"Report what you have seen," Kolanda snarled. "I'm doing my job, so I assume you can do yours."

The woman glared at the dragon, then turned without a word and walked away. The horned mask under her arm stared back at the lizard through hollow eyes. The red dragon watched her go, then stretched luxuriously. It would be time soon to spread great wings and begin the long flight back to the region of Sanction. The Highlord would be waiting for his report. The

Highlord. One of many Highlords in the north now, amassing armies, sending out spies and patrols, plotting and securing lines of march, organizing systems… petty, mortal creatures preparing for the day the Dark Queen would unleash them across Ansalon and beyond. They would then secure for her – once and for all – the world she wanted and was fit to rule. The dragon pondered for a moment whether to report the gnome in the flying thing who had seen him and somehow escaped. He thought about it, but decided that there was nothing to be gained. It was, after all, only a gnome.

Two days' foot-travel to the east of the dragon's resting place, Chane

Feldstone led a tired and dusty little group along a winding ledge.

Mountain winds sang in towering crags above them, and mists hid the depths below.

"Do you know where we are?" Wingover asked the dwarf for the second or third time in an hour.

"Why don't you leave him alone?" Jilian Firestoke snapped. "Can't you see he's tired?"

Wingover nodded. It was obvious the dwarf was tired.

Still weak from his shoulder wound, he sometimes stumbled and rarely spoke, though he pushed on with grim determination. Chane was following – the rest could only assume – the green line that marked the path where

Grallen had gone centuries before.

In fact, Chane's weakened state was why Wingover kept questioning him.

The dwarf was showing signs that to the wilderness man spelled sheer exhaustion – a flateyed stare that never seemed to blink; paleness that came and went; a rolling, almost drunken pace.

Wingover knew that it was time to stop and rest, and for the past day or more the man had been looking for a place to do that. The problem was, except for a pair of wide places on the trail where bitter winds had chilled them and the last of their provisions had run out, there had simply been no place to rest.

Their current trail along the mountainside was one Wingover had never explored. The human marveled at the idea that a dwarven prince had once led armies this way, heading for the final battle of his final war on what most men called the Plains of Dergoth, though dwarves more often called the region the Plains of Death. Wingover snorted as the dwarf in the lead stumbled again. He handed his horse's lead to Jilian and caught

Chane's good shoulder in a firm hand. "Are you all right?" he asked, looking into the dwarf's exhausted eyes.

"I'm all right," Chane growled. 'We have to keep going."

"Do you know where we are?"

"I know where I'm going. The path is clear."

"Yes, but do you know where we are?"

"Not exactly. Where?"

"I didn't think so," the man said gently. "Look off across there… across the gorge, over on the face of the next peak."

Chane looked, his eyes blank. There was a feature over there, tiny in the distance but somehow familiar.

"What is it?"

"I don't suppose you've ever seen it," Wingover said.

"At least not from this side, but I thought you might want to know what you're looking at. That's Northgate."

"North… You mean…?"

"Exactly," the man told him. "That is the Northgate of Thorbardin."

"But the green line doesn't go there," Chane said. "It goes east… I think that's east, anyway. Out there, across those plains. Toward that lone mountain, whatever that is."

"Skullcap," Wingover breathed. "The ruins of what was once the most feared tower of sorcery, Zhaman, lie there."

Chane sighed. "Then that is where Grallen went. But the line… it doesn't seem to go all the way. I can't really see what it does. We have to go on. We have to get closer."

"We have to rest," Wingover said flatly. He shielded his eyes, peering ahead. Somewhere near, there should be a place safe to rest. He squinted, then his eyes widened and breath hissed through his teeth. On the trail ahead, just where it wound out of sight, a large, black cat stood, looking back at them. Even as Wingover saw it, the animal turned languidly and slunk out of sight.

"Cats!"

With a visible shudder, Wingover drew his sword, gripped his shield, and eased past the weakened dwarf. He had seen the great black cats of Waykeep only once. But once was enough. On stiff legs he started toward the bend, certain that at any moment a bounding, snarling pack of the giant creatures would appear there, coming for him. And it would be up to him to defend the others. Glenshadow's magic would not work in Spellbinder's presence. Chane Feldstone was hardly strong enough to stand off cats.

Still, Jilian might make an accounting of herself with that sword she carried. After seeing the remains of her ogre, the man was willing to believe almost anything.

Small feet scuffed just behind Wingover, and Chestal Thicketsway's voice said cheerfully, "What are you doing?"

"Stay back," the man snapped. "There are cats ahead."

"Cats? Kitty cats or the Irda's cats?"

"Just stay back, out of the way," "Wingover shot a quick glance back, felt something brush past his legs, and turned to shout, "Come back here!"

"I'll just take a quick look," the kender said, scampering ahead. "If they're like the Irda's cats, I've seen a lot of those."

"Ye gods," the man swore and quickened his pace, willing the rest to stay where they were. Ahead of Wingover, the curious kender disappeared around the bend. Wingover ran, then stopped. Just past the bend, the trail widened, then widened again, and became a deep, sheltered cove in the mountainside. Clear, cold water flowed from a tiny spring and pooled before overflowing its rock tank and disappearing again into crevices in the mountain. Conifers grew in abundance, and rich, chillbleached grass was everywhere. Beside the pool were several bundles, all securely wrapped in sacking, and the kender knelt beside the nearest one, untying its straps. He glanced up, grinned, and pointed. "Look." High on a rock ridge beyond the cove, several of the big, dark cats were climbing, going away.

Some of them turned to look back, feral eyes seeming to glow in the pale light, But they only hesitated, then went on. Within seconds, they were gone.

"Food!" the kender chirped. "Look at this. Biscuits! And honey, and oats, and cabbage… wow!" With one pack open, he went on to the next one.

Wingover heard the thump of a staff and turned. Glenshadow stood a few paces back, cold eyes peering from the shadows of his bison cloak. 'The

Irda," he said. "She has provided for us. She said that would be done."

"But those cats -"

"Are hers. In a way, I suppose they are her."

"Where is she, then, this Irda?"

The wizard gazed at him for a moment, then shrugged and turned away.

"She is an Irda. I suppose she is wherever she chooses to be."

"Irda," Wingover breathed. "Irdas are ogres, from what I've heard."

Glenshadow shook his head. "No. The Irda is what ogres may once have been. They are not the same."

"You'd know that if you'd seen her," the kender said.

"Look at this! Raisins. How about that? And cider."

The others had appeared, Jilian helping Chane and leading Wingover's horse. At the cove, they all stopped and stared. Jilian nodded. "This is more like it. Let's get a fire going, and I'll make tea. And soup. Don't you think some soup would taste good, Chane? Here, you sit down over here.