vinegar from not being exercised.'
'Geekay? Is that his name? What does it mean?'
'He named himself. It's Goblin Killer.' Wingover hauled the reins. The horse spun, dug in haunchesdown, and hit the bridge at a full gallop.
Wingover's diminishing voice came back to them: 'Blast it, horse! Not so fast!'
In seconds the thundering horse had topped out at the crown of the high-curved span and was out of sight. A moment later the ring of hooves on stone faded to a distant clatter, beyond the gorge.
'Well, the bridge is still there,' Chestal Thicketsway decided. 'I guess it's safe to cross.'
'Of course it's safe,' Chane growled. 'It's dwarven work.' Picking up his pack, he started up the bridge, the others following after him.
'If a gnome can fly,' the kender muttered, 'then I guess a dwarf might miscalculate rocks and things from time to time.'
By the time Wingover got the bridge-spooked horse under tight rein, they were through the breaks and into rolling, open country. Holding Geekay to a steady trot, the wilderness man scanned the lands ahead. A few low hills lay ahead, about a half-mile away, just as Chane had said. Wingover eased the reins and headed for them, looking for signs of a trail.
At first there was none, then in a low place that might once have been a mudflat he saw tracks. They were old tracks, but still clear — at least three horses, and the short, wide.prints of dwarven boots. The trail disappeared short of the hill, but Wingover made left and circled around it, his eyes roving the landscape. Sometimes he raised his shield to eye-level and peered over the top edge of it. An old trick, it was a way to see distinct movement that might otherwise lose itself in mirage. So far he had seen nothing, but vagrant breezes carried the stink of goblins.
Wingover knew they were out there somewhere.
As much as he watched the land around him, he watched the ears of his horse. The animal smelled goblins, too, and was wary. Its ears swiveled this way and that, pausing sometimes. When they did, Wingover scanned in their direction.
The hill was a smooth mound, and as Wingover passed it he saw two more, just as the dwarf had described. They lay about a mile ahead, with some draws and gullys lacing the lower ground between.
Geekay's ears turned, fixed on a direction ahead and to the left, and a tremor ran along his mane. Wingover lifted his shield, peering over its edge. Atop a narrow draw, barely a hundred yards away, something moved. It looked like a twig twitching in the wind… except that twigs twitch rhythmically, and this one didn't. It moved, disappeared below the rim of the draw, and reappeared a few yards away. Its direction was toward the point where his own path would cross the draw.
So they're waiting for me there, he decided. But how many?
Wingover reined a little to the left, holding hard against the bit, then let Geekay have his head. The horse had never been trained as a warhorse — not as some he had seen, great steeds in armor, ridden by men in armor, silent men who had come down from Solamnia once many years before in search of a fugitive — but Wingover and Geekay had traveled far together and had been in some scrapes.
With the bit eased and the scent of goblins in his nostrils, and with the tug to the left from his rider, Geekay took the lead. As the horse gathered himself, Wingover jumped to the ground and headed for the draw at a crouching run, angling to the right. Behind him, Geekay whinnied shrilly and galloped away to the left. Fifty yards… one hundred… then he turned and headed for the draw.
In the ravine, four goblin scouts paused, puzzled at the sudden change in approaching sounds. One started to raise his head and another swatted him down. 'Don' look,' he growled. 'Get us seen. Listen!'
'Runnin' away,' another said, pointing back the way they had come. 'That way.'
The goblins turned to follow the hoofbeats, but a blood-freezing howl erupted just behind them. The rearmost goblin didn't even have time to turn. Wingover's sword flashed across his back from shoulder to waist, and dark blood spurted. The second turned, tried to raise his dart-bow, and had it knocked from his hand. With his sword, the goblin barely countered the human's following thrust with a low, chopping swing at his legs. Metal rang on metal.
The third goblin had his blade out, but the fourth caught his arm. 'Back up,' he hissed. 'Get room. Use darts.'
They scrambled back, setting darts to their crossbows. The first dart ricocheted off Wingover's flinthide shield. The second buried itself in the back of a goblin flung from the point of a sword. The last two set darts again, then their eyes widened as the sound of thunder bore down on them from behind. One turned, screamed, and bounced off the other as the flashing hooves of a horse named Goblin Killer descended upon him. The remaining goblin was still scrambling to his feet when Geekay swapped ends and kicked. Crushed like a turtle in its shell, the goblin flew over
Wingover's head and rebounded off a wall of the gully.
'Not bad,' Wingover breathed, catching up the reins of the excited, wild-eyed horse. 'Now let's move. It stinks here.'
He scrambled into his saddle. Geekay cleared the rim at a bound and headed for the right-hand hill ahead, Wingover wondered where the rest of the goblins were. He knew there were at least a hundred more, and among them possibly ogres — as well as a woman in a hideous armor mask that hid a face that should have been beautiful.
Atop the hill was a bright green statue of a wizard, both arms extended to their full length, a motionless staff in one hand. Wingover blinked at it, then headed for it. Even from the foot of the hill, he recognized
Glenshadow the Wanderer… even though he was bright green and motionless.
The wilderness man reined in beside the wizard, gaping at him. Even his clothing and his hair were bright green. Leaning from his saddle, he asked, 'What happened to you?'
'Take… it,' the wizard gasped.
'Take what?' He looked the mage over and noticed that one hand was balled into a tight fist. Wingover pried it open. In the wizard's hand was a crystal, the twin of Spellbinder, except for its color. As red as
Spellbinder was, so was Pathfinder green.
Wingover took the crystal, and the green color faded from the mage.
Glenshadow slumped, trembling. 'I–I shouldn't have touched it,' he rasped. 'Should have known. Spellbinder binds magic, turns it against itself. Pathfinder freezes it, holds it in stasis. It was how Gargath held and controlled the graystone.'
Wingover flipped the crystal over in his hand. 'Very pretty,' he said.
'All right, they're waiting for us at the bridge. Can you ride?'
'Can't get through,' the wizard said, still trembling.
'The goblins… they're behind you, heading for the bridge. I saw them from up here. With Pathfinder, I couldn't move. But I could see… everything. The dwarf was right. Thorbardin is breached. Here.'
Glenshadow stooped and picked up something Wingover had not noticed until then — an old dwarven helmet, not elaborate but of fine craft. It was a horned and spired helm of burnished metal with skirts and a carven nosepiece. Above the noseguard was a setting.
'The gem belongs here,' Glenshadow said. 'Please put it back in place.'
Wingover took the helmet and turned it, wonder in his eyes. Grallen's helm. There was no doubt of it. The dwarven prince of old had been here.
He had been inside the fortress of Zhaman, and only this helm had survived to tell of it. And it had called out to Chane Feldstone in dreams.
Carefully Wingover reset Pathfinder in the helm's setting. His hard, but gentle fingers refit the brass prongs that had held it, and for a moment
Wingover was tempted to put it on his head. It would fit, and it might speak to him… then he changed his mind. This is Chane's to do with as he must, he told himself. And if there is one lesson I can learn from this wizard here, it is not to fiddle with things that are beyond me.
Wingover bound the old helmet with thongs and hung it from his saddle, then reached a hand to Glenshadow. 'Come up,' he said. 'The horse can carry double. We've got to get back to the bridge.'
