“You state what is known rather than answer the question,” Dag observed, keeping his voice cool only with great effort. “You taught me better than to accept such sophistry. Please, do not insult your own fine instruction.”
The priest chuckled at this tactic. “Again, well said!”
“Why were some of Hronulf’s children taken?” Dag persisted.
Malchior sighed and flapped away a fly that buzzed about his horse’s ears. “That I cannot tell you. It is the nature of the Zhentarim that one hand does not always know what the other is doing. There are many ambitious men among us. Who knows? Perhaps there was intent to seek ransom, or vengeance. Who is to say what is in the heart of any Zhentilar?”
Again, Dag noted grimly, a question evaded. “And how did you come to learn of my family’s history and to connect me, a child lost some twelve years by the time I came to your attention, to Hronulf of Tyr?”
“Ah, that. I have made a study of the Caradoon family, you see. Sometime I must show you the old portrait of your ancestor, Renwick Caradoon. You are enough like him to be his son, perhaps even his twin. I saw the resemblance instantly when you were brought to Zhentil Keep for testing as a lad, and I made a point to look into your history. Tracing your path was no easy thing, I assure you. Years passed before I was convinced that you were indeed the child stolen from the Jundar’s Vale and lost by the Zhentish soldiers who took you.”
Dag listened carefully, but habit prompted him to study the path ahead, the seemingly endless stretch of hard-packed dirt shaded and scented by the stand of giant cedars growing on the eastern side. He absently signaled to his captain and pointed to the trees, thus indicating the need for additional vigilance. The man saluted and sent a pair of men off into the trees to scout ahead for possible ambush.
“You have grown quite practiced in the art of command,” Malchior observed. “Perhaps there is something of Hronulf of Tyr in you, after all.”
Dag’s eyes narrowed. His first impulse was to believe the remark a deliberate taunt. Then, upon consideration, he realized that Malchior had at last given him the answer to his question—albeit in the roundabout manner that the priest favored. “And that is why you sought me out,” Dag summarized bluntly.
“There is power in the bloodline of Samular,” the priest agreed, “as I have said before.”
“Then why not Hronulf himself?”
Malchior scoffed. “I would have a better chance of turning the tide itself than bending a man such as Hronulf Caradoon to my purpose. No, the only way to deal with a noble paladin is the manner that you chose—and no doubt executed yourself.”
Dag stiffened. “I did not mention Hronulf’s fate.”
“You did not have to. I trained you well, and we both know that only fools leave the destruction of an enemy to even a trusted underling. The important thing now is that Hronulf’s power will be yours. When you discover what that is, and how to use it, then I trust that your gain will also be mine.”
“You are a trusting man,” Dag said with heavy irony. “I suppose that is why you also seek my sister. You are, perhaps, placing bets on more than one horse?”
Malchior laughed heartily, slapping one fleshy thigh with his hand. “Alas, betting upon racing horses is one vice I have not yet had occasion to develop. But you are astute. I would like to have this woman under the influence of the Zhentarim. Yours, mine—it makes no real difference. Are we not like father and son?”
An interesting comparison, Dag thought wryly, considering the history of betrayals that lay between him and his blood father. But Dag carefully considered the older priest’s words, reading between and behind them for the true meaning. Perhaps his first conclusion was off the mark. Perhaps Malchior did not need him or Bronwyn. Perhaps he needed them both.
The family rings. There were two of them, that he knew of. One was on his daughter’s hand, the other most likely in his sister’s possession. But the inscription on the ring he found in his ruined village indicated that there were three and that when they came together, “evil would tremble.”
The third ring, then. Three rings, in the hands of three of Samular’s descendants. That had to be what Malchior wanted.
Dag’s jaw clenched, and again he turned his eyes to the road ahead. No, he certainly could not rely on the Zhentarim to help him find what he had lost. Sir Gareth, for all his limitations, was Dag’s best recourse. Two days’ travel, and then he would confront his paladin “ally” face to face. There was grave danger in this, of course. If the paladins under Sir Gareth’s command recognized the ring on the little girl’s hand, Dag might be hard pressed to get her back.
“And your sister? Have your men found any sign of her yet?”
Dag lifted a hand to his lips to hide his knowing smile. Yes, Malchior seemed very interested in finding Bronwyn. “As of this morning, no. But, sooner or later, she will return to her place of business in the city, and I shall find her there. There is no real harm in the delay. I shall have my little family reunion in due time.”
He turned a bland expression toward his former mentor, carefully studying his reaction to these words.
But the priest’s face gave away nothing. “I’m sure you are right. Now, on to more practical matters. We have been on the road for hours. Surely we should break for the midday meal.”
Dag glanced toward the east. The sun was barely visible over the tall cedars. Highsun was at least two hours away. He suppressed a sigh and gestured for his quartermaster’s attention.
The trip to Waterdeep, it seemed, would take considerably longer than Dag had anticipated.
* * * * *
Ebenezer Stoneshaft had never been so thoroughly and completely miserable in his nearly two centuries of life. He slumped on the deck of the ship, his back against a barrel and his eyes fixed with determination on the sky—rather than on the heaving waves beneath.
Every jolt and roll of the ship sent shivers of atavistic terror through him. How humans and elves put up with sea travel, he would never know. The feeling was too much like that of the first shivers of an earthquake, that unpredictable and devastating force that was every dwarf’s deepest fear. Being on a ship was a constant, terror-filled waiting for the damn quake to start.
The rolling motion, and the unrelieved state of expectant dread, kept the dwarf’s belly in turmoil. Ever since they’d left that cesspool of a port in this floating excuse for a coffin, Ebenezer hadn’t been able to keep much down.
Not that he’d stopped trying. When Bronwyn found him, he was doggedly spooning up salty chowder.
She crouched beside him. “The ship’s food is terrible,” she commiserated.
“Aye,” he agreed sourly, regarding the small bowl is his hands. “And the portions are pretty damn skimpy.”
For some reason she found this amusing, but she sobered quickly as she sat down beside him. “We’re making good progress. Captain Orwig was able to bribe the Gate Keepers in Skullport and learn where they sent the ship we’re seeking.”
Ebenezer nodded. He remembered all too well the trip up from the subterranean port through a series of magical locks. “How much longer, do you figure?”
“This caravel is fast and light. The ship we’re chasing is single-masted, with a deep hold for cargo. It was fully loaded. According to the captain, if we keep to the course the Keepers gave us, we should outrun it soon. If not today, then surely tomorrow.”
“Good,” the dwarf said stoutly. He wiped the bowl clean with a bit of hard biscuit, which he popped into his mouth. “Like the old saying goes: Nothing settles the stomach like the scent of an enemy’s blood.”
“I missed that one,” Bronwyn murmured. “Must be strictly a dwarven proverb.”
It seemed to Ebenezer that she sounded a mite peaked. He looked keenly at her. “You’re looking green around the gills, yourself. Sea travel don’t agree with you, I take it.”
“No.”
Her grim, curt answer hinted at a tale. A tale, Ebenezer suspected, th
at might do her some good to tell. “So, this wouldn’t be your first voyage, then?”
“Second.” She glanced at the dwarf, her expression forbidding. Clearly, she didn’t want to take this particular tunnel.
But Ebenezer was not easily put off. He nodded expectantly, inviting the tale. When that yielded no result, he leaned forward slightly and pointedly raised his eyebrows.
With a sigh, Bronwyn capitulated. “I was taken south on a ship after the raid on my village. I was, maybe, three or four at the time.”
“Stones,” he muttered. The thought of a child, any child, being submitted to the terror of a sea voyage set Ebenezer’s blood simmering with rage. Which, in his opinion, was a big improvement over a churning belly. Danged if he shouldn’t a-got riled up early on in this voyage, and stayed that way. “Hard thing, especially on a kid that age,” he said darkly.
“It was.” She fell silent for a moment. “I never actually saw the sea.”
Ebenezer’s gaze dipped down to the endless silvery waves. He gulped and yanked his attention back up to the billowing clouds that dotted the sky. “No loss there.”
“There’s bad, and there’s worse,” Bronwyn pointed out. “At least this trip, I have a choice. On my first voyage I was kept in the hold, along with maybe a dozen or so other prisoners.”
Imprisonment. The dwarf didn’t quite manage to suppress a shudder. “That’s worse,” he admitted.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Ebenezer caught Bronwyn looking in the direction of his belt, and tracked her gaze down to his “wine skin.” He had replaced it in Skullport. The Burning Troll, whatever its other shortcomings as a tavern might be, kept dwarven spirits in stock. He untied the string that held the skin to his belt and handed it to Bronwyn. She uncorked it and took a long, fortifying swig. To Ebenezer’s surprise, she swallowed the strong spirits—known among dwarves as “molten mithral”—without a cough or a sputter. He didn’t know a human who could do that, leastwise, not without practice. Maybe, he mused, she had had more than a little experience with dwarves and their ways. Later he’d probably be tempted to ponder on that a mite.
Bronwyn corked the skin and handed it back with a nod of thanks. “For some reason, I was the only prisoner not chained. They treated me well enough, I suppose. I had enough food, a blanket, and a corner of my own to sleep in, and even a couple of toys. The others were destined for slavery—they spoke of it, wept over it. I don’t think I was. Not at first.”
“What happened?” the dwarf prompted.
“There was a storm,” she said shortly. “A terrible storm that tossed the ship around like a leaf. The mast snapped, and some of the planking tore loose. The hold took on water.”
She shuddered from the memory. “I climbed as high as I could onto a pile of crates. Everyone else was chained. I could do nothing but watch as they drowned, slowly, screaming and cursing like creatures damned to the Abyss.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, husky with the remembered horror.
“Hard thing on a kid,” the dwarf repeated.
“Nothing else in the hold survived except me—and a few rats. They could climb, too, and they found any footing they could. By the time the water rose to my chin, there weren’t many places left for them to perch.”
Ebenezer suspected what was coming, and muttered a heartfelt oath. He stopped himself, just barely, from reaching for her hand.
“Two of the rats climbed onto my head. They fought each other for the right to be there. Nothing I could do would dislodge them.” She smiled faintly. “When my hair is wet, and parted just so, you can still see the scars.”
She drew in a long, ragged breath. “The sea calmed suddenly. I learned later that we had been caught in the wake of a waterspout, thrown off course and into the path of some Nelanther pirates. Without the mast, the ship could neither fight nor flee. Most of the crew were killed. The pirates seized the valuables and took all the survivors to be sold as slaves. It was night then,” she added, “and there was no moon. That’s why I never once saw the sea.”
Ebenezer sat bolt upright. “So you ended up a slave after all?”
“That’s right. This time, I was chained. The rest of the trip is a blur. I vaguely remember the marketplace, and standing on the block while people gawked and poked. I was sold. There is a dark cloud over the next bit. I think I was resold, or maybe I escaped and was recaptured. I really don’t remember.”
She sighed, and to Ebenezer’s eyes she looked exhausted and drained by the recounting. He was sorry he had asked, but glad to know just the same. A good thing, it was, to know the measure of your friends.
That measure he could summon up in one short statement. “And after all that, you came out on this ship.”
Their eyes linked in understanding. After a moment, the dwarf reached for her hand. Her long, fragile human fingers intertwined with his stubby digits. They sat together, gazing up at the cloud castle that floated gently past and at the silver sea beneath. It didn’t bother Ebenezer quite so much now to see the heaving sea. His own kin most likely didn’t have his kind of choice in the matter. As Bronwyn had said, there was bad, and then there was worse.
* * * * *
Algorind arrived in Waterdeep footsore and dusty. His boots had been made for riding, and the soles were nearly worn through by his days of walking. His once-white tabard was dingy with the dust of the road. He hated to present himself at the gates of the Halls of Justice in such a state, but his brothers must learn of Thornhold’s fate.
He hurried through the streets. As before, he was struck by the noise and the crowds. How did men of Tyr hold fast to their faith, surrounded by such distractions and decadence? It puzzled him why the brothers would see fit to build the Halls of Justice in the heart of this teaming city. Better the remote hills, or the purity of a windswept mountaintop.
The gatekeeper at the Halls of Justice looked him up and down with obvious disapproval.
“It is most urgent that I speak with Sir Gareth,” Algorind said. “Please bear word to him that Algorind of Summit Hall begs audience.”
“Summit Hall, is it?” the guard said, his face showing a bit more warmth. “You’ll be in good and abundant company, then.”
Algorind’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Sir?”
“You don’t know? There’s a group of young paladins and acolytes from the training school, led by Laharin Goldbeard himself. They are making a paladin’s quest of it,” the man said. His eyes grew warm and distant with remembered glories. “I would go myself, but for the injuries that keep me tending gate.”
“Yours is an honorable task and a service to Tyr,” Algorind said, noting the wistful note that crept into the knight’s voice. “But sir, of what great task do you speak?”
“You have been out of the thick of things. Taking a time of solitude, like old Texter?”
“Not by choice. Sir, the task?”
The knight’s face turned grim. “Why, the reclaiming of Thornhold, of course. Riders are taking word throughout the northlands. The Knights of Samular are gathering to march north. Paladins of other orders are joining in, and those who claim no order at all. It has been many years since such an army of righteousness gathered together. May the Zhentarim tremble.”
Algorind caught the gatekeeper’s arm. “Sir, I have just come from Thornhold. I was but a few hours’ foot travel away when the capture was complete. I saw the smoke of destruction rise, and exchanged blows with a Zhentish patrol from the army who took the keep.”
The knight’s eyes widened. “Why did you not say so at once? You, Camelior! Come here, and take this young knight to the council room with all haste.”
Algorind fell into step beside his guide. He was led into the largest of the three buildings and into a vast hall. Six long tables dominated this hall, their edges cunningly shaped so that all fit together to form a single large hexagon. Paladins sat around the outer edge only, so that all could converse. Bright banners hung from the ceiling, proclaiming the standard
s of the many orders and the solitary knights who served the Halls of Justice.
Algorind’s gaze sought out Sir Gareth, and he noted the stunned look on the old knight’s face. This made him exceedingly self-conscious. Neatness and cleanliness were rules of the order and for him to appear thus was an affront, but Algorind had little time to consider his hero’s response, for Camelior quickly relayed the message that Algorind had given the gatekeeper to the assemblage.
“Another seat, if you please,” called Laharin.
Pages—young boys brought to the temple to be tested for suitability to the life of Tyr—leaped to do the Master Paladin’s bidding. Algorind found himself escorted and seated with discomfiting ceremony. All eyes were upon him when Laharin urged him to speak.
Again Algorind’s eyes sought out Sir Gareth. The old knight solemnly tapped one finger to his lips, reminding Algorind of his pledge of discretion. The conflicting duties made Algorind feel uncomfortably like a tethered hawk bid to fly and hunt.
“I rode north to Thornhold to carry a message of a personal nature to Hronulf,” Algorind said carefully. Sir Gareth’s faint nod assured him that these words were well chosen. “When I was but a few hours away, I saw black smoke rising into the sky. From the scent, I knew it to be a bier.”
Algorind fell silent for a moment in respect to the fallen. All around him knights and priests bowed their heads or formed the hand gestures that affirmed their faith and commended the spirits of their brother knights into the hands of Tyr.
“I heard a patrol and lay ambush.” Algorind blushed to admit this, but he was sworn to the truth. “There were four men, mounted and well armed. They were searching for a woman who had been in the fortress at the time of the attack. She escaped, and none knew how, but it seems likely that she took with her a ring that belonged to Hronulf.”
Murmurs of consternation rippled through the hall. “And did you seek this woman?” demanded Laharin.
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