Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  The priest smiled at his visitor’s reaction. “You blanched just now. I will take that as a yes. How, then, do you justify the use of your Order’s funds to finance Malchior’s leisure activities?”

  Sir Gareth’s face was ashen, but his gaze remained steady. “Whatever else he may be, Malchior is a scholar and most knowledgeable in the lore and history of my Order. It is right and fitting that some of the Order’s monies support this work. I have no firsthand knowledge that these funds were used in any other manner.”

  “A fine distinction, and one that I’m sure you find soothing,” the priest commented. His face hardened and the dark amusement in his eyes vanished. “Permit me one more question. By what possible light could you justify condemning children to death?”

  The former paladin dropped his head into his hands, as if the weight of his unacknowledged guilt was too heavy to bear. “I had no hand in what happened to Hronulf’s children.”

  “Did you not? Did you not sell some of your Order’s most precious and closely guarded secrets? If that led raiders to my father’s village and to me, I suppose none of the taint clings to your garments.”

  Sir Gareth sat up abruptly, his shoulders squared. The awareness of imminent death was in his eyes, but he was still paladin enough to meet his anticipated fate squarely.

  “It is rather late for you to die a martyr,” Dag said coldly. “Killing you slowly and painfully would be vastly amusing, but all things considered, it would be administering simple justice. That is the purview of your god, not mine.”

  “Then what do you want from me, priest of Cyric?”

  “No more than Malchior wanted,” Dag said. “Information is worth far more to me than the brief satisfaction I would derive from your demise.”

  The knight studied him, then nodded. “If the knowledge is mine, it shall be freely given.”

  Dag doubted this, but information received from Sir Gareth would be a fine starting place. He would check and confirm and expand upon what he learned from this wily knight, and only then would he act.

  The priest leaned back in his chair. “Speak to me of my father,” he said. “Tell me all about him—and tell me everything you know about the fortress he commands.”

  This Sir Gareth did, at great length and in admirable detail. He described the old fortress known as Thornhold, its defenses, the terrain around and beneath it. He yielded up information to which few men, even among the Knights of Samular, were privy. Hronulf, it seemed, had trusted his old friend with many secrets. As Gareth spoke, a plan began to take shape in Dag Zoreth’s mind.

  When the meeting was over and the paladin had gratefully left, Dag Zoreth rose and walked over to the hearth, deep in thought. The magical flames caught his eye and diverted him. The Fires of Cyric was a spell of his own devising, and one of his favorites. The fire itself was deep purple, and the heart of each leaping spire was utterly black. The colors of amethyst and obsidian, the colors of his god, glowed with intense and unnerving power. The fire was a symbol of Dag Zoreth’s ambition, and the path to power that had suddenly opened before him.

  Who would have thought, he mused as he gazed at a dancing flume, that something so very black could also be so beckoning and bright?

  Three

  Algorind reigned his horse around a pile of boulders that had fallen onto the path from the cliff above. They were too large for one man to move; he would have to note this in his report so Master Laharin could send more men on the next patrol. Keeping the paths between the river and the Dessarin Road clear and safe was one of the duties of the young paladins who trained in Summit Hall—a duty that Algorind was glad and proud to shoulder.

  This was his first solitary patrol, and his first time riding Icewind, the tall white horse that he had spent long days breaking to saddle and bridle. Icewind was not a true paladin’s mount—that Algorind had yet to earn—but he was a fine beast. Algorind settled happily into the rhythm of the horse’s long-legged stride and allowed his thoughts to stray to the evening ahead.

  Tonight, three young paladins would be inducted into the Order. They would become Knights of Samular through an ordeal of faith and arms, and by the grace of Tyr, god of justice and might. The prospect of witnessing this ritual filled Algorind with sublime joy.

  All his life, he had longed to be a knight. By the happiest of circumstances, his father, a nobleman of proud lineage but light purse, had delivered his third-born son to Summit Hall before his tenth birthday to be raised and trained by the Order. Algorind had not seen his family since, but he did not feel loss. He was surrounded by young men of like ambition, future priests and paladins devoted to Tyr’s service. Were not all the young acolytes his brothers? And the masters of the hall more than father to him?

  These thoughts contented him as he fulfilled the last hour of his watch. Other than the dislodged boulders, the patrol had been without incident. Algorind was almost disappointed; he had hoped to contribute to the Order’s latest venture. The knights, during their training forays into the surrounding countryside, had discovered and routed clans of orcs. The surviving beasts roamed the hills, terrorizing travelers and farmers. May Tyr grant that the last of them be found soon, Algorind thought piously, and the evil they represent vanquished.

  A muffled cry caught his ear, followed by a chilling riff of guttural laughter that could not possibly have come from a human throat. Algorind drew his sword and held it aloft as he spurred his horse on to battle.

  The white horse thundered around a bend in the path, down a rock-strewn hill and toward a scene that kindled Algorind’s wrath. Four orcs—great, monstrous creatures with stringy muscles covered by filthy greenish hide—were tormenting a lone messenger. The man was on the ground and curled up tight, his arms clutching his many garish wounds as if he could hold in life by sheer will. The orcs were circling him and prodding at him with their rude spears, looking for all the world like a small pack of sadistic tomcats worrying a single mouse.

  The orcs looked up at Algorind’s swift reproach, their sneers frozen by sudden terror into skeleton-grins. As he closed in, Algorind lifted his sword high and to his left, and dealt a terrible sweeping blow. The keen sword caught one of the monsters in the throat and cleaved head from body with a single stroke.

  Algorind reined his horse around to face his remaining foes. The three of them had abandoned their blood sport and stood to face him, their spears braced and leveled at the white steed’s breast. The young paladin sheathed his sword and took his lance from its holder. He raised it high, a chivalrous salute too deeply ingrained to withhold from this unworthy foe, and then couched it under his right arm. He leveled the lance at the foremost orc and urged his horse into a full, galloping charge.

  The horse ran straight at the braced weapons, its wild whinny ringing free as if to acknowledge the danger and defy it. But Algorind had no thought to endanger his steed. This was a tactic they had practiced together many times in the training arena of Summit Hall. His eye measured his lance at twice the length of the orcs’ spears, and he silently began the rhythmic prayer to Tyr that would count off the measure of his attack.

  At just the right moment, he raised himself in the stirrups and pulled up on the reins. On command, the mighty horse leaped. Algorind’s lance caught one of the surprised orcs just below the ribs and bore him up and over his shrinking comrades.

  Mustering all his strength, Algorind hurled the lance forward as if it were a giant javelin. The effort did not launch the weapon, but countered the force of the impaled orc and kept the paladin’s arm from wrenching painfully back. Before the horse’s hooves touched down, Algorind pushed out to the side with all his might, casting aside the lance and the dying orc.

  The horse landed, cantered a few paces, then wheeled. Two orcs remained. Algorind could not surprise them again. He swung himself down from the saddle and drew his sword.

  The orcs rushed at him, spears level. Algorind stood his ground. When the first orc was nearly upon him, he swept the sword
up hard, catching the spear and turning it toward the sky. He spun, sliding his blade off the upturned spear and bringing it down and around as he turned. The edge sliced across the orc’s belly, spilling the contents. The creature stumbled several paces more before he tripped on his own entrails and fell on his face, never to rise again.

  Algorind turned to face his final foe. The orc circled him cautiously, using the longer spear to keep the paladin and his blade at a safe distance. “Challenge,” the beast grunted. “Same weapons, one to one.”

  The young paladin recoiled in surprise. How had a base creature such as this orc learned anything of the paladin’s creed? By the rules of his Order, he could not refuse a challenge given, unless the challenger was clearly outmatched. On the other hand, the messenger was badly wounded, perhaps dying. Algorind glanced toward the fallen man. His tunic was sodden with blood, his breathing shallow. To make matters worse, the sun was near to setting, and the wind whistled sharply over the bleak hills. The man needed aid and warmth, and soon. A paladin was pledged to aid the weak. How, Algorind puzzled, was he to chose between these duties?

  Algorind eyed his opponent. The orc was the largest of his kind that Algorind had ever seen. He easily topped seven feet, and though his slack greenish hide showed signs of lean times, he was still nearly as broad and thick and fierce as an owlbear. A carved medallion bearing the bloody claw symbol of the evil god Malar hung on a thong around the ore’s neck. The wooden disk was nearly the size of a small dinner plate, but it did not seem out of proportion to the creature who wore it.

  Yes, this was a foe worth fighting. Algorind could not see his way clear to deny the challenge.

  The paladin hooked his boot under one of the spears the fallen orcs had dropped. A quick kick sent the weapon spinning up. He sheathed his sword with one hand and snatched the spear out of the air with the other. The orc grinned horribly and spun his spear in challenge, holding it out level before him like a quarterstaff. Algorind mirrored this stance, and the challenge was on.

  Orc and paladin circled each other, their eyes alert and their hands tightly gripping the long, stout wooden staves they held out level before them. From time to time one of the staves flashed forward, to be met by an equally deft parry. The irregular rhythm of wood against wood rang out, slowly at first, then increasing in tempo into a percussive flurry.

  As the battle went on, the orc’s confident sneer hardened into a grimace. Fangs bared, the beast bore down on the young paladin, thundering blow after blow upon his skilled opponent. But Algorind answered each strike, meeting the frenzied rhythm and adding his own thrusts and feints to the clatter of the duel.

  The young paladin was breathing hard now and admitted himself sorely tested by the orc’s unexpected skill. But he kept his focus and his courage and concentrated on working the monster’s staff up high. A risky strategy, given the differences in the opponents’ strength and stature, but Algorind saw no other choice. Rather than allow himself to be intimidated by his opponent’s great size, he would use it to his advantage.

  Suddenly Algorind spun the blunt end of the spear down. He accepted the blow that slashed through his relaxed guard, allowing the wooden haft to thump painfully into his chest as he hooked the lower end of the spear behind the ore’s boot. A quick twist jerked the ore’s feet out from beneath him. The creature fell heavily, flat on his back.

  Algorind spun the spear quickly and planted the crude stone point at the ore’s throat. “Yield,” he said, before he remembered to whom he spoke. Such mercy would have been appropriate in a fight between honorable opponents, but this was a creature of evil, not a man of honor. How could Algorind suffer him to live? And how could he not, now that the offer of quarter had been extended?

  Fortunately the orc resolved this dilemma. He spat and tipped back his head defiantly, baring his throat as he chose death over surrender.

  The paladin struck, leaning hard on the spear and finishing the evil creature in a single quick, merciful stroke. That accomplished, he turned to the messenger.

  Algorind gently turned him onto his back and immediately realized two things: first, the man could not possibly survive his hurts, and second, he wore the white and blue tabard that proclaimed him a member of the Knights of Samular. A second, closer look revealed the courier’s pouch still strapped to the wounded man’s shoulder.

  “Brother, take ease,” the young paladin said gently. “Your duty is done. Here is another to take it from you. The creatures are vanquished, and the hall is but an hour’s ride. I will carry your message for you.”

  The man nodded painfully and swallowed hard. “Another,” he croaked out. “There is an heir.”

  Algorind’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. With his last strength, the messenger wrenched open the latch on the pouch and drew from it a single sheet of parchment. The words written upon it filled Algorind with awe, and his lips moved in grateful prayer to Tyr.

  There was another. The great Hronulf, commander of Thornhold, would not be the last, after all. An heir to the bloodline of Samular had been found.

  * * * * *

  “Almost home,” panted Ebenezer Stoneshaft as he thundered through the deeply buried tunnel.

  “Home” was a warren of dwarven tunnels under the Sword Mountains, not far from the sea and too damn close to the trade route just to the east and the human fortress above.

  He’d been gone quite a while this time, but it was all so familiar: the damp scent of the tunnels, the faint glow from the luminous moss and lichen that decked the stone walls, and the old paths marked with subtle runes that only a dwarf could read. There had been some changes, though, some new additions. Ledges carved into the walls, and steps and such. At the moment, Ebenezer didn’t really have the leisure to examine these innovations closely.

  Running full out, the dwarf rounded the tight curve in the tunnel, his short legs pumping. The clatter of his iron-shod boots against the stone floor was all but lost in the rattle and clamor behind him.

  Right behind him.

  In his ears rang a cacophony of hisses that sounded like a fire-newt left out in the rain, and screeches that would make an eagle cock its head and listen for pointers. Who’d-a thought, he grimly noted, that a mob of over-sized pack rats could raise such a ruckus?

  Granted, it was a big pack, as osquips went. Dozens of clawed feet scrabbled against the stone as a score of giant rodents chased after Ebenezer in hot and angry pursuit. And for what? He’d taken a mithral chisel from their pile of shiny trinkets—only one, and only because it was his to take. Belonged to his cousin Hoshal, it did, a dour and reclusive dwarf smith who would string Ebenezer up by his curly red beard should he get wind of any kin of his being slacker enough to leave a good tool just lying about.

  Ebenezer almost stopped. Come to think on it, how did that chisel end up in an osquip trove? It was a family jest that Hoshal could put his hands on any one of his many tools or weapons sooner than he could grab his own—

  “Yeow!”

  A sharp nip stole the remembered quip from Ebenezer’s mind, and sheared a chuck of thick boot leather—and a good bit of the skin beneath—from the dwarfs ankle. Fortunately for Ebenezer, the osquip only grazed him. If the critter had gotten a good grip, Ebenezer would have ended up hopping the rest of the way back to his clanhold. An osquip’s teeth were large, protruding squares that could gnaw through stone—pretty damn good practice for biting off a dwarf’s foot.

  Ebenezer whirled, hammer in hand, and whacked down hard on the head of the offending rodent. The huge, wedge-shaped skull shattered with a satisfying crunch. The sudden attack set the others back on their heels for a moment, which was all Ebenezer needed. He was off and running again, and even had a few paces lead to spare, before any of the osquips got their six or eight or even ten legs back into the habit of forward motion. But once they did get going, they could roll along right smart. At this rate, noted Ebenezer, they would all come thundering into Stoneshaft Hold before the priest was done with the
wedding blessing.

  Grim humor lit the dwarf’s slate-blue eyes as he envisioned the reception his kin would muster to receive their unexpected visitors. It had been many years since the Stoneshaft clan had been troubled by osquips—giant, hairless, many-legged rodents who were nearly as ugly as a tea-totaling duergar—but they killed the critters on sight, just on principle, and also to keep the numbers down. If they didn’t, the rodents could raise a horde in the side tunnels even quicker than humans could fill one of their surface cities. Their ugly, naked yellow hides—osquip hide, not human—made good leather, too, and wherever there was mining to be done and people too lazy to do it without the aid of magic, there were wizards who were only too happy to buy osquip teeth as a spell component. For all these reasons, osquip-bashing was a favorite dwarven sport. So here he was, bringing a pack of the damn things right into the clanhold. The dwarves would have a merry time of it.

  If the gods were kind, thought Ebenezer with a grin, the fun he was bringing would get him off the spit for being late to his sister’s wedding. At the very least, maybe Tarlamera would vent most of her temper on the osquips before turning it on him.

  Ebenezer burst from the tunnel to emerge in a small cavern. He shot a look over his shoulder and groaned. There were perhaps fifty of the critters behind him now—they must have picked up recruits along the way. That was a bit much, even as wedding presents went. Maybe he should whittle the pack down a mite before making his entrance.

  The dwarf considered his options. He could stand and fight, but this many osquips were a bit much even for him. Ahead of him flowed a deep underground river. For the briefest of moments he considered plunging into it. Osquips weren’t much for swimming, even with so many legs to do the paddling. He could count on at least half of them drowning. On the other hand, his own chances were even less optimistic. The clan kept hunting cats that liked water better than Ebenezer did, and they feared it less. It might be that he could swim, but he’d never actually taken to the water to test it out.