This was the first time he had had the opportunity to compare the reality of the wide world with the careful image he had crafted in his mind. For the most part, the two matched with admirable consistency. There ahead was the low stone building built by followers of Tyr as a travelers’ rest. Here the path ahead veered away from the sea to run through some low, rock-strewn hills. The terrain was rougher there, and the trees gave way to small, determined shrubs. Some might find the stretch of land bleak and forbidding, but Algorind was as delighted as a child to see his maps come alive.
Suddenly he caught sight of something that no map could prepare him to face. To the north of him a cloud of thick, oily black smoke rose into the sky.
The sound of rough voices seized his attention and drew his gaze to the hills east of the Trade Way. Next he heard the sound of horses’ hooves against the stony path and a foul curse from one of the riders. Clearly, this was no patrol from Thornhold.
Or was it? The rising smoke and the portent of Sir Gareth’s words of concern gave birth to a terrible suspicion. If trouble had come to Thornhold, Algorind must know of it.
He thought quickly. The horsemen undoubtedly followed a path through those hills. Algorind had once seen it marked, on an extremely detailed map shown him by an elven sage. The path was treacherous and narrow, and at one point it followed the wall of a steep cliff, with nothing but a deep ravine on the other side.
Algorind took off at a run, circling around and bending low as he hurried through the low-growing scrub pine. He listened carefully to the sound of the coarse men’s speech, judging their progress and quickening his pace to match it.
He found the pass and scrambled up a rocky incline that overlooked the path and the ravine beyond. He crouched down behind some rocks to watch and wait, and then sank lower as the men came into view.
There were four of them, and they wore on their black over-tunics the twisted rune that was the emblem of Darkhold. Zhentish soldiers, certainly. That made Algorind feel a bit better about what he was about to do. Laying ambush was hardly a noble task for a paladin, but these men were clearly evil, and great odds required greater valor. This took some of the sting from the needed act.
When the men were almost past his position, Algorind leaped at the one who rode rearguard. He seized the man on his way down and carried him from the horse. They fell together. Algorind delivered two quick, jabbing punches to the Zhent’s throat and temple. The Zhent instantly went limp. Algorind swung himself up onto the startled horse and drew his sword.
The remaining soldiers had noted their comrade’s fate. They wheeled their horses around and drew their weapons. Urging their mounts on with vicious kicks, they came at the paladin in full fury.
Fortunately for Algorind, the path was too narrow for two to ride abreast. The first attacker thundered toward him, sword held high. Algorind caught the blade with his, tugged the reins of his borrowed mount to the left, and gave the joined swords a deft twist. Jousting was an art much practiced at Summit Hall, and Algorind unhorsed his opponent with ease. The Zhent hit the ground hard, landing just off the path. He rolled down the punishing, stone-studded ravine. His curses swiftly rose into howls of pain, then faded away.
While their comrade was still rolling down the ravine, the two remaining men came on. The foremost had a wicked spear, which he held couched like a lance under one arm. Algorind waited until the man was nearly upon him, then leaped from the saddle toward the onrushing blade, slashing down with his sword as he went.
His blade caught the spear shaft, and his weight forced the point of the spear down. It struck the ground and dug in hard. Algorind rolled aside beyond the reach of the horse’s thundering hooves. He heard the man’s rising wail as the bent spear lifted him from his mount and hurled him into the air.
Before the heavy thud announced the man’s impact onto solid rock, Algorind was already back on his feet, sword ready. He leaped directly into the path of the last rider. The startled horse reared up, dumping its rider onto the path. Before the fallen soldier could collect himself, Algorind was there, one foot pinning the man’s sword arm down, and the tip of his blade at the man’s throat.
The Zhent’s eyes expected death and feared it greatly. Such it must be, Algorind thought with sudden pity, if all that awaited a man was the dubious mercy of Cyric or the other dire gods that the Zhentarim favored, or—most terrible of all—the numbing emptiness of no faith at all.
“Only answer my question, and you may go free and unharmed,” Algorind vowed.
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if I don’t talk?”
“Speak freely, or die swiftly,” the paladin said. “It is your choice.”
“Easy enough, put that way,” the soldier muttered. “What do you want to know?”
“You are of Darkhold, and you are far from your fortress. Do you hold another stronghold nearby?”
The man’s quick, wicked grin reminded Algorind of a buzzard preparing to feed. “As of last night, that we do.”
Algorind’s heart seemed to turn to stone. “Thornhold. You have taken it.”
“Made a nice piece of work of it, too.”
Algorind nodded and knew at once that he would not be able fulfill his charge and carry a message to Hronulf. He himself would gladly fight to the death to protect a stronghold of the order from Zhentish capture. He did not know of a paladin who would not. Even so, he had to ask. “And the paladins who held it … are they all dead?”
“To a man. I saw ’em burn.”
The black smoke, Algorind realized. His wrath kindled, prompting him to slay this evil man who recounted the destruction of goodly men with such unconcern.
But Algorind had given his word. He could not break it, nor had he learned all that he must. Since he studied the lore of the order with scholarly devotion, he knew that Hronulf of Tyr wore a great artifact, one of the Rings of Samular. It was Algorind’s duty to learn what had become of it.
“You answer plainly. For that, I thank you. Tell me one thing more. What became of the paladins’ possessions?”
The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “The usual. Weapons and valuables went to the commander. His captains sorted through them and passed them out as booty.”
“The paladin commander, known as Hronulf of Tyr, wore a gold ring. Do you know who now holds it?”
“That damn ring,” echoed the soldier in a resigned voice. “Bane’s balls, but I’m tired of hearing about the thing! The commander had us search the whole damn fortress for it more times than I know how to count. As far as we can figure, the old knight gave the ring to a pretty young wench who escaped. No one knows how she escaped or where she went. My patrol was one of several out looking for her. That is the truth, and it’s all I know.”
Algorind studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I believe you,” he said. “You may go.”
The soldier stared at him for a moment. “Just like that?” he said in disbelief.
“You fulfilled your part. You may go.”
The man laughed—a bitter, mocking sound. “It sounds easy, the way you put it. Do you know what Dag Zoreth will do to me when he finds out that I lost my patrol to a single man? When he learns what I’ve told you? And he will learn. He has ways of finding out things that I don’t even want to know about. If I go back to the fortress, I’m a dead man.”
Algorind was thoroughly confused. “Then why did you speak?”
“You offered me a quick death. I figured that was the best bargain I could make.”
This appalled the young paladin. It was a terrible thing that a man must fear his superiors as this one did. He studied the Zhent for a long moment, silently calling on Tyr to help him judge the true measure of this man. What he found surprised him greatly and made the task of disposing of the soldier all the more perplexing.
And what of his own quest? The capture of Thornhold and the death of Hronulf put an end to it. Yet what of the ring and the woman? This matter was grave indeed
and required the wisdom of an elder paladin. Perhaps Sir Gareth was still at the Halls of Justice. And if not, what better place for Algorind to start his search for the mysterious “pretty wench” than in that decadent city?
“We are both at something of a loss,” Algorind said. “I made a bargain with you, not expecting it could go awry in this manner. As for myself, I think it best to travel south to Waterdeep. You might come along, if you desire. Surely, in so large a place, you could lose yourself and find a new, better life.”
The soldier dragged himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously up at the young paladin. “What are you offering? A conspiracy?”
“Companionship on the way south,” Algorind corrected, “and my word of honor that I find little true evil in you. I can also offer you, in the name of Tyr, the gift of redemption. Accept, abandon the path you have chosen, and when your time comes you need not die with such horror in your eyes as I saw this day. But be warned,” he cautioned the wary man. “Tyr is the god of justice, and it may well be that your life among the Zhentarim has left deeds that require restitution. Tyr’s redemption does not come without a price.”
“What does?” grumbled the soldier, but he took the hand that Algorind offered him and let the young paladin help him to his feet. In this soldier’s eyes, Algorind read the flickering rebirth of the gifts that Tyr could bestow: hope, honor, and the grim yet comforting belief in stern justice.
“I can travel with you as far as Waterdeep,” the soldier said.
* * * * *
Bronwyn ran with the dwarf until she was certain her sides would split. When she was sure she couldn’t go another step, the dwarf veered off the river path into an utterly black tunnel. She stumbled along behind, aware only that they turned several times. Finally her guide came to a stop.
For many moments she stood, her hands on her knees, and struggled to regain her breath. The dwarf sounded in about the same condition, only louder. Air rasped in and out of the stout fellow with a force and volume that suggested a forge bellows at work.
“How’d you get in that shaft, anyhow?” he demanded when he’d gathered enough breath for speech.
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” Bronwyn sank down to sit on the cold stone floor of the tunnel. “There was a battle. Zhents got into the fortress—through the midden, by the smell of them. When it was clear that the fortress would be taken, one of the paladins dropped me down that hole.”
She did not say who or what the paladin had been too her. Her loss was too new, too raw, to bear the burden of words.
“Hmmph.” The dwarf considered this. “Well now, that fits into the picture. Zhents mean trouble, plain and simple. A few dwarves in my clan used to trade with them. Don’t do it, I told them. Never pays, I said. Well, it paid, all right.”
The bitter grief in the dwarfs voice smote Bronwyn’s heart. She began to put together the pieces. Most fortresses had escape tunnels, but these were secret and closely guarded. Even the midden, a necessity of any settlement, was always warded from possible intruders. The presence of a dwarf clan would provide a powerful shield for these escape routes. The angry mixture of shock and sorrow in the dwarf’s voice suggested why the midden shoots were suddenly accessible.
“The shaft led into your tunnels?” she asked gently.
“That’s right. Not many knew of the slide, even among the dwarves. Only the head human was supposed to know of it. Guess you happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
The heavy irony in his voice did not escape her, nor did the ragged sound of terrible grief. For several moments Bronwyn and her unseen companion sat in silence. Nothing she could say to him would ease his pain. She knew, for she could think of no words of consolation that would make any difference to her own loss.
A small, strong hand gripped her wrist. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “We’d best get out of this place.”
They walked in silence for perhaps an hour before Bronwyn began to notice shapes and shadows emerging from the darkness. “There’s an opening ahead?”
“That’s right. Oh, damnation!”
Bronwyn stopped, startled by the dwarfs sharp tone. “What is it?”
“I’m-a gonna have to put a blinder on you. No human knows this opening. Best I keep it that way.”
That struck Bronwyn as a sad variation of locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but she wasn’t about to point that out to the grieving dwarf. “I understand. Rip a strip of cloth off the bottom of my cloak if you want.”
The dwarf busied himself with the task, then led Bronwyn out of the tunnel and into the open. Since being blindfolded was not much different from walking through the black tunnel, she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. And even if she couldn’t see, the sound and feel of the sea winds lifted her spirits. Until she’d left the tunnels behind, she hadn’t realized how oppressive they’d felt.
Finally the dwarf stopped and removed her blindfold. She blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden stab of light. When her vision cleared, she noted that they were on a wide dirt path—the High Road. She was also able to form a detailed impression of the dwarf.
He was, well, square. Probably just short of four feet tall, he was built like a barrel with thick arms and shoulders of a width that most six-foot men would envy. Curly reddish-brown hair rioted over his shoulders, and a beard in a brighter hue of auburn spilled down over his chest. Unlike most dwarves, he wore no mustache, and that lent a slightly boyish look to his broad face. A horseshoe hung about his neck on a thong, another bit of whimsy, but there was nothing of the child in his eyes, which were the color of a stormy sky and just as bleak.
She extended her hand. “I’m Bronwyn. Thank you for getting me out of the tunnels.”
He hesitated, then clasped her wrist in a brief adventurer’s salute. “Ebenezer.”
His answer was curt, almost challenging. Bronwyn didn’t expect anything different. Dwarves were slow to trust and loath to give more of their names than absolutely necessary.
By unspoken consensus, they started south along the road. Bronwyn noted the dejected slope of his shoulders. “You lost people in the tunnels,” she said with deep sympathy.
A moment of silence stretched out, growing ever more tense until it exploded into an earthy dwarven curse. “My clan,” he admitted. “Most killed. Some gone.”
“Some of them escaped,” she pointed out. “That’s something.”
“Bah! You don’t know dwarves after all, if you’re thinking that way. Running away when there’s fighting to be done? They’re not gone by choice, I’m telling you that for free.”
Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed as this sank in. She stopped and seized the dwarf’s arm, spinning him around to face her. “They were taken by the Zhents? Why?”
“Why indeed?” he raged helplessly. “Why would a human learn to read the stones or sweat himself dry chipping ore and gems out of solid rock? Why spend twenty years learning the craft of sword smithing, another thirty making practice pieces, then start turning out swords at the cost of a decade apiece? Why go through the trouble to cut and polish gems until they sparkle like the Tears of Selûne on a clear night? Why do any of that when you can steal someone else to do it for you?”
“Slavers,” she gritted out. Her own past rose up before her, lending that single word more venom than a nest full of pit vipers could muster.
The dwarf eyed Bronwyn with curiosity. “That’d be my guess. What’s it to you?”
She dropped his arm and started down the road at a brisker pace. After a moment, Ebenezer jogged up to her side. “With the spring fairs coming up, a southbound caravan should be along soon,” she said briskly. “I’ve enough coin to buy us a horse. Can you ride?”
“Yes, but—”
“Two horses then. We should be in Waterdeep before nightfall day after tomorrow. If we’re lucky, well be in Skullport by midnight.”
“Skullport!” he scoffed. “More of your tall tales. Tavern legend.
No such place.”
“There most certainly is, and it’s the nearest port for slave transport. If you want to find the surviving members of your clan before they’re halfway to Calimport, that’s where we’ll have to go. Live with it.”
He jogged along, considering this. Finally he turned a skeptical gaze upon her. “What’s this to you, human?”
“My name is Bronwyn,” she said grimly. “You might as well get used to using it. Where we’re going, singing out ‘Hoy, human!’ will get you too many responses. Most of them, you won’t like.”
“Bronwyn, then,” he agreed. “And it might be that you could save your coin. I got a horse stashed. Here you have Ebenezer Mac Brockholst ’n’ Palmara, of Clan Stoneshaft.”
She nodded, understanding the honor he conferred upon her by giving his full name and lineage—and seeing in his eyes the effort it cost to name his parents, whom he had probably just laid to rest. He was agreeing with her plan, trusting her to help him find his lost family. The enormity of that staggered her. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but tried anyway.
“Stoneshaft,” she repeated. “Your clan were miners, then?”
“No, we got that name because my grandsire managed to sire himself thirteen kids,” he shot back.
Bronwyn raised her eyebrows, acknowledging the bawdy sarcasm. “Fine. Straight to business.”
“Speaking of which,” the dwarf asked with a sudden return of suspicion, “what did you say you did to earn your keep?”
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