Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Heroes 2 - The Gates of Thorbardin

Dan Parkinson. The Gates of Thorbardin

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("DragonLance Saga Heroes II" #2).

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DragonLance Heroes II Trilogy

Volume II

***

The Gates of Thorbardin

written by

Dan Parkinson

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,

Dan Parkinson - Dragonlance Heroes 2 - The Gates of Thorbardin

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