 ward,  seeking  all  the  Glenshadows.  "Die,"  the  voice
 whispered.
   The blacknesses  snaked out,  and one  by one  the image
 mages  were  gone...  except  one.  As   Wingover  watched
 that one grew to gigantic size. Hundreds of feet tall, his
 stance   spanning  the   nearby  breaks,   Glenshadow  ab-
 sorbed the  blackness cast  at him.  It pierced  him here,
 there, searching, and lost itself in his vastness.
   "Illusion," the withered  voice hissed.  "Can you  do no
 better than that?"  The winds  swirled, sizzling,  and the
 searching  blackness  grew. Great  dark holes  appeared in
 the  fabric   of  Glenshadow's   massive  image,   and  it
 seemed to flutter in the wind,  dissolving. From  one tiny
 corner of it a beam of  crimson lanced  out and  smote the
 thing at Kolanda's  breast, making  it shriek  and writhe.
 It  fought  back, then,  and again  the span  between them
 was colliding  energies, crimson  and black  with blinding
 glare between.
   Somewhere beyond  the bridge,  greater thunders
 erupted. The stone  bridge trembled,  keened, and
 swayed. Somewhere across the gorge a piece of the
 mountain was falling.
   "Where  is  the  thing I  want?" Kolanda  shouted again,
 her voice rising in anger.
   "It's  where  you  can  never  reach  it  now," Wingover
 called  and  started  forward,  limping.  A   goblin  dart
 thumped  into  his  shield,  clung  for  an  instant,  and
 dropped away. A pigeon egg  splattered on  the armor  of a

 goblin,  then a  pewter mug  took the  creature full  in the
 face.  One  beside  it  screeched  as a  dagger made  from a
 cat's  tooth whistled  from the  kender's hoopak  and lodged
 in its throat.
    "I've  had  enough  of  this,"  Kolanda   Darkmoor  spat.
 She  stooped,  retrieved  a  set  and  loaded  crossbow, and
 trained it for an instant on Wingover.  "It ends  now! Cali-
 ban, finish it!"
 Massed   darknesses   welled   outward,   seeking   Glensha-
 dow.  The  dark  magics  reached  out,  then  hesitated and
 swiftly   faded.   The   crossbow   faltered    as   Kolanda
 Darkmoor  looked  down   at  the   arrow  standing   in  her
 breast, piercing the withered heart  of Caliban,  linking it
 forever  to  her  own  heart  by a  common shaft  of hickory
 Wood.
   Beside  the  north  spire  Garon  Wendesthalas  slumped, a
 goblin's  blade  piercing  his  throat. Slowly  he sprawled,
 his bow sliding from  nerveless fingers  to lie  beside him.
 He  turned  his  head and  looked up  the bridge  rise, then
 raised a battered hand in  final salute  to his  old friend,
 Wingover. He didn't move again;
   The  winds  howled,  and  hailstones  battered  the  land.
 Lightning  like  spider  legs  walked  across the  Plains of
 Dergoth  and  the  nearer hills,  striking among  the goblin
 troops   there.  Staccato   and  brilliance,   darkness  and
 storm,  the  bolts danced  on winds  that screamed  and sang
 and buffeted the swaying stone bridge.
   Chestal Thicketsway clung to a bridge rail and
 shouted, "It's Zap! He's happening!"
   His  shield  to  the  raging  wind,  Wingover  fought  his
 way to the foot of the  bridge with  the kender  clinging to
 him. They fell, rolled, and sought shelter  in a  storm like
 no  storm  ever  seen  on  Ansalon...  at  least  since  the
 Cataclysm.
   "Three spells cast Fistandantilus,"the Irda had said, "in
 the Valley of Waykeep. The first was  fire, the  second ice.
 The third has not yet happened."
   Now,  the  sundered  Plains  of  Dergoth  were  washed  by
 storm, as Zap fulfilled his destiny.

                        * * * * *

  Rockfall  had  hidden  the  old  trade portal.  What once
 had been an iron-framed  gate, nine  feet wide  and twenty
 feet high, with cable-cart  stays and  transfer platforms,
 now  was  a  forgotten  gap  behind  hundreds  of  tons of
 tumbled stone. Hidden, but not closed.
  With   Jilian   following,   Chane    Feldstone   crawled
 through  a  cleft among  the rocks  and entered  a tunnel,
 which  was  more a  maze that  only a  dwarf or  a curious
 kender  might have  riddled out.  Behind them,  faint now,
 was  the  rolling  thunder  of  the  storm.   Chane  eased
 around  a  hairpin  turn  between  boulders,  then crawled
 over  a  buried  slab  and  under  another,  following the
 green light that seemed to speak to the gem set in the old
 helm  he  wore.  On  and  on  they  went,  and  everywhere
 was dark, fallen stone with only the green trace  to guide
 them.  Pathfinder  pulsed  and  glowed  as the  stone maze
 wound  on  dimly.  In  the pouch  at Chane's  belt, Spell-
 binder throbbed a silent song.
  Jilian's  cheeks  were moist  with wiped-away  tears, her
 throat tight with dread  and regret.  People she  had come
 to  love  were now  left behind.  They would  probably die
 so  that  the  mission  of  Grallen  and of  Chane's dream
 could be completed. She  had looked  back just  once, from
 the top of the bridge, and felt as though her  heart might
 break.  The  two  had  seemed  so  small  back  there,  so
 helpless - a bleeding  man and  a bright-eyed  kender with
 his hair coiled around his throat. Just those  two, facing
 ...Jilian had not looked back again.
  For the first time in her life, Jilian felt the weight of
 mountains  above  her,  the  press  of  the  stone through
 which  they  made  their way.  "Maybe we  can go  back and
 help  them,"  she  whispered.  "I  mean, when  you've done
 whatever it is you are supposed to do."
  Ahead  of   her  Chane   squeezed  his   broad  shoulders
 through  a  narrow  crevice and  took another  turn, paus-
 ing only to make sure that she followed. He  said nothing,
 though she knew  he ached  for their  friends just  as she
 did.

    Another  tight,  jagged  opening  between  tumbled  slabs,
  another turn, and Jilian heard Chane's  breath catch  in his
  throat.  He  clawed  and  pulled through  a crack,  and when
  he was beyond it he turned  to give  her his  hand. Greenish
  light flooded about him and lit  up the  cavern he  had dis-
  covered.  Chane  and  Jilian looked  around. The  light they
  saw  was  Pathfinder's  glow,   reflecting  back   from  the
  delved  walls  and  ceiling  of  a wide,  hewn space.  A few
  bits  of  rubble lay  scattered among  neat mounds  of piled
  stone. Nearby, an old cable-cart lay on its side.
    "A  transfer  terminal,"  Chane  said.  He pointed  to the
  left.  A  clean,  unshattered  tunnel  led away  there, into
  darkness.  Pathfinder  pulsed,  and  the  narrow   trail  of
  green  light  appeared  again,  on the  dusty floor.  It led
  straight to a mound of crushed stone, up the  side of  it to
  the top, and stopped at a little cone of green light, with a
  red center.
    Chane  walked  to  the  mound,   head-high  to   him,  and
  stood  a  moment,  listening  to  something  that   only  he
  could  hear.  Then  he  took  Spellbinder  from  his  pouch.
  The  red  gem  pulsed warmly,  its glow  the color  of Luni-
  tari's light. Reaching out, he placed the gem on the pile of
  stone, where the spot of red shone.
    From  behind  the  dwarves,  from  the  buried  gate  they
  had  traversed, came  a sound  of distant,  rolling thunder.
  Spellbinder's light grew in power, flared brilliantly in the
  cavern,  then  settled  into  a   steady,  warm   glow  that
  seemed to fill the air with tiny music.
    "Come." Chane took Jilian's hand. "Pathfinder has
  brought Spellbinder home. Now we must hurry."
    "Can we go back?" she asked.
    As though in answer, the thunder grew beyond the
  gate  and   the  cavern   quaked  ominously.   Chane  headed
  for the left tunnel at a run, pulling Jilian along with him.
  The thunder mounted behind them.
    Once   beyond  the   cavern,  Pathfinder's   steady  green
  glow  lighted  a cable-way  long forgotten,  a finely-delved
  tunnel  that  seemed to  go on  ahead of  them unobstructed.
  "Hurry,"  Chane  said.  Behind  them,  the   thunder  became
  the roar of solid stone  shearing and  the chatter  of rock-

 fall. A cloud of dust obscured the opening of  the cavern,
 and the faint red light winked out.
   "It's  sealed,"  Chane  rumbled.  "And   locked  against
 magic. That was what Grallen intended to do."
   "Where  does this  go?" Jilian  pointed ahead,  down the
 cable-way.
   "It goes where  it always  went," Chane  Feldstone said.
 "It goes to Thorbardin."
   Once more Jilian looked back. "I'd  like to  see outside
 again... sometime. Do you suppose we ever will?"
   "We'll see it," Chane replied softly. "Maybe  we'll even
 see... them... again sometime,"
   At  his brow,  Pathfinder throbbed  a clear  green pulse
 of reassurance. Chane  felt as  though Grallen's  helm had
 just given him a promise.

 Chapter 33

   On  a   bright  spring   day  a  man  came   down  from
 the  wilderness  ranges.  He  rode  a  sturdy,  battle-wise
 horse and  had the  look of  far places  about him.  In the
 main square at the crossroads  of Barter  he reined  in and
 dismounted.  Not  far  away,  winged pigs  circled content-
 edly  above  an  inn.   Some  distance   beyond,  pavilions
 spread their bright expanses, a sign of the  spring trading
 season.  Among  them  was  a  large,  red-and-gold pavilion
 that stood amidst myriad stalls and showing tables.
   "Goldbuckle is here," the man  noted, talking  to himself
 and  his horse  in the  way of  one who  has been  afar and
 long alone. He smiled  a sardonic  smile, unlashing  a pack
 from  behind  his  saddle.  Inside  was  Abanasinian ivory,
 an exquisite collection of the  finest carvings.  "That old

  thief is going to drool all over himself when he sees this,"
  he told the horse. "But it's going to cost him plenty to get
  his hands on it."
    Leading the horse, he  started for  the trade  pavilion of
  the   Daewar   merchant,   then   stopped   when   a   high-
  pitched, excited voice shouted, "Hey! Look who's here!"
    Chestal  Thicketsway  pushed  through  a  crowd  of  trad-
  ers  and  ran  toward  him.  "Wingover!  I thought  you were
  dead  or something!"  He skidded  to a  stop, beaming  up at
  the  man.  "And  Geekay  made  it,  too.  Wow! Did  you hear
  about Chane  Feldstone? He's  rich and  famous, just  like I
  said  he'd  be. The  Thorbardin traders  talk about  him all
  the  time.  Rogar  Goldbuckle  has  been   strutting  around
  here ever  since he  arrived, telling  everybody how  he's a
  personal  friend  of  Chane  Feldstone.  He has  the trading
  sanction   for   the   Hylar   now,   too.   Gee,  everybody
  thought  you  were  dead,  though.   How  did   you  survive
  that storm?"
    "I -" Wingover started.
    "Did  you  ever see  such a  storm in  all your life? Wow!
  What a wind! I saw a boulder as big as  a house,  just roll-
  ing along with  the wind  pushing it.  I never  saw anything
  like that storm. Most people  don't believe  me when  I talk
  about it, but that's all right. What did you do, find a hid-
  ing place? After  we got  separated, I  mean? That's  what I
  did. I just crawled into a hole and  stayed there  until Zap
  got it out of his system."
    "I -" Wingover attempted.
    "I'll bet you  didn't expect  to find  me here,  either, did
  you? I  wouldn't be,  except that  Bobbin couldn't  find his
  way  back  without  a  guide.  Every  place  he'd  seen  was
  from  the  air,  and  after  Zap  knocked  him  down  every-
  thing looked different.  He got lost!  Did I tell you... no,
  I  didn't  yet,  did  I?... Bobbin's  building a  new inven-
  tion. It's kind of like an iron fish, and I don't  know much
  about  it.  You  know  how  gnomes  are.  Either  they don't
  tell  you anything,  or you  can't get  a word  in edgewise.
  He says  he wants  to go  and find  an ocean  as soon  as he
  gets  it  ready.  Are  you  going  to see  Rogar Goldbuckle?
  He's here, you know. That's his place over -"

  "Chess, I -"
  "- there, with all the red-and-yellow drapings.
 There's some really neat stuff in there. I found a -"
  "Chess -"
  "-   whole  sack   of  bright   beads  that   somebody  had
 dropped  or  something, but  the dwarves  at the  gate made
 me leave it. That's all right, though.  I found  some other
 things,  too,  and I  can go  back and  look some  more any
 time I want to, no matter what they say about -"
  "Chestal Thicketsway!"
 The kender blinked, startled. "Ah... yes?"
  "You haven't changed a bit."