The ship had already sailed. The ship that carried his kin away to slavery had sailed just that day, and they had missed it. No tunnel could reach where they’d gone. Even the cold comfort of vengeance was denied Ebenezer. The murderous, thieving humans who had done this were beyond the reach of his avenging axe.
Ebenezer let out another curse and signaled for a third mug.
“Game o’ dice?” suggested a coarse, grating voice beside him.
Ebenezer swiveled on the stool to find himself nearly nose to snout with the ugliest excuse for an orc he’d ever seen. The critter was not much bigger than a dwarf, though it was as broad and powerful as most of its kind. It struck Ebenezer that some god with time on his hands and a twisted sense of humor had placed the orc lengthwise between his palms and compacted the critter like a snowball. In Ebenezer’s opinion, the god in question should have kept squishing until the task was done.
Ebenezer pointed to his chest. “You talking to me?”
“Why not?” The sawed-off orc bared his fangs in a drunken grin and swatted Ebenezer companionably on the shoulder.
A satisfying, cleansing flood of dwarven ire swept through Ebenezer. Earlier, he had pitched a kobold through the window of the tavern—not first bothering to unlatch the shutters—for taunting him about his lack of a mustache. That really hadn’t taken the edge off, though. But a friendly orc, now, that was enough to raise a considerable froth.
“Since you asked,” the dwarf growled, “I’ll show you why not.”
His hand flashed out and seized the offered dice from the ore’s palm. He slapped them down on the table and pulled the hammer from his belt. The ore’s roar of protest rattled the mugs on the bar as he understood Ebenezer’s intent. He grabbed for his dice—just in time to get one finger smashed under the descending hammer.
Several patrons, most of them just as ugly as the orc, came over to investigate the disturbance, their faces made memorable by scars and fangs and the uniform expression of menace that they currently wore. Ebenezer acknowledged their approach with a nod.
“Lookit,” he said grimly, pointing to the shattered dice. A small, iridescent blue beetle, sort of a pretty thing that looked like a sapphire with legs, scuttled frantically away. Smart little critters, they could be trained to throw their weight against the colored side of their tiny prison.
A low, angry murmur rose from the cluster of men, orcs, and worse that surrounded Ebenezer and his orcish challenger. Using loaded dice didn’t win many friends, Ebenezer noted with satisfaction, not even in a place like this.
The ore’s howl of pain and outrage died suddenly as he realized how the tide of opinion had turned. He backed away a few steps, his piggish eyes wary and his shattered finger clutched close against his chest. Then he turn and ran with the whole pack of his former dice-mates roiling after him. Ebenezer raised his mug in mock salute, then turned back to the bar and his intended goal of waking up to find himself facedown on the bar after a few hours of hard-won oblivion.
An hour or so later, Bronwyn found the dwarf still at the bar. Ebenezer looked so defeated that her own shaky resolve firmed. She had found a solution—one that terrified her, but it was the best she could do. And it was the only chance the dwarf’s lost family had.
She strode over to the bar, slapping away a few grasping hands on the way, and seized the dwarf’s arm as he lifted his mug. Ale splashed over the bar and dampened the dwarf’s beard. He turned a dispirited face to her. “Now why’d you go doing that?”
“I’ve got us a ship,” she said urgently.
His eyes narrowed. “A ship?”
“And a crew. Smugglers waiting for cargo. It’s been delayed, and the captain is losing too many men while he waits. He’s eager for a job and will work cheap.”
“Now hold on there. You’re saying we should go out on the sea?” the dwarf asked. “In a ship?”
“That’s the usual method,” she hissed impatiently. “Now, come on. We haven’t much time to get to the docks.”
The dwarf still looked uncertain, but he hopped off the bar stool and followed her out of the Burning Troll. They wove their way between rows of leaning wooden buildings, taking a confusing maze of narrow alleys that led to the docks.
The prospect of a sea voyage left Bronwyn so edgy she felt as though several layers of skin had been peeled off, leaving her incredibly vulnerable. She started to chatter softly, to provide a distraction.
“Getting a ship was easier than I’d dared hope. The captain even took credit against plunder or payment. If you’re a praying dwarf, you might want to hope that the ship has some plunder worth keeping, or this could break us both.”
“Clan’s good for it,” Ebenezer repeated.
“I’m sure you are. It seems to me, though, there’s more to the captain’s story than he’s letting on,” she said absently, suddenly aware of a soft, rhythmic sound behind them. In Skullport, sound seemed to be everywhere, echoing through the vast sea cavern and bouncing off stone walls, resounding through tunnels. But this particular cadence was too regular and too constant to ignore.
“We’re being followed,” she murmured. She took a small bronze disk from her bag and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She caught the reflection of a squat, ugly orc peering around a corner at them.
Ebenezer was not so discrete. He turned around and glared, then sniffed dismissively. That clearly angered the ore. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he came at them. Bronwyn reached for her knife and dropped into a crouch.
But the dwarf pushed her aside and stood waiting in the center of the alley, hammer in hand. “Sit this one out,” he said. “Won’t take long, him having a smashed hand and all.”
Bronwyn looked from the gleam in the dwarf’s eye to the hammer in his hand and sighed. “Made friends in the tavern, did you?”
Ebenezer grunted in response and hauled the hammer down and back for the first swing. He caught the ore’s chin with a wicked uppercut that halted the creature’s charge and jerked his lowered head up and back. Ebenezer punched out with his free hand, slamming into the creature’s chest. The orc’s eyes bulged, and the gray hide of its face turned a ghastly blue. Slowly, it tilted forward and fell facedown into one of the fetid puddles that dotted the alley.
“Stops the heart, if you get a good clean shot,” Ebenezer commented. He tucked his hammer back into his belt and turned to Bronwyn. “You was saying?”
She shut her gaping mouth and turned back down the alley.
“The captain is an ogre,” she said, picking up where they left off. “But he was knowledgeable, well dressed, well spoken. Not a desperate second-rate thug by any means.”
“Your better class of smugglers,” Ebenezer said dryly.
“There’s truth to that,” she rejoined. “Think about it. There’s a city below and a city above. There is traffic between the two, and you can bet that hammer of yours that many of Waterdeep’s merchants know someone who knows someone who can pay someone to do a favor. Are you following?”
“Easily enough, but the question is, do you know someone who’s in a position to do all that other knowing?”
Bronwyn hesitated, not certain but wanting to believe. “You remember that man who came into the shop? Tall, fair-haired, good-looking?”
“No beard. Too much jewelry,” Ebenezer remembered. “You were mad enough at him to chew trade bars and spit nails. What about him?”
“He’s a friend, and he’s also a member of a rich merchant family. It’s possible he made some arrangements, helped pave the way. Here we are,” she said as they emerged from the alley onto a broad, rotting boardwalk. “And over there’s our ship.”
Ebenezer’s gaze followed the line indicated by her pointing finger. His dubious expression darkened into a scowl as he took in the maze of docks and the ships bobbing alongside them in an expanse of undulating black water. A flock of sea bats whirled and shrieked over the ship Bronwyn had indicated, which was being rapidly prepared to sail. Burly dockh
ands hauled barrels of supplies aboard, and a huge ogre captain clung to the rail and bellowed down orders in a voice that held all the music of a bee-stung mule’s bellow.
“That friend of yours,” Ebenezer said darkly as he eyed the ship with trepidation, “might not have done you as big a favor as you seem to think.”
* * * * *
Dag Zoreth stood on the wall of Thornhold and watched the caravan pass. Three wagons, plus a mercenary guard. Nothing of interest. He would not even suggest that his men attack and demand toll from the traders. He looked past them, seeking for another, smaller caravan, one with a much more precious cargo.
Several days had passed since Dag’s victory. With each day he found himself spending more and more time walking the walls, searching the High Road for signs of his daughter’s caravan. The escort of Zhentilar soldiers should have retrieved her by now from her place of secret fosterage. She was late, and Dag was growing ever more concerned.
He was therefore greatly relieved to see a group of riders turn off the road onto the path that led up to the fortress, and gladder still when they lifted the standard of Darkhold by means of introduction. Dag gave a few terse orders to one of the guards to carry word to the castellan and then hurried down to meet his daughter.
To his great consternation, the gate opened to reveal a group of men familiar to him but not under his command. At their head rode Malchior. Dag quickly arranged his features into a expression of honor and welcome and strode forward to help his former mentor and superior down from his horse.
Malchior landed heavily and swept an appraising look over the fortress bailey. “Very impressive, my son. I never thought the day would come when I saw the interior of this particular Caradoon stronghold—except, perhaps, for the dungeons.”
Dag smiled faintly to acknowledge the jest. Malchior seemed in a rare mood, so jovial that he looked likely to break into dance at any moment. “You’ve had a long ride from the villa. Come, I will show you to your room and have the servants bring refreshment.”
“Later, later.” Malchior flapped his hands, brushing aside this notion as if he were shooing flies. “You’ve gone through Hronulf’s papers?”
“Yes,” Dag said coolly. There had been little enough to see. Three or four lore books, recounting stories of past glories attributed to the Knights of Samular, and a few blackened, curling bits of parchment that he had found in the hearth fire next to his father’s charred heart.
The older priest rubbed his hands together in his eagerness. “I would be most interested in seeing any papers you have.”
Dag shrugged and began to lead the way up to the tower. He had claimed the commander’s quarters as his own, of course, and in them he kept the few goods that Hronulf of Tyr had left behind. “There is not much to see,” he cautioned.
“What of treasure? Some holds, even those of religious orders, have a considerable hoard. Silver reliquaries holding the finger bone of some hero or saint, ancient weapons, an occasional artifact. Even lesser treasures, such as jewelry.”
Malchior’s voice dropped on the last observation, becoming a subtle note softer, more casual. Dag’s quick ear marked the difference and the probable reason for it. Malchior knew of the ring.
As Dag showed Malchior up to the tower chamber, he pondered what to do about the ring. Say little, he decided, in hope that Malchior would reveal more of the rings’ true purpose. So Dag waited until Malchior was seated behind Hronulf’s—no, Dag reminded himself, his—writing table. He noted the open greed in the older priest’s eyes as Dag placed a pile of lore books before him. Perhaps the rings were not the treasure that Malchior held most dear.
“You mentioned jewelry. You were speaking, of course, of the ring of Samular that Hronulf wore,” Dag said coolly. “Regrettably, it was not on Hronulf’s hand when he died. My sister arrived before me, it would appear, and made off with my inheritance. She will be found.”
The old priest looked up, his eyes shrewdly measuring his former student. “And the other rings?”
“I will find them, as well,” Dag said confidently. No need to tell Malchior that one was already in his possession. He waited until Malchior opened one of the books and began to leaf through it.
“How long will you be able to stay?” Dag asked.
“Not long,” the priest murmured in a distracted tone. “This is most interesting. Most interesting. Three or four days’ study should suffice, unless, of course, you can see your way clear to loan me these books.”
“By all means,” Dag said quickly—too quickly, judging from the shrewdly calculating look that Malchior sent him. The priest always suspected, and rightly so, that every other priest of Cyric knew more on any matter than he was willing to reveal.
At that highly inopportune moment, there came a sharp knock from the open door. Dag glanced over, and his throat clenched with apprehension as he recognized the captain of the escort he had sent for his daughter. The man’s too stiff posture and the tight, grim lines of his face announced more clearly than words that the news was not good.
“Excuse me,” Dag murmured to a very interested Malchior. “Please help yourself to any of the books and papers, and wine as well, if you will.”
He hurried into the hall and shut the door behind him. “Well?” he hissed.
The captain blanched. “Lord Zoreth, there is grave news. When we arrived at the farm, the child was gone. Both the elf and his woman had been slain.”
The sound like a roaring sea rose in Dag’s ears, threatening to engulf him. He summoned all of his iron control and pushed away any response at all to this, the apparent ruin of his dreams. “And then? What did you do?”
“We followed. One man, on horse, headed swiftly toward the city of Waterdeep. We lost the trail once he took to the roads, but his destination was clear enough.” The man stood straighter still. “What would you have us do?”
Dag turned a coldly controlled gaze upon the failed soldier. “I would like you to die, slowly and in terrible pain,” he said in an expressionless voice.
Surprise leaped into the man’s eyes, and an uncertainty that suggested he was unsure whether or not his commander was jesting with him. Then the first wave of pain ripped through him, tearing this notion from his mind—and tearing his lowermost ribs from his chest.
The soldier looked down in disbelief as the two slim, curved white bones sprang from his chest like a door flung open. His eyes glazed, and his mouth opened to emit a scream of agony and horror. But all that emerged was a choked gurgle as blood rose into his throat and poured down over his ruined chest.
Dag watched impassively as the power of his focused rage tore the soldier apart. When the man lay dead, he calmly walked back into the room and tugged at a bellpull. A servant arrived in moments, his face pale from the shock of what he had discovered in the hall.
“Have this mess cleaned up, and send Captain Yemid to me,” Dag said calmly. The man gulped and turned away. “Oh, and one more thing. Prepare my horse and guards. I will be leaving tomorrow at first light for Waterdeep.”
Nine
By dawn the following day, Dag Zoreth’s horse and guard stood ready for the journey south. He was not pleased, therefore, when one of Malchior’s servants came down to the gate to bid Dag to await his guest, who wished to accompany him.
An hour and more passed while the older priest lingered at breakfast and carefully supervised the packing of Hronulf’s lore books into his bags. That accomplished, the members of the party mounted and began to wind their way down the hillside to the High Road.
The size of the group worried Dag. Although none of the guards wore the symbols of Darkhold, and neither of the priests their vestments, the addition of Malchior and his score of attendants made them more suspicious and more subject to scrutiny. A group of two score armed men arriving at the gates of Waterdeep might attract too much attention and too close an examination into Dag’s affairs.
He had worries enough without the close attention of Waterde
ep’s officials, both overt and secret. The city was a veritable nest of Harper activity, and the secret lords of the city were nearly as intrusive and pervasive as the Harpers. The inquiries Dag needed to make in the city were extremely sensitive, and he could use none of his usual Zhentilar informers. If Malchior discovered that Dag had a daughter, and that he had kept the girl’s existence secret for over eight years, there would certainly be trouble.
And there was always the possibility that Malchior did know and that the girl’s disappearance had been the work of the Zhentarim. Dag had reason to know that the society he served used such methods.
He cast a sidelong glance at Malchior. The fat priest rode like a sack of grain, but his face showed no sign of the discomfort his body must have been experiencing. He caught Dag’s eye.
“You have met Sir Gareth. Are you finding that liaison useful?” Malchior asked pleasantly.
Dag considered his words carefully; after all, he intended to use the paladin to find his missing sister and his stolen child. “He managed to get Bronwyn to Thornhold. He handled the disposition of some newly acquired … cargo for me. In short, he seems able enough. I would hesitate to trust him too far, however, as he demonstrates a remarkable capacity for self-deception. I have no doubt he could justify any treachery.”
“Well said,” Malchior agreed. “That is always the risk of any agent, is it not? A man who is willing to betray his comrades at arms is not likely to show absolute loyalty to the men who bought him.”
This presented as good an opening as Dag ever expected. “You presented Sir Gareth as an ambitious man, jealous of Hronulf’s fame and lineage. That I can readily accept, but how did the Zhentarim hope to profit from the raid on Hronulf’s village, and what do you personally intend to gain by pointing me toward my heritage?”
Malchior cast a glance around to ensure that the guards were beyond earshot. “The answer to your first question is easy enough. Paladins and Zhentarim are natural enemies, much as mountain cats and wolves. Hronulf had more enemies among us than I could count or name.”
Thornhold Page 21