Thornhold h-16

by Elaine Cunningham

  Again he advanced, but this time emotion outbalanced control. Algorind caught one of the elf's flailing wrists in his left hand and stuck the elf's other hand aside with the hilt of his sword. The elf was slight, almost frail. It was a small matter to hurl him back, to advance with sword leading. A single, decisive thrust finished the battle and silenced the lying elf forever.

  Breathing hard, Algorind went to the cottage. He hoped the woman would be more inclined to see reason.

  The cottage was empty, the back window open. Algorind circled around, easily picked up and followed the tracks of the woman's feet into the small orchards beyond.

  He followed her through the spring-flowering trees and cornered her against the high stone wall of a pig pen. She whirled, the child in her arms, and entreated him wordlessly, her face streaked with desperate tears.

  For a moment Algorind hesitated, wondering if he had been tragically misinformed.. Woman and child were both slender, and both had brown hair decently plaited. But there the resemblance ended. The woman was human: the child, half-elf Surely this was not the daughter of Samular's bloodline!

  "Don't hurt her," the child said in a remarkably clear, bell-like voice. There was more anger than fear in her tip-tilted elven eyes.

  "I have no wish to harm you or your mother, child," he said gently.

  "Foster mother," corrected the child, showing a regard for truth worthy of a child of Samular.

  "Woman, is this the child of Dag Zoreth, priest of Cyric?" Algorind demanded.

  "She is mine! She has been mine since her birth! Go away, and leave us alone," the woman pleaded. She set the child on the ground and pushed her behind her purple skirts, shielding the girl with her own body.

  This put Algorind in a quandary. Surely this brave and selfless response was not the behavior of an evil hireling. He fell back a few paces, sword still ready in case of sudden treachery. His eyes remained on the purple-clad woman, but his focus drifted past her and his lips moved in prayer. The power that Tyr granted all paladins enveloped him. In the name of the God of Justice, Algormd weighed and measured the woman before him.

  Pain struck him like tiny knives to the temples. An image came to him, that of a purple sunburst and a glowing black skull. Algorind drew in breath in a quick, pained gasp. Tyr had spoken: the woman was allied with evil-great evil. She followed the mad god Cyric.

  But Tyr was also merciful, so Algorind drew himself back, away from the god-given insight. "Woman, will you renounce Cyric and the evil bargain you have made? Give the child into my hands and live."

  Her eyes flamed, and she defiantly spat at the ground by Algorind's feet.

  Algorind's way was clear, yet still he hesitated. Never had he killed a woman, much less one who was unarmed and untrained. And certainly never in the presence of a child.

  "Run, child," he advised kindly. "This is not for your eyes." But the girl was as stubborn as her foster mother, and she stayed where she was. All that was visible were her tiny hands, clutching at the woman's bold purple skirts. Algorind summoned a silent prayer to steady his resolve and to drown out his own protests against this terrible duty. He struck a single, merciful blow. The woman slumped to the ground. The child regarded him over the body of her foster mother, the purple skirts still fisted in her hands and her eyes wide with terror. Then, suddenly, she turned on her heals and ran like a rabbit.

  Algorind sighed and put away his sword. His paladin's quest was growing more perplexing by the moment.

  Bronwyn did not sleep well that night. In the room above the Curious Past, she tossed and twisted in her bed. Her dreams were filled with long-forgotten images, childhood memories awakened by Malchior's revelation. Her father's name was Hronulf. He had been a paladin of Tyr. He had expected something of her, something important. As a child, she had not understood what that was, and she could not piece together enough images to gain an understanding.

  She awoke before dawn, determined to find answers. From what she'd heard of Tyr's followers, the early hour would be no deterrent. Quickly she dressed and slipped down to the shop.

  Alice, her small brown face tight with motherly wrath, was already awake and waiting for her. She brandished her feather duster at Bronwyn with a gusto that would not have been out of place had she been wielding a flaming sword. "And where do you think you're going at this hour?"

  Bronwyn sighed and leaned against a green marble statue. she'd retrieved from Chult. "I have business, Alice. A business, I might add, that employs you."

  The gnome snorted, not at all cowed by this reminder of her status. She shook a stubby brown finger at Bronwyn. "Don't think I don't know what time you came in last night. You're up to something, and I want to know what. Let me help you where I can, child," she said in a gentler voice.

  "All right," Bronwyn relented. "I'm going to the Halls of Justice to talk to some of the paladins there. I might have found word of my father."

  The gnome sank down to sit on a carved chest. "After all these years," she said faintly. "Who gave you this word?"

  "A Zhentish priest. The one who commissioned the amber necklace," Bronwyn answered. Anger at Malchior's treachery crept into her voice. "He's up to something, and I intend to know what."

  "Yes, I suppose that's for the best," Alice murmured absently. "You'll be back this morning?"

  "Not before highaun. I've got to stop by the Ilzimmer gem shop on Diamond Street. They're repairing and cleaning the gold setting on that emerald piece."

  "Fine. I'll pick up something from the market for a midday meal," the gnome said.

  Bronwyn nodded her thanks and walked out into the dark streets. The sky overhead was beginning to fade to silver, and many of the street lamps were guttering as the night's supply of oil ran low. Despite the early hour, the city was not sleeping. Though the Street of Silks was considered by the wealthy to be a place to shop, dine, or seek entertaiament, many hardworking merchants lived above their shops and taverns. Smoke rose from chimneys as servants and goodwives started the breakfast fires. A cart rumbled past, drawn by a pair of stolid oxen and guided by a sleepyeyed driver. Wheels of cheese and casks of new milk filled the cart, and the somnolent cat lying atop a cask opened one eye to regard Bronwyn.

  She quickly reclaimed her horse from the nearby public stable and set off toward the temple of Tyr. The Halls of Justice was a complex of three large buildings, somber, square edifices of gray stone that formed a triangle around a grassy field. It was not a grim scene, however. Banners hung in a bright row from the balcony of the main building, standards, no doubt, from the various paladins' orders. Though the sunrise colors still streaked the sky, a dozen or more men and three women were already busy with weapons training.

  Bronwyn stated her business to the young knight at the door. His courteous manner warmed and brightened at the mention of Hronulf.

  "You are in good fortune, lady," he said in animated tones. "Sir Gareth Cormaeril is in residence today. He was a great friend of Hronulf's and a partner in arms in their youth. You will surely fmd him in the exchequer's study, attending to the business of his order. Shall I escort you there?"

  "Please." Bronwyn listened carefully as the young man continued to extol Sir Gareth, Hronulf, and the former great deeds of the mighty warriors. He told the story of the Zhentarim attack and the terrible wound that Gareth received defending his friend's life.

  "Sir Gareth serves the Order of the Knights of Samular still as exchequer in charge of funds. Hronulf, of course, is still on active duty."

  Bronwyn's heart thudded at this news. Her father was still alive? For some reason, that possibility had never occurred to her. She had hoped only to hear stories of him. Never had she dreamed that she might see him again with her own eyes.

  The chatty young knight kept talking, but Bronwyn did not hear another word until she stood at the door of Sir Gareth's study. The knight made the introductions and left her there.

  Sir Gareth was a handsome man in late middle life, robust still despite t
he wound that rendered his right arm virtually useless. He graciously received her and sent a servant for tea.

  "You wish to know of Hronulf Caradoon," he said. "May I inquire what the source of your interest might be?"

  Bronwyn saw no reason to prevaricate, yet instinct and habit prompted her to tell less than the whole truth. "I have been looking for my family for many years. It is possible that Hronulf might have information that will help me in my search."

  Sir Gareth leaned back in his chair and regarded her thoughtfully. "That is most interesting. Hronulf, too, has suffered a loss of family. I am certain he will be most sympathetic to your plight and will do all that is in his power to aid you. Of course," he said with a faint, proud smile, "he would do so regardless."

  The wann regard in the knight's blue eyes touched her. "I am told that he is your friend."

  "The best I ever had, and a better man that this world deserves," Sir Gareth responded. "But meet him, and judge for yourself"

  The knight reached for ink and parchment and wrote a few words. He sprinkled the ink with drying powder, then shook the excess away. He rolled the letter into a scroll and handed it to an attentive scribe. "My seal," he instructed absently, and then turned back to Bronwyn.

  "Bear this letter to Hronulf, as my introduction. He is captain of the fortress known as Thornhold. Do you know it?"

  "I have heard of it. Off the High Road, perhaps two days' ride north of Waterdeep?"

  "That is correct. Ah, thank you," he said, taking the sealed missive from his assistant. He handed the scroll to Bronwyn. "Do you desire an escort? I am not at leisure to accompany you myself, but I would gladly send trusted men to guide and protect you."

  Bronwyn smiled her thanks and shoved aside the hint of resentment that his paternalistic tone inspired. It was a gracious offer, and should be graciously received. "You are very kind, Sir Gareth, but I will be fine on my own."

  "Then may Tyr speed your path. You leave soon?"

  "Today," she agreed.

  He rose. "Then I will not keep you. If you would be so kind, bear my regards to my old friend."

  She agreed and took his offered hand, then swiftly left the Halls of Justice. She passed the Ilzimmer shop without stopping to inquire about the progress of the commissioned repairs. After all, her client's family had been missing the emerald brooch for over a century. A few days more wouldn't alter matters much.

  The Street of Silks was lively with mid-morning commerce by the time Bronwyn arrived at her shop. But to her surprise, the door to the Curious Past was closed, and a sign proclaimed that the shop would open after highsun.

  Bronwyn frowned as she fumbled in her pocket for her extra key. This was unlike Alice. The gnome was the most faithful shopkeeper in all of Waterdeep, which was saying a great deal. What could have happened to inspire her to close the shop during the busy morning hours?

  Memory edged into Bronwyn's mind, bringing with it questions she had not had time to consider, and a suspicion that made her heart hang like lead in her chest. The Harpers had known where to find her the night she'd met with Malchior. Either they had followed her footsteps during the entire tumultuous day-which was unlikely-or they had been informed of her intended meeting place. Malchior and his henchmen had received word of the meeting place shortly before the appointed time. Only one other person knew her plans.

  Alice.

  Bronwyn thrust the key back into her pocket and turned her steps south, toward the tall, smooth black tower where all Harper business seemed to converge. As she worked her way through the crowded street, Bronwyn reminded herself that she was accustomed to treachery and betrayal, that she faced it every day and made deft provisions to survive it. It was nothing new, and usually it was nothing personal.

  Why, then, did her eyes burn so painfully with unshed tears?

  Ebenezer stared glumly at his cage. The wooden slats were hard and thick enough to keep a whole den of beavers busy until sundown. Without knife or axe, he had little hope of getting free.

  Yet that was precisely what he had to do. Humans and half-orcs in the tunnels, catching dwarves and sticking them in cages. That was trouble. Spelicasting priests were even worse, and who knew how many more of them were roaming around? He had to get free and bring warning to his clan.

  The dwarf rose up on his knees and took another look around. The men had returned a while back and had crated up the osquips' trove. Zhents, they were, and intent on plunder. The cave was full of stout boxes, locked and wrapped with chains. There was nothing lying about handy that he could use as tool or weapon, even if he could find a way to reach it. Nothing at all but a few paces of stone ledge and a long drop to the river.

  Inspiration struck. Ebenezer scuttled to the far side of his cage, crouched, and launched himself at the opposite wall. The cage tilted, then crashed onto its side. He shook his head to clear it, then repeated the maneuver. He moved the cage over to the ledge, one painful crash at a time, and prayed to every dwarven god who'd ever wielded a hammer that be could finish the job before the racket brought back the dwarf-stealing Zhents.

  Ebenezer paused at the very brink of the ledge. One more time, and he'd crash to the stone path below. The cage simply could not survive the impact, and he would be free.

  "This is gonna hurt some," he admitted, then hurled himself against the cage one last time.

  To Algorind's dismay, the child did not take kindly to her rescue. She fought him until they reached Rassalanter Hamlet, where he gratefully turned her over to the nurse Sir Gareth had employed. After downing a a cup of strong tea, the child fell asleep, and stayed asleep in the privacy of a covered carriage, until they reached Waterdeep.

  With great relief he entered the grounds of Tyr's temple, and sent word ahead to Sir Gareth as he had been instructed to do. In moments, the old knight met him at the gate, on horseback and ready to travel. To Algorind's surprise, Sir Gareth led him not into the complex, but down the street toward the sea.

  "This matter required great secrecy," Gareth reminded him. "If the child is to find safe, appropriate fosterage, few can know of her arrival in Waterdeep."

  "But surely she would be safe in the Halls of Justice," Algorind ventured.

  The knight looked at him kindly. "Many visitors come to the Halls of Justice, seeking aid or information. We cannot risk that the child's presence be discovered. Some might come to us with questions. Why place the brothers in a position where they must either betray us or lie? What they do not know, they can deny in good faith."

  "I'm sure that is wise," Algorind agreed, though for some reason he still felt somewhat troubled.

  "It is necessary," Sir Gareth said firmly. "You may leave the child in my hands now, your duty complete."

  Algorind hesitated. "What would you have me do now? Return to Summit Hall with word that the child is safely in your hands?"

  "No, better that you ride first to Thornhold with a message to Hronulf. He should have word of his granddaughter."

  The knight reached out and placed a hand on the young paladin's shoulder. His face was grave. "I have a new charge for you. Stay with Hronulf for as long as needs be. I fear that perilous times are coming, and I would feel more content for my old friend's safety if I knew that a young knight of your skill and valor guarded his back."

  "I will happily do as you ask, but I am not yet a knight," Algorind felt compelled to add.

  Sir Gareth smiled, but his eyes had the faraway expression of a man who regarded distant glories. "Do this, and I swear to you that you will die as a paladin should, fighting alongside fellow knights."

  As he entered Khelben's study, Danilo recoiled in suprise. There was a slight swelling to one side of the archmage's jaw, where Dan had struck. His lingering ire vanished, replaced by guilt and puzzlement. Khelben could easily heal himself-why would he choose not to?

  "Our last discussion seems to have made more of an impression upon you than I intended," Danilo ventured.

  The sharp, sidelong look Khelbe
n sent him showed a hint of self-deprecating humor that most men would think entirely foreign to the archmage's character.

  "Apology accepted," Khelben said brusquely. "Now, to the matter at hand."

  He nodded toward the other occupant of the chamber, a gnome woman who sat clenching the arms of a too large chair, her feet stuck straight up before her like a child's.

  "Alice," Danilo said warmly. "It's good to see you again."

  "Save the pleasantries," the archmage cut in, "and listen well. A situation has arisen that requires me to divulge information that until now was best left unspoken."

  Khelben strode over to his writing desk, absently picked up a quill, and crumbled it in his hand. "Alice tells me that Malchior has given Bronwyn information on her past. She is even now talking to Tyr's followers. This creates a grave situation and puts her in considerable danger."

  He dropped the ruined pen into a wastebasket. A small, claw-tipped orange hand reached up and caught it from the air. The smacking, chewing sounds that followed spoke of the discrete disposal that awaited any discarded written drafts that might otherwise reveal the archmage's business.

  "It is certain that members of the Zhentarim know of Bronwyn's identity. Soon the paladins of Tyr will know this, as well. They may tell her of the power that her heritage brings. Paladins and Zhents will wish to exploit it, and her."

  Danilo nodded slowly. He hadn't resolved his anger at Khelben's machinations, or his own sense of confusion over his part in uncovering Bronwyn's identity, but at least he was beginning to see Khelben's reasoning. He didn't like it any better, but understanding helped. A little.

  "And what is this power?" he inquired.

  The archmage grimaced. "I do not know the whole of it," he admitted, "but this much I can tell you: the Knights of Samular have in their possession three rings, artifacts of considerable power. They can be worn and wielded only by blood descendants of Samular."

  "Which Bronwyn is," Danilo put in.

  "Yes. What these rings can do, and where they are held, I do not know. Hronulf wears one of them, another was lost in the raid on his village. The third has been missing for centuries."