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. Dag 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. Dag 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?” Dag 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 Dag’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. Dag 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 Dag 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 Dag 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!”
“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.
Dag dismissed the guards and shut what was left of the door. Wh
en 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.”
Hronulf fixed a searching gaze on the priest. His eyes went bleak as the truth came to him, but his face hardened. His gaze pointedly swept Dag’s black and purple vestments, then fixed upon the symbol engraved on his medallion. “I have no son, Cyricist. My son Byorn died a hero, fighting against the Zhentarim.”
Even though he had expected them, these words struck Dag’s heart with painful force. “Did he really? Have you never wondered how the closely held secret of your family’s village reached Zhentarim ears? Or for that matter, how a Zhentilar band managed to unravel the secrets of this fortress? Look, and wonder no more!”
Dag snatched the black globe from its hiding place and held it before his father’s eyes. The purple fire burned high, casting unholy light upon the face of Hronulf’s oldest and most trusted friend.
“How may I serve you, Lord Zoreth?” inquired the image of Sir Gareth Cormaeril.
Shock, disbelief, and sudden bleak acceptance flashed through Hronulf’s silver-gray eyes. He lifted his gaze to Dag’s coldly vindictive face. “Gareth was a good man. To corrupt a paladin is a most grievous evil and a black stain on the souls of all who had a hand in his downfall. You will not find another here who will have aught to do with you, Cyricist.”
With great effort, Dag kept his face neutral. “I’ve come to claim my heritage and meet my sister,” he said. “Where is she?”
“This is a fortress of the Knights of Samular. No women reside here.”
“Finally, you speak something resembling truth,” Dag said coldly. “But let us not play foolish games. We saw a young woman enter this fortress. We did not see her leave.”
“Nor will you. She is beyond your reach, Cyricist.”
Dag merely shrugged. “For now, perhaps, but the day will come, and soon, when the three rings of Samular are reunited in the hands of three of his bloodline. Tell me what that means. What power will that unleash?”
“It matters not. You do not wear the ring. You cannot.”
“Perhaps not, but my daughter can, and she will do as I tell her. Soon my sister will do the same. As long as I command the power, it matters not whose hands wield it.” The priest unfolded his arms. He held out one hand and took a step forward. “It is time for you to bequeath me my inheritance. The second ring, if you please!”
Pain flared in the paladin’s eyes as his fallen son approached, for the evil of Cyric burned men such as Hronulf as surely and painfully as dragonfire. Dag Zoreth saw this, expected it. Nevertheless, he kicked the regal sword out of Hronulf’s grasp and snatched up the paladin’s hand between both of his own.
“No ring. The other hand, then,” he demanded. In defiant response, Hronulf raised his bloodied fist and spread the fingers so that the priest could see that there was no ring upon them.
Dag’s face darkened as anger rose in him. “Once, when I was no more than seven winters of age, I hid such a ring for safekeeping in a hole gashed into an oak, rather than have it taken by the raiders. Could it be possible that you have done much the same?”
“I do not have the ring,” Hronulf stated.
“We shall see.”
Dag did not doubt that the paladin spoke the truth. He knew that by all that was reasonable, he should find a way to heal the man and question him, but Dag was beyond reason. Rage, grief, the madness of his life of terrible isolation—a torrent of emotions too many and complex to catalogue or understand—tore him over the edge. In one swift motion, he plunged his own hand deep into the paladin’s wound.
A roar of agony and outrage tore from Hronulf’s throat. Dag suspected that the touch of a priest of Cyric caused pain greater than the paladin would know if a dwarven smith quenched a red-hot iron in his belly. This pleased Dag, but it was not quite enough to sate him.
Dag held his father’s anguished eyes as he began to chant the words of a spell. The god Cyric heard his priest and granted the fell magic. Dag’s frail fingers suddenly became as sharp and powerful as mithral knives. Up they tore, through walls of muscle and flesh, and closed surely around the paladin’s beating heart.
With one quick jerk, Dag Zoreth pulled the heart out through the wound and showed it to the dying paladin. Then, just as quickly, he threw the heart into the hearth fire.
Dag Zoreth spun on his heel and stalked from the room, still chanting softly. The last sounds Hronulf of Tyr heard were the hissing, sputtering death of his own heart and the voice of his lost son, cursing him in Cyric’s name.
Seven
The sounds of battle faded swiftly as Bronwyn plummeted down the steeply sloping shaft. Down she slid, picking up speed as she went.
Dimly she realized that the tunnel was carved into the thick wall of the keep and that she had fallen down what was a nearly vertical drop. She wrapped her arms over her head and steeled herself for whatever would come at the bottom of the shaft.
But the tunnel curved suddenly, sliding her into what seemed to be a spiraling arc. She suspected that the tunnel was sweeping down through the curved wall, but she could not be certain. Balance and sense of direction had abandoned her, swept aside by the speed of her headlong slide. There was no time to consider her situation, to plan or even to react. She had no choices, no options, but to surrender to the force that held her in its grip. This she understood without words or even conscious thought, and the understanding raised her frustration into simmering rage. Was there nothing in her life, nothing at all, over which she had any control?
Suddenly Bronwyn realized that the tunnel had widened. She no longer felt the walls rushing past her, brushing her along one side and then the other. And she no longer felt the ripple of the closely fitted stones beneath her. The floor over which she careened was still smooth but seemingly of solid stone.
She was inside the mountain now, Bronwyn realized, and still falling.
Her speed hadn’t lessened much, but at least she had some room to maneuver. She wrenched herself to one side, tucking her knees up against her chest and then kicking out as hard as she could. Neither her outstretched hands nor her kicking feet managed to graze a wall, but stretching herself out full length had some effect. Her wild slide began to slow. Bronwyn dared to hope that the ride was almost over.
Just then she hit another curve. Her weight shifted, sending her into a spin. Completely out of control now, Bronwyn tumbled and rolled. She flailed about wildly, seeking something, anything, to hold onto that might halt her wild ride. There was nothing; the stone floor and walls were smooth and sheer. She was grateful for that. If the tunnel had been rough, she would have been torn and battered past recognition, but at the moment, she would almost welcome a boulder in her path if it would stop her precipitous slide.
Then, suddenly, one was there—or at least, something that closely resembled a boulder. She caught a glimpse of it, silhouetted again
st some faint, distant light far beyond. She threw her arms over her head to ward her face, and then plunged headfirst into a hard, rounded wall.
Fortunately for Bronwyn, the “wall” had some give to it. A startled oof! wheezed out, and strong, stubby arms and legs thrashed about in a brief, desperate attempt to hold position on the steep incline. For just a moment, Bronwyn grappled with her unseen “rescuer” as they both teetered on the edge of a fall. They lost the battle, and the slide resumed in a tangle of arms and legs and a flurry of gruff-voiced and exceedingly earthy curses.
The tunnel began to level out, and Bronwyn slowly skidded and spun to a stop. She had no idea where she was, but at least there was a bit of light—a soft, greenish glow, probably due to the phosphoric lichens that grew in some underground caverns. Bronwyn lay flat on her back, willing the whirling shapes and colors to sort themselves out into images she could use. With one hand she groped for her knife, in case she needed to defend herself against what she could not yet see.
A few paces away, Ebenezer groaned and rolled up onto his knees. He hurt from beard to boots, but his belly had definitely taken the worst of it. Physical pain was something he knew, something he could handle. Compared to the agonizing grief of his clan’s destruction, a few aches and pains was almost a relief. A distraction. So was the anger that welled up when his eyes settled on the small, disheveled woman sprawled out on the stone floor of the cavern.
Ebenezer rose to his feet and staggered over to the dazed human. “Well, are you gonna lie there all day?” he demanded in a querulous voice.
She opened her eyes and squinted in the direction of his voice. Her head bobbed around a bit, as if she were trying to peer through a swirling haze.
“A dwarf,” she muttered, and her eyes drifted closed again. “No wonder I thought I’d run into a boulder.”
“You weren’t far wrong,” Ebenezer said in a tight, rumbling growl, “only boulders generally don’t go taking revenge when they’re attacked.”
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