Thornhold

THREE

Algorind reigned his horse around a pile of boulders that had fallen onto the path from the cliff above. They were too large for one man to move; he would have to note this in his report so Master Laharin could send more men on the next patrol. Keeping the paths between the river and the Dessarin Road clear and safe was one of the duties of the young paladins who trained in Summit Hall-a duty that Algorind was glad and proud to shoulder.

This was his first solitary patrol, and his first time riding Icewind, the tall white horse that he had spent long days breaking to saddle and bridle. Icewind was not a true paladin's mount-that Algorind had yet to earn-but he was a fine beast. Algorind settled happily into the rhythm of the horse's long-legged stride and allowed his thoughts to stray to the evening ahead.

Tonight, three young paladins would be inducted into the Order. They would become Knights of Samular through an ordeal of faith and arms, and by the grace of Tyr, god of justice and might. The prospect of witnessing this ritual filled Algorind with sublime joy.

All his life, he had longed to be a knight. By the happiest of circumstances, his father, a nobleman of proud lineage but light purse, had delivered his third-born son to Summit Hall before his tenth birthday to be raised and trained by the Order. Algorind had not seen his family since, but he did not feel loss. He was surrounded by young men of like ambition, future priests and paladins devoted to Tyr's service. Were not all the young acolytes his brothers? And the masters of the hall more than father to him?

These thoughts contented him as he fulfilled the last hour of his watch. Other than the dislodged boulders, the patrol had been without incident. Algorind was almost disappointed; he had hoped to contribute to the Order's latest venture. The knights, during their training forays into the surrounding countryside, had discovered and routed clans of orcs. The surviving beasts roamed the hills, terrorizing travelers and farmers. May Tyr grant that the last of them be found soon, Algorind thought piously, and the evil they represent vanquished.

A muffled cry caught his ear, followed by a chilling riff of guttural laughter that could not possibly have come from a human throat. Algorind drew his sword and held it aloft as he spurred his horse on to battle.

The white horse thundered around a bend in the path, down a rock-strewn hill and toward a scene that kindled Algorind's wrath. Four orcs-great, monstrous creatures with stringy muscles covered by filthy greenish hide-were tormenting a lone messenger. The man was on the ground and curied up tight, his arms clutching his many garish wounds as if he could hold in life by sheer will. The orcs were circling him and prodding at him with their rude spears, looking for all the world like a small pack of sadistic tomcats worrying a single mouse.

The orcs looked up at Algorind's swift reproach, their sneers frozen by sudden terror into skeleton-grins. As he closed in, Algorind lifted his sword high and to his left, and dealt a terrible sweeping blow. The keen sword caught one of the monsters in the throat and cleaved head from body with a single stroke.

Algorind reined his horse around to face his remaining foes. The three of them had abandoned their blood sport and stood to face him, their spears braced and leveled at the white steed's breast. The young paladin sheathed his sword and took his lance from its holder. He raised it high, a chivalrous salute too deeply ingrained to withhold from this unworthy foe, and then couched it under his right arm. He leveled the lance at the foremost orc and urged his horse into a frill, galloping charge.

The horse ran straight at the braced weapons, its wild whinny ringing free as if to acknowledge the danger and defy it. But Algorind had no thought to endanger his steed. This was a tactic they had practiced together many times in the training arena of Summit Hall. His eye measured his lance at twice the length of the ores' spears, and he silently began the rhythmic prayer to Tyr that would count off the measure of his attack.

At just the right moment, he raised himself in the stirrups and pulled up on the reins. On command, the mighty horse leaped. Algorind's lance caught one of the surprised orcs just below the ribs and bore him up and over his shrinking comrades.

Mustering all his strength, Algorind hurled the lance forward as if it were a giant javelin. The effort did not launch the weapon, but countered the force of the impaled orc and kept the paladin's arm from wrenching painfully back. Before the horse's hooves touched down, Algorind pushed out to the side with all his might, casting aside the lance and the dying ore.

The horse landed, cantered a few paces, then wheeled. Two orcs remained. Algorind could not surprise them again. He swung himself down from the saddle and drew his sword.

The orcs rushed at him, spears level. Algorind stood his ground. When the first ore was nearly ffpon him, he swept the sword up hard, catching the spear and turning it toward the sky. He spun, sliding his blade off the upturned spear and bringing it down and around as he turned. The edge sliced across the ore's belly, spilling the contents. The creature stumbled several paces more before he tripped on his own entrails and fell on his face, never to rise again.

Algorind turned to face his final foe. The ore circled him cautiously, using the longer spear to keep the paladin and his blade at a safe distance. "Challenge," the beast grunted. "Same weapons, one to one."

The young paladin recoiled in surprise. How had a base creature such as this ore learned anything of the paladin's creed? By the rules of his Order, he could not refuse a challenge given, unless the challenger was clearly outmatched. On the other hand, the messenger was badly wounded, perhaps dying. Algorind glanced toward the fallen man. His tunic was sodden with blood, his breathing shallow. To make matters worse, the sun was near to setting, and the wind whistled sharply over the bleak hills. The man needed aid and warmth, and soon. A paladin was pledged to aid the weak. How, Algorind puzzled, was he to chose between these duties?

Algorind eyed his opponent. The ore was the largest of his kind that Algorind had ever seen. He easily topped seven feet, and though his slack greenish hide showed signs of lean times, he was still nearly as broad and thick and fierce as an owlbear. A carved medallion bearing the bloody claw symbol of the evil god Malar hung on a thong around the ore's neck. The wooden disk was nearly the size of a small dinner plate, but it did not seem out of proportion to the creature who wore it.

Yes, this was a foe worth fighting. Algorind could not see his way clear to deny the challenge.

The paladin hooked his boot under one of the spears the fallen ores had dropped. A quick kick sent the weapon spinning up. He sheathed his sword with one hand and snatched the spear out of the air with the other. The ore grinned horribly and spun his spear in challenge, holding it out level before him like a quarterstaff. Algorind mirrored this stance, and the challenge was on.

Ore and paladin circled each other, their eyes alert and their hands tightly gripping the long, stout wooden staves they held out level before them. From time to time one of the staves flashed forward, to be met by an equally deft parry. The irregular rhythm of wood against wood rang out, slowly at first, then increasing in tempo into a percussive flurry.

As the battle went on, the ore's confident sneer hardened into a grimace. Fangs bared, the beast bore down on the young paladin, thundering blow after blow upon his skilled opponent. But Algorind answered each strike, meeting the frenzied rhythm and adding his own thrusts and feints to the clatter of the duel.

The young paladin was breathing hard now and admitted himself sorely tested by the ore's unexpected skill. But he kept his focus and his courage and concentrated on working the monster's staff up high. A risky strategy given the differences in the opponents' strength and stature, but Algorind saw no other choice. Rather than allow himself to be intimidated by his opponent's great size, he would use it to his advantage.

Suddenly Algorind spun the blunt end of the spear down. He accepted the blow that slashed through his relaxed guard, allowing the wooden haft to thump painfully into his chest as he hooked the lower end of the spear behind the ore's boot. A quick twist jerked the ore's feet out from beneath him. The creature fell heavily, flat on his back.

Algorind spun the spear quickly and planted the crude stone point at the ore's throat. "Yield," he said, before he remembered to whom he spoke. Such mercy would have been appropriate in a fight between honorable opponents, but this was a creature of evil, not a man of honor. How could Algorind suffer him to live? And how could he not, now that the offer of quarter had been extended?

Fortunately the ore resolved this dilemma. He spat and tipped back his head defiantly, baring his throat as he chose death over surrender.

The paladin struck, leaning hard on the spear and finishing the evil creature in a single quick, merciful stroke. That accomplished, he turned to the messenger.

Algorind gently turned him onto his back and immediately realized two things: first, the man could not possibly survive his hurts, and second, he wore the white and blue tabard that proclaimed him a member of the Knights of Samular. A second, closer look revealed the courier's pouch still strapped to the wounded man's shoulder.

"Brother, take ease," the young paladin said gently. "Your duty is done. Here is another to take it from you. The creatures are vanquished, and the hall is but an hour's ride. I will carry your message for you."

The man nodded painfully and swallowed hard. "Another," he croaked out. "There is an heir."

Algorind's brow furrowed in puzzlement. With his last strength, the messenger wrenched open the latch on the pouch and drew from it a single sheet of parchment. The words written upon it filled Algorind with awe, and his lips moved in gratefhl prayer to Tyr.

There was another. The great Hronulf, commander of Thornhold, would not be the last, after all. An heir to the bloodline of Samular had been found.

"Almost home," panted Ebenezer Stoneshaft as he thundered through the deeply buried tunnel.

"Home" was a warren of dwarven tunnels under the Sword Mountains, not far from the sea and too damn close to the trade route just to the east and the human fortress above.

He'd been gone quite a while this time, but it was all so familiar: the damp scent of the tunnels, the faint glow from the luminous moss and lichen that decked the stone walls, and the old paths marked with subtle runes that only a dwarf could read. There had been some changes, though, some new additions. Ledges carved into the walls, and steps and such. At the moment, Ebenezer didn't really have the leisure to examine these innovations closely.

Running full out, the dwarf rounded the tight curve in the tunnel, his short legs pumping. The clatter of his iron-shed boots against the stone floor was all but lost in the rattle and clamor behind him.

Right behind him.

In his ears rang a cacophony of hisses that sounded like a fire-newt left out in the rain, and screeches that would make an eagle cock its head and listen for pointers. Who'd-a thought, he grimly noted, that a mob of over-sized pack rats could raise such a ruckus?

Granted, it was a big pack, as osquips went. Dozens of clawed feet scrabbled against the stone as a score of giant rodents chased after Ebenezer in hot and angry pursuit. And for what? He'd taken a mithral chisel from their pile of shiny trinkets-only one, and only because it was his to take. Belonged to his cousin Hoshal, it did, a dour and reclusive dwarf smith who would string Ebenezer up by his curiy red beard should he get wind of any kin of his being slacker enough to leave a good tool just lying about.

Ebenezer almost stopped. Come to think on it, how did that chisel end up in an osquip trove? It was a family jest that Hoshal could put his hands on any one of his many tools or weapons sooner than he could grab his own- "Yeow!"

A sharp nip stole the remembered quip from Ebenezer's mind, and sheared a chuck of thick boot leather-and a good bit of the skin beneath-from the dwarf's ankle. Fortunately for Ebenezer, the osquip only grazed him. If the critter had gotten a good grip, Ebenezer would have ended up hopping the rest of the way back to his clanhold. An osquip's teeth were large, protruding squares that could gnaw through stone-pretty damn good practice for biting off a dwarf's foot.

Ebenezer whiried, hammer in hand, and whacked down hard on the head of the offending rodent. The huge, wedge-shaped skull shattered with a satisfying crunch. The sudden attack set the others back on their heels for a moment, which was all Ebenezer needed. He was off and running again, and even had a few paces lead to spare, before any of the osquips got their six or eight or even ten legs back into the habit of forward motion. But once they did get going, they could roll along right smart. At this rate, noted Ebenezer, they would all come thundering into Stoneshaft Hold before the priest was done with the wedding blessing.

Grim humor lit the dwarf's slate-blue eyes as he envisioned the reception his kin would muster to receive their unexpected visitors. It had been many years since the Stoneshaft clan had been troubled by osquips-giant, hairless, many-legged rodents who were nearly as ugly as a tea-totaling duergar-but they killed the critters on sight, just on principle, and also to keep the numbers down. If they didn't, the rodents could raise a horde in the side tunnels even quicker than humans could fill one of their surface cities. Their ugly, naked yellow hides-osquip hide, not human-made good leather, too, and wherever there was mining to be done and people too lazy to do it without the aid of magic, there were wizards who were only too happy to buy osquip teeth as a spell component. For all these reasons, osquip-bashing was a favorite dwarven sport. So here he was, bringing a pack of the damn things right into the clan-hold. The dwarves would have a merry time of it.

If the gods were kind, thought Ebenezer with a grin, the fun he was bringing would get him off the spit for being late to his sister's wedding. At the very least, maybe Tarlamera would vent most of her temper on the osquips before turning it on him.

Ebenezer burst from the tunnel to emerge in a small cavern. He shot a look over his shoulder and groaned. There were perhaps fifty of the critters behind him now-they must have picked up recruits along the way. That was a bit much, even as wedding presents went. Maybe he should whittle the pack down a mite before making his entrance.

The dwarf considered his options. He could stand and fight, but this many osquips were a bit much even for him. Ahead of him flowed a deep underground river. For the briefest of moments he considered plunging into it. Osquips weren't much for swimming, even with so many legs to do the paddling. He could count on at least half of them drowning. On the other hand, his own chances were even less optimistic. The clan kept hunting cats that liked water better than Ebenezer did, and they feared it less. It might be that he could swim, but he'd never actually taken to the water to test it out.

"Stones," he muttered darkly. Still running, he spun on his heel and veered sharply to the right, sprinting down a small, dark side tunnel that led toward the clanhold.

A sudden, sharp hiss on the path before him brought him up short. There, her orange ears flattened back against her head and her fangs bared in her customary welcome, crouched Fluffy, his sister's ginger cat.

Instinctively, Ebenezer danced back. He was leery of cats, even the sawed-off critters that humans kept as pets and mousers. Four-legged elves, they were, right down to their haughty airs and deft, dangerous paws. Fluffy was easily ten times the size of a surface cat, and she had a disposition to match Tarlamera at her surliest. For once, and for all those reasons, Ebenezer was almost glad to see the beast.

"Rats," he panted out, stretching the truth a bit as he pointed to the roiling pack of swiftly approaching osquips. "Get 'em!"

Fluffy cast him a supercilious glare, but her tail lashed as she eyed the rodents. With a fearsome yowl, she launched herself into flight and came down in the center of the pack. The creatures fell back, yipping and squealing in surprise. Had they possessed more intelligence, the osquips would have realized that the lot of them were more than a match for a tunnel mouser. But the ancient instincts of their kind stuck with them, and most of the creatures scuttled away like cockroaches at the sight of this rodents-bane.

Some of the osquips recovered quickly enough from the shock, and a score of them abandoned the cat to follow their original quarry. Ebenezer did not stay to help the cat chase down stragglers; she would not have thanked him if he had. Keeping the tunnel free of vermin was her job, and she was every bit as territorial as a dwarf when it came to matters of land held and defended.

As he ran, the dwarf tugged a kerchief from his pocket and mopped his face. He suspected he looked a sight, what with all the running. His reddish brown hair was exceedingly curly at the best of times. At the moment, he was as lathered as a racehorse, and at such times his hair sprung up into wild clusters of small, tight ringlets. Ebenezer's beard was another matter. Long and full and defiantly red, it had the decency to just hang there. A beard any dwarf would be proud of; it was. For all his odd ways-and according to his clan, his ways were plenty odd-he was a dwarf who appreciated tradition. So what if he hated mining, preferring the sway of a horse to the measured rhythm of the pickax? Whose affair was it if he kept his upper lip clean-shaven, rather than sporting the usual thick mustache? What stone was it engraved on, anyway, that a dwarf had to wear a mustache? All the damn thing did was guarantee that he would keep smelling his dinner, hours after the fact. Thank you, but no.

Ebenezer grimaced with amusement when he realized that he was rehearsing for the arguments to come. Well, no matter. He'd been gone a long time, and with each moon phase that had passed, the measure of his clan's more annoying tendencies shrank just a bit more. Fact was, he was looking forward to the brand of contentious peace that meant hearth and home.

He wove his way through a henge of statues, a circle of ten-foot stone dwarves that honored heroes of the past, and bolted down the final tunnel toward the clanhold's cavern. He burst out into the open, to be confronted with the slack-jawed astonishment of his kin.

His Da, a buriy, gray-bearded dwarf with a belly the size of a boulder and a heart to match, was the first to recover. "Osquips!" he howled, his eyes gleaming wildly as he took his hammer from his belt. "Didn't I tell you, Palmara, the boy'd be back in time, and bringing gifts?"

Ebenezer's mother sniffed and reached for her pick. She buried it deep in the skull of an onrushing rodent and kicked the twitching thing aside. Long years together had blurred the differences between the dwarf pair; except for the feminine cut of her dress tunic, Palmara Stoneshaft was nearly indistinguishable from her mate. She gestured with her bloody pike. "There's two more over there. You, Gelanna! Back off them critters. I saw 'em first!"

For several moments the ceremony was forgotten as the dwarves busily chased down the invading osquips. Ebenezer edged his way toward the center of the cavern. The stone lectern that served as podium for their contentious clan meetings had been turned into an altar, now abandoned as the priestess of Clangeddin joined gleefully into the sport. Tarlamera and her soon-to-be-husband, a likely little sprout of a dwarf who was not more than fifty and not much more than two hundred pounds, stood with arms folded and eyes filled with mingled amusement and frustration. Osquipbashing was fun to watch, but no dwarf willingly stood still when there was mayhem to be had. But Tarlamera wore the ceremonial apron, and she would get stomped by every other maiden in the clanhold if she messed it up with rodent guts. Regrettable, but that was tradition for you.

"You're a lucky dwarf; Frodwinner. You got yourself the prettiest dwarf maid in a hundred caverns," Ebenezer said and meant it. His sister was a picture, with her normally wild red beard neatly plaited and her hair tamed into bright ringlets. On her, those damned ringlets looked good.

The dwarf maid snorted, but her eyes were fond. "About time you showed. Staying long?"

It was a familiar question, and edged with a sarcasm that predicted Ebenezer's answer. "Long as I can stand to," he admitted. He softened the remark with a shrug. "I'm not one to stay put. You know that."

Tarlamera shook her head in puzzlement and swept her hand toward the elanhold's vast courtyard. "In all the wandering you've done, have you ever seen a place to equal this one?"

Ebenezer shook his head, honestly enough. The Stone-shaft Clanhold was impressive, yet cozy. Ceremonies, celebrations, and mock battles took place in the great hall, a fine cavern with a smooth, level floor and richly carved walls. Over the centuries, Stoneshaft artisans had carved many a frieze depicting dwarf victories and frolics. Several small tunnels led out of the ball, and stairs carved into the walls wound up to higher levels. Some of these openings led to private family homes, others to the forges and gemworking shops that kept the clan happily employed. Miners they were, of course, and smiths, but clan Stoneshaft was also renowned for the fine, bold wearable art they made of gems and metals. A few dwarves served as merchants, trading the finished goods for materials not easily found. Ebenezer worried about this. His kin were too isolated, too clannish and race-proud to understand that some humans posed more of a risk than others.

"Dying down, it looks like," offered Frodwinner, nodding toward the other dwarves. The osquip-bashing frenzy was over, but for a few final thumps. Already most of the creatures had been dragged away. Most likely, Ebenezer mused, to be thrown into the river. The swift-moving current would bear them away, and whatever the river denizens didn't eat would wash ashore in the hydra cove. A lot of mouths to feed there, Ebenezer concluded.

A few minutes more and the cavern was clear. Some of the dwarves cranked up buckets of water from the wells and sluiced the stone floor, sending the last traces of the battle down several small openings in the floor that were covered with finely crafted iron grates.

"Can we get on with this?" demanded Palmara Stone-shaft, fists planted on her ample hips. "Got me a daughter to wed, a son to welcome back. And lookit!" she added, pointing toward the festive board that stood waiting over to one side of the cavern. "The stew's getting cold, and the ale warm!"

These practical considerations marshaled the wedding guests and sent the priestess scurrying back to the altar. Ebenezer fell back and swept his gray-bearded mother into a fierce hug that had her bellowing in happy protest.

The ceremony was brief, solemn. The celebration that followed was anything but. All of Clan Stoneshaft gathered at tables, telling tall tales and exchanging extravagant insults until the last stew pot was wiped clean and more than half the kegs of wedding ale drained dry. At a sign from Palmara-who as mother of the bride was master of the festivities-a score of musicians leaped onto the tables and set up a merry din with their horns and pipes and drums. The dwarves fell to dancing with a zest and vigor that rivaled their battlefield exploits.

A rare sense of contentment swept Ebenezer as he watched his kin leap and whirl and thunder their way through the intricate patterns of a circle dance. He was glad to be home. The knowledge that he'd be nearly as glad to leave in a tenday or so did nothing to diminish the moment's pleasure.

But even now his feet got to twitching. He reached for his bag and removed from it pipe and weed before he remembered that Palmara Stoneshaft would have nothing of that in her cavern. Ebenezer had picked up the habit in his travels, and he liked a good pipe now and again. But the Stone-shaft dwarves frowned upon such vices and had made loud complaints about the smoke last time he'd visited. Ebenezer had pointed out-reasonably enough, it seemed to him- that in a clanhold warmed and scented with the smoke of forges and hearth fires, a wisp or two more made no never mind at all. But they couldn't see it. With a resigned sigh, Ebenezer pocketed his pipe and headed for the nearest river tunnel.

He walked along the river for maybe an hour, puffing contentedly and enjoying the wild rush and gurgle of the water. The river got right riled up, come spring, what with all the melting snow from the Sword Mountains high overhead, but that was the only intrusion of the upper world. The tunnels were pleasantly chilly and dark. Not safe, exactly-the Stoneshaft clan had to deal with vermin ranging from osquips to kobolds to drow-but there was a nice secure feeling to having a rock ceiling overhead, and walls on every side. It was a world apart from the light and bustle that held sway under the sun.

Ebenezer finished his pipe and got out flint and stone to light another. The spark and flicker was echoed by another light, far ahead and filtering out of a side tunnel. Ebenezer pursed his lips and squinted. Light so far underground was odd, and generally a bad sign. Anybody who belonged in the tunnels could see well enough without it.

As the thought formed, a trio of tall, scrawny figures emerged from the side tunnel, their gaunt frames clearly silhouetted against the light of their own torch. Ebenezer spat, then swore. Humans. Bad enough they squatted on the mountain above, but they had no call to be in the dwarven tunnels. How'd they find out about these warrens, anyhow? Only a handful of humans knew anything at all about the Stoneshaft clan, and they were a closed-mouthed bunch.

Suddenly Ebenezer remembered the chisel he'd taken from the osquip hoard. He pulled it from his belt and studied the mark carved into the mithral handle. Yes, it belonged to his Uncle Hoshal. No doubt there-there was Hoshal's mark, big as a gnome's nose. But how had the rodents got hold of it? Ebenezer dredged his memory, trying to conjure the image of Hoshal's grim, pockmarked face at the edge of the wedding celebration. He could not. Hoshal was not one for festivals, but come to think on it, he was powerful fond of wedding ale. His absence, combined with the fact of humans in the tunnels, looked suspiciously like problems brewing.

"Stones!" Ebenezer swore again. He tucked the chisel back into his belt and followed after the three intruders.

Algorind hastened back to Summit Hall, the body of his brother paladin decently covered and lashed to a makeshift litter Algorind had fashioned from branches. Dragging this burden added extra time to his journey, and the ceremony of induction was already underway when Algorind came to the monastery gates.

Darkness enveloped the hills, and the sand-colored stone of the outer walls seemed to melt into the terrain. If not for the bright lights rising from the chapel and his own detailed knowledge of the area, Algorind might not have seen the monastery at all. Many travelers passed by in full sight of the tower watchmen, never once seeing the monastery. That seemed to Algorind a remarkable thing, considering the vast size of the complex.

The gatekeeper, a strapping young paladin who was often Algorind's training partner, looked his friend up and down. "You saw battle," he said, a note of unseemly envy in his voice.

"Ores." Algorind dismissed the creatures with a shrug and gestured to the slanted litter. "They fell upon this messenger. They have received Tyr's justice, but I was not in time to save this brave man."

"I'll see to this brother. You'll be wanted in the chapel." The paladin stripped off his spotless blue and white tabard and handed it to Algorind. Gratefully, the young man accepted the loan and quickly donned the fresh garment. The two men were of a size-both being an inch or two over six feet, their flesh hard-chiseled by nearly constant drilling with sword and lance and staff. Algorind smoothed down his curly, close-cropped fair hair, and hastened to the chapel that, along with the training field, dominated life at Summit Hall.

He halted at the arched entrance. His brothers were singing, a hauntingly beautiful chant extolling the justice of Tyr and the courage of the young men who had chosen this path. That meant the ceremony was nearly over.

Algorind felt a stab of disappointment. He had seen men invested before, but nothing moved or inspired him as much as this sacred ceremony. It was his dream, and all his life had been lived in expectation of a moment such as this. Witnessing an investiture made him feel that much closer to his goal. Much had led up to this moment: the years of training at arms and devotions, the paladin's quest, the trial by ordeal, the night of wakeful prayer in the chapel, the ritual bath and the donning of the white robes and new tabard. Algorind was still in training and expected a year or more before he would be granted a paladin's quest.

He lingered near the open door, head reverently bowed as Mantasso, the High Lord Abbot-a massive warrior who despite his rank still trained the clerical acolytes at arms- prayed for Tyr's blessing. The ceremony of investiture, the giving of the sword and the ceremonial drawing of blood as a symbol that life was forfeit to service, was the task of Master Laharin Goldbeard. It was an ancient ceremony, conveying honor with the touch of a sword but conducted with more solemnity by the Knights of Samular than romantic tales of chivalry suggested. Algorind watched with awe and deep longing as the regally tall paladin conducted the final dubbing ceremony, accepting the sword of each young paladin in turn, and imposing upon them a reminder that their lives were forfeit to the service of Tyr. Finally the young paladins sheathed their new weapons, still stained with their own blood, and rose as full Knights of the Order.

The hymn resumed, this time swelling on a note of exultation. Algorind joined in with all his heart, and swept out of the chapel with his brothers.

Almost immediately, news of the slain messenger spread throughout the hall. Algorind was summoned to Laharin's study to deliver his report.

Algorind hurried to the keep, the large building that dominated the north end of the complex, and climbed the stairs to the tower that held the Master's inner sanctum. The tower room was circular, its furnishings simple, even austere. The only flash of color in it was the vivid yellow hue of Laharin Goldbeard's bright whiskers and thinning hair. The Master sat in a high-backed wooden bench behind a table of polished wood. The chairs that flanked and faced the table were hardly designed for comfort, and no tapestries softened the stone walls. A shelf held tokens of great deeds accomplished, as well as a single row of dusty books. Two tall, narrow windows and a trio of squat candies provided light enough to see, if not to read. Scholarship was not scorned, exactly, but neither was it numbered among the Order's knightly virtues.

Algorind came in when he was bid and took one of the chairs facing Master Laharin. He nodded respectfully to the other men who flanked the paladin-Mantasso and two of the highest-ranked priests, and three elder paladins, including Sir Gareth Cormaeril, a nobleman and paladin of great fame, retired from active service to the Knights of Samular by a grievous wound more than thirty years ago. Despite his injuries and his life of enforced inactivity, the old man was tall and strong still. He had arrived at the fortress just that morning-shortly before Algorind had left on his patrol- after a two-day ride that would exhaust many a younger man. At the moment, he looked the part of an elder statesman, clad in dignified garments of somber blue hue, his white beard neatly trimmed and his bright blue eyes keen and watchful.

The men listened carefully as Algorind gave his report. "You have done well," Laharin admitted when the tale was told-extravagant praise, coming from the master paladin. "The task that now falls to us, however, is more difficult than your feats at arms."

"This is no easy matter," Sir Gareth agreed. "Our brother Hronulf has long believed his family dead. Now we learn that there is a son. Unless this lost son-no less than a priest of Cyric-accepts Tyr's grace, there is little we can do for him. His child, however, is another matter."

Mantasso folded massive arms and stared the knight down. "The message says that the little girl is kept in safe fosterage, happy with the family who has raised her from birth, and innocent of the evil her father has chosen. Have we any right to disturb this?"

"Not only right, but duty," Laharin said sternly. "Of course she must be brought under the care and instruction of the order. And the possibility, however slight, that she may have in her possession one of the Rings of Sa.mular adds urgency to the matter. But how to proceed?"

"With your indulgence, Master Laharin, I propose that the answer is right before us," Sir Gareth said in his courtly manner. "What of this lad? I hear tell that he is the best and brightest of the crop, and more than ready for his paladin's quest. Charge him with finding the girl and the ring."

A heartbeat passed, and then another, before Algorind realized they were speaking of him. They were thinking of granting him a paladin's quest! He had not expected such honor for another year at least!

"I take it you are willing," Laharin said dryly, studying Algorind's shining face.

"More than willing! Grateful, my lords, to serve Tyr and his holy Order, in this manner or any other."

"He is eager, that is without question," grumbled Mantasso. The big priest stirred impatiently, drawing an ominous creak from his wooden chair. "Before you continue, I must speak my mind on this matter!"

"Of course," Laharin said in a tightly controlled voice. "Why should this matter be different from any other?"

Algorind blinked, astonished by this sign of disharmony among the Masters. Mantasso, who was watching him keenly, noted this and shook his head in exasperation.

"I mean no disrespect to any present," the big priest said, "but this youth belongs in the clergy, not the military order. Is it not our mandate as servants of Tyr to use all our gifts in his service? All? Algorind possesses learning and languages, a quick mind, and a potential for both scholarship and leadership. His knowledge of map lore is remarkable, and he is well spoken and comely. In the priesthood, he could go far and accomplish much, influencing many to the cause of Tyr. But how many paladins live to see their thirtieth winter? Even their twenty-fifth? Perhaps two or three in a hundred! You venerable gentlemen in this chamber are not the rule, but the rare exception!"

"And Algorind is not exceptional?" retorted Laharin. "We are well aware of the young paladin's gifts and potential. The Order needs men of his talent and dedication. The matter is settled." He turned to Algorind. "You have your duty, brother. See that you fulfill it well."

Algorind rose, too full of joy for words, and bowed deeply to the Master. He left the study to attend to his quest, certain that nothing could exceed the glory of this moment.

Sir Gareth followed him and hailed him to a stop. The famed paladin offered Algorind his hand, clasped wrists with him as if Algorind was already a fellow knight. Nor did he leave the matter there. They walked together, and Sir Gareth offered him guidance and advice, instructing him on what steps must be taken once the child was rescued.

Such fellowship was more honor than Algorind had ever dreamed of. He listened carefully, storing each detail in his carefully trained memory. By the time Algorind's gear was packed and his white horse readied, Sir Gareth pronounced him ready.

"You will bring honor to the order, my son," the great man assured him with a kind smile. "Remember the knightly virtues: courage, honor, justice. To these, I add another: discretion. This is a subtle matter. It is important that you tell no man what you do. Will you so swear?"

Nearly giddy with excitement and hero worship and holy fervor, Algorind dropped to one knee before the paladin. "In this matter and all others, Sir Gareth, I will do as you command."

It took Bronwyn nearly two days to track down Malehior. First, she had to find and question the Harper agents who had carried out Danilo's bidding and kept Malchior's men from following her. That was no small task, for secrecy was a habit deeply ingrained among the Harpers, and many were reticent to share secrets even among their own. Fortunately, one of Danilo's henchmen, Nimble, was a halfling with bardic pretensions. The ditty he composed of the event-his own role dramatically enhanced, naturally- made the rounds of the taverns and meeting places frequented by the short folk. Alice Tinker had heard the song on her evening out, and had brought the tale-along with the loudly protesting haifling-back to Bronwyn.

Nimble's tale, when shorn of ornamentation, was of little real help. The priest had disappeared, leaving only a puff of acrid purple smoke. Bronwyn searched the city, calling in every marker she had for information, as well as indebting herself so deeply that the favors she owed, if placed end to end, would keep her busily employed until snowfall. But finally, her efforts bore fruit and led her to an elf who possessed deep resources and an exceedingly dark reputation.

"You owe me," the elf said unnecessarily as he handed her a roll of parchment.

Bronwyn grimaced as she took the parchment, imagining the sort of payment that this particular contact was likely to call in. She unrolled the scroll and whistled in appreciation. It was plans for a medium-sized villa. In tiny script, the elf had noted magical safeguards, hidden doors, concealed alcoves for guards, and other closely guarded secrets. She raised suspicious eyes to her benefactor.

"How do you know all this?"

He gave her a supercilious smile. "My dear, I own that building. Since the man you seek has paid his rent in advance, you can do as you like with him-but mind the furniture and do try not to get blood on the carpets."

"I'll do my best," she said dryly. After exchanging a few more dark pleasantries with the elf; she took her leave and headed for the North Ward.

At night, this district was quiet, with most of the wealthy residents either behind the walls that surrounded the villas or off pursuing pleasures in a more boisterous part of town. As she walked along the broad, cobbled streets, she wondered how the residents of Waterdeep's most traditional neighborhood would react if they knew that a priest of Cyric was in their midst. Probably, their response would be much like the elf's. As long as the priest paid his bills and kept to himself, he was no real threat.

Bronwyn had ample reason to think otherwise. Malchior had gone through a great deal of trouble to meet her. Tonight, she was determined to discovery why.

She circled around the Gentle Mermaid festhall, a massive and excessively tasteless stone structure that sprouted more turrets than a hydra had beads, as well as numerous balconies decked with elaborate wrought iron. The building took up the interior of an entire block; she quickly skirted it and cut down Manycats Alley. She glanced up at the lifelike stone beads that lined the eaves of several buildings up ahead, remembering the tavern tales claiming that they sometimes spoke to passersby. But the only voices she heard were those of the stray cats that scrapped over the leavings of butcher shops that plied their trade by day. The scent of these shops hung heavy in the still, mist-laden air. Bronwyn lifted a fold of her cloak over her nose and picked up her pace, careful to avoid the pair of tabbies battling over a length of seafood sausage.

Not far from the shops, she found the back wall of the villa's enclosed garden. She ran her fingers over the stone. The latch was exactly where the elf had claimed it would be. Vowing to be generous in her repayment of this particular debt, Bronwyn pressed the latch and waited until the stone door swung open. She slipped through the opening and into the shadows of the grape arbor that cut down the middle of the garden.

At the end of the arbor, hidden from casual view by lustt vines, stood the first guard. Bronwyn remembered him as one of the Zhentish soldiers who had stormed the bathhouse in response to Malchior's summons. For a moment she hesitated. It was no small thing to kill a man, but he had been very willing to kill her-er to take her captive on Malchior's behalf; which would surely have proved to be worse.

She slipped up behind the guard, a length of thin, strong rope held between her hands. With a quick, sudden movement, she plunged her hands through the vines and wrapped the garrote tightly about his throat. A small, strangled noise gurgled from him, growing in volume as he worked his fingers under the rope. He was far stronger than she. With a flash of panic, Bronwyn realized he would soon be able to sing out an alarm.

She leaped up, planting both feet against the arbor trellis, and leaned back, hauling at the rope. After a moment, the man went silent. Bronwyn tied the garrotte firmly to the trellis, then edged around to the other side. The man's bulging eyes bore witness to the effectiveness of her attack. She took a long, steadying breath and slipped into the icehouse.

The villa was well appointed, even to the small, thick-walled building that stored blocks of ice cut from the nearby river, a luxury in the coming months of summer. The house was nearly full now, and as cold as midwinter. Bronwyn drew her cloak closer about her as she edged through the narrow aisle between the blocks.

At the end of the aisle she found another hidden door. Bronwyn slid it aside and stepped into a dark, small tunnel. She felt about for the promised shelf and the candles kept there. She lit one and proceeded down a narrow passage to a flight of steep stairs.

According to the elf landlord, this passage led through the back wall, up into the most lavish bedchamber. Surely she would find Malchior there. She only hoped that she would find him alone.

Bronwyn crept along the passage, then up a flight of steep wooden stairs. She moved slowly, easing her way along so that no creak would betray her presence. With each step, she felt increasingly uneasy. There were no cobwebs in the tunnel, no sign of mice. How could a passage so well-used be secret?

Just as she considered turning around, the passage ended at another door, this one a sliding door of thin wood, hidden by a tapestry Malchior was apparently alone, and at prayer. Bronwyn clamped her eyes shut and tried not to listen as the dreadful cadence of the chant rose and fell. Knowing that Malchior worshiped Cyric was one thing; it was quite another to stand by while the dark and evil god was invoked.

Finally Malchior finished his devotions. Bronwyn could hear his grunt of exertion as he hauled his bulky frame up off his knees, and then the creaking protest of the wooden floor as he walked past.

The next part was the riskiest. Bronwyn eased the door aside, edged past the tapestry, and peeked into the room. Malchior was not alone, after all, but the young woman with whom he'd shared the evening was already thoroughly, messily dead. So much for the elf's carpets, Bronwyn noted grimly. The tawdry much-patched feminine garments cast over a chair suggested that the woman had been from the Dock Ward, perhaps a tavern wench who'd been lured to the villa by one of Malchior's men with the promise of easy coin, earned by enduring an old man's brief embrace. How could she know that the jovial, rotund priest took his pleasure in death and the power that came with the dealing of death?

Bronwyn's heart thundered as she drew her knife and waited. She watched as the priest poured himself a glass of deep red wine from a silver decanter and raised it to the dead woman in salute. He sipped, closing his eyes as if savoring a pleasant memory Then, humming lightly, he sauntered toward the bath-and past the tapestry

She leaped out of her hiding place and kicked out hard.

Her booted foot all but disappeared into the vast, fleshy belly, but the shot had the desired effect. Malchior wheezed like a bellows and went down.

Bronwyn seized a handful of his hair and dragged his head back. Stepping behind him, she placed her knife hard against his throat. "Shout out and you're dead," she informed him in a low, furious tone.

It took Malchior a few minutes to marshal his facility for speech, but when he did reply it was with admirable aplomb. "I am quite capable of discerning the obvious," he wheezed out. "Speak your mind. My bath is cooling. Or better yet, you may disrobe and join me."

She almost had to admire the man's gall. "The obvious question, then, is this: why did you try to take me the other night? Was it another of your games?"

"A pleasant thought, but no," the priest replied. His voice was stronger now, but there was fear in his eyes as he noted the fury on Bronwyn's face. "Not a game. I wouldn't dishonor you with trivial matters. You are not some tavern wench, to be lightly used and easily discarded."

"I'm flattered. What, then?"

He lifted his hands, palms up. "It was nothing personal. I am of the Zhentarim. You are the daughter of a sworn enemy of the Zhentarim. A man who wishes to live long does not leave dangerous whelps to grow fangs and to scent the trail of vendetta."

Bronwyn froze. Nothing, nothing that she had ever seen or experienced, nothing that could have come out of this terrible man's warped and evil imagination, could have stunned her as did those few simple words: You are the daughter of… someone.

"Who?" she demanded urgently. "Who is your enemy?"

The priest laughed, sending ripples undulating through his rolls of flesh. "My dear, I am a priest of Cyric. I have more enemies than this whore had fathers."

The sly emphasis he gave to the last word was nearly Bronwyn's undoing. Malchior had toyed with her. He was doing it still. She looked at the knife she held at his throat and longed to pull it back hard and deep. Yet if she struck, she would never find the answer she had spent twenty long years seeking. She took a steadying breath and tamped down her anger.

"Tell me my father's name. Tell me, and I'll let you live."

"Promise made, promise kept?" he mocked her. "Where is my neckiace?"

"That was none of my doing," she hissed. "As you yourself say, a priest of Cyric has many enemies." A new threat occurred to her. "You handled the amber. I wonder what interesting secrets a skilled mage could discern from the echoes your magic left behind."

That thought stole the smugness from Malchior's eyes, if just for a moment. "And this necklace. Is it now in the possession of such a mage?"

"It could be. It was given back to me, but I'd be happy to part with it for a good cause."

Malchior considered this. "I will give you your father's name, if you keep the amber in your possession for, say, three moon cycles."

"Done."

"You may find this information amusing, given your, shall we say, resourceful methods of doing business," the priest began slyly.

"Out with it!"

"Oh, very well," he said, pouting. "I'm getting a crick in my neck anyway, the way you're holding my head back. Not that you are unpleasant to look at, but perhaps you might release your grip on my hair? And this knife is most uncomfortable-"

"Speak!"

The priest tsked at her impatience. "You are the oldest and only surviving daughter of Hronulf Caradoon, a paladin of Tyr. A knight of some sort or other, I believe."

Through the daze that enveloped her, Bronwyn felt herself ned slowly. That name stirred long-forgotten memories, and images that she could not quite conjure-like dreams, forgotten past retrieval. The enormity of it dazzled her. Her father had a name. She had a name!

She eased her knife away from the priest's throat. Then she flipped her hand, palm up, and drove the hilt of the knife hard into Malchior's temple.

His eyes rolled back, showing the whites, and his body sagged forward. Bronwyn released her grip on his hair, and he fell facedown onto the carpet he'd ruined with the tavern wench's blood.

Bronwyn cautiously stooped and placed her fingers just below the man's ear. Life still beat in him. He would awaken far too soon, to do more evil, but that was the deal she had made. His life, and the promise that whatever secrets he had inadvertently confided to the amber necklace would be kept from prying eyes.

Promise made, promise kept.

She rose and slipped back behind the tapestry. She would leave by a different path from the one she had taken in, but this first step was the same. As she made her way through the escape route her elf associate had carefully marked out, Bronwyn tried not to regret what she had done. She kept her promises, whether made to man or monster. It made good sense. Even if a person was totally lacking in honor, that did not render him incapable of recognizing and appreciating honor in others. She did well-for herself, her clients, and the Harpers-because people knew her reputation and were willing to deal with het But there was another reason for this stern policy, one even more important and deeply personal. If once, just once, she allowed herself to break the primary rule that guided her path, would she be any different from the people with whom she dealt?

A new voice in her mind-new, yet disturbingly familiar- added a quiet addendum. And if she broke the rules, could she truly be a paladin's daughter?