Thornhold

TEN

On the morning of their third day at sea, Bronwyn awoke to the sound of angry voices on the deck above. She groaned and rolled out of her hammock, placing her hands on the small of her back as she straightened up. As she had expected, Ebenezer's hammock was already empty.

Bronwyn could barely stand straight without banging her head on the low ceiling beams. With four paces, she could easily cross the cabin she shared with her dwarven "partner." Even so, they were traveling in comparative luxury. In the identical cabin across the narrow walkway that served as a hall, clearly visible through the two open doors, slept six occupants: four men and two ogresses.

One ogress snarled in her sleep, half-roused by the woman's movements. Bronwyn grimaced and eased toward the cabin door, going one small, stealthy step at a time. The small porthole in the cabin wall showed a sky that was still more sapphire than silver, and her shipmates would not thank her for waking them so early. All six had been late to bed, scorning sleep to sit on the floor of the cabin recounting tales, playing dice, and swigging away at some syrupy, spice-laden drink. Rough though they were, these crew members shared an odd companionship born of long acquaintance and battles shared. Bronwyn almost envied them. She, a newcomer and their employer, had been excluded from this fellowship, but she had seen enough to know better than arouse their collective ire.

Bronwyn stooped at the door to pick up her boots and carried them with her as she slipped through the open door. She crept down the short hail to the ladder leading above deck and climbed it one-handed. On deck she found pretty much what she had expected to find.

Near the bow, standing nearly toe to toe with arms folded and eyes blazing, were Captain Orwig and Ebenezer Stone-shaft. The top of the dwarf's curly red head barely reached the ogre's belt, forcing him to tip his head way back to glare at his adversary; but Ebenezer's angry expression conceded no disadvantage. The two of them were engaged in yet another round of verbal warfare, lobbing insults at each other with a force and fury that brought to mind flaming pitch balls and a pair of trebuchets. Bronwyn was no delicate spring flower, but she caught her breath in surprise at the sheer creativity of the dwarf's pungent explanation of Captain Orwig's parentage.

The small sound startled the combatants. They glanced over, and identical sheepish expressions flooded their unlike faces. The captain collected himself first, and after acknowledging Bronwyn with a curt bow, he strode aft to sound the morning rise bell.

Bronwyn's gaze tracked him. Near the stern was mounted an old cart's wheel that had been adapted as a steering device suitable to the ogre captain's strength and size. Two paces to starboard was a huge brass triangle hanging from what appeared to be a miniature gibbet, upon which was a hook holding the long brass rod used to sound the alarm. But Orwig ignored the brass danger. He drew his cutlass, which he thrust into the triangle and spun in several quick, impatient circles.

An urgent clanging shattered the morning quiet and brought sailors roiling up to the deck. They came with their weapons in hand, feet still bared, sleep forgotten in the promise of coming battle. For a few moments, the crew scanned the waters for the threat, and then, when it was clear that there was nothing to be seen, they turned incredulous faces to their captain.

"Practice drill?" one of them ventured.

"Morning!" Orwig roared in response. "Layabouts, the lot of you! To your tasks, and quickly." He spun away and scampered up the rigging, nimble as a squirrel despite his vast size.

Bronwyn sighed and sat down on a low barrel to pull on her boots. Captain Orwig seemed an able sailor, but he was still an ogre. The captain had no more love for Ebenezer than the dwarf bore him, and the exchange of insults and challenges was growing steadily hotter. Bronwyn suspected it was a matter of hours before the two of them came to blows.

The crew, too, were getting restive. She'd overheard some grumbling about their canceled shore leave, and she had marked their muttered expectations that this unplanned trip would have to pay well, and pay soon, to be worth the while.

She rose and looked about for Ebenezer. He stood with his ankles crossed and his back leaning against the mainsail mast. His current occupation was staring out to sea and puffing at a small clay pipe.

"That's an interesting notion you shared with Orwig," she said in a casual voice. "That particular use for lizard man eggs had never occurred to me."

The dwarf jumped and then colored. "Wasn't meant for your ears," he mumbled.

Bronwyn took the pipe from his hand and sipped a bit of the fragrant smoke, then handed it back. "Orwig has a good record as a captain, and a good reputation as a smuggler- odd though that may sound. Everyone I talked to said he delivers what he promises, no tricks, no excuses. He'll take us where we need to go, but mark me, Ebenezer, you can only push any ogre so fat"

"Itching for a fight, isn't he?" Ebenezer said with immense satisfaction. He dragged at his pipe, then blew out a trio of smoke rings in quick, expert puffs.

As the implication of this sank in, Bronwyn gaped, then shook her head in disbelief. "You're doing this on purpose? To work him up for the fight ahead?"

"There's that," Ebenezer agreed. "And it's a bit of sport, to keep my mind off…" His voice trailed off, and he nodded at the sea.

"It's almost over," Bronwyn said, as much for her own assurance as the dwarf's. "We should catch up with the slave ship today. Tomorrow at the latest."

"Yeah? Big place, that sea. Easy to miss one small boat." She shook her head. "Orwig bribed one of the Gatekeepers in Skullport to tell us where the slave ship was sent. We know where the Grunion emerged and have a good idea where it's bound."

Ebenezer shuddered at the reminder of the journey up through the magical locks linking the subterranean Skull-port with the open sea. Dwarves, it seemed, did not take kindly to magical travel. Ebenezer's dense, compact body resisted the process. Unlike any of the other people aboard the ship, he had felt the magical passage as burning physical pain. "Like being ripped through a thick wall all at once, but in lots of little bits," was how he had described it to Bronwyn after he'd recovered from the ordeal.

His hand shook a little as he lifted the pipe for another long drag. "Lotta water out there," the dwarf repeated. He glared at Bronwyn, as if daring her to prove him wrong.

Bronwyn understood completely, and she chose her next words as much for her own reassurance as his. "We were set on the same place on the sea as the Grunion emerged. Now, the slavers are going to want to get where they're going as fast as possible. This time of year, the warming air over the land causes a strong coastal wind. They'll take full advantage of it. Much farther out to sea, the wind diminishes; much closer to shore, they'll run the risk of shoals, rocks, and harbor patrols. The corridor is not that wide. As long as Captain Orwig follows the wind, we should pass within sight of them."

The dwarf glanced up at the sails. There were three of them, mounted on a pair of tall oaken masts. All three were curved tight, so full of wind that not even a ripple disturbed the taut white sheets, but he still looked doubtful. "They got a jump on us."

"True, but the Narwhal flies three sails to the Grunion's one. This ship is built for pursuit and battle. The Grunion is a tub-an old ship, with a deep keel designed to hold a great deal of cargo, and according to the dock manifesto, it's heavily loaded. It can't possibly outrun us."

He slid a sidelong glance up at her. "For a person that don't like water, you know a lot about this sort of thing."

"I'm a merchant," Bronwyn said shortly. "I have to know how things are moved from place to place."

"There's that," he agreed, but his shrewd, sympathetic gaze suggested that he understood far more than Bronwyn wanted to say. She had spent many years learning all she could about the slave trade, in hope of tracing her own path back to her forgotten home and family. And yet, this was the first time she had taken action on behalf of people who, like herself, bad been stolen away from all that they knew. She was relieved that the dwarf did not ask her why this was, or press her to explain why she suddenly felt compelled to help him and his clan. That she could not explain, not even to herself.

They fell silent, both of them gazing out over the sea. It had faded to silver, and on the eastern horizon a deep rose blush shimmered over the water to herald the coming sun.

Far above them, a harsh undulating howl tore out across the water-a sound like that a wolf might make had he the capacity for speech, but in a voice far deeper and more ominous that any beast of forest or tundra could muster.

Bronwyn spun and squinted up at the crow's nest. Capthin Orwig shouted the make-ready alarm, pointing toward the east. He vaulted over the side of the crow's nest and scrambled down the ropes, shouting orders as he went.

The crew went into action immediately. Several of them dragged coils of rope to the starboard side, fastening one end of each coil to iron loops set into the deck and tying grappling hooks on the other. Some sailors ran for weapons, and still others tended the sails.

"Mount the bowsprit!" roared Orwig as he leaped down onto the deck. He shouldered his way through the chaos and shoved the first mate away from the wheel. He took his place at the helm and hunkered down, his piglike eyes narrowed on the ship ahead. "Shift the ballast!"

Several crew ran to the enormous pole that stretched down the middle of the deck, from bow nearly to the mainsail. They deftly loosened the knots that kept it from rolling and then crouched, ready to lift. On the count of three they heaved it upward, grunting with exertion, then staggered to the bow. They lowered the weapon into the slot built to hold it-which was reinforced inside and out with iron plate- then tightened the bolts. Meanwhile, other sailors put their shoulders to heavy barrels of ammunition-ballista quarrels, scrap-iron grapeshot, and wicked spiked bails-and slid them down toward the stern to balance the ship.

Bronwyn whistled softly as she took the measure of the ship's weaponry. The bowsprit resembled a giant lance, banded and tipped with iron. With it in place, Narwhal really did resemble the deadly, spear-headed fish for which it was named. She understood why Captain Orwig had designed his ship thus and why the crew suffered the inconvenience of stepping over the bowsprit in its usual resting place in the center of the deck. When it was in place, Narwhal was clearly a battleship, and as such would be regarded warily in all legitimate ports and even in Skullport.

She shaded her eyes and looked across the brightening sea at the fleeing ship. It looked much as it had been described: old, nondescript, hardly worthy of notice. The sail was much-patched, and the ship gave the impression of being the last possession of some down-on-their-luck fisher family. But the number and weaponry of the small figures clustered on the deck gave lie to that illusion. Grunion was well defended, and her mercenary crew appeared more than ready for a fight.

"Prepare to ram!" Orwig bellowed. His massive arms corded as he wrenched the wheel around. The call echoed throughout the ship. Several sailors hauled at the ropes of the sails, intent upon seizing every possible breath of wind. The ship rolled precariously to one side as it hurtled forward. Bronwyn had thought Narwhal was moving fast before, now it sliced through the sea with a speed that etched a deep path in the water behind them.

The slave ship tried to evade, but it was far too slow and clumsy. To Bronwyn's eyes, it looked like a rabbit, frozen by fear as it awaited a raptor's claws.

"Brace!"

The ogre's shout thundered out over the sounds of the rushing wind and water. All over the ship, sailors seized handholds and braced themselves for the coming impact. Bronwyn threw her arms around the mast and held on tight. Ebenezer took a grip on the anchor's chain with one hand and Bronwyn's belt with the othet A fleeting smile touched her lips at this instinctively protective gesture.

The two ships jolted together like giant knights in an uneven joust. The first thundering, shivering boom was followed by a sharp, splintering noise. Wood shrieked against wood as the bowsprit plunged through Grunion's hull.

As soon as the shudders of impact subsided, Narwhal's crew leaped into action. Eight sailors snatched up large shields and knelt in a row, providing a shield wall. Behind them a dozen archers and half as many loaders kept a storm of arrows arching up toward the slave ship's deck. Bronwyn hurried over to join them and soon fell into the rhythm of reloading the small, deadly crossbows.

Left alone, Ebenezer looked about for something to do. At the railing gathered the largest and strongest crew members. They were taking up the coiled ropes and hurling grappling hooks toward the other ship's rail.

The dwarf shrugged, willing to try. He darted over to the rail. Grabbing one of the lines, he gave it a twirl as he'd seen the others do and let fly.

The grappling hook whistled through the air-and plunged into the side of the ship a foot or two below its intended mark. Though the aim was a mite off, Ebenezer gave himself full points for force. Wood gave way with a splintering crash, and the hook disappeared into the side of the ship.

This feat earned him a brief, incredulous stare from the sailors. Ebenezer just shrugged and picked up another line. This time his aim was better. The hook sailed over the railing and into the chest of a black-bearded mercenary who was busily sawing off one of the other lines. Iron hooks bit deep, curved under and through ribs. The man flew backward, messily and unarguably dead.

Seeing as how the human didn't need his body any more, Ebenezer thought he might as well try to make use of it. With a fierce tug, he pulled the line back. The dead mercenary's head crashed through the hole Ebenezer's last throw had created. The dwarf gave the line an experimental tug.

"That should hold," he said with satisfaction, and turned to the next rope.

But the task was completed; all the hooks had been thrown, and there were so many connecting lines that the slave ship looked like a netted fish.

Some of the more agile sailors ran up the ropes under a cover of arrow fire from their comrades and took the fight to the slave ship. Ebenezer marveled at the cat-footed humans and then leaned cautiously out over the rail to survey the dark expanse of water below.

Bronwyn came to Ebenezer's side. The dwarf noticed that she didn't look any keener about the idea of crossing than he felt. "I don't suppose you can swim, either," he ventured.

Her response was a grim smile. "We'll just have to make sure we don't fall in."

She climbed over the rail and took up one of the ropes with both hands. With a deep breath, she dropped to hang over the hungry sea. She began to work her way across, hand over hand, her feet swinging precariously from side to side to aid her momentum.

"Stones," breathed Ebenezer, both as curse and compliment. "That woman's got a barrel full of 'em!"

Determined not to be outdone, he hauled himself up to the rail and tugged at a couple of ropes before he found one he thought might hold his weight. He dropped and began to inch his way across.

Bronwyn made it over in moments. Swinging herself over the side of the slave ship, she darted a quick look back at the still-struggling dwarf. She beckoned impatiently, then pulled her long knife from its sheath and hurled herself into the battle that was raging across the deck.

"Hurry up, she says," Ebenezer muttered as he gingerly eased his way along, never quite letting go of the rope with either hand. "Easy for her to say. Long arms, nothing to haul but a scrawny little-"

A sudden, sharp downward jerk stopped him in mid insult. He sent a glance over his shoulder, and his eyes widened in pure panic. His rope was fraying, threads of twine flying free, just at the point where it rubbed against Narwhal's rail.

The dwarf frantically redoubled his pace, his arms pumping, intent upon getting over while the getting was good. He was perhaps ten feet from the ship when the line behind him gave way.

Howling in terror, Ebenezer swung toward the dark water. He hung onto the rope for dear life, and instinctively brought his boots up before him, legs stiff and braced.

He slammed into the ship, just above the waterline, and with a force that rattled his bones and sent white-hot flashes of pain shimmering through every fiber and sinew. Old wood gave way with a mighty crack, and his feet plunged through the hull. He wrenched them free, and with a few determined kicks he punched a hole big enough to crawl through.

Ebenezer wriggled through, cursing at the thought of the splinters he'd be picking from his legs and backside. The sight inside the hold stopped him in mid curse.

There were his lost clan, looking thinner and more bedraggled than any dwarf should ever have to look. They were chained to wooden bunks so closely packed that they looked like bookshelves, too close for them to so much as sit up. Barrels and crates were spilled about every which way; In the center of the chaos stood a small, brown-haired child, her face utterly white and her big brown eyes rounded with terror.

The ship rolled suddenly as the sea rocked it lose from the caravel's lancelike prow. Water spilled in through the shattered hull. For a moment Ebenezer had the uncanny feeling that he was reliving Bronwyn's personal nightmare.

"This is no damn time to be taking a bath!" exclaimed a querulous and much beloved female voice. "Are you gonna cut us loose or just pass the soap?"

A grin split the dwarf's bearded face. Tarlamera was alive and feisty as ever! He hurried toward her voice, picking up the child as he went. He placed the girl on a crate, well out of reach of the frigid water that sloshed around his ankles. Before he left her, he took a small knife from his belt and pressed in into her hand.

"For rats, with two legs or four, just in case they trouble you," he explained kindly.

The child's fingers closed on the knife, and her eyes were steady as she nodded in understanding.

Ebenezer grinned and chucked her under the chin. Durned if there wasn't yet another female kicking nothing but a beard. The tunnels were full of them these days.

Then he was off, axe in hand, chopping at Tarlamera's prison like a deranged forester. The way he saw it, there was no way he could cut through so many chains-the best and quickest way to turn the dwarves loose was to demolish the bunks.

The moment she was freed, Tarlamera rolled off the shelf, one wrist trailing a length of stout chain and the hunk of splintered wood. She moved stiffly, and with obvious pain, but her face was glad and fierce.

"I never once saw a prettier sight," Ebenezer swore, and meant it down to the depths of his soul. Tarlamera was bedraggled and filthy, and her festive wedding garments stiff with blackened blood, some of it her own. Her red ringlets were lackluster and wildly disheveled, and her beard nearly as stringy as a duergar's, but she was safe and whole.

Tarlamera's grin matched his own, and her eyes were as suspiciously bright as his. She seized her brother by his ears and dragged him forward. She planted a kiss smack on the tip of his nose, then slapped him upside the head. And then she was off, running toward the ladder that led to the deck and clutching the remains of her bunk like a deadly club.

Ebenezer sighed happily, delighted by this unusually sentimental reunion. He didn't have long to ponder it, for his clan was setting up a clamor fit to wake their ancestors. Each dwarf loudly demanded to be next, offered scathing comments on his axe technique, and just generally abused him left, right, and center.

It was good to have them back.

Each dwarf he freed took off up the ladder to join the battle. Not a one stayed to help him free the others. Although Ebenezer grumbled, he understood them well enough. If he'd been packed in here like a heap of coal by a bunch of damn dwarf-stealing humans, he'd be wanting to get his own licks in, too. Even the dwarf children went, as grimly determined for blood as any of their elders, and with no time out for a by-your-leave.

All but Clem, a dwarf lad who was kin to Ebenezer by way of a couple of cousins. The little scamp paused long enough to throw his arms around his rescuer's middle for a quick, fierce hug. When he straightened up, he had a huge grin on his beardless face-and Ebenezer's hammer clenched in his hand. Raising the stolen weapon in salute, he turned and darted for the ladder.

"Git back here, you durned thief!" roared Ebenezer, but though he mustered some impressive volume, his heart wasn't in it. In fact, his grin was so wide it threatened to raise up his ears a mite and leave them there. Better Clem went up armed than not. And if Ebenezer couldn't get in on the fighting, at least his hammer would shatter a skull or two.

"What's the holdup? Dull blade?" taunted a gruff dwarven voice.

Among dwarves, that insult was roughly on a level with a reference to an orcish ancestor. Ebenezer whirled toward the direction of the sound and stabbed his forefinger at the dwarf who'd spoken. "Damn it, Jeston, you could shave with this blade!"

"I'd be willing to, if'n you'd turn me lose."

The faintly pleading note in the tough smith's voice smote Ebenezer's heart, and he wavered in his decision to leave this ornery cuss for last. He hefted his axe for the first blow. "Just might be I'll hold you to that," he muttered.

On the deck above, Bronwyn heard her friend's shout resounding from the hold. Her first response was relief that he had made it across safely. Her second reaction was a quick stab of concern. Judging by the number of grim-faced dwarves staggering about the deck, whacking away at their captors with rough, makeshift clubs, she suspected that Ebenezer had little fighting support below decks.

Bronwyn edged toward the hatch. A mercenary lunged at her, his cutlass whistling down toward her in a quick, deadly sweep. She sidestepped the attack and struck down hard with her knife, pressing the cutlass down to the deck. Then she pivoted toward the joined blades and kicked out high and hard with her left foot. Her boot sank deep, just above the man's weapon belt. The cutiass clattered to the deck, and the man staggered back-into the outstretched hands of a waiting ogress. The sailor grinned horribly, her fangs flashing. She spun the man around a couple of times as if they were children playing at blind man's bluff, and then flung him back toward Bronwyn.

"Catch!" she roared.

Bronwyn brought up her knife. The man fell heavily on it, and his weight slumped against her. For a moment they were eye to eye.

Bronwyn had seen death before, more times than she liked to count, but never at such close range. The life drained away from his face, surely as a receding tide, and his black eyes went empty and flat. Then he jerked back with a suddenness that left Bronwyn staggering for balance.

The ogress held the man by the collar as a boy might hold a puppy by the scruff of the neck. She grunted with approval at the sight of Bronwyn's dripping knife, then flung the dead man aside.

Bronwyn turned back to the hold and was nearly knocked over by the dwarf lad who exploded from the hatch as if he'd been launched by a smoke-powder canon. She noted the hammer he held clenched in his hand and understood the source of Ebenezer's ire. Reassured that her friend was not besieged by foes, she picked her next battle.

Narwhal's first mate, a hugely muscled barbarian woman, was pinned down by two fighters, her back against the mast and her sword flailing. Bronwyn noted the jerky motion of the blade, the huge beads of sweat on the massive woman's brow. Just then one of the attackers ducked, and Bronwyn caught sight of the wound that slashed across the sailor's collarbone. It didn't look fatal of itself, but the woman's tunic was sodden with her own blood, and the cold sickness that followed a battle wound was settling upon bet

Bronwyn waded in, dodging a pair of dwarves who carried a human male between them, one dwarf holding the man's hands and one holding his feet. Their captive writhed and struggled and cursed, but the dwarves moved inexorably toward the rail, intent upon hurling him over.

She seized one of the first mate's attackers by the hair and jerked his head back. Without hesitation, she lifted her knife and drew it hard and fast across the man's throat. His startled oath, though quite quickly and literally cut short, drew his partner's attention. The second man turned toward the sound, only to be hit in the face by the sudden spurting flow of his shipmate's lifeblood.

The man shouted and slashed blindly with his blade. Bronwyn still had her grip on the dead man's hair, and she spun around to duck behind him. The body jolted from the impact. Bronwyn released him and danced back, almost losing her footing on the blood-slick deck.

Again the slaver lashed out. Bronwyn dropped into a crouch, ducking the blow so narrowly that she felt the wind of it. Before he could reverse his swing for another attack, she tensed for the spring and came up, knife leading.

Her blade punched hard into his ribcage. The blow registered in his eyes, but he did not go down, and his grim expression proclaimed his intent to take her with him to the gates of death.

Bronwyn wrenched her knife free and jumped up, bringing her knee up high and hard as she came. She connected in a profoundly debilitating blow. The man's forgotten sword clattered to the deck.

She stepped back, breathing in quick, shallow bursts.

"Behind you, girl!"

The woman's shout snapped Bronwyn back into the battle. She whirled to face the grim-faced dwarf who was preparing to apply the spiked nail in his club to the base of Bronwyn's spine.

Instinct and memory took over. "For Stoneshaft!" she shrieked in the dwarvish tongue, remembering what her long-ago dwarf friend told her about rallying cries.

Her response clearly startled the dwarf. He lowered the club, and the red haze of battle-lust faded from his face. For a moment he peered keenly at Bronwyn. Apparently he recognized her as someone other than one of his captors, for he gave a curt nod and went off in search of another fight.

But the battle was nearly over The sounds of fighting had dwindled to a few clashes of steel, a few screams of pain- some of which ended with chilling abruptness.

Captain Orwig's bombastic voice could easily be heard over the ebbing tide of battle, ordering his crew to round up the dead of both sides and all the slavers and toss them into the sea as Umberlee's due. This rallied even the dwarves, who cared not a wit for the Sea Goddess. They took to the task with such grim gusto that they didn't even seem to notice that they were taking orders from an ogre.

Bronwyn tucked her knife into its sheath just as the barbarian's eyes rolled back in her head. Bronwyn caught the woman as she fell and lowered her to the deck-not an easy task given the difference in their size, but at least she managed to ease the woman down to a gentler landing than she would otherwise have had.

Bronwyn tore a strip from the hem of the woman's tunic and pressed it to the wound, holding it firm until the bleeding stopped, then shrugged off her cloak and tucked it over the woman's broad shoulders to keep her warm until the cold sickness ebbed. That was all the help Bronwyn could give her, and she hoped it would be enough.

Narwhal's crew had not gone unscathed. Some of the dead tossed overboard wore familiar faces. One of them was the ogress who had played the deadly game of catch with Bronwyn, thus accepting her, if for one brief moment, as a comrade. Bronwyn took a deep breath and headed back to the stern, where stood a small, wooden shack built over the helm.

In this, as she had expected, she found the ship's records. Quickly she thumbed through the pages, looking for something that would provide a clue to the identity of the people who had destroyed the dwarves' home and stolen from them their freedom-and from her, her father.

But the transaction was coded. In time, she could probably figure out what it said. There was, however, a lengthy list of cargo neatly written up in Common, the language of trade. Bronwyn skimmed it and whistled softly. This would be enough and more to satisfy Narwhal's captain's and crew's desire for booty. It might also help her negotiate with Orwig on a delicate matter. He was an ogre. Even in tolerant Water-deep, he would be closely watched. And he was a smuggler, which meant his affairs would not hold up to close scrutiny. Yet she could not subject Ebenezer and his kin to the punishing journey back through the magical locks into Skuilport.

She tucked the log book under her arm and walked out onto the deck. Captain Orwig stalked by and she caught his arm.

"The battle was a great victory. I want to thank you for your help," she began.

His gold-capped tusks flashed in what she hoped was a smile. "You don't have to thank me. You have to pay me."

"You'll have your full fee," she assured him, "and as a bonus, I'll yield my right-of-hire ownership of the cargo." She told him what the hold contained: unworked gems, bolts of wool, valuable pelts, weapons, coin, barrels of mead.

The prospect of such treasure touched the ogre's soul. "All?"

"Except for the dwarves. You don't want them, of course." He snorted as if to indicate that this went without saying. "I will yield my right to the cargo in exchange for two things," Bronwyn continued, "this book with the ship's logs and records, and your promise that we'll make port in Waterdeep rather than return to Skullport."

The ogre hesitated, but temptation danced in his small red eyes. He scratched his snout and considered. "There'll be a dock fee to pay and a tax on the booty."

"And after paying the tax, you'll still have far more than you expected. I'll pay the fee. Agreed?'

Still he looked doubtful. "One dwarf is trouble enough. Eats enough for two humans. How many did we turn loose? Fifty?"

"Close enough," she responded. "But the stores from the Grunion should serve to feed them until we get to Water-deep."

The ogre scowled, but gave in with an ungracious shrug. "Very well, but keep that red-bearded dung heap away from me, or I won't be responsible for his safe arrival."

"Done," she agreed, though she doubted she bad enough influence with Ebenezer to persuade him to leave his favorite new toy alone.

She strode to the hatch and listened. No sounds of battle emerged, but a rhythmic thudding indicated that Ebenezer was still busy with his axe.

Bronwyn clattered down into the hold. She blinked, startled by the destruction. Shards of wood were scattered about, looking like the blasted limbs of trees in the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. Ebenezer was doggedly chopping away at the far end of the wood pile.

"You got them all?" Bronwyn called.

"This one's the last of'em," the dwarf said. "The others all took to fighting but me, the selfish sods," he grumbled. He nodded toward a small stack of crates. "All but that one, that is."

Bronwyn tracked his gesture. Her gaze fell upon the small girl-child who crouched upon the stack, the dwarfs table knife clutched in her hand.

Terrible memories flooded back into Bronwyn's mind, striking her like a sword to the heart. For a moment her ears rang with the cries of the doomed and drowning slaves, the shrill piping of the rats. She absently raised her hand and rubbed the long-healed place on her head where two of them had clawed her.

But that was long ago, Bronwyn reminded herself firmly. This was now, and another small girl required comfort. She could not slay her own demons, but perhaps she could keep them from laying claim to this tiny victim.

She swallowed hard and fixed what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. Slowly, as if she was approaching a spooked horse, she began to move toward the girl.

"I'm Bronwyn," she said softly. "You've already met my friend Ebenezer. We came to set free the dwarves. You are safe with us. We will take you home."

She extended her hand, the offer of her pledge. The girl studied her with large, somber brown eyes, then placed her own small hand in Bronwyn's. The contact seemed to reassure the child, and her fingers slid up to Bronwyn's wrist and tightened into a desperate grip.

"But I don't know where my home is," she said in a high, clear voice that retained just a hint of early childhood lisp.

"I'll help you find it. Don't you worry," Bronwyn assured her in the same soothing voice. "What's your name? How old are you?"

"Caradoon. I was nine last winter".

The child looked younger than nine, perhaps because she was small and exceedingiy thin. When she raised one tiny hand to tuck a stray bit of brown hair behind her ear, Bronwyn saw another explanation for her size and seemingly delayed development. The child was a half-elf. Her ears were slightly pointed, and the fingers that gripped Bronwyn's wrist were long and delicate.

And on one of them, she wore a very familiar ring.

Bronwyn's eyes widened in shock. Her heart thudded painfully, then picked up the beat at a quickened pace. The child's ring was golden, and richly carved with distinctive, mystic designs. Bronwyn had one just like it in her safe back in Curious Past.

"That's a very pretty ring," she said, pointing. "May I see it?"

Cara snatched her hand back and hid it behind her. "My father said no stranger was to look at it, and I was to give it to no one but family. And you can't take it from me, you know. The bad men tried," she said, pointing to the deck. "It won't come off unless I take it off myself."

This was news to Bronwyn. She wondered if the ring her father had given her would display a similar magical loyalty. But that thought came and went, overwhelmed by one of much greater importance. Cara's ring was identical to her own. Hronulf had referred to the ring as a family heirloom, meant to be worn only by the blood descendants of the great paladin Samular Caradoon. Once more Bronwyn's eyes went wide.

"What did you say your name was?"

"Cara," the girl said with a hint of impatience. "Caradoon."