Thornhold

by Elaine Cunningham

  “There’s a reason for that,” said a soft, angry voice beside them. They looked up into the thin, careworn face of a half-elf woman.

  Since the villager clearly wanted to talk, Bronwyn patted the ground beside her in invitation. The woman sank down and after a moment’s hesitation took the package of trail rations Bronwyn quietly handed her. She slipped it into her apron. “For my children,” she said grimly. “They will have little enough until the new crops come.”

  “This is not the first time the orcs attacked,” Bronwyn surmised.

  “No, nor will it be the last. They are desperate creatures, and they are fighting for their survival. As I understand it, the paladin order destroyed an orc settlement in the hills to the south. The orcs cannot hunt the hills without running afoul of paladin patrols. The paladins hunt the orcs with great fervor, for this provides practice—practice!—for young knights who wish to learn to fight and kill.”

  Bitterness seared through her every word. “Strange talk, coming from an elf who just lost kin and home to orcs,” Ebenezer observed.

  “I have no love for orcs,” the woman stated, “but I know what is happening, and I do not place all the blame on the monsters who attacked. What choice do the displaced ores have when their hunting grounds are taken from them? They must raid towns and farms in order to survive, and so they do.”

  “Gotta keep the ores down,” Ebenezer put in, his face showing puzzlement over this dilemma. “If you just leave ’em be, they breed like rats.”

  The half-elf sighed. “I suppose. But now we are the ones who must move. Those of us who are left.” She rose, briefly touching Bronwyn’s shoulder. “Thank you for your kindness, and for hearing me. Talk doesn’t change anything, but all the same, I needed to have my say.”

  Ebenezer watched her go, looking clearly uncomfortable with any conversation that put ore-hunting in a bad light. He shrugged and turned to Bronwyn. “You ever find that toy thingabob you need?”

  “No.” Bronwyn raked a hand through the stray wisps of her hair, wishing as she did that she could smooth over this problem as easily as she tamed her fly-away locks. She untied her braid and loosened it, meaning to gather up the loose bits in a fresh plait.

  “Here, lemme,” the dwarf said, pushing her hands away. “You got a moon-eyed look, like right about now you couldn’t walk and spit at the same time. Braided me many a horse’s tail, so don’t you be worrying.”

  Bronwyn obediently turned her back to the dwarf. True to his word, he started to deftly braid her hair for her. “The ‘toy’ is gone,” she said wearily. “The orcs cleaned out the village of almost every useful thing, and a few extras. It looks to me as if they stole all the war toys and left the rest.”

  “When times are hard, young ones hurt plenty. Hard to see it,” Ebenezer mused, “but I’m guessing even an orc gets a bit of a grin out of handing their whelp something that’ll help the little one forget an empty belly or a hurting heart.” He cleared his throat. “Not that I’m in favor of orcs, mind you.”

  “So noted,” Bronwyn said. “What next?”

  “Well, we go get the toy back. A heat-blind dwarf could follow the trail. The orcs are holed up in some caves not too far off the mountains.”

  “There are only two of us,” she pointed out. “We certainly can’t ask the paladins of Summit Hall for help.”

  “I’m with you there,” Ebenezer agreed. “Lemme study on it a mite.”

  They fell silent until the dwarf finished his soup. “Seems to me this is a pretty nice place. People hate to leave their home. Might be, they don’t have to. Gotta get rid of that orc tribe for once and final, though.”

  A passing elf woman pulled up short when she heard this. She dropped to a crouch beside them and shoved a lock of thick blond hair from her face. “Tell us how.”

  The dwarf studied her. “You’ve just done fighting. You ready for more?”

  “Tell us how,” she repeated.

  * * * * *

  The villagers set to work at Ebenezer’s instructions. Skills used as peaceful farmers came into play as they grimly sought to reclaim their homes. Some of them hung snares along the trails, while others dug a deep pit in the center of the village. An early morning hunt had yielded a boar, and this roasted on a spit out in the open air so that the inviting fragrance wafted out into the hills—a statement to any orc scouts that the villagers still might have a few things worth stealing. A handful of villagers stayed behind to prepare for a renewed raid. Cara did not. She had reluctantly agreed to return to Blackstaff Tower and await Bronwyn there. As much as Bronwyn hated to see her go, she could not risk leaving the child behind with so few defenders.

  When the village was in readiness, a dozen elves and half-elves who wanted to fight crept along with Ebenezer and Bronwyn through the hills south of the village.

  Finally Ebenezer called a halt. “It’s close to twilight,” he said in a soft voice that was just above a whisper. “The raiders will be stirring around now, wanting to get an early start of it. The rest will still be sleeping. You know orc lairs.”

  The elves nodded. Bronwyn remembered what she had been told. Most lairs were a series of caves. The warriors slept toward the front, and next would be supplies of food and weapons. Finally, in the deepest and most secure position, would be the young.

  Ebenezer pushed aside some boulders and shouldered through the opening of a narrow cave. The elves squeezed in after the dwarf, one by one. Bronwyn crawled through the utter darkness on her hands and knees. The tunnel widened as they went—at least that’s what she surmised, for she no longer felt the walls pressing in on either side. Bronwyn heard up ahead a dull thud followed by an orcish grunt. Ebenezer had found and taken out the tunnel guard. As she edged past the body, she was almost glad for her limited vision. She had seen too much death already.

  The path slanting up now, winding up to the top of the cavern. They emerged onto a ledge that overlooked the cave devoted to food and weapon storage. Crouching down, they peered over the rock ledge into the den.

  As they had anticipated, the warriors were preparing for yet another raid. They were ugly creatures, taller than most men and covered by a thick hide colored the range of swamp-like hues from green to brown to gray. Some were donning leather armor, and all took up weapons scavenged from their victims—an odd and daunting assortment of swords, axes, pitchforks, and fishing spears. They also slung sacks over their shoulders. More looting was clearly on the agenda.

  The orcs left in waves, a few at a time. Ebenezer’s troops waited until there were but ten of the creatures left. Each of the elves picked his or her target, communicating intent through emphatic hand gestures. Ebenezer pantomimed the count of three, and the elves launched themselves into the air.

  Bronwyn winced as they slammed into the orcs, catching them off guard and sending the much taller creatures crashing to the stone. Most hit their targets, knives or daggers leading; those who didn’t bounded up, weapon in hand, and dispatched their chosen foe with a few deft strokes.

  A clamor arose from the inner chamber, and another wave of orcs came running out. Some were bandaged and lame, some were females or toothless elders, but all had blades and the will to use them.

  Bronwyn turned and began to slither down the cavern wall to join in the fight. A thrown rock hit her hand, hard enough to startle her into losing her grip. She tumbled down and landed squarely in Ebenezer’s arms.

  He hefted her, as if surprised at how light she was, and then set her on her feet. “The village folk can mop up here. We’re going to the back,” he said.

  She nodded and followed him, hugging the walls of the cavern and holding her knife out ready.

  The back was nearly deserted. Two orc females stood guard, and three hideous, yellow-skinned children, naked and blatantly male, huddled against the far wall. Ebenezer stooped and seized a handful of small rocks. With deadly accuracy, he hurled first one, then the other, and struck the adult orcs squarely between the eyes. The creatu
res’ red eyes crossed, and they went down.

  The youngster set up a fearful wailing. Ebenezer’s face went grim, and he turned to Bronwyn. “Get what you need.”

  She glanced around the dimly lit cave. It was more orderly than she would have expected, with sleeping skins piled neatly to one side, and a cracked barrel that served as a receptacle for bones and other leavings. Small shelves had been carved into the stone wall. These held the orcs’ treasures. Bronwyn noted many of the stolen toys. Her gaze swept the cave, looking for the one she wanted: a small, detailed model of a siege tower. It was in the center of the shelf, right over the cowering orc young.

  “There,” she said, pointing.

  She started forward, but Ebenezer caught her arm. “You go back with the others. Wait by the mouth of the main cave. You don’t need to be seeing what I’m about to do,” he said grimly.

  Bronwyn’s heart ached for the necessity facing her friend. She suspected that the pragmatic dwarf could not allow three such potentially deadly enemies to grow into a threat, but Ebenezer’s deep love for kids—be they dwarf or human or even orc—made the hard task even more terrible. She swallowed hard. “You go. I’ll do it.”

  “I said git!” Ebenezer roared. He seized the siege tower from the shelf and hurled it into her hands.

  Clutching the artifact, she darted from the cave. As she ran, she heard the dwarf tell the orc young to “Stop your damn sniveling.” Harsh words, but with a note in them that prompted Bronwyn to linger at the entrance to the children’s cave.

  She peeked around the side as the dwarf took from his pack an intricately carved toy soldier—an orc, if the faint light did not deceive her eyes, and handed it to one of the orc lads. “Take this, in exchange for the tower, and you other two each pick a favorite. Then get some clothes on you, and a knife and a packet of food. There’s a back way out. You three are going to take it.”

  They just stared at him. He swore and said a few words in a halting, guttural speech. This time they understood and scurried to do his bidding. “Follow this path out, but don’t wander too far. Your two hearth dames here will wake up and come looking for you. Tell them you’re to travel north, and join a new clan. Go!”

  One of them babbled a few words, and Ebenezer, or so Bronwyn surmised, repeated his instructions. The scramble of small feet announced that the orcs were only too happy to comply. Bronwyn hurried out to the first cavern. If Ebenezer knew that she had heard all, he would never again be able to look her in the eye.

  “Dwarves,” she muttered, then grinned as she realized how much she’d come to sound like her friend.

  The battle was long over. Six of the elf fighters stayed at the cave to dispatch any orcs who might circle back, and the rest began the walk back to Gladestone.

  As they neared the village, they noted that the snares had done their jobs well. Orcs dangled upside down from young trees like hideous, wingless bats. Elven arrows bristled from their chests. Only a few ringing clashes, a few grunts, and screams of pain, emanated from the village. When they arrived in Gladestone, it was all but over. A trio of villagers stood at the edge of the triggered pit trap, raining arrows at the trapped orcs.

  After what she had witnessed in the cave, Bronwyn expected Ebenezer to protest this unchivalrous treatment of an enemy, but the dwarf just nodded with grim approval and joined the villagers in dragging the rest of the slain orcs to the pit.

  An elf male rolled a barrel of lamp oil over and let it fall into the opening. Another elf dropped a torch. Flames leaped high into the night while Bronwyn and Ebenezer bore silent witness, and the villagers took stock of the price they had paid for this victory.

  After the fire had died away, they all pitched in filling the hole. By the time the sun rose, the task was done. A plume of thick, black smoke rising from the south indicated that the rear guard had likewise cleansed the orc den.

  The village of Gladestone was secure at last.

  Bronwyn, however, felt anything but safe. They were too close to Summit Hall. She said her farewells to the villagers, and she and Ebenezer rode out into the fields.

  “That’s that,” he commented. “Did what you came to do.”

  She wasn’t so sure. Yes, she did have the Fenrisbane, but she felt a bit like a farm dog who habitually chased—and finally caught—a horse-drawn cart and thought, what now?

  “Best be getting back to the city,” the dwarf commented, breaking her troubled reverie. “Way I figure it, that Brian Swordmaster fellow has only two more days to talk my kin into staying around for good. I’d just as soon add my voice to the matter.”

  “True. And I’ve got to make arrangements for Cara and decide what to do with these trinkets.”

  The dwarf scratched his chin. “After all the trouble we went through to get that toy, I’d like to take a look at it. You feeling up to a little magic?”

  Bronwyn thought this over. She had only two of the three rings and only one of the two people whose agreement was needed to activate the siege tower’s power, but even a partial result, if that were possible, would be enlightening. She certainly owed the dwarf that much.

  She took the tower and gestured for him to follow her. They walked out onto the rye field, beyond the sight of the villagers. She set the small tower down on a furrow and took the two rings from the thong around her neck. “I don’t know if this will work, but here it goes,” she said.

  Bronwyn slipped first one, then the other ring into the slots on the tower. For a moment nothing happened. Then the tower began to grow, a quick, smooth spreading motion that looked as if a massive tidal wave was rising from the young rye.

  Ebenezer hauled her up by her collar, and they both kicked into a run. After a hundred paces or so, they turned to look.

  “Stones,” whispered the dwarf.

  The tower rose into the sky, tall as the forest trees. The front fell in a straight line, the back was sloped down. Strips of wood offered footing to soldiers who needed to climb up to the massive attack deck. A huge counterweight stood ready to drop, thus flinging the contents of an enormous trebuchet. The ballista was an monstrous machine. Next to it, stacks of bolts stood ready. The whole structure was built of thick, solid oak planks, with a sheen on it that suggested some sort of protective coating far superior to the wet animal hides that draped most siege towers. Bands of iron and thousands upon thousands of spikes held the massive construction together. But for all its size, it was little more substantial than a strong wind. Bronwyn could see through it, to the trees beyond. The rising sun caught and shimmered on its faintly luminous outline.

  The Fenrisbane was a marvelous, indestructible, death-dealing … ghost.

  It was also larger than Bronwyn had anticipated, and thus clearly visible from the village. She turned around to see if they had witnesses. Indeed, most of the villagers came at a run, swiftly at first, then dropping off at a safe distance to take stock of this marvel.

  Ebenezer whistled softly. “Nice piece of work,” he admitted, eyeing the Fenrisbane with naked awe. “Not much starch to it, though.”

  That was true, and it left Bronwyn with a bit of a dilemma. How to get the rings from the attack deck? But either the incomplete magic wavered, or the magical tower responded to her thoughts, because the monstrous attack machine swiftly shrank back down to a toy, and Bronwyn pulled out the rings and slipped them onto her fingers.

  The dwarf glanced over his shoulder at the gaping villagers. He did a quick double take and swore. “Lookit there,” he said grimly, pointing to the hills south of the village. A white horse was clearly visible and approaching fast. With the rider were four others. “Now that they’ve seen this thing, they’ve got one more reason to run you down. We’d best be riding, and fast.”

  * * * * *

  The incident in Thornhold’s chapel weighed heavily on Dag Zoreth, as did the disturbing information that Ashemmi had passed on. He went to his chamber and took his scrying globe out once again. Ashemmi’s “visit” had left him seething w
ith helpless fury. He used this, letting it fuel his prayers. As a result, so intense was the purple flame that leaped into the heart of the scrying globe that he could feel the pain he was inflicting himself.

  Sir Gareth came into view almost at once. “Where are you?” the priest snapped.

  “Summit Hall,” the knight said, his voice somewhat slurred by intense pain.

  Dag pulled back the power just enough to allow the man to function. “I had a most enlightening conversation with one of my … comrades from Darkhold. She informed me that my daughter was shipped south on a Zhentish slave ship—the same ship that was to dispose of those wretched dwarves. The same shipment that you so ably helped to arrange. I am most eager to hear your explanation.”

  Hope drained from the fallen paladin’s eyes. “She was taken by the paladins, that much is true. I intercepted her and tried to have her taken away to safe fosterage.”

  “On a slave ship?”

  “The Knights of Samular have few outposts in the south,” Gareth argued. “She would have been safe enough, tended in the villa of an old associate who has reason to be grateful and discrete. There she could have stayed until it was safe to return her to you.”

  The truth hidden behind these self-serving words began to come clear to Dag. Perhaps Sir Gareth had had a role in the original abduction of Cara. Perhaps not. But certainly, he used the situation to position himself well. Cara wore a ring of Samular and thus had the potential to wield power. Of course Gareth would want to have her in his secret control. And if he was forced to do so, he could “discover” the child’s hiding place and make himself a hero to whomever he relinquished the child. It was not a foolish plan, but it had gone awry.

  “I want her back,” the priest demanded. “Now.”

  “That could prove difficult, Lord Zoreth,” the knight said. “She is in Blackstaff Tower, under the protection and tutelage of the lady mage Laeral Silverhand.”

  Dag hissed out a foul curse. The beautiful mage was as unconventional as she was powerful. If she took it upon herself to keep Cara, a small flight of dragons would be hard pressed to sway her from this course. But the archmage, the ruler of Blackstaff Tower, was another matter. Khelben Arunsun was not only a mage, but a ruler, deeply involved in the politics of the city and the surrounding area. If the matter were posed to him as a political expediency, he might be willing to see reason.