Kolanda Darkmoor. The hideous mask across the bridge was lowered, and the woman behind it was – no, might have been -stunningly beautiful. But she was something else instead. Wingover sensed absolute evil there. She only glanced at him, though, for her gaze swiftly locked on Chane Feldstone.

She put her hand to her throat and lifted something from her breastplate.

"How could you let them get away?" the woman shouted. "I set a net across this valley, and you… you sniveling excuse for a troopleader… you let them slip through!"

Thog,aparticularly ugly hobgoblin, and six goblins cowered before the

Commander, afraid to respond. "Two platoons dead or missing!" The horned helmet turned from one to another of them, its dragon facemask seeming to boom with each syllable. "Did any of you even see them clearly? Do you know how many there were?"

Thog scuffed his toe and raised hiseyes. "Fiveof the lighted ones,

Commander… but one of them was a horse."

Furious eyes blazed at the hobgoblin from behind the mask. "Five, but one was a horse. There were six! Counting the horse. I counted them. Why couldn't you?" When there was no answer, the Commander paused a moment, shaking with fury.

"Double shifts!" she said then. "Double shifts for everyone until further ordered. Now, get out of my sight!" The hobgoblin and the goblins turned and hurried away, almost scrambling in their haste. When they were gone, she muttered, "And you… I found the dwarf for you. All you had to do was destroy him. Why didn't you?"

A dry, twisted voice that seemed to come from within the Commander's armor said, "Ah… she questions me? Does she dare?"

"I dare question you, yes," Kolanda hissed. "Why didn't you strike down that dwarf? Why didn't you strike them all down? I gave you the chance!"

"Magic failed," the voice said. "But there will be another chance.

Glenshadow knows."

"Glenshadow?"

"Glenshadow," the thin voice repeated bitterly. "He knows I will kill him when next we meet." Kolanda Darkmoor walked to a high, clear ridge to oversee the reorganization of her troops. Though it was unthinkable that the dwarf with the knowledge of Thorbardin's secret – and his companions

– had somehow managed to get past all her defenses, she let her fury subside somewhat and resumed her planning. The dwarf had to be stopped.

She turned and looked at the range of mountains to the east.

Goblin trackers had reported at morning's first light.

The group had gone almost straight east across the valley… at least as far as they had been able to track them. Someone with the group, it seemed, was skilled at covering trail. But they had gone east, and due east lay the soaring peak of Sky's End. Kolanda knew from her scouts that there was an old, climbing trail that curved around the mountain's slopes, but it would be a tedious and difficult journey. It would have been far better for them to take the pass road, farther north. It crossed heights more scalable than giant Sky's End, and there was a bridge beyond that crossed the chasm and led toward the Plains of Dergoth. And it was to those plains that the dwarf must be going, because it was there that

Grallen fell.

Kolanda smiled. Several of the captured humans and dwarves had died in the process of their inquisition, but she had a serviceable map and a great deal of information as a result.

The northern pass would place her on Dergoth well ahead of the fleeing group.

There was still one other matter to attend to here. The refugees who had crossed the ridge into the next valley to the west were still at large, and she wanted them. Only a small force would be necessary for that.

When the troops were assembled, Kolanda Darkmoor sent a group to find the fugitives from Harvest and Herdlinger, and bring back all those fit to be put to work. The unfit would simply be killed.

"Go south a few miles," she told them, "then cross over into Waykeep and turn northward. Trap them, subdue them, and bring back slaves."

Bobbin was growing more and more irritated as the days passed. He was irritated with himself, irritated with his soarwagon, and irritated with the world in general. And much of his irritation came of being bored.

Except for sightseeing, there was hardly anything to do when one was stuck aloft in a contrivance powered by the very air currents on which it floated. And the soarwagon was far more responsive to the wind's vagaries than to the feeble controls the gnome had managed to build into its structure.

For the past day or so, there hadn't even been anyone to talk to. Since leaving the pass between Waykeep and Respite, Bobbin had tried any number of times to return, but the soarwagon wouldn't go. He kept winding up in other places, or over familiar places but too high in the sky to make contact with anyone. And he was running low on raisins.

In a way, that could be a blessing, he realized, because it was the half-bushel of raisins that had caused his present set of problems. The raisin basket – resting just in front of him in the soarwagon's wicker cab – had shifted and fouled his control lines, and so far he had been unable to correct them. His lateral and pitch pulls were crisscrossed in some fashion, somewhere beyond his reach. The result was that he could gain altitude more or less at will. To descend, however, he had to wait for the air currents to make proper adjustments on the vehicle's forward foils, and hope that the positioning would hold long enough to get near the ground again before it reversed itself and climbed. Worse still, he could not turn left. Only right.

The dilemma was symptomatic of the basic control problem in the soarwagon's design. In building it, Bobbin had underestimated the craft's buoyancy and misjudged the sensitivity of its control surfaces.

The other gnomes were right, he told himself. I am insane. Had this contrivance been built in proper gnomish fashion – designed by a committee, sublet out among several guilds, and then assembled by a task force, it wouldn't have these problems. But then, it wouldn't fly at all.

The problem of the airfoils and their controls wasn't insoluble. Within the first week of his plight, Bobbin had deduced what was wrong and how it could be corrected.

Part of it was the result of something unforeseen, a phenomenon that

Bobbin simply had not known existed. The air near the ground was denser and more turbulent than that higher up, and all drafts within twenty or thirty feet of the ground were updrafts.

Obvious enough, now that he understood it. But he hadn't known about such things when he had designed the soarwagon. His assumption had been that air was air, anywhere.

He had even named the phenomenon of the nearsurface currents. Ground effect, he called it. And he had worked out the control requirements to correct for it. Only one problem remained. The soarwagon couldn't be repaired in flight. He would have to land first. And he couldn't land until it was repaired.

Feeling grumpier by the minute, Bobbin tugged his strings and helped himself to some more raisins. He wished he had some cider to go with them.

Raisins without cider were like a sundial without a pointer. Adequate, but hardly timely.

Through a long morning he had been drifting in wide right-hand circles, while the soarwagon descended from an abrupt, screaming climb to an estimated twenty thousand feet – a maneuver executed entirely without

Bobbin's assistance. Once at that lofty altitude, the device had seemed satisfied to begin a slow, languid descent. Bobbin had set the soarwagon in an easy right-hand pitch and spent the intervening hours dozing, fuming, and eating raisins.