Bronwyn's jaw dropped. She dug one hand into her hair and shook her head as if to clear it. "I don't believe this."
"The line of Samular must continue," Hronulf said earnestly. Fle blew on the writing to dry it, then set the parchment aside. "You are the last of my five children, so the responsibility falls to you. You seem well suited to it. You are young, comely, and in apparent health."
This was more than Bronwyn could take. "Next I suppose you'll be telling me that children are my duty and destiny."
"And so they are."
Bronwyn had a sudden, sharp feeling of empathy for a brood mare. She rose abruptly. "I am tired, father. Are there guest quarters in this fortress that will not be too sullied by a woman's presence?"
He rose with her, and his visage softened somewhat as he studied her. "You are overwrought. Forgive me. I gave you too much to think about too soon."
"I'm adaptable," she assured him, wondering even as she spoke if perhaps she had finally come up against the edges of her flexibility.
"We will talk more in the morning. There are secrets known only to the descendants of Samular that you must hear. You must understand your family responsibilities."
This time, Bronwyn could not hold back a small, grim smile. Until this moment, she had always been fond of irony. To Hronulf of Tyr, family responsibility apparently meant the continuation of the bloodline of Samular. Yet in doing his duty, he had left his family vulnerable.
She was not even the slightest bit tempted to point this out to her father. So vast was the gulf between them that Hronulf was unlikely to ever see this matter as she did. If she married well and produced sons to follow Tyr, he would be content. Nothing else she could do, nothing else she was, could possibly matter. In any way that truly counted, she was as alone now as she had been before she'd entered Thornhold.
Bronwyn reminded herself that she had never really expected to have a family. She had merely sought to learn about her past. If she could think of this meeting with her father as a means to that end, then maybe the ache in her chest would subside.
So she took the scroll Hronulf handed her and the small leather book that he bid her read in order to learn more of the family's creed and purpose. Bronwyn still had a thousand questions, but the answers seemed finally within her grasp. The answers, that is, to all questions but one:
Why was the knowledge of her past, this fulfillment of her dreams, not nearly enough?
Elsewhere in Thornhold the dinner hour was ending and the Knights of Samular scattered, each to his preferred rest and ease. One aging paladin, once known throughout eastern Faerun as Randolar the Bear, made his way up a narrow stair to his chamber. He retrieved a book from his modest bedchamber, a fine tome brimming with exciting tales told with admirable brevity, and betook himself to an even smaller room-a tidy latrine set into the thick wall of the keep. There he ascended the throne of the common man and happily settled down to read.
So engrossed did he become in the tale that, at first, the muted curses seemed nothing but echoes of the vanquished villain's ire. It came to him, slowly, that the voices were real, and that they were coming from the midden shoot below him. After a puzzled moment, Randolar realized that someone was climbing up the interior of the keep wall, an invader determined enough to risk the sort of unpleasant reception he had just received. It also occurred to him that since this was not the only privy in the keep, there might be other, similarly determined invaders.
The old paladin leaped to his feet and dragged in air to fuel a shout of alarm. Before he could utter a sound, the privy's wooden seat flew up and slammed against the wall with furious force. Randolar spun just as the head and shoulders of a black-bearded man, grim-faced and covered with the leavings that coated the midden, emerged from the shoot.
Propping himself on one elbow, the invader lifted a small, loaded crossbow. His grimy finger jerked at the trigger. The bolt tore into Randolar's chest, and he slid slowly down the wall onto the cold, stone floor. His last thought was deep mortification that a knight of Tyr should die so, his last alarm unsounded and his breeches tangled about his ankles.
On a hilltop not far away, Dag Zoreth stood on the watch-tower of a conquered outpost, his eyes fixed on the fortress. All was in readiness. His minions bad done well. Even Sir Gareth had delivered above expectations. According to Dag's scouts, a young woman had entered the fortress several hours ago. His reunion with his lost family promised to be more complex and fulfilling than he'd dared to hope.
And it would happen soon. By now, his advance soldiers should have made their way up the unprotected midden chutes. They were handpicked men, among them some of the most skilled and silent assassins known to the Thentarim, and the best archers. It was their task to quietly slip into the fortress. Three assassins would work their way up to the winch room, a small upper-floor chamber where the machinery that lifted the portcullis was housed. The others would take out the men who walked the walls and watched from the high turrets, and work their way to the gate.
Dag was suddenly distracted by the sensation of cold fire that stabbed at his left side-painful, yet not entirely unpleasant. He slipped his hand into the leather bag that hung at his belt and removed from it the source of his discomfort, a small globe like the one he had given Sir Gareth.
The face in it was dusky gray, vaguely elven in appearance, and seamed with scars earned over long decades of service to evil. The haif-drow assassin gave a single, curt nod.
Dag smiled and slipped the globe back into his bag.
"They have secured the winch room and are ready to raise the portcullis," he said to his captain, a bald, black-bearded man who was more than a head taller than flag and nearly twice his breadth. What Captain Yemid lacked in strategic innovation, he made up in sheer brute force and the corresponding ability to pass along orders and make them stick. "Sound the charge," Dag commanded.
Yemid thrust a ham-sized fist into the air. Instantly one of the men lifted a curved horn to his lips and winded the signal for attack. A score of heavy cavalry thundered toward the fortress, huge war-horses, barded with plate armor and bearing fully armored warriors. Behind them came the next wave, another twenty mounted soldiers who would chase down and slay any who managed to escape. Finally came the infantry, fifty men, well armed and well trained, fortified with the battle frenzy that came in the wake of flag Zoreth's Cyric-granted spells.
It was not a large force, but it would more than suffice. Thirteen men were already in the fortress, killers as silent and deadly as ferrets hunting aging roosters and nesting doves. Dag only hoped there would be enough killing for his men to sate their bboodlust; if not, some of them were likely to turn on each other, seizing the opportunities of battle confusion to settle some old insult or petty rivalry. It was not an uncommon occurrence among the Zhentarim.
A senseless waste, Dag mused as he kicked his horse into a run. It was better to hoard anger like treasure, building and nurturing it until it became a weapon, one that could be unleashed to good effect.
Nearby, one of the soldiers fell from his horse, an arrow protruding from his chest. Good. There was still some fight in the paladins. To minimize his own risk, Dag leaned low over his horse's neck as the steed galloped past the infantry. He kept his eyes fixed on the great wooden door in the fortress wall.
The portcullis rose in a series of quick, sharps jerks as the assassins winched it up. The knights of Darkhold swept toward the wooden door, long spears leveled before them.
Four of them struck the gate at nearly the same instant. The two halves of the wooden door burst inward, a gratifying testament to the invaders' success in throwing the bars. Zhentarim fighters poured into the breached wall. Dag spurred his horse on viciously, determined to enter the fortress before the fighting was done.
In Hronulf's tower chamber, Bronwyn was the first to hear the alarm. She poised, her hand on the door, and then spun back to face her father. "That horn. I know that signal," she said grimly.
Hronulf n
odded and strode for the door. "Zhentarim. You stay here-I must go to the walls."
Bronwyn seized his arm, all thoughts of anger forgotten. "It's too late for that. Listen."
The faint sound of battle seeped through the thick stone and stout oak. Hronulf's eyes widened. "They are inside the fortress!"
She nodded. Her mind raced as she tried and discarded possible plans. "Is there a back way out of here?"
The paladin smiled grimly and drew his sword. "Not for me. Thornhold is my command. I will defend it or die."
Before Bronwyn could respond, the first crashing assault struck the chamber door. The oak panels buckled, and even the iron bands that bound them bulged inward.
Hronulf thrust his sword back into its sheath and took a richly carved band of gold from his hand. He seized Bronwyn's left hand and slipped the ring onto her index finger. Though it had fit the paladin's large hand just a moment before, it slid into place on her slim finger and stayed there, comfortably snug.
"Listen well," he said, "for the door will not hold much longer. This ring is a family heirloom of great power. It cannot fall into the hands of the Zhentarim. You must protect it at all cost."
"But-"
"There is no time to explain," he said, taking her shoulders and pushing her firmly toward the wall. He reached around her and pressed hard on one of the tightly fitted stones. A passage opened in the seemingly solid wall, a rounded, dark hole just above the floor. He gestured to the opening. "You must go," he insisted.
Bronwyn wrenched herself away from him and dived for the pair of crossed swords displayed on the wall. She tugged one free and brandished it at the buckling, cracking door.
"I just found you," she said from between clenched teeth. "I'm not leaving."
The paladin's smile was both sad and proud. "You are truly my daughter," he said. For a moment their eyes met, and it seemed to Bronwyn that he was actually seeing her-her, not a reflection of her long-dead mother or a conduit for the bloodline of Samular-for the first time. "Bronwyn, my daughter," he repeated with a touch of wonderment. "Because of who you are, you will do as you must. As will I."
With that, he knocked the sword from her hand and seized her by the back of her jacket. Spinning her around, he grabbed her belt with his other hand and lifted her from the ground. As if he were a half-orc bouncer and she a rowdy patron at a tavern, he hauled her back for the traditional Dock Ward Drunk Toss. She hit the smooth stone floor, skidded on her stomach, and disappeared head first into the tunnel.
Beyond the hole was a steep, smooth incline. Down she slid, the wind whistling in her ears as she picked up speed. But even so, she heard the solid thump of the stone wall's closure, the terrible splintering of the wooden door, and a deep, ringing voice singing out to Tyr as the paladin began his final battle.
Dag Zoreth swept through the door into the bailey and leaped from his horse. Darting a look around, he saw that most of the fighting was over. Many of the fortress servants had been slain. Their bodies were lying limp and sodden in heaps, like so many beheaded chickens ready for plucking. Soldiers were rounding up the survivors and forcing them to their knees in a single precise row. A pair of priests worked their way down the line, casting the spells needed to discern character and allegiance.
This was an unusual precaution-usually castle servants were considered plunder, regarded as simple fools eager to save their skins and their livelihoods by serving whatever lord controlled the fortress, flag knew that his priests considered the testing process a nuisance and a waste, but he thought otherwise. The influence of a paladin was insidious. On his orders, any man who displayed too strong or steadfast an alliance with the forces of righteousness was to be slain.
In Dag's opinion, it was a highly sensible precaution.
His eyes fell on Yemid, on foot now and in rapid pursuit of a retreating servant. flag caught the captain's arm. "Where is the woman?"
Yemid blew out a sharp, frustrated breath. "Gone, my lord. The men have searched the fortress from dungeon to turret."
Dag's brows drew down into a deep, angry frown. He had not considered the possibility that his sister might possess magic. She was said to be a merchant, not a mage. But he knew as well as any that magical trinkets were available, provided one had the gold to trade for them. Even so, most devices he knew of had limited range and power. If she had escaped in this manner, she had not gone far. "Send out patrols, range out as far as needs be. Find her!"
Yemid spun and bellowed out the orders. A dozen men took to their horses and galloped from the gates.
"And the keep commander?" flag persisted, determined not to be cheated entirely. "Where is he?"
The captain hesitated, then nodded toward the line of Zhentish bodies neatly laid out, prepared for cremation, resurrection, or undead animation, as suited flag's whim. "There's some of his handiwork," he said. "They pinned the old man down in a tower chamber. Even so, it took some doing to drop him."
"Drop? Him?"
The deadly chill in those words stole the color from the huge soldier's face. "I swear to you, Lord Zoreth, the man was alive when I saw him. He took a wound, though. Looked serious." He tossed aside the spiked cudgel he liked to use for in-close fighting, and turned his back to the furious priest. "I'll take you to him."
Dag followed the soldier to the back of the fortress, up winding stairs to a tower room in the keep. A pair of guards bookended the shattered door, barring the entrance with crossed spears. flag took note of their small wounds, their slashed tunics, and the bright marks on the chain mail beneath where a keen sword had slashed or stabbed. These men were numbered among the elite of Darkhold, fighters hand chosen by the Pereghost himself, yet even they had not remained unscathed by Hronulf's blade.
A small, tight smile stretched flag Zoreth's lips. It was rare that childhood memories lived up to their luster. His perception of his father's battle prowess clearly proved to be an exception.
"The paladin commander lives?" he demanded.
"Aye," one of the guards said grudgingly. "On your orders."
Dag nodded in satisfaction. "Step aside."
The guards hesitated, exchanging a glance that mingled foreboding and indecision. "I would be doing less than my duty if I didn't warn you," ventured the man who had already spoken. "Several good soldiers died underestimating that old man."
"So noted." Dag's eyes narrowed in menace. "Fortunately for me, I am not a good soldier, but a priest of Cyric. Do you understand me, soldier?"
The threat was a potent one. Both men saluted smartly and moved aside. Dag stalked past them and into the room, dark head held high, his black and purple cape flowing behind him like a storm cloud. He was exhilarated rather than daunted by the prospect of facing the tall, powerful paladin who even in his late years could dispatch a half score of Darkhold's best. Perhaps he might still have to look up at Hronulf of Tyr, physically, but he would do so, for the first time in his life, from a position of power. There was an irony in this that pleased him.
But flag was robbed of this small triumph. The father he had come so far to vanquish was no longer a warrior to be hated and feared, but an old, dying man.
Hronulf of Tyr sat stiffly upright on a chair. He held his sword out before him, the point resting on the floor, one hand on the hilt, in a manner that recalled a monarch and his staff. His other hand was fisted, and driven into a gaping wound just below his ribs.
Dag Zoreth turned slowly to his guide. "It is as you said. He was gravely wounded, against my express orders."
The captain nodded and swallowed hard. The knowledge of his coming death was written clearly in his eyes.
But Dag shook his head. "I do not kill bearers of bad news, either for entertainment or to demonstrate that I am a man to be feared. Good messengers are hard to find, and good captains even harder. You've served me well, Yemid, and I will award you accordingly. But if you fail in the assignment I am about to give you, you will taste my wrath."
"Of course, Lord Zoreth!"<
br />
"Go find the man who dealt this wound and do likewise to him. But first, stake him to the ground. Gut him so that he dies slowly, so that his screams will call hungry ravens to help finish the task."
Again Yemid swallowed hard-bile, if the sudden greenish tinge to his skin was any indication. "All will be done as you say." He saluted and left the room with a haste that spoke more of grateful self-preservation than of any real zest for his duty. flag dismissed the guards and shut what was left of the door. When he was alone with his captive, he folded his arms and stared down at him coolly.
"I am a priest," he said in a coldly controlled tone that revealed none of his wrath, or his elation. "I could heal you. I could stop that pain instantly. I could even offer you protection from the soldiers who stormed your fortress, or a quick death fighting, if you so prefer."
Hronulf lifted his eyes to Dag's pale, narrow face. "You have nothing that I could desire."
"That is not strictly true." Dag made a quick, complex gesture with both hands, unleashing a spell he had prepared. An illusion rose in the air between them, the glittering image of an ornate golden ring. "Unless I have been misinformed, you want this very much. And it is mine."
The paladin's eyes blazed. "You have no right to it!"
"Again, not true. I have every right to the ring." Dag lifted his chin. "I am your second-born son, whom you named Brandon in honor of my mother's father. I took the ring from the hand of my brother Byorn, after he fell in a battle he should never have had to fight."
"Lies!"
"Cannot a paladin discern truth? Test me, and see if there is any deceit in my words."
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