The Gates of Thorbardin Read online

  “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?”

  “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 carcass 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 attention 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 Thorbardin 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, various 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 DREAM 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 something 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 fingers 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 doormat one time, and a week later an ogre stepped on him.”

  Chane stared at the twirling staff. “What is that thing, anyway?”

  “What?” 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 rumbled. “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 corrosion 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 humiliation, Chane squinted and peered at the misted valley. 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 upward 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 mountains?” he asked.

  “Another valley,” the kender said. “It’s called the Vale of Respite. And beyond it are more mountains. Some really 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. Firestoke! The old rustbucket had made Chane believe that he was helping him, outfitting him for a journey, providing armed companions … 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 you? I never saw a valley so reluctant 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 covered 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 midnight 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 position 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 teaching a bird to talk, I think I’d come up with something better 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!” Having 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 e
asier 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 person could get hurt climbing down that cliff.”

  “Suit yourself.” The dwarf shrugged, eased himself over the sheer ledge, and found handholds and acceptable, 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 lowered 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 mountain 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 bedrock 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 another, 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 moment 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 yellow 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.”