The Gates of Thorbardin Read online

  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 and his soarwagon.

  Fear washed up and down the gnome’s spine, a compelling, sweating fear that was like cold fingers gripping him. Then a voice spoke to the gnome. “Who are you?” it asked, seeming to be right 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?”

  “Bobbin,” Bobbin said. “I … I’m a gnome. Are you really a … But of course you are.”

  “Bobbin,” the voice seemed to purr in the gnome’s 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 right, stall, and go into a nosedive. Suddenly the gnome saw spinning mountaintops straight ahead, and somewhere behind him the air crackled with fire.

  “Oh, gearslip,” he muttered.

  “Aha,” the voice at his shoulder chuckled. “A fine dodge, gnome. But I can’t let you live, you know.”

  “Why not?” Bobbin tugged string, wrestling the plunging soarwagon out of its spin.

  “Because you have seen me,” the calm dragon 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.”

  HEROES SERIES

  THE LEGEND OF HUMA

  Richard A. Knaak

  STORMBLADE

  Nancy Varian Berberick

  WEASEL’S LUCK

  Michael Williams

  KAZ THE MINOTAUR

  Richard A. Knaak

  THE GATES OF THORBARDIN

  Dan Parkinson

  GALEN BEKNIGHTED

  Michael Williams

  THE GATES OF THORBARDIN

  DRAGONLANCE® Heroes • Volume Five

  ©1990 TSR, Inc.

  ©2004 Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  All characters in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  This book is protected under the copyright laws of the United States of America. Any reproduction or unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein is prohibited without the express written permission of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Published by Wizards of the Coast LLC. Hasbro SA, represented by Hasbro Europe, Stockley Park, UB11 1AZ. UK.

  DRAGONLANCE, Wizards of the Coast, D&D, their respective logos, and TSR, Inc. are trademarks of Wizards of the Coast LLC in the U.S.A. and other countries.

  All Wizards of the Coast characters and their distinctive likenesses are property of Wizards of the Coast LLC.

  Cover art by: Duane O. Myers

  eISBN: 978-0-7869-6317-1

  For customer service, contact:

  U.S., Canada, Asia Pacific, & Latin America: Wizards of the Coast LLC, P.O. Box 707, Renton, WA 98057-0707, +1-800-324-6496, www.wizards.com/customerservice

  U.K., Eire, & South Africa: Wizards of the Coast LLC, c/o Hasbro UK Ltd., P.O. Box 43, Newport, NP19 4YD, UK, Tel: +08457 12 55 99, Email: [email protected]

  Europe: Wizards of the Coast p/a Hasbro Belgium NV/SA, Industrialaan 1, 1702 Groot-Bijgaarden, Belgium, Tel: +32.70.233.277, Email: [email protected]

  Visit our websites at www.wizards.com

  www.DungeonsandDragons.com

  v3.1

  Contents

  Cover

  Other Books in the Series

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Map

  Part I: The Dream Chaser

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Part II: Wingover’s Way

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Part III: A Force of Goblins

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Part IV: Grallen’s Helm

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  About the Author

  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 Waykeep.

  PART I

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

  How many were there? He hadn’t been able to tell. They were never all in sight at once. He’d judged that there were thirty down there, seeking him. But it didn’t matter. Of the hunting cats he had seen, one would be enough.

  Hunger had knotted his stomach as he turned upward again, seeking a place to go to ground. Or a weapon. His hands craved the touch of a weapon—any kind of weapon. He had then found a palm-sized rock with a cutting edge and balanced it in his hand. It was no proper weapon, only a sharp stone. But to hands long-comforted by the tools they held, it was better than nothing at all.

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

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

  The crevasse was a great slit, deep into the standing cliff. Far above was open sky, but the walls were sheer, with no place to climb. For a time the cut had run on, inward and upward, even widening at one point, where a tiny cold spring dripped from a sandstone cleft to pool in the sand below then disappear into the rising ground. He had stopped there for a moment, trying to quench a thirst that tortured him. Then he had gone on, and could almost feel the hot breath of the hunting cat closing in behind him. From the spring, the crevasse wound back into sheer stone, narrowing as it went. Finally he could go no farther. He had pushed himself into the final rift as tightly as he could, holding his breath, and he felt the cold rock scraping at his flesh.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

  It had been worse when he told Slag Firestoke what he wanted to do. Old Firestoke was not fond of him anyway and was not happy about an empty-pursed orphan spending time with his daughter. It had been Jilian’s idea to tell her father about Chane’s premonitions, in the hope that Firestoke might outfit him for his quest. He didn’t need much. Just warm clothing, arms and provisions, and a few of Firestoke’s hirelings to accompany him.

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

  “Dreams!” Firestoke had rumbled, glaring at him. “You’re daft as a warren-bat.”

  “I know I’m right,” Chane had insisted. “I don’t know exactly what I’m to find, but I’ll know when I find it.”

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

  Then, it seemed that old Firestoke had changed his mind. At the time, Chane believed that Jilian had persuaded him … and Jilian had believed it, too.

  The cat sounds were closer now, momentarily hesitant while the big beast tasted the air. Chane 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 provided, 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 followed 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,” Chane said aloud. “Come kitty-kitty-kitty, you tarnish-pitted carnivore. 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 became a howl of rage. Its head came up and turned, great teeth glinting as he grabbed the cat’s head and threw himself 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 himself 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 finally 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 sardonically at the skinned beast on the ground. “I don’t b
elieve 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, anyway?”

  “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 little 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 catskin 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 except for an occasional grunt or growl. Chestal Thicketsway 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 himself.

  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, possibly 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 occupation for dwarves as far as I have seen. If you were a gnome, now—”