Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  “But said too late. We should have thought of this possibility.” Dan sighed and reached for a dried plum. He slipped a jeweled knife from the cuff of his shirt and deftly pitted the fruit. “I have no expertise in siege tactics, but surely some of your Harpers keep watch for such things.”

  “We have not seen the need,” the archmage said shortly. “Thornhold was considered a secure fortress.”

  “And?” Danilo prompted, seeing a familiar film of secrecy settle over his uncle’s face.

  Khelben considered, then threw up his hands as if resigned to yield up the truth at once rather than endure the pestering that would surely ensue if he did not. “If truth must be told, the Harpers and the paladins of the Knights of Samular have a wary relationship. The source of this conflict is a tale too old to profit from retelling.”

  “Really?”

  “Really.” This time, Khelben’s forbidding expression declared his intention to hold firm. “And though your assessment of the possible strategy of the attackers has merit, it is not sufficient to explain the fall of Thornhold. The paladins send out patrols into the hills. If a force large enough to scale the walls was camped about, slowly gathering in number, the paladins surely would have discovered it. No, there is something else here, something hidden.” He cast a quick, sharp look at Danilo. “Something that should remain hidden from casual eyes. Where did you say you heard this ballad?”

  “The Howling Moon,” Danilo repeated, “and a dreadful ditty it was.” Or would be, he amended silently, given the time he would have to compose it!

  “Good.” Khelben nodded with satisfaction and began to spoon up his now-cold soup. “A poor tale has less chance of being repeated.”

  “It is clear that you have not spent much time in taverns of late,” Dan said dryly. “I assure you, Uncle, the Ballad of Thornhold is the sort of song most frequently requested in the taverns, most eagerly sought by young bards and minstrels who make their living traveling about with news and gossip.”

  “You couldn’t squelch this ballad?” Khelben demanded.

  More easily than you could imagine, thought Danilo with a stab of guilt. He could simply leave it unwritten and unsung. But in truth, what would that profit? His words to Khelben painted the picture clearly enough; if he himself did not write such a ballad, someone else would, and the tale might grow dangerously larger in the telling.

  “How so? Forbid a song? That would only spread it the faster. And you must admit, this has in it all the elements of a fine tale: heroism, tragedy, mystery. It will strike a particular chord with retired men of the sword, in which Waterdeep abounds.”

  “How so?”

  “Well, other than the men who rode patrols, Thornhold was manned by aging paladins, veterans who chose to serve rather than retire. The paladins of Thornhold defied their age and infirmities. They died fighting, as heroes, long after their time. This holds much appeal.”

  Danilo reached for the ladle of the soup tureen, then thought better of it. “There is more. Although listeners expect tales in which good triumphs over evil, many are surprised and secretly delighted when evil triumphs—as long as the results do not touch them personally.”

  The archmage wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “That is a harsh thing to say.”

  Danilo shrugged. “But true, nonetheless. Since there is much mystery about the fall of Thornhold, there will be speculation. All who listen to the ballad become storytellers themselves, as they spin tales about what might have happened.”

  “But not all men are content with gossip,” the archmage said. “How long before small forces gather to throw themselves against Thornhold? The paladins at the Halls of Justice will probably make a quest of it, not to mention the knights of Summit Hall. I don’t need to tell you what a waste that would be. Only an enormous, full-scale assault of massive power could bring down those walls.”

  Danilo examined his fingernails. “Thinking of trying your hand, Uncle?”

  The archmage sniffed. “As to that, I have but one word: Ascalhorn.”

  “Ah. Excellent point.”

  For a time, the men fell silent, and the air was thick with the memory of dire, unforeseen results of powerful magic wrought. The fall of the fortress that Khelben had named opened the gate to darker, more deadly powers. For years Ascalhorn had been aptly known as Hellgate Keep and represented the failure of extreme magical remedies. Evoking it declared Khelben’s firm intention to keep himself free of direct involvement in the matter. Danilo often suspected that Khelben had a deep, personal stake in the matter as well, but he had never found a way to broach the subject.

  “So, what do you propose that the Harpers do?” Danilo prodded.

  “You are not going to like my suggestion,” the archmage warned him, “but listen to my concerns, and weigh them well. Hronulf of Tyr was one of the men slain. Lost with him was an artifact, a ring of considerable and mysterious power. We must get it back.”

  “There is that ‘we’ again,” the young man said in a voice heavy with foreboding.

  Khelben’s smile was grim and fleeting. “This task will not fall to you. There is one better suited for it.”

  “Bronwyn, I suppose.”

  “Who better? She has demonstrated great skill in searching out artifacts. And what she does not know of her heritage this day, she will soon find out. It is only prudent to bind her to the Harpers’ service in this matter.”

  Danilo was more than a little unhappy about this turn of events. “This task would put her in great danger.”

  “Is that so different from many other assignments she has willingly taken?”

  There was truth in that, yet Danilo still scoured his wits for a compelling argument against this plan. Then it occurred to him that Bronwyn might already possess this ring. If she had managed to see her father, perhaps he had passed it on to her. It was a possibility that bore looking into. If that were the case, Danilo could conceive of nothing important enough to warrant taking from Bronwyn the only family treasure she had ever possessed or was ever likely to possess.

  “Bronwyn will do as you direct,” Danilo said, letting a bit of anger creep into his voice. “She always has. But why is this ring so important that you consider its worth above hers?”

  “I didn’t say that,” Khelben cautioned him. “Finding the rings and keeping them safely away from those who wish to use their power is the only course that will guarantee Bronwyn’s safety. As long as the rings are obtainable, any descendant of Samular is a much-desired commodity.”

  Danilo reached for the pitcher of ale and poured himself a mug. “Uncle, do not send me out blind. There has been too much of that, and I won’t be party to it any longer. Tell me plainly what these rings do.”

  “Some old tales say—”

  “Let us dispense with prevarication,” the bard cut in impatiently. “What do they do?”

  Khelben tugged at the silver hoop in his ear, a sure sign that he was ill at ease. “I do not know,” he admitted. “When the three rings are combined, they produce a powerful effect that is, unfortunately, unknown to me. The wizard who created them on behalf of Samular and his knights was not inclined to share his secrets.”

  Aha, Danilo thought. Some of Khelben’s earlier comments took on more meaning, when considered by this light. “An old rivalry, perhaps?”

  The archmage merely shrugged. “Find the ring,” he repeated.

  Danilo leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the ale. The beverage was flat and bitter. He grimaced and set the mug down.

  “That might prove difficult,” he said. “As I reported earlier this tenday, Bronwyn is away on business. My scouts have not found word of her in Daggersford, so it is possible that she had this story put about as a blind. My guess would be that she had another, deeper destination in mind.”

  He spoke those words with heavy portent, deliberately misleading the archmage. Khelben scowled. “Skullport, again, eh? Well, check it out. Help her complete her business, so we can move o
n to the matter at hand.”

  Danilo smiled, relieved to be able to speak whole truth at least once. “On that, Uncle, you may depend.”

  * * * * *

  Ebenezer waited impatiently as Bronwyn held council with the aging human who kept the inn. The Yawning Portal, it was called. The yawning customer was more like it. He was beginning to nod off over his third mug of ale when the young woman strode over to his table, an expression of grim triumph on her face.

  “Durnam will let us in,” she said softly. “This is not the only entrance to Skullport, but it’s the quickest. It’s like being a bucket in a well. He ties a rope around you and lowers you down.”

  “A well, eh? A dry one, I’m hoping.”

  “At first.” She grinned fleetingly, fiercely. “Skullport is neither dull nor dry, not by any measure.”

  The dwarf perked up at this news. He’d been doing too much sitting around for his liking and was about ready for a rowdy hour or two. He hopped up from the chair. “Well then, let’s get to it.”

  Ebenezer followed Bronwyn back to the locked room and watched as the old man slid the cover from a gaping hole in the floor. The dwarf insisted on going first, figuring he’d be the better one to look around for danger, seeing as he could see in the dark and she couldn’t. She agreed and told him briefly what to look for.

  It was a good thing he’d chosen to go first, for the ride down was far longer than Ebenezer had expected. If he had had to sit and twiddle his thumbs while they cranked Bronwyn down, he might have changed his mind and demanded they take another route. It was hard to rethink the matter in the middle of a dark, narrow well shaft.

  Finally he caught sight of the opening Bronwyn had told him would be there. He swung back and forth on the rope a bit to get some momentum, then seized the first of several iron handholds set into the stone wall. He hauled himself into the side tunnel, then wriggled out of the leather harness and gave the rope a couple of good tugs.

  Instinct prompted him not to holler up a got-here-just-fine. Darkness and silence surrounded him, but there was a watchful quality to the place. Ebenezer wasn’t keen to alert who-knows-what of his arrival.

  The dwarf waited impatiently, hand never far from the handle of his hammer, until Bronwyn came into view. He grabbed her by the belt and hauled her into the tunnel. She touched down with a whisper of soft-soled leather. She shrugged off the harness and gestured to Ebenezer to follow her—a bold gesture, considering that she herself could not see in the utter blackness of the hole.

  Ebenezer fell into step beside her, moving comfortably though the darkness. His eyes, like those of all dwarves, slipped easily past the range of light and color to perceive subtle patterns of heat. Humans had no such abilities, but Bronwyn moved along well enough, finding her way by running the fingertips of one hand along the wall.

  They passed two passages before Bronwyn turned off into a side tunnel. This one sloped down swiftly in a tight, curving spiral, widening as it went. Slowly, the heat patterns faded from the dwarfs vision to be replaced by a faint, phosphoric light. Glowing lichen clung to the damp stone walls, and globs of luminous, mobile fungi inched along the walkways.

  Ebenezer booted one out of the way. It splatted against the wall in a smear of weirdly glowing green, then oozed down to meld with a passing fungus.

  “Looks like a deep dragon sneezed in here,” he muttered darkly.

  “It gets worse. Take care what you step in.”

  This proved to be good advice. Some of the leavings were more disgusting than others, and more than once they skirted the rotting carcass of some poor critter who’d been ambushed and half eaten.

  They walked for hours without talking, listening intently to the sounds of the tunnel—the hollow, echoing sound of their footsteps, the dripping of water, the squeak of rats and the distant roars of prowling monsters. In time the faint clamor of a settlement edged into the tunnels.

  “Almost there,” Bronwyn murmured.

  Ebenezer nodded and lifted one hand to cover his nose. The unmistakable stench of a seaport filled the air. They turned down another passage and came out into a huge cavern, the floor of which was scattered with low, dark buildings

  They made their way through a squalid marketplace crowded with more beings, hailing from more races than Ebenezer had ever seen in one place. It was almost a relief when Bronwyn veered off into a narrow side tunnel.

  The tunnel ended abruptly, opening into a small cavern glowing with faint, flickering blue light. At the entrance stood two of the largest illithids Ebenezer had ever seen. They were hideous brutes—man-sized, bipedal creatures whose misshapen bodies were not recognizable as either male or female. Large, bald heads of a sickly lavender hue rose above robes the color of dried blood. Their faces were utterly without expression—at least, none that the dwarf could read. Illithid eyes were large, white, and blank, and the lower half of their face comprised four writhing lavender tentacles. The guards clutched spears in their three-fingered purple hands, but their real weapon lay behind those impassive eyes.

  “I need to talk to Istire,” Bronwyn told the guards, jerking her head toward Ebenezer. “Got a dwarf for sale.” In response, the guards stepped aside, and a third illithid emerged from the shadows, beckoning them to follow.

  Ebenezer threw his friend a derisive glare, which he kept firmly in place as he followed the woman into the cavern. The way he saw it, a scowl would look well matched with the swagger he threw into his walk. Maybe these purple critters could look into his mind and know what he thought of all this, but he’d be damned as a duergar if he’d look scared!

  “Not a bad plan, I guess, but you couldn’t have warned me about it ahead of time?” complained Ebenezer in a low whisper as he and Bronwyn fell into step behind their guide.

  “Hard to do, considering that I’m making this up as we go,” she countered.

  “Hmmph! Just see that you don’t go selling me off to some two-legged squid,” the dwarf returned with more bravado than he felt.

  When they emerged into another small cavern, their guide disappeared back into the thick shadows and yet another illithid, this one draped in expensive-looking silks and fine gold jewelry, glided forward. Apparently, the message had been relayed through the mysterious mind-speak the creatures employed. Since there was little point in lying to a creature who could pluck thoughts from another being’s mind, Bronwyn sensibly got right to the point. “Istire,” she said, nodding a greeting. “We’re trying to locate a shipment of dwarf slaves. I want the whole lot of them.”

  That is not the message the guard relayed, responded the illithid Istire, its unearthly “voice” sounding in Ebenezer’s mind.

  “I want an Arbiter,” Bronwyn said calmly, ignoring her own lie. “We are entitled to one, by Skullport’s laws of trade.”

  A touch of emotion—irritation, frustration, and perhaps respect—emanated from the illithid. This way, it said grudgingly.

  The creature led them deeper into the cavern. As they went, the bluish glow intensified, until the gleam forced Ebenezer to shade his eyes. He just barely made out the source of the light—and promptly wished he hadn’t bothered.

  A strange, malformed illithid sat on a pedestal on a square dais with steps leading up on all sides. Instead of four short tentacles, this one had nine or ten extremely long ones that branched out from all sides of an enormous, glowing head. These tentacles undulated softly through the air like a cave octopus feeling about for prey.

  “An Arbiter,” Bronwyn explained softly. “You need to hold the tip of one of those tentacles. As long as you do, we’re all equal. The illithid can’t influence us, any more than we can control it.”

  Ebenezer eyed the writhing tentacles with dismay. “When we find the rest of my clan, those dwarves are going to owe me big for this,” he muttered.

  Istire took up one of the tentacles, nodding at Bronwyn and Ebenezer to do the same.

  The experience was every bit as unpleasant as the dwarf feared. Immed
iately Ebenezer was enveloped by a cloud of strange sensations. He’d never much thought about evil—other than the natural impulse to pull out his axe and get to work whenever a critter bent on such mischief got in his way—and he’d had no idea that evil had a sound and shape and stench all its own. Linking thoughts with an illithid convinced him of that beyond debate. Even worse was the hunger—the dark, grasping, endless hunger that was the illithid’s power.

  Fortunately, Bronwyn seemed better able to twist her thinking to the illithid way of doing business. After some brisk bartering, Istire answered Bronwyn’s questions readily enough. Who had dwarf slaves, where they were being kept, what ship they were going out on? Ebenezer suspected that the discussion cost Bronwyn, though, far more than the ridiculous price she’d agreed to pay. Glad though he was for the information the creature sold them, he would rather crawl into a dragon’s gullet than ever again willingly enter an illithid’s head.

  On his way out, Ebenezer didn’t bother trying for bravado. Speed seemed more sensible. He practically dragged Bronwyn out of the blue-glowing cavern and into the relative darkness and purity of the tunnels beyond.

  “A pouch of silver and a long rope of black pearls,” Ebenezer muttered, marveling at the cost Bronwyn had paid for the information, but not wanting their guide to hear his words. Since it was easier to think ahead, to the settling up of scores and debts, than to ponder the grim reality before them, he added, “The clan will be hard pressed to pay you back the price of that ransom, but we’re good for it. Just might take a little time, is all.”

  She cut him off with a scowl. “We’ll talk about that later. Right now, we’re nowhere close to discussing reimbursement.”

  “Yeah,” he admitted with a sigh. “What’s this place we’re bound to, then?”

  “The Burning Troll. It’s a tavern frequented by pirates and smugglers. It’s one step up from a midden, but we should be able to get the information we need.”

  * * * * *

  About an hour later, Ebenezer sat slumped on a high, rickety stool, getting the elbows of his jacket sticky on the unwashed bar in front of him. He sipped gloomily at his ale, too downcast to care overmuch that it had been desecrated by the addition of water.