DragonLance Heroes II Trilogy
Volume II

***

The Gates of Thorbardin
written by
Dan Parkinson
www.9jaonline.mobi

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-