The Gates of Thorbardin h2-5 Read online

  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 understanding of how essential trade was. Being in the dwarven realms also gave some measure of protection to the place, as neither mountain nor hill dwarves was amenable 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 chuckled. "It isn't allowed."

  The faint trail they followed wound down into a valley, 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 Goldbuckle's stall."

  Just ahead, on the trail, an odd object was moving toward 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 sunlight. 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, partially 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 outward 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, possibly 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 bellyhigh to Wingover's horse, and had a bald head surrounded 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'sonethingtheycan't takeawayfromme. Bobbin'sthename.

  I'meverybitasmuchgnomeasanyofthem, thankyou. Whoareyou?"

  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 happened 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 nowheres, than to chance his infecting anyone else.'

  So out I went. Kit, klacker, and Krynnbook, as they say. Speaking 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, pulling 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 contrivance, 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 toward 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 resumed 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 hesitated, 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 circumstances."

  "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 completed in the valleys, and people everywhere were preparing for winter. The trading taking place now would be the last until spring for most who came, and the village was bustling with activity. Dwarves, elves, gnomes, kender, and humans walked the ways and gathered at stalls and pavilions. Bards, acrobats, jugglers, and elixirhawkers plied their trades. Warriors, farmers, craftsmen, 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 business."

  "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 innkeeper 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, burningstone to fuel hearths in winter, huge varieties of handcarved 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 tables, 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 consignee 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 outing."

  "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 narrowed. "There have been some rumors, of course, but — "

  "Not only saw them, but fought them. Garon Wendesthalas and I. He was on his way down from Qualinost, and a band of armed goblins set a trap for him. I happened 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 anyone 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 market 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, satisfying whack when Goldbuckle slapped it down on the table.

  "Ill-gotten gains if ever I saw such," the dwarf rumbled. "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 really was far cheaper to make a bet of it."

  "You scoundrel! You… you…"

  "Try, 'bedamned old thieving dwarf,' " the dwarf suggested. "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 wholeheartedly.

  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 dwarven 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 curiosity. Many paused to stare after the tall, angry man who wore the boots and leathers of a ranger or barbarian, but whose sheathed sword and flinthide shield suggested a warrior… and at the striking young dwarven girl — hardly more than half his stature — who tagged after him, scampering to keep pace with his long strides. The sight, to most, was another entertainment in a village 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."