The Gates of Thorbardin, page 11
“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 and—”
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 I 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.”
“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, towering 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 Flying 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, descending 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 Solinari and Lunitari. Both were eclipsed, each in its turn.”
The ensuing babble of excited discussion wasn’t limited 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 behaving 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 languages, 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, Iheardyoubellowingfromclearacrossthesquare. Ijustwantedtotellyou,I’llbereadywithinthehour.”
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 always 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 cautious 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 entered, 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 Jilian, who stood just behind his hip. “This is Jilian Firestoke,” 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 being. “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 anything 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 little like Chane’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. “Because 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 probably 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 resourceful 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 simpler 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 basket’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, momentarily 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 someplace, 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.”
