That got her attention. Her eyes popped open, and she pulled a long knife out of a sheath attached to one side of her belt. She hauled herself onto her feet, looking so wildly unsteady that Ebenezer confidently waited for her to fall. She wobbled a mite, but stayed up. Dropping to a respectable crouch, she held her knife in a practiced, blade-down grip.
A fight, then. That was fine with Ebenezer. He pulled from his belt the hammer he’d taken from Frodwinner’s cold, clenched fist.
“You’re wrong. I didn’t attack you,” the woman stated as she began to circle around him.
He turned with her, rubbing his aching belly. “Yeah? What would you call it?”
“Falling.”
Despite his anger, Ebenezer had to admit that there was something to that. When humans wanted to bombard someone, they didn’t generally use their own bodies as missiles. Ebenezer granted that this human might not have deliberately halted his process up to the fortress, but he still had ample justification for wrath. His clanmates had been slain or captured. Ebenezer would kill any Zhent he saw in Stoneshaft tunnels, starting with this one.
“Falling, eh?” Ebenezer echoed bitterly. “Get ready to fall a mite further. I’m-a gonna send you and all your kind straight to the Abyss.”
He circled her, measuring her height and balance and stance. Humans, in his experience, were fairly predictable. When they saw a hammer or axe coming at them, most of them instinctively ducked. But it seemed that their instincts didn’t take into reckoning the measure of a dwarf’s height and reach. Ebenezer noticed that oftentimes all they managed to do was lean into the coming blow. Aim at the shoulder, and he’d get the head. A good deal, by his measure.
He lashed out, swinging the hammer in a high, side-sweeping blow.
But this human didn’t respond as Ebenezer had anticipated. She dropped flat to the cave floor, rolled in the opposite direction of his hammer swing, and came up behind him. Her knife slashed across the seat of his leather breeches.
He whirled at her, one hand clutching at the sudden, stinging breeze. “You’ve fought dwarves before,” he observed coldly. That confirmed his suspicions. Not many humans took on a dwarf, not unless they had a powerful personal grudge or a bunch of friends close at hand. Judging by the devastation of the clanhold, she had a big bunch of friends.
The woman danced back a few paces. Her big-eyed gaze darted around the cavern as if searching for a means of escape. “I’ve known some dwarves, that’s all.” She lifted one eyebrow and gave him a small, knowing smile. “One of them, I knew very well.”
Her meaning was unmistakable, but Ebenezer wasn’t buying that. Humans and dwarves did very little cavorting, and no serious courting to speak of. “Bah!” he scoffed. “What would a dwarf want with the likes of you?”
She proceeded to tell him, in detail so vivid that he was certain his cheeks were as red as his beard. Ebenezer liked a good tall tale as much as the next dwarf, but he was in no mood to swap boasts with a murderous Zhent wench. He cut her off with a quick advance, followed by a series of hammer-swings that kept her dodging and retreating for several long moments.
“You’re quick,” he gave her, when they both paused for breath. “But trying to distract me just ain’t going to work!”
“No?” The woman smirked and lunged forward with a knife feint.
Ebenezer leaned back away from the blade. She sprang at him before he could right himself. He did his best to bring the hammer up and around, but she was already in too close.
Her weight slammed into him—a pretty good hit for such a scrawny thing, but Ebenezer was used to harder hits, and he didn’t expect to go down. He wouldn’t have, except for the large stone right behind him. Seems that he had been a mite distracted, after all. Never saw the rock. It hit the back of his knees, which buckled and folded on him. Ebenezer toppled back, much to his mortification.
The woman went down with him, writhing and scratching and spitting mad, impossible to hit in so close and just generally as hard to hold as a trout. Little and puny she might be, but she fought with a fury that would have had Tarlamera’s cats sitting up and taking notice.
Embarrassed now as well as angry, Ebenezer wanted nothing more than to be finished with this. He palmed the stone floor in search of his hammer. Nothing. He cast a look to one side—and hollered when the damn female sank her teeth into his exposed ear. The weapon lay well out of reach. Ebenezer swore and shoved the two-legged she-cat away. He scrambled to his feet and then dived for the hammer.
The woman spat blood and leaped after him. Her arms wrapped around his ankles. Down he went, flopping onto his already abused belly. His chin hit the stone with a mind-numbing crack. Worse, his outstretched fingers fell short of the weapon’s handle.
She scrambled over his back and grabbed the hammer, then flung it away as far as she could. Ebenezer heard the crack of mithral on stone, then the slithering, metallic slide down the steep bank into the river.
That was one blow too many for him. Ebenezer bucked once, easily throwing her off. He staggered to his feet and stabbed one stubby finger at her in furious accusation.
“Now you’re starting to get me riled,” he bellowed, with typical dwarven understatement.
The human was already on her feet, circling again, those big eyes all wild looking and wisps of her brown hair sticking up every which way. It occurred to Ebenezer, briefly, that she looked almost as angry and crazed and grief-ravaged as he felt.
“Getting riled, are you?” she gritted out. “Then I suppose it won’t make much difference if I do this—”
She leaped at him, cat-quick, and fisted both her hands in his long red beard. Ebenezer yowled in pain and fury and outraged dwarven dignity.
But the wench wasn’t done with him yet. She leaped up, yanking back hard on his beard as she tucked up her knees and then kicked out, planting her booted feet squarely into his belly. She went down onto her back, dragging Ebenezer down after her. His hands braced out to catch himself when he fell, partly by instinct and partly because he didn’t much like the idea of wiping squashed human off his tunic.
Things didn’t quite work out that way. The woman hit the floor first and kicked her feet up and out. Ebenezer felt the cavern shift weirdly, and his boots described a fast arc over his head. Over he went, flipping like an oat cake on a griddle. He soared over the woman and landed hard on his backside.
Quick hands swept his beard up past his face, crossed, then pulled back down. Before his head crashed to the stone, Ebenezer felt a quick, strangling tug. Disbelief coursed through him, along with a fresh wave of anger. The woman had the stones to try to strangle him with his own beard!
Ebenezer struggled to his feet, dragging the stubborn woman up with him. He twisted this way and that, but she clung to him like a burr on a mule and only tightened her grip. His lungs began to burn, and his vision turned dark around the edges. The pounding of his own heart grew until the roaring in his ears thundered and rolled like the ding-blasted sea.
This was not the sort of death that would earn him a place in the hall of heroes. Determined not be brought down in this ignominious fashion, Ebenezer staggered over to the cavern wall. If he could get there before he fell, if he could slam her up against the stone a few times, maybe he could break her grip.
He was almost there when her stranglehold suddenly loosened and her weight slid down his back. Ebenezer dragged in a ragged breath and dug his fingers beneath the suddenly slack strands of his beard. He started to pull, but stopped suddenly when he saw what she had seen.
“Stones,” he muttered in a voice raw from near strangulation.
* * * * *
The conquest of Thornhold was complete. Dag Zoreth walked through the fortress reviewing the work his men had made of the job.
They had certainly been thorough. Only a few of the servants remained alive. The man who kept and butchered the pigs and chickens, for instance, the brewer, a few of the kitchen staff. Most of the fortress’s inhabitants had bee
n too infected by the paladins whom they had served and were even now turning to ash on the massive bier.
Smoke rose in dark, fetid clouds from beyond the fortress walls. The slain paladins and their followers had been tossed onto a burning pile of driftwood and old straw. Such fuel did not produce the hottest fire, but Dag’s new castellan—a thin, dark man who would have been handsome but for the livid brand on one cheek—was a practical steward and manager, and he decreed that Thornhold’s supply of firewood and timber was too dear to waste on such matters. Dag had been content to yield the decision to the castellan; after all, the man had ably managed the estates of an Amnian nobleman, until the discovery of his dalliance with the man’s wife had led to his discharge and disfigurement. Dag cared nothing about a man’s habits, and the castellan’s advice seemed sound enough. And if the paladins did not burn completely, what of it? Did not the ravens and wild beasts of the Sword Coast need to eat?
The celebration inside the fortress that night was raucous and long. The soldiers raided the cellars and brought casks of ale and wine up to the keep’s dining hall. Several of the slaughtered animals, along with leeks and root vegetables from the cellar, went into a huge pot for stew. The men feasted and drank and sang and boasted until the moon had set, and stayed doggedly at it until most of them were snoring at the table with their faces pillowed in their gravy-soaked trenchers.
Dag held himself apart from this, watching and waiting quietly until he was certain he would have the privacy he needed. There was one more thing he must do, the one final thing that would make the victory truly his.
When the night sky had faded from obsidian to sapphire, when dawn was not long in coming and the fortress silent but for a few drunken snores, Dag walked into the chapel and closed the heavy doors behind him.
A few squat candles still burned on the alter, and more in the plain iron sconces set into the walls. Most of the flames had winked out or diminished into fading wisps of blue sinking into tallow puddles. Unusually fine candles, they were. Dag had noticed earlier that the chandler’s shop produced a good supply of tall, thick candles, big enough to burn through a day or a night. A pity, Dag mused, that the talented chandler had held so steadfastly to the path of righteousness. Had the man shown a bit more flexibility, he might have lived to bedeck Cyric’s altar. Dag could envision the chapel lit by scores of enormous, deep purple tapers.
But perhaps he could do even better. Dag walked up the wide stairs that led to the altar and stood for a moment gazing up at the wooden scales of justice, the symbol of stern Tyr, then he closed his eyes and began to chant.
Power filled the chapel, and with it a ghastly purple light as tall flames rose from the spent candles. The priest opened his eyes and studied the long, writhing shadows that danced against the wall. No, not danced—fought. Shadowy paladins, milling about in an endless battle they could never win. The spectacle pleased Dag, as he suspected it would please Cyric.
Proof of his god’s pleasure was not long in coming. A low, thrumming boom sounded through the chapel, and the symbol of Tyr tilted slowly and crashed to the altar. Flames from the candles leaped up to engulf the wooden scales, consumed them utterly, then rose higher still. The unnatural fire converged, rose into the air, and took the shape of a livid purple sunburst. As Dag watched, awestruck, a darkness appeared in the heart of the manifestation, growing larger until it took the form of an enormous black skull.
Dag slowly dropped to his knees, his ambitions both humbled and confirmed by this great sign of Cyric’s favor. He raised his hands, which were still stained with dried blood, and began to chant anew. This time, his words formed a prayer of supplication, importuning Cyric to accept the gifts of conquest and intrigue and strife and to guide him as he sought the next step in his path to power.
The priest was confident that his god would be with him. The gift he offered was far more than a chapel of Tyr, its sanctity polluted by foul magic and its grim majesty rededicated to Cyric. In Dag’s mind, he could bring no greater offering to his dark god than the death of a great paladin of Tyr, a descendant of the mighty Samular himself, the man who had been his father.
* * * * *
Bronwyn saw the torchlight before she heard the soldiers’ approach. The sudden appearance of four armed Zhentilar shocked and sobered her, and the blinding red haze of her anger slipped away. With sudden clarity, she realized that this dwarf was not her enemy. The poor fellow probably made his home in these tunnels. It seemed unlikely he was allied with the Zhentarim; in fact, he looked no happier to see the soldiers than she was. She released her grip on his beard and pushed him away.
“Stones!” he spat, and though his voice was rough from her ill-treatment, the venom and vitriol in that one word marked it as a dwarven curse.
Bronwyn felt the need to let loose a few soft curses of her own. This drew a quick, curious stare from her red-bearded opponent.
“Aren’t you with them?”
“I thought you were,” she shot back. The enemy of my enemy, she thought grimly. “We fight or run?”
“You lost my hammer,” he groused, “which narrows down the choices a mite.”
At that moment, one of the soldiers caught sight of them. He pointed and shouted, and the four men kicked into a running charge.
“Run,” Bronwyn decided.
The dwarf jerked his head toward the river and was off at a fast, rolling trot. Bronwyn followed, but she ached in every joint and sinew, and her movements felt stiff and awkward. Her eyes widened as they fell upon the slick, uneven path that wound along the very brink of the riverbank’s incline. If she kept up with the dwarf’s breakneck pace she ran the risk of slipping and tumbling down into the fast-moving water. If she did not, if she lost sight of the dwarf, she could well spend the rest of her life wandering around these tunnels. Which might not be such a long time, if the Zhent patrol found her.
Bronwyn suddenly had grave doubts about the wisdom of tossing her lot in with this dwarf. As if he sensed her hesitation, he skidded to a stop and shot a look over his shoulder. He extended one stubby hand to her.
“Grab hold,” he hollered, his deep voice rising over the roar and crash of the river. “No dwarf worth snail slime has ever slipped on this path. I won’t be letting you fall.”
For some reason, Bronwyn believed him. She ran to him and seized the offered wrist. Immediately he was off, and at a pace faster than she would have believed possible.
Behind them, they heard a startled shout, followed by a splash. She and the dwarf exchanged a quick, fierce grin.
“One down,” she panted out.
“Good start,” he admitted.
At that moment, Bronwyn’s feet flew out from under her. She fell hard on her backside and her right elbow and began to slide. Instantly she twisted to the left, as the dwarf dragged her back from the steep bank. Another pull jerked her back onto her feet. Without missing more than a beat, she and the dwarf were running again.
“Told you I’d keep a grip,” he bellowed. “Got my word on it.”
As she nodded her thanks, some of the desolation lifted from her heart. Suddenly Bronwyn found it wasn’t hard at all to keep pace with the dwarf.
* * * * *
Algorind tried to count his blessings. The sun was bright, and the cold breeze that blew off the Sea of Swords seemed almost balmy in comparison to the chill winds that had buffeted the hills around the monastery throughout the long winter. He had been given a paladin’s quest, and the first part of his journey was complete. Now he was en route to Thornhold to bear great and glad news to Hronulf of Tyr, the paladin whose fame and virtue had been an inspiration to Algorind for as long as he could remember. He had life, health, faith, and a fine sword at his side.
What was a lost horse, in comparison to that?
Even so, the memory of the ungrateful, treacherous dwarf rankled. Algorind had to admit that he knew little of the world, but surely this could not be common behavior. He had always heard dwarves spoken of as gruf
f, but honorable. Why did the little red-bearded fellow accost him and steal his horse? It was poor payment, after Tyr had been gracious enough to save his life.
Algorind was also concerned about the delay. On foot, it would take him nearly a day longer to reach the fortress. Losing his horse was a serious matter, for he would not be given another by the order. He would have to earn his next steed, which would add another task to his quest and greatly delay his investiture as a Knight of Samular. Ah, well, he conceded with a sigh, patience was among the knightly virtues.
But there was still more. Sir Gareth’s cryptic parting words continued to trouble him. The old knight had importuned Algorind to stay with Hronulf and watch his back. What prompted this sudden concern? A paladin’s life was fraught with danger, that was true enough, but was there some specific, expected threat to the famous knight?
Another thought hit Algorind. Hronulf was getting along in years. Perhaps his health was failing. Perhaps Sir Gareth feared that the news Algorind brought would throw Hronulf into decline. As joyful as word of a new-found granddaughter might be, there was no discounting the terrible shock of learning that his lost son was alive, but an enemy. Better a dead son than a living priest of Cyric.
Many and troubling were the puzzles before him, but as Algorind walked, the beauty of the spring day beguiled him and lightened his heart. The High Road was broad and even underfoot and often shaded by tall oak trees and majestic pines. Berries, small as his thumbnail and red and sweet and bursting with juice, grew in profusion along the roadside. The birds sang with the sweet urgency of springtime as they sought mates and built nests to cradle their coming young.
It was all new and delightful to him. Algorind had not been so far from Summit Hall since the day he had been entrusted to the order, but for all that, he knew precisely where he must go.
This he knew because he had committed to memory all the maps in the monastery library—most of which he had brought with him as part of his apprentice fee. Algorind’s father and older brothers had had little use for such things, preferring the glittering life of Cormyr’s capital city to anything so dusty and unpleasant as travel. But Algorind had loved maps for as long as he could remember. Even as a small child, he had coaxed the use of them from every traveler and merchant who passed through his father’s doors, committing each line and dot and squiggle to memory. He knew where the mountain passes lay, where the rivers sang swift and treacherous songs, what hills were likely to contain lairs of orcs or goblins or worse. In Algorind’s opinion, all knowledge was useful, but this was information he would most assuredly need if he was to travel the world in Tyr’s service.
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