A few minutes more and the cavern was clear. Some of the dwarves cranked up buckets of water from the wells and sluiced the stone floor, sending the last traces of the battle down several small openings in the floor that were covered with finely crafted iron grates.
"Can we get on with this?" demanded Palmara Stone-shaft, fists planted on her ample hips. "Got me a daughter to wed, a son to welcome back. And lookit!" she added, pointing toward the festive board that stood waiting over to one side of the cavern. "The stew's getting cold, and the ale warm!"
These practical considerations marshaled the wedding guests and sent the priestess scurrying back to the altar. Ebenezer fell back and swept his gray-bearded mother into a fierce hug that had her bellowing in happy protest.
The ceremony was brief, solemn. The celebration that followed was anything but. All of Clan Stoneshaft gathered at tables, telling tall tales and exchanging extravagant insults until the last stew pot was wiped clean and more than half the kegs of wedding ale drained dry. At a sign from Palmara-who as mother of the bride was master of the festivities-a score of musicians leaped onto the tables and set up a merry din with their horns and pipes and drums. The dwarves fell to dancing with a zest and vigor that rivaled their battlefield exploits.
A rare sense of contentment swept Ebenezer as he watched his kin leap and whirl and thunder their way through the intricate patterns of a circle dance. He was glad to be home. The knowledge that he'd be nearly as glad to leave in a tenday or so did nothing to diminish the moment's pleasure.
But even now his feet got to twitching. He reached for his bag and removed from it pipe and weed before he remembered that Palmara Stoneshaft would have nothing of that in her cavern. Ebenezer had picked up the habit in his travels, and he liked a good pipe now and again. But the Stone-shaft dwarves frowned upon such vices and had made loud complaints about the smoke last time he'd visited. Ebenezer had pointed out-reasonably enough, it seemed to him- that in a clanhold warmed and scented with the smoke of forges and hearth fires, a wisp or two more made no never mind at all. But they couldn't see it. With a resigned sigh, Ebenezer pocketed his pipe and headed for the nearest river tunnel.
He walked along the river for maybe an hour, puffing contentedly and enjoying the wild rush and gurgle of the water. The river got right riled up, come spring, what with all the melting snow from the Sword Mountains high overhead, but that was the only intrusion of the upper world. The tunnels were pleasantly chilly and dark. Not safe, exactly-the Stoneshaft clan had to deal with vermin ranging from osquips to kobolds to drow-but there was a nice secure feeling to having a rock ceiling overhead, and walls on every side. It was a world apart from the light and bustle that held sway under the sun.
Ebenezer finished his pipe and got out flint and stone to light another. The spark and flicker was echoed by another light, far ahead and filtering out of a side tunnel. Ebenezer pursed his lips and squinted. Light so far underground was odd, and generally a bad sign. Anybody who belonged in the tunnels could see well enough without it.
As the thought formed, a trio of tall, scrawny figures emerged from the side tunnel, their gaunt frames clearly silhouetted against the light of their own torch. Ebenezer spat, then swore. Humans. Bad enough they squatted on the mountain above, but they had no call to be in the dwarven tunnels. How'd they find out about these warrens, anyhow? Only a handful of humans knew anything at all about the Stoneshaft clan, and they were a closed-mouthed bunch.
Suddenly Ebenezer remembered the chisel he'd taken from the osquip hoard. He pulled it from his belt and studied the mark carved into the mithral handle. Yes, it belonged to his Uncle Hoshal. No doubt there-there was Hoshal's mark, big as a gnome's nose. But how had the rodents got hold of it? Ebenezer dredged his memory, trying to conjure the image of Hoshal's grim, pockmarked face at the edge of the wedding celebration. He could not. Hoshal was not one for festivals, but come to think on it, he was powerful fond of wedding ale. His absence, combined with the fact of humans in the tunnels, looked suspiciously like problems brewing.
"Stones!" Ebenezer swore again. He tucked the chisel back into his belt and followed after the three intruders.
Algorind hastened back to Summit Hall, the body of his brother paladin decently covered and lashed to a makeshift litter Algorind had fashioned from branches. Dragging this burden added extra time to his journey, and the ceremony of induction was already underway when Algorind came to the monastery gates.
Darkness enveloped the hills, and the sand-colored stone of the outer walls seemed to melt into the terrain. If not for the bright lights rising from the chapel and his own detailed knowledge of the area, Algorind might not have seen the monastery at all. Many travelers passed by in full sight of the tower watchmen, never once seeing the monastery. That seemed to Algorind a remarkable thing, considering the vast size of the complex.
The gatekeeper, a strapping young paladin who was often Algorind's training partner, looked his friend up and down. "You saw battle," he said, a note of unseemly envy in his voice.
"Ores." Algorind dismissed the creatures with a shrug and gestured to the slanted litter. "They fell upon this messenger. They have received Tyr's justice, but I was not in time to save this brave man."
"I'll see to this brother. You'll be wanted in the chapel." The paladin stripped off his spotless blue and white tabard and handed it to Algorind. Gratefully, the young man accepted the loan and quickly donned the fresh garment. The two men were of a size-both being an inch or two over six feet, their flesh hard-chiseled by nearly constant drilling with sword and lance and staff. Algorind smoothed down his curly, close-cropped fair hair, and hastened to the chapel that, along with the training field, dominated life at Summit Hall.
He halted at the arched entrance. His brothers were singing, a hauntingly beautiful chant extolling the justice of Tyr and the courage of the young men who had chosen this path. That meant the ceremony was nearly over.
Algorind felt a stab of disappointment. He had seen men invested before, but nothing moved or inspired him as much as this sacred ceremony. It was his dream, and all his life had been lived in expectation of a moment such as this. Witnessing an investiture made him feel that much closer to his goal. Much had led up to this moment: the years of training at arms and devotions, the paladin's quest, the trial by ordeal, the night of wakeful prayer in the chapel, the ritual bath and the donning of the white robes and new tabard. Algorind was still in training and expected a year or more before he would be granted a paladin's quest.
He lingered near the open door, head reverently bowed as Mantasso, the High Lord Abbot-a massive warrior who despite his rank still trained the clerical acolytes at arms- prayed for Tyr's blessing. The ceremony of investiture, the giving of the sword and the ceremonial drawing of blood as a symbol that life was forfeit to service, was the task of Master Laharin Goldbeard. It was an ancient ceremony, conveying honor with the touch of a sword but conducted with more solemnity by the Knights of Samular than romantic tales of chivalry suggested. Algorind watched with awe and deep longing as the regally tall paladin conducted the final dubbing ceremony, accepting the sword of each young paladin in turn, and imposing upon them a reminder that their lives were forfeit to the service of Tyr. Finally the young paladins sheathed their new weapons, still stained with their own blood, and rose as full Knights of the Order.
The hymn resumed, this time swelling on a note of exultation. Algorind joined in with all his heart, and swept out of the chapel with his brothers.
Almost immediately, news of the slain messenger spread throughout the hall. Algorind was summoned to Laharin's study to deliver his report.
Algorind hurried to the keep, the large building that dominated the north end of the complex, and climbed the stairs to the tower that held the Master's inner sanctum. The tower room was circular, its furnishings simple, even austere. The only flash of color in it was the vivid yellow hue of Laharin Goldbeard's bright whiskers and thinning hair. The Master sat in a high-
backed wooden bench behind a table of polished wood. The chairs that flanked and faced the table were hardly designed for comfort, and no tapestries softened the stone walls. A shelf held tokens of great deeds accomplished, as well as a single row of dusty books. Two tall, narrow windows and a trio of squat candies provided light enough to see, if not to read. Scholarship was not scorned, exactly, but neither was it numbered among the Order's knightly virtues.
Algorind came in when he was bid and took one of the chairs facing Master Laharin. He nodded respectfully to the other men who flanked the paladin-Mantasso and two of the highest-ranked priests, and three elder paladins, including Sir Gareth Cormaeril, a nobleman and paladin of great fame, retired from active service to the Knights of Samular by a grievous wound more than thirty years ago. Despite his injuries and his life of enforced inactivity, the old man was tall and strong still. He had arrived at the fortress just that morning-shortly before Algorind had left on his patrol- after a two-day ride that would exhaust many a younger man. At the moment, he looked the part of an elder statesman, clad in dignified garments of somber blue hue, his white beard neatly trimmed and his bright blue eyes keen and watchful.
The men listened carefully as Algorind gave his report. "You have done well," Laharin admitted when the tale was told-extravagant praise, coming from the master paladin. "The task that now falls to us, however, is more difficult than your feats at arms."
"This is no easy matter," Sir Gareth agreed. "Our brother Hronulf has long believed his family dead. Now we learn that there is a son. Unless this lost son-no less than a priest of Cyric-accepts Tyr's grace, there is little we can do for him. His child, however, is another matter."
Mantasso folded massive arms and stared the knight down. "The message says that the little girl is kept in safe fosterage, happy with the family who has raised her from birth, and innocent of the evil her father has chosen. Have we any right to disturb this?"
"Not only right, but duty," Laharin said sternly. "Of course she must be brought under the care and instruction of the order. And the possibility, however slight, that she may have in her possession one of the Rings of Sa.mular adds urgency to the matter. But how to proceed?"
"With your indulgence, Master Laharin, I propose that the answer is right before us," Sir Gareth said in his courtly manner. "What of this lad? I hear tell that he is the best and brightest of the crop, and more than ready for his paladin's quest. Charge him with finding the girl and the ring."
A heartbeat passed, and then another, before Algorind realized they were speaking of him. They were thinking of granting him a paladin's quest! He had not expected such honor for another year at least!
"I take it you are willing," Laharin said dryly, studying Algorind's shining face.
"More than willing! Grateful, my lords, to serve Tyr and his holy Order, in this manner or any other."
"He is eager, that is without question," grumbled Mantasso. The big priest stirred impatiently, drawing an ominous creak from his wooden chair. "Before you continue, I must speak my mind on this matter!"
"Of course," Laharin said in a tightly controlled voice. "Why should this matter be different from any other?"
Algorind blinked, astonished by this sign of disharmony among the Masters. Mantasso, who was watching him keenly, noted this and shook his head in exasperation.
"I mean no disrespect to any present," the big priest said, "but this youth belongs in the clergy, not the military order. Is it not our mandate as servants of Tyr to use all our gifts in his service? All? Algorind possesses learning and languages, a quick mind, and a potential for both scholarship and leadership. His knowledge of map lore is remarkable, and he is well spoken and comely. In the priesthood, he could go far and accomplish much, influencing many to the cause of Tyr. But how many paladins live to see their thirtieth winter? Even their twenty-fifth? Perhaps two or three in a hundred! You venerable gentlemen in this chamber are not the rule, but the rare exception!"
"And Algorind is not exceptional?" retorted Laharin. "We are well aware of the young paladin's gifts and potential. The Order needs men of his talent and dedication. The matter is settled." He turned to Algorind. "You have your duty, brother. See that you fulfill it well."
Algorind rose, too full of joy for words, and bowed deeply to the Master. He left the study to attend to his quest, certain that nothing could exceed the glory of this moment.
Sir Gareth followed him and hailed him to a stop. The famed paladin offered Algorind his hand, clasped wrists with him as if Algorind was already a fellow knight. Nor did he leave the matter there. They walked together, and Sir Gareth offered him guidance and advice, instructing him on what steps must be taken once the child was rescued.
Such fellowship was more honor than Algorind had ever dreamed of. He listened carefully, storing each detail in his carefully trained memory. By the time Algorind's gear was packed and his white horse readied, Sir Gareth pronounced him ready.
"You will bring honor to the order, my son," the great man assured him with a kind smile. "Remember the knightly virtues: courage, honor, justice. To these, I add another: discretion. This is a subtle matter. It is important that you tell no man what you do. Will you so swear?"
Nearly giddy with excitement and hero worship and holy fervor, Algorind dropped to one knee before the paladin. "In this matter and all others, Sir Gareth, I will do as you command."
It took Bronwyn nearly two days to track down Malehior. First, she had to find and question the Harper agents who had carried out Danilo's bidding and kept Malchior's men from following her. That was no small task, for secrecy was a habit deeply ingrained among the Harpers, and many were reticent to share secrets even among their own. Fortunately, one of Danilo's henchmen, Nimble, was a halfling with bardic pretensions. The ditty he composed of the event-his own role dramatically enhanced, naturally- made the rounds of the taverns and meeting places frequented by the short folk. Alice Tinker had heard the song on her evening out, and had brought the tale-along with the loudly protesting haifling-back to Bronwyn.
Nimble's tale, when shorn of ornamentation, was of little real help. The priest had disappeared, leaving only a puff of acrid purple smoke. Bronwyn searched the city, calling in every marker she had for information, as well as indebting herself so deeply that the favors she owed, if placed end to end, would keep her busily employed until snowfall. But finally, her efforts bore fruit and led her to an elf who possessed deep resources and an exceedingly dark reputation.
"You owe me," the elf said unnecessarily as he handed her a roll of parchment.
Bronwyn grimaced as she took the parchment, imagining the sort of payment that this particular contact was likely to call in. She unrolled the scroll and whistled in appreciation. It was plans for a medium-sized villa. In tiny script, the elf had noted magical safeguards, hidden doors, concealed alcoves for guards, and other closely guarded secrets. She raised suspicious eyes to her benefactor.
"How do you know all this?"
He gave her a supercilious smile. "My dear, I own that building. Since the man you seek has paid his rent in advance, you can do as you like with him-but mind the furniture and do try not to get blood on the carpets."
"I'll do my best," she said dryly. After exchanging a few more dark pleasantries with the elf; she took her leave and headed for the North Ward.
At night, this district was quiet, with most of the wealthy residents either behind the walls that surrounded the villas or off pursuing pleasures in a more boisterous part of town. As she walked along the broad, cobbled streets, she wondered how the residents of Waterdeep's most traditional neighborhood would react if they knew that a priest of Cyric was in their midst. Probably, their response would be much like the elf's. As long as the priest paid his bills and kept to himself, he was no real threat.
Bronwyn had ample reason to think otherwise. Malchior had gone through a great deal of trouble to meet her. Tonight, she was determined to discovery why.
She circled aro
und the Gentle Mermaid festhall, a massive and excessively tasteless stone structure that sprouted more turrets than a hydra had beads, as well as numerous balconies decked with elaborate wrought iron. The building took up the interior of an entire block; she quickly skirted it and cut down Manycats Alley. She glanced up at the lifelike stone beads that lined the eaves of several buildings up ahead, remembering the tavern tales claiming that they sometimes spoke to passersby. But the only voices she heard were those of the stray cats that scrapped over the leavings of butcher shops that plied their trade by day. The scent of these shops hung heavy in the still, mist-laden air. Bronwyn lifted a fold of her cloak over her nose and picked up her pace, careful to avoid the pair of tabbies battling over a length of seafood sausage.
Not far from the shops, she found the back wall of the villa's enclosed garden. She ran her fingers over the stone. The latch was exactly where the elf had claimed it would be. Vowing to be generous in her repayment of this particular debt, Bronwyn pressed the latch and waited until the stone door swung open. She slipped through the opening and into the shadows of the grape arbor that cut down the middle of the garden.
At the end of the arbor, hidden from casual view by lustt vines, stood the first guard. Bronwyn remembered him as one of the Zhentish soldiers who had stormed the bathhouse in response to Malchior's summons. For a moment she hesitated. It was no small thing to kill a man, but he had been very willing to kill her-er to take her captive on Malchior's behalf; which would surely have proved to be worse.
She slipped up behind the guard, a length of thin, strong rope held between her hands. With a quick, sudden movement, she plunged her hands through the vines and wrapped the garrote tightly about his throat. A small, strangled noise gurgled from him, growing in volume as he worked his fingers under the rope. He was far stronger than she. With a flash of panic, Bronwyn realized he would soon be able to sing out an alarm.
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