Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  And then, she wondered, what would she be required to do?

  This thought didn’t set well with her. All her life, she had been told what to do. As a slave, she had been given little choice about anything. As an antiquities dealer, she had taken commissions and fulfilled them. Her methods were her own, and she prided herself in being resourceful, but the task itself was given her. The same could be said for her involvement with the Harpers. The first act that she could call truly her own was her decision to rescue the Stoneshaft clan from slavery. She regarded that with pride and was not reconciled to tamely accepting that all her decisions would henceforth be made for her by others.

  And yet, had that ever been truly the case? Even as a slave, she had directed her path. She worked hard at the gem trade, and before she was a woman grown, she was crafting better counterfeit pieces than any of her master’s servants—or her master himself, for that matter. He’d taken an interest in her, and taught her about the rare pieces that they copied in the shop and sold as originals. Bronwyn had developed a genuine love of the old, beautiful things that came into her hands. Unlike her, they had a history, a past. These stories had more importance to her than the pieces themselves. And so she wheedled her master into letting her learn about the background of the pieces—so that they could make better, less detectable reproductions, she’d argued. This idea had pleased him, and Bronwyn had begun the path she now trod. When the master died, his son sold off the shop, including the slaves. She had bought her freedom by apprenticing herself out to a treasure hunter who’d done business with her master. Soon she went her own way. And, she realized with deep surprise, she had been doing so ever since.

  Bronwyn sat for a long moment as she absorbed this. Then she nodded slowly and rolled the parchment into a scroll. She went down the back stairs and through the alley. There was always a messenger or two available for hire at the cobbler’s shop two doors down.

  The messenger was a youth she knew well. She gave him the scroll with instructions and an extra silver coin, then returned to her shop with a light step.

  Whatever came of this venture, she would handle it as she always had: her own way.

  * * * * *

  It took Ebenezer the better part of two hours to round up his kin and get them headed out of the shop. “Like herding cats, it is,” he grumbled as he shoved the last of them out of the door. The look of pure, desperate gratitude that Alice sent him brought a wry grin to his face. The Stoneshafts were a handful, and no mistake. He only hoped that Bronwyn’s mysterious “friends” had pickaxes big enough to chop through this particular problem.

  Once the dwarves were out on the street, the problems compounded. Bronwyn’s shop was on the Street of Silks, a nose-in-the-air piece of town where folks thought their shoes too good to sully with walking. Fancy carriages rattled past, drawn by teams of horses.

  “Lookit the size of them mules,” marveled Benton, a cousin who’d never been out of the tunnels before his capture.

  “How’d they get four of ’em to go in the same direction?” demanded Tarlamera, whose only experience with mules involved small, dusty pack animals nearly as stubborn as herself. The clan had kept a few for hauling back the gems and ore from the outermost mines.

  That image suggested a solution to Ebenezer. “Miners, ho!” he hollered. “Tunnel size, seven. Fall in by clan rank.”

  His clan scuttled into place with an alacrity born of long practice. A size seven tunnel meant that three dwarves could march abreast, and clan rank was easy enough: oldest first. Every dwarf knew where he ranked in comparison with any other dwarf, so they found their places readily enough. The only break with tradition was when Ebenezer took his place at the head. Not a dwarf argued with him for that honor, though, seeing as he was the only one who’d ever been to the city before.

  He marched them down the Street of Silks, past shops brimming with the fashionable doodads that humans seemed so all-fired fond of. These the dwarves passed without missing a step, but as they neared the Jester’s Court, the scents drifting from the Mighty Manticore inspired wistful sighs from some of his kin. Ebenezer had some knowledge of the tavern owner, a half-dwarf but a good sort for all that. Coopercan, his name was, in honor of a backside as big as a barrel. When Coop settled down to keeping tavern, he’d kept some of his dwarven ways. There was no mistaking the smell of rothé roasting on a spit, stuffed with mushrooms and the tasty black rice that grew wild in the marshy hollows hidden among dwarven mountains. Coopercan always seemed to have a rothé roast going, and there were few scents that could get a dwarf to drooling better than that.

  “Hoy, brother!” shouted a gruff female voice. “I’m-a coming up.”

  Ebenezer lifted his hand to his lips to hide his smirk. He’d been too long among humans, if he found humor in the usual dwarven method of “asking permission.”

  Tarlamera huffed up to his side. For several moments they marched in silence as he waited for her to speak her mind. “We gotta go back to the clanhold,” she decreed.

  He’d been afraid of that. Knew it was coming. Even so, he tried to scoff away the notion. “And how might you be planning to do that? There’s not enough of us left to take back the tunnels, much less hold them secure. The men that stole you away in the first place would be back, and the second harvest would be all the easier.”

  The dwarf woman scowled and folded her arms. “What are we to do, then?”

  “There’s dwarves in the city,” he told her. “Bronwyn has friends what can find us work. We’ll fit in, make our way. Make a life.”

  Tarlamera glowered. “Seems to me like you’re putting too much weight in that human’s say-so. Mountain dwarves in a city? What kind of life is that?”

  “Better’n the one ‘that human’ stole you from, I’ll tell you that for free,” he shot back.

  She shrugged. “There’s that. But all I got to say is—Almighty Clangeddin by the short hairs!”

  Ebenezer pulled up short, startled by his sister’s oath and the force with which it was delivered. “How’s that again?”

  She seized his arm and pointed. The road had widened up into a broad, cobblestone courtyard. At the far end was the enormous, elaborate palace built for the first lord of the city, and behind that swept the majestic summit of Mount Waterdeep. But somewhat closer was the sight peculiar enough to stop Tarlamera in mid-complaint, a tall, slender tower before which stood a skeleton, arms raised high and feet not quite touching the ground.

  “Don’t be going too close to that tower,” Ebenezer said casually. “Alghairon’s Tower, it’s called. Been empty for a long time. Seems it used to belong to some big-axe wizard, long since gone to his ancestors. It’s a monument now. The folks hereabouts let it alone mostly, except for the fellow you see there.”

  “Good warding sign,” one of the dwarves behind them offered. That sent a weak chuckle rippling through the group.

  The company got some strange looks as they marched in formation through the courtyard. Ebenezer didn’t suppose they looked like much of a threat, as scrawny as they were, and not more than three weapons among the lot of them, but still he raised his hand in a conciliatory salute whenever a curious member of the guard looked their way.

  They veered east onto Waterdeep Way, toward the massive castle that was the heart and strength of the city. Ebenezer had always admired that castle. “Lookit that,” he said grandly, pointing up at the far towers. “Four hundred feet high, that is.”

  Tarlamera sniffed. Dwarves, as a rule, weren’t terribly impressed with up. They were more interested in through.

  “Got walls some sixty feet thick,” he added.

  “That’s a wall,” she admitted, impressed at last.

  Ebenezer pointed ahead. “See that sign what’s a-hanging from that lantern pole? Marks the Way of the Dragon. Big street. Goes down to the Trade Ward and the man we gotta see.”

  “I seen a man already,” the dwarf maid grumbled. “Seen hundreds of ’em so far today.”

&
nbsp; “This one’s a smith. They say his pieces are as good as any human can make. Better than some dwarves.”

  She scoffed. “I’m not buying that at the asking price. How can you get a good forge going without the tunnels to pull a powerful updraft?”

  Ebenezer pointed up toward the blue dome of the sky. “Got lotsa wind.”

  “Yeah.” She scowled and plucked at her ruined clothes. “And I’m feeling every breath of it in these rags. Back at the clanhold, I got me a new linen kirtle and a leather apron.”

  A bleak, wistful note crept into her voice. Though her eyes kept steadily fixed ahead, Ebenezer could read the pain in them. The kirtle and apron were part of every dwarf maid’s wedding chest. By all that was right, she should be home scrapping happily with her new-made husband. But Frodwinner was dead, as were their four brothers and their sister, their mother, their da. They hadn’t spoken of their slain kin, not once since the day Ebenezer had chopped her loose from the slave ship.

  “Frodwinner fought well,” Tarlamera said. A struggling smile rippled across her face, as if she were trying to accept that this was enough. “I saw that much before they dropped me. How many did he take?”

  “Fifteen,” Ebenezer said promptly, upping the number without a qualm.

  “Good,” she said. “That’s good.”

  They walked in silence for a while. “I made them a cairn,” he said softly. “Just one, for all of them.”

  “That’s the way things are done in time of battle,” she agreed. “You accounted for all?”

  “Not all,” he said grimly. “Didn’t see old Hoshal, but I’m pretty sure they got to him ahead of time. Found one of his chisels in an osquip trove.”

  “They got him,” Tarlamera agreed. “Hoshal’s particular about his tools. Da always said Hoshal could put a hand to any one of his tools quicker than he could grab his own—”

  She broke off, her jaw dropping in astonishment. Ebenezer tracked her gaze into a side alley, and his own eyes widened in astonishment. “Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” he admitted.

  An enormous, disembodied hand, each finger longer than a dwarf was tall, floated aimlessly down the alley. In the center of the palm was a huge mouth that worked its way through some silly tavern tune. Ebenezer shook his head in utter bemusement.

  “What does it want?” one of the dwarves behind him hissed.

  “A better song?” snapped Ebenezer. “Do I know everything there is to know about this city? Step lively, now!”

  They stepped, with a liveliness that had the lot of them huffing like a gnome-built tea kettle.

  “Gotta get back to the clanhold,” Tarlamera moaned.

  Ebenezer shook his head and pointed to the road ahead. The streets were getting narrower, and the tall, timber-framed buildings crowded so close that dwellers in the top floors could lean out and kiss their neighbors, providing they were on good enough terms. They were coming up on the Street of Smiths, and black smoke from a dozen forges rose into the sky.

  Many of the houses—the foundations at least and sometimes up to the second floor—were masoned over with stone as a deterrent to fire. If a body squinted just so, he could pretend they were cavern walls.

  “Kinda cozy, isn’t it?” he said hopefully.

  Tarlamera snorted again.

  As they rounded the corner to Brian’s Street, a huge, utterly bald man came striding to meet them. He came to Ebenezer and stuck out his hand. “You’d be the Stoneshaft clan,” he said. “Brian here. Been expecting you.”

  Ebenezer gave the ham-sized hand a good squeeze, which was returned with a force that made his eyes cross. “He’s a smith, all right,” he told Tarlamera.

  His sister was doing her own evaluation. Her eyes scanned the man from his bald head to his massive, gray-streaked black beard, measuring the width of his shoulders and arms heavily corded with muscle and blackened with soot. “He’s a likely-looking lad,” she admitted, and then sighed. “All right, boy, let’s see this forge of yours.”

  * * * * *

  During the voyage back to Waterdeep, Bronwyn had managed to decipher some of the code in the slave ship’s log. Enough, at least, to assure her that Grunion was owned by the Zhentarim. No large surprise, that, considering the destruction of Thornhold and the capture of the dwarves by Zhentish soldiers.

  But what of Cara? What was there about the ring she wore that attracted the ire of the Zhentarim, that they would steal children away from their homes? Cara’s father, whoever and wherever he was, might also be in danger.

  That thought spurred Bronwyn as she made her way into Dock Ward. This unknown man was her kin. Perhaps he had answers for her that Hronulf had not lived to give. That possibility made the chance she was about to take worthwhile.

  She hurried to the Sleeping Snake, a rough and noisy tavern where thieves of many races gathered to trade stories, blows, and stolen goods. The Zhentarim contact she had used a few times before frequented the tavern.

  Raucous laughter burst out into the street when Bronwyn shouldered open the door and pushed her way into the crowded room. The smell of stale ale and staler bodies assaulted her. Most of the dockhands who came to drink here didn’t bother to bathe after a hard day’s work. She spotted the informer—a dockhand and occasional assassin—slumped over a table near the hearth.

  He glanced up when she kicked at his chair. “Well,” he asked drunkenly, “what are you looking for this time?”

  She bent down low so that she could speak the words in a normal voice rather than shouting. “A man who recently lost a child.”

  He leaned back and eyed her with speculation. “Don’t have much use for brats, myself.”

  “No one’s asking you to have anything to do with this one. Have you heard anything?”

  “Can’t say I have. Who’s this man that got shed of his brat?”

  “His name is Doon. He’s a dark man, probably not exceptionally tall.”

  There was a flicker in the man’s eyes, but he shook his head. “Sorry. Can’t help you,” he said as he reached for his mug.

  Bronwyn caught his wrist. “Can’t, or won’t?”

  He shook her off and turned aside in obvious dismissal. “One way or another, it’s much the same to you.”

  A trickle of fear ran down Bronwyn’s spine. Always before, this man had tried to sell her something, spinning out any scrap of information into something she might wish to buy. His outright refusal and the gleam of avarice in his eyes alerted her to danger.

  Bronwyn nodded and worked her way back to the bar. The fighting had spread into the main floor, and it would be a while before she could get to the door. She ordered an ale and took a stool to wait out the storm.

  A hand seized her arm. Bronwyn spun, gripping the hilt of her knife. She measured the man with a glance and decided that this would be an easy battle. Though still south of mid-life, he was the thinnest, frailest person she had ever encountered. The spark of life had apparently drained from his body to center its last flame in his small black eyes.

  “Move your hand, or I’ll slice it off,” she said in an even voice.

  The man halted her with an impatient gesture, an upraised palm. Her eyes bulged. Tattooed, or perhaps branded, into his palm was the emblem of the evil god Bane—a small, black hand.

  Instinctively she eased away, raised both of her hands in conciliation. Though the god himself was considered dead and gone, and no longer a power to be feared, Bronwyn had no desire to tangle with someone who purported to be an acolyte of such evil.

  “I heard you. You want a man who is seeking a child. Where is this man?” he insisted in a voice that recalled a viper’s hiss.

  Bronwyn licked her lips nervously. “That’s what I’m trying to find out. If you know anything of him, I’d be willing to trade for the information.”

  A terrible chuckle wheezed from the former priest’s lips. “If the item you have to barter is his yellow hide, then you have a deal, wench. I want him. I want him dea
d,” he specified, as if there could be any doubt concerning his intentions.

  Bronwyn quickly weighed the risk against the possible gain. If this priest had knowledge of Cara’s father, she really had no choice but to endure conversation with a Banite and accept the danger inherent in such company. She reached for her mug and signaled the barkeep to bring another drink for her “friend.”

  “I don’t know where he is, but I’d be happy to turn him over to you once I locate him. Because of the child,” she said quickly, when he turned a suspicious stare upon her.

  “Ah.” He smirked, then tossed back the contents of the mug the barkeep set before him. “Your tale rings true. He always was one to walk away from what he started.”

  A horrible suspicion took root in Bronwyn’s eyes. “He was once a follower of Bane?” she asked, striving mightily to keep her voice neutral.

  “That he was. Defected, the damn traitor,” he sneered, raising and clenching his fists.

  Bronwyn let out her breath in a long sigh. The possibility that Cara’s father might be a follower of an evil god was chilling, but, perhaps, in seeing the error of his ways he had made enemies. It was better so than that he should earn the fate of the man beside her, with his skeletal face and wild eyes. Bereft of spells, cut off from the source of evil power, the former priest of Bane was little more than an insane shell.

  “When I find Doon, I will send word here,” she said, her mind racing as she planned how she could kept this promise without endangering Cara’s father. “I will write the name of the place where he might be found on a sketch of a black dragon and post it on the cloakroom door. Watch for it.”

  “Doon? What are you talking about, wench? The man’s name is Dag Zoreth.”

  She quickly covered her surprise. “Of course,” she said with feigned bitterness. “He would not want to be known by the name he gave to a woman he’d betrayed and abandoned. He was always cautious. Most likely, he is also frank and earnest—Frank in Luskan, and Ernest in Neverwinter!”