Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  Ashemmi sniffed, but apparently did not deign that comment worthy of rejoinder. “There is power in the bloodline of Samular, even more than you realize.”

  His hands stilled. Her bald claim stunned him, intrigued him. Given what he already knew—and his suspicion that Malchior had not told him all—he did not doubt the possibility that Ashemmi’s words held truth. He drew back a little and met her probing gaze. “What precisely do you want from me?” he asked bluntly.

  An expression of distaste darkened Ashemmi’s golden eyes. “Must we spell out our terms? Haggle our way to agreement like vulgar merchants?”

  “Indulge me.”

  The elf smoldered, then shrugged. “Very well, then. I want the child brought here. I wish to explore her potential. Then we will see between us what use might be made of it, and her.”

  This was more than Dag could bear. For years he had bided his time, not risking a possible revelation of his heritage until he was in a position to protect the innocent child who carried, unknowing, the bloodline of Samular. All this, Ashemmi could carelessly undo, and she would just as easily toss the girl aside if there was no benefit to keeping her.

  He thrust the sorceress away from him. “It is a poor excuse for a mother who would so exploit her own child,” he said coldly.

  “And a poor excuse for an ambitious warlord who would not” Ashemmi snapped back. “Remember yourself, and while you are about it, bear me ever in mind. This situation presents opportunity to us both, provided we are clever and discrete in how we proceed.”

  “And speaking of discretion, how will Sememmon respond, when he learns that you have been keeping this matter from him?” he retorted.

  The blatant threat set Ashemmi’s eyes aflame. “If he or any other person in Darkhold learns of the child from you, it will be from conversing with your spirit. I will tell Sememmon, in my own way and at a time that suits my purposes. I! Agree, and you and your misbegotten brat might be permitted to live out your meager, allotted span. Am I understood?”

  Dag Zoreth regarded the elf with a degree of loathing normally reserved for the creatures that occasionally oozed up through the fortress midden. “Of course, Ashemmi. I understand you very, very well.”

  “Good,” she purred, drawing out the word. She languidly swept her arms high, and her gown dissolved into a swirl of crimson mist. The haze floated out to envelope Dag, as intoxicating as smoldering poppies.

  Ashemmi’s smile was hard and enticing. “As long as we understand each other, let us have one more secret to keep from our lord Sememmon.”

  For one long moment, Dag wavered on the precipice of indecision. He could step back, he could turn away and quit this room, leaving Ashemmi naked and furious. He could.

  Instead, he breathed in deeply of the mist. He held the enchanted fragrance until the power of it nearly burst him asunder, and then he moved through the crimson cloud toward her.

  * * * * *

  On the second day after he had received his quest, Algorind reined his horse to a stop on a hill overlooking a cozy valley. Smoke from the evening fire rose from a snug stone cottage. Geese strutted contentedly near a small pond, and a small herd of rothé cropped at the grass in an enclosed pen. Soil had been turned for a kitchen garden, and already a few neat rows of seedlings rose from the rich soil. He caught the sound of a woman’s teasing voice and the bubbling response of happy, childish laughter.

  As he gazed at the homey scene, Algorind marveled that an evil man should have provided such ease and comfort for his child. By all appearances, this was a goodly household, unknowing of the alliance they had made. Perhaps they knew nothing of their fosterling’s heritage. But surely, if they were goodly folk, they would see the wisdom in turning the child over to him for her good and that of the order.

  At that moment the cottage door opened, and a tall, brown-haired woman strode out. She held her apron bundled up before her with one hand, and with the other began to strew grain for the chickens and geese. They came running in eager response to her clucking calls.

  Algorind’s eyes widened. At first glance, the woman was seemly enough, modestly clad in a simple linen shift draped with a long kirtle. But the color of her kirtle alerted and alarmed him. It was a deep, vivid purple, a color that was expensive and difficult to achieve, and a hue that no simple, decent goodwife would wear.

  Her husband came out of the lean-to that served as a horse barn, and Algorind’s hand went to his sword. Not a human at all, but an elf. Algorind’s practiced eye measured the elf’s gait, his way of holding himself, the watchful readiness of his posture and his face. This was no mere farmer, but a well-trained warrior.

  The truth came to him then. The priest of Cyric had arranged his daughter’s fosterage with evil subtlety. Who would suspect a simple farm family of harboring a Zhent’s child? Who did not assume that the elves were goodly folk, best left to go about their business? These were no simple folk, happy in the gift of a child that the gods had not seen fit to send them, but hirelings of an evil priest. The deception kindled Algorind’s wrath. He drew his sword and urged Icewind into a charge.

  As he thundered down the hill, the woman shrieked and fled into the cottage. The forgotten grain cascaded among the squawking, scattering chickens. Algorind came at the elf with a mighty swing. The elf deftly dropped and rolled aside. He came up with a long knife in each hand and deadly intent in his catlike green eyes.

  Algorind dismounted and strode forward. He met the elf’s first darting blow, swept it easily aside, riposted. The elf met his thrusting attack just as easily. For several moments they stood nearly toe to toe, in a ringing exchange of blows delivered with nearly equal skill and passionate conviction.

  In his training, Algorind had learned of many styles of sword play. This elf fought like a Sembian, a two-handed style of quick attack, a street-fighter’s technique best suited for a short, decisive battle and a fast retreat.

  “You fight well,” Algorind panted out between parries. “But you are far from home.”

  The elf hesitated, startled by this pronouncement. The sudden sharp pain in his inhuman eyes brought something rather like pity to Algorind’s heart.

  “It is a sad and evil world,” the paladin continued, “when goodly men or even elves are drawn into the plans of evil men.”

  Algorind barely dodged a vicious slash. “It is the good men who sent me here!” the elf snarled, speaking for the first time. He advanced in a flurry of slashing, darting attacks. For many moments it took all the paladin’s skill merely to hold him back.

  “The tanar’ri Vladjick,” the elf said, his voice raw with exhaustion and bitter rage. “Do you remember that story?”

  The paladin did, and acknowledged it with a brief nod. A terrible demon, a tanar’ri, had been summoned by an evil man’s ambition. Years before Algorind was born, knights of the Order of Samular had marched against the creature. The battle had been long and fierce, and the tanar’ri had fled into the forest north of Sembia. An elven community lay between the paladins and their evil foe. The elves had resisted the passage of the knights through their forest, thus allying themselves with the evil tanar’ri. Many good and noble knights had fallen in the fierce fighting. Ever since, some of the order had remained wary of elves and their unknowable, inhuman ways.

  “I remember it,” the elf gritted out. “I will always remember it! The knights slaughtered my family for no better reason than that we were elves, and we were in the way.”

  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. Algorin
d 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, Algorind 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 highsun. 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 entertainment, 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 sleepy-eyed 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 find 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 the 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 warm 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.