Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  * * * * *

  The sunset colors were fading as Sir Gareth and Algorind rode swiftly toward Summit Hall. They hailed the watch towers as they came so that they need not slow to wait for the gates. They swept in through the wooden doors and bore down upon the startled group emerging from chapel.

  “Where is the wench?” demanded Sir Gareth as he slid down from his horse.

  Master Laharin strode forward, his yellow brows drawn down in a scowl. “Courtesy is a rule of this Order, brother. The only woman in this fortress is an honored guest.”

  The rebuke was a harsh one to a man of his station, but Gareth didn’t seem to take notice.

  “She is a traitor and a thief. Lord Piergeiron of Waterdeep told us she was bound here. Find her!”

  Such was the knight’s urgency that most of the paladins obeyed at once. Algorind dismounted to join in. Before he took a dozen steps, Yves, a young man perhaps a year behind Algorind in training, came running back to the courtyard. “The chain on the tower tunnel has been disturbed!”

  Algorind had never seen such unbridled rage on a paladin’s face as Sir Gareth wore. The knight quickly mastered himself and turned to a suddenly pale Laharin. “You see? This woman has made fools of you.”

  It seemed to Algorind that the knight took an unseemly relish in delivering this news.

  “This woman was at Thornhold when it fell,” continued Gareth. “Did it not occur to you to ask how a single woman walked out unscathed?”

  “She is Hronulf’s daughter,” Laharin stated simply. “She told me that she met with Hronulf and that he showed her a secret tunnel whereby she might escape.”

  “Did she also say that Hronulf had given her his ring? Did she mention that the lost child of Samular is in her keeping, held in the fastness of Blackstaff Tower?”

  Laharin paled as the enormity of the situation hit him. “She did not.”

  “And she has been to the old tower,” Sir Gareth concluded grimly.

  Although Algorind did not know what that signified, Laharin clearly did. The master paladin was fairly wringing his hands. “It seems likely. By the Hammer of Tyr! The three rings will again unite.”

  Sir Gareth turned to Algorind. “Find her. Take another man with you. Do what you must, but retrieve the rings of Samular.”

  The utter coldness of the knight’s voice chilled Algorind, but he could not fault Sir Gareth’s reasoning or question the duty ahead. He whistled for his horse and beckoned for Corwin, a comrade of about his own age, to follow.

  The two young paladins struck out for the tower. Algorind assumed that if Bronwyn had left by some hidden door, she could not be far. They would pick up the trail.

  Twilight was deepening swiftly toward night when Algorind saw the first tracks—prints made by small, worn boots. There was a single set, and they ran behind a rocky hillock.

  He swung down from his horse and knelt for a better look. The woman was small, and these prints looked a little big to be hers, but not so big that a match was impossible. For safe measure, he drew his sword and motioned for Corwin to do the same. Together, they rushed the hillock.

  No woman awaited them there, but a small band of orcs did—scrawny, hideous creatures, with their piggish red eyes and jutting canine fangs. This band was armed with nothing but evil grins and bone knives. Most were naked, or nearly so, and only one greenish-hued female had a pair of boots. She must have left the deceitful tracks. This, then, was an ambush.

  These creatures were smaller than any Algorind had seen, and younger. The female wore nothing but her ragged boots and a small leather loincloth, and her small young breasts rode high against her clearly delineated ribs. Likely she was not yet of breeding age, and some of the males looked younger still. But they were orcs. The paladins charged as one.

  The ambushers lacked the courage for honest battle. When it was clear that the fight would not be easy, most of them shrieked and tried to flee. Algorind cut down one ore who charged him with a knife, then gutted a second with his returning stroke. He lunged forward and high, cutting deeply between the ribs of the coward trying to scramble up and over the rocks.

  The survivors scattered and fled. The boot-shod orc had the wit to try to steal a horse. She hauled herself onto Corwin’s black steed and frantically kicked the horse into a run, but she did not reckon with a paladin-trained mount. As the horse cantered past, Corwin gave a sharp whistle. Instantly the black horse reared, pawing the air. The ore rolled backward and fell heavily onto the rocky ground. Corwin was there in a moment, his sword at her throat. The little orc wench managed to spit at him before she died.

  Algorind leaped onto Icewind’s back and called for Corwin to follow. Working together, they managed to slay all but two, and even those did not escape unscathed. The two surviving orcs were wounded and promptly left their companions to slink away and lose themselves among the rocks and shadows.

  “That is the way with wild animals,” Corwin observed when at last they gave up their search. “Even a wounded dog will seek out a small, quiet space to lick his wounds.”

  Algorind nodded. “Let us find a place to make camp. In the morning, we will surely find the trail. If Tyr is willing, we will find Bronwyn before the sun sets again.”

  * * * * *

  Bronwyn stepped through the tower wall and collapsed onto the ground. Never had she felt so chilled, so drained of life, so utterly despairing. Dimly she noted that the terrain looked different and that the walls of Summit Hall were not where she expected them to be. Later, she would think about that. She pillowed her cheek on the rocky ground and let the darkness claim her.

  When Bronwyn awoke, twilight had nearly passed, and the sky’s silver was tarnished with the coming of darkness. A sudden flutter seized and focused her groggy thoughts. Shopscat landed beside her, batting his wings and cawing furiously.

  Bronwyn groaned and turned her head so that she was face down. The raven’s raucous voice made her temples throb. “Think about it,” she pleaded with him.

  The familiar thunder of Ebenezer’s iron-shod boots came rumbling toward her. The dwarf picked up her head by her braid and scrutinized her face.

  “Thought you forgot how to read, woman. Where in the Nine Hells were you—an ice cave? You’re blue as a Moon elf!”

  Bronwyn rolled up into a sitting position, hugging her knees and shivering uncontrollably. “A lich. Gods, I’m cold. I didn’t realize how cold until I got away.”

  “Fear’s a good thing,” the dwarf commented. “Keeps you going. And speaking of going, we’d best keep on. Can you stand?”

  She let him haul her up and after a few trembling steps, her legs held her well enough. She listened as Ebenezer told her about the paladins’ arrival, and how Cara’s idea enabled them to find her. In turn, she told him what the lich had revealed.

  “We’re going to Gladestone,” she told him, “a village perhaps two hours’ ride north of here. It’s a small community of elves and half—”

  “Stones!” the dwarf spat. “An elf village. Never thought the day would come when I’d be heading to one on purpose. And what’s this thing that we’re looking for?”

  “A toy siege engine. I’ll explain later.” She cast a glance over her shoulder. “We’d better move. If that paladin was following me before, odds are he’s still at it.”

  They rode by the light of the rising moon, keeping a cautious look out for paladins and orcs. Before long Cara started nodding off, and Bronwyn was riding with one arm wrapped around the girl to hold her in place. By the time they got to Gladestone, Cara was not the only one sleeping. Most of the houses and shops were dark.

  The village was small, a cluster of homes and shops arranged along two narrow streets and some connecting alleys. It was a homey enough scene, and a place that Bronwyn had enjoyed the time or two she had passed through. Most of the houses were low and small, cozily thatched with straw. A stork dozed in a nest built on an unused chimney. The large, outdoor clay oven that baked all the village brea
d still gave off a pleasant heat and a warm, yeasty aroma. The toy shop was closed, the doors and shutters barred, and the whole guarded by a large and rather hungry-looking dog.

  “Might be this should wait until morning,” Ebenezer suggested as he eyed the softly growling guardian.

  Fifteen

  Bronwyn awoke in the grip of a nightmare, thrashing at her covers and struggling to get away from the demons that howled and roared through her dream.

  “Hush, now!” admonished a stern dwarf voice. Strong hands seized her arms and shook her awake. “You’re to stay here and watch over the girl.”

  As she emerged from sleep, Bronwyn realized that the nightmare had roots in reality as well as memory. Beyond the window was a hellish cacophony of shrieks, thundering hooves, and the clash of steel on steel. Above it all roared and hissed the hungry voice of fire. Bright tongues of it leaped up to lick at the night sky.

  Bronwyn kicked off her covers and tugged on her boots. Her mind shoved old fears into the background and nimbly assessed the situation. Their rented room was large, a single open chamber that took up the entire second floor of the cottage. There was but one door, and the windows had shutters. She could keep invaders out for quite some time, and if need be, Cara could always use her gems to escape.

  She shot a glance over at the little girl. Cara’s face was set, but calm. She walked over to the window and stared at the orc who had pinned two half-elven villagers against the clay oven. Suddenly a fire leaped up from the ground, licking up high between the creature’s splayed legs. The orc yodeled in pain and surprise and stumbled back.

  “I can help,” Cara said adamantly, turning to face Bronwyn. Her brown-eyed gaze dared Bronwyn to try to send her away.

  “You’ll go if necessary,” Bronwyn felt compelled to say.

  “And not until.”

  She nodded in agreement, and they settled down to wait.

  * * * * *

  In the streets below, Ebenezer had to chuckle when the bit of wizard fire roasted the orc. He wondered, briefly, if Cara could do that again.

  Not that they needed any more fire. Four cottages at the east side of the village were ablaze, utterly beyond saving. The orcs didn’t seem interested in putting the torch to anything else, though. They were here to loot, and fairly desperate about it.

  It seemed to Ebenezer, though, that there was a bit of vendetta thrown in. There was a craziness to the attack, a wild, bloodlusting lack of know-how and think-it-through that made the critters harder to fight. Like bee-stung mules, they were. No way to tell which way they’d be going or why.

  One of the orcs caught sight of him and came at a run, a farmer’s pitchfork held like a lance under one arm. For just a moment, Ebenezer puzzled over how to best meet this attack. Then he remembered where he stood—directly in front of one of the thick plaster walls of the rooming house.

  The dwarf took out his hammer to make the fool orc think he planned to stand and fight, and let him come on. At the last moment, he dropped and rolled to the side. The orc kept coming, and the pitchfork’s tongs dug deep into the wall.

  Ebenezer was up before the ore’s startled grunt died away. He swung his hammer hard, crunching into the base of the orc’s spine. Down went the orc, sped on his way by another crushing hammer blow to the back of his head.

  The dwarf looked around for something else to do. Not far away, an elf woman with a tumble of pale yellow curls and a nightdress of a matching hue stared with dismay at the broken sword in her hand. Two dead orcs lay nearby, but it seemed like she wasn’t quite through.

  That, Ebenezer could respect. If he’d had a chance to defend his clan and home, he wouldn’t care to stop until the job was done.

  “Hoy, Goldie!” bellowed the dwarf. He pulled his axe from his belt and brandished it. “Need a blade?”

  Doubt flickered across the elf’s face, then disappeared in resolve. She darted over to the dwarf and took the axe. “Like chopping kindling?” she asked as she hefted the blade.

  “Pretty much.” He nodded with satisfaction as she took after an orc who was creeping off with an armload of loot. She held the borrowed axe poised high overhead and brought it forward with a respectable downward chop. “Lacks for nothing but a beard,” he mumbled as his blade cleaved thick orcish skull.

  He saw an uneven fight over by the well. A hulking orc had pinned down a scrawny elf lad, who had no weapon at all that Ebenezer could see. He barreled over to see what might be done and pulled up to a stop just as the orc slammed down hard with a short sword. The elf dodged, but not by much. Wood chips flew as the blade slammed against the well’s cover.

  A second boom followed quickly as Ebenezer brought the hammer down on the ore’s hand. The elf lad, no fool, snatched up the dropped sword and did what he had to do.

  The dwarf noted the lad’s stricken eyes and remembered back a century and more to when he stood in the same boots. “Hang onto that sword,” he advised kindly. “It don’t never get much easier, but it generally won’t be any worse.”

  And then he was off, looking for someone else in need of a chance to fight.

  * * * * *

  Algorind was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of battle and the flicker of fire against the sky. He shook Corwin awake and they quickly mounted and set off at a gallop to give aid.

  They had not far to go. Even though the paladins from Summit Hall did not patrol this area, Algorind knew of the village from a map in the monastery library. The villagers were mostly elves and half-elves, but peaceable folk.

  The reason for the disturbance became clear as they drew closer. Mingled with the crackle and hiss of the fire and the screams of the wounded was the guttural, roaring battle cries of an orc band. Algorind’s jaw firmed with resolve.

  But Corwin hung back, naked horror on his face. “This is our doing! The orcs tracked us. We led them here.”

  “This is a village, and they are orc raiders,” Algorind argued. “Come!”

  But Corwin caught his arm. “Don’t you see? We killed their children when we truly did not have to. This is vengeance, but these people were in our path and are paying the price.”

  “If that is so, justice belongs to Tyr,” said Algorind. “Stay or come, as you will. This is no time for words.”

  He reined Icewind toward the village and leaned low over the horse’s neck as they sped toward battle. Behind him he heard the sound of the black horse’s hoof beats and was glad that Corwin had found his way back to duty.

  Some of the orcs were escaping. The paladins beat them back, cutting them down when they could or pressing them back toward the blades of the grimly determined villagers.

  The work was Tyr’s, and Algorind served with all his strength and conviction. Yet even as he fought, his eyes scanned the hellish melee for some glimpse of a small, brown-haired woman and the child she had unrightfully claimed.

  * * * * *

  Upstairs in the cottage, Bronwyn waited by the door, a wooden chair held high overhead. She counted the steps as heavy feet thundered up the stairs.

  “Do you have your gem ready?” she asked Cara.

  The girl nodded, but her words were swallowed in the shattering crash. The door buckled and splintered, but held. It gave way entirely with the second assault, and a large, gray-skinned orc came stumbling into the room.

  Bronwyn smashed down with the chair, hitting the orc before he could regain his balance. He went down hard, but he quickly brought up his arms and pressed his palms against the floor as he prepared to push himself back up. Bronwyn reacted, attacking with the weapon at hand—a leg of the chair that had splintered at one end into a jagged point. She drove the stake home like a crazed vampire hunter and stomped on it for good measure.

  Another orc thundered into the room. Bronwyn pulled her knife and deflected a sword slash. For several moments they exchanged ringing blows, moving about the room in a shifting pattern of advance and retreat. She was beginning to think she might be able to take the match when t
he sound of more footsteps in the hall below dashed her chances.

  She heard the scrape of a small wooden chest across the floor, and instantly knew what Cara had in mind. The blanket chest would hit the ore at just the right spot, if only she could maneuver him into position.

  Bronwyn went into furious attack, slashing and jabbing at the orc and forcing him into a defensive stance. Slowly she beat him back across the room. He stumbled over the chest and went down heavily. Bronwyn leaped, knife leading, and threw her weight against his suddenly unprotected chest.

  She rolled aside, wrenching her knife free. Two orcs roiled into the room. Bronwyn flipped her knife and caught it by the tip. In the same motion, she hurled it at the first orc. But the knife was slippery with blood, and her aim faltered. She went for the throat. The knife went considerably lower.

  The orc roared and stumbled, doubling over as if he’d been gut-punched by a giant. Bronwyn snatched up the dead orc’s sword and leaped up, swinging out wildly. The blade sliced across the chest of the ore just entering the room and he slumped over his doubled-up comrade. They both fell. Bronwyn finished first one, then the other with quick, decisive strokes.

  She straightened up, breathing hard, and looked to the far side of the room for Cara. The child had flattened herself against the wall. Her face was white and her eyes huge. It made Bronwyn heartsick that the child had seen all that.

  “You should have gone,” she panted.

  “I moved the chest,” Cara reminded her in a small, pale voice.

  Bronwyn smiled faintly. “You did well, but you aren’t safe here.”

  The child’s eyes darkened, and suddenly they looked far too old for her tiny face. “I really don’t think,” she said softly, “that I’m safe anywhere.”

  * * * * *

  Back in Thornhold, Dag Zoreth paused before the altar and studied the purple flame that leaped and danced in an ever-changing sunburst, and the enormous black skull that leered out from the fire. It was a symbol of his god, proof of Cyric’s favor. Such a thing would bring him great honor, and inspire men to consider him with fear. It was more than he had hoped for.