Thornhold

FIVE

Bronwyn stopped when she was perhaps a hundred paces from Black-staff Tower. It was one of the oddest buildings in a very unusual city. A tall, flat-topped cone of seemingly unbroken black stone, it was surrounded by a curtain wall of the same dark substance, a wall without any apparent doors.

She circled around, not quite sure what she was looking for. Then, she noted a basket at the foot of the wall, a tall wicker basket such as a merchant might use to haul goods to the market stalls. There were a few baskets of that sort in the back room of the Curious Past. Bronwyn edged between two nearby buildings and settled down to wait.

After a short time, the basket began to move, dragged by the handle by a small, white-haired gnome. Bronwyn caught her breath in a half sob as she recognized Alice.

Even through her pain, Bronwyn had to admire the gnome's pioy. Emerging through an invisible wall was one thing, and would surely seize the attention of any who witnessed it. But who would notice a gnome tradeswoman, who appeared only to be stooping to adjust her load before proceeding on her way? Alice had obviously planned to slip through the wall behind the basket, wait for an opportune moment, and then go on her way. It was well done.

Bronwyn followed, keeping at least thirty paces between herself and the treacherous gnome. At least she now knew how the Harpers had been keeping an eye on her business. That Alice reported directly to Khelben Arunsun, the Master Harper, was a matter of some concern. Bronwyn could see no reason why she warranted such lofty attention. No doubt the archmage was concerned about her contact with Malchior. Members of the Zhentarim seldom ventured into Waterdeep, and their activities were carefully monitored. And as she herself had noted, a skilled mage could probably get a good deal of information from the amber necklace that Malchior had handled. Khelben had not been happy to lose it.

Anger welled up anew, momentarily stopping Bronwyn in her tracks. Khelben must have ordered Alice to bring him the necklace. And this, after Bronwyn had pledged to Ma!chior that she would keep it safe from those who could read magic's secrets. Once again, it seemed that the Harpers were forcing her to renege on her word. That, she simply could not allow.

When she reached Curious Past Bronwyn threw open the door with a force and fury that brought a shower of plaster shimmering down off the wattle-and-daub walls and rattled the rare things displayed on the shelves. Two startled haifling customers and one equally surprised gnome shopkeeper stared up at her in astonishment.

"Where is the amber necklace?" she demanded of Alice.

The gnome's brown face furrowed in puzzlement. "In the safe, child, where you left it. Please browse-I'll be back directly," she said to the customers. The gnome shot a glance toward her personal version of a shop's cat-a sleek, keen-eyed raven named, appropriately enough, Shopscat. The raven hopped down from his perch, positioning himself so that the haifling matron's fingers were within easy reach of his wicked, yellow beak.

Alice and Bronwyn hurried into the dusty jumble of baskets, boxes and barrels that was the shop's back room. Behind them they heard a sharp squawk, followed by a haifling's startled squeal. "Think about it," the raven advised, one of several phrases it used to good effect.

The gnome sighed and shut the door behind her. "I'll have to hurry before Flilfuphia cleans out the place. Bronwyn, there are things you must know. Sit, child."

Bronwyn sat, settling down on a suspiciously familiar basket. She swallowed the lump that rose in her throat. "I have a few questions for you, too."

"They'll have to wait. Please listen well. This is not easy to say, and I'd hate to have to repeat any of it."

"Go on," Bronwyn said cautiously. She gripped the edges of the basket so tightly that the wicker edges bit into her still-sore palms. This response was the last thing she'd expected from Alice. The gnome was always calm, competent. Never show them what you're thinking, Alice had often cautioned Bronwyn; this was a rule that governed all their business dealings and, it would seem, their dealings with each other. But for the moment at least, Alice had cast aside her own rules. The gnome's slightly prominent eyes glistened with tears, her face was drawn and pained, and her form shook with emotion too strong to repress. In short, Alice was a precise mirror for what Bronwyn herself was feeling.

"Child, you're not the only Harper in this shop. I was assigned to watch and protect you, without telling you why. I didn't know why, until recently, other than a general knowledge of who and what I was to look out for. But the pot is heating up…" In a few terse words, the gnome told her what Khelben had said about the Zhentarim, the paladins, and the family artifacts.

As Bronwyn listened some of the pain of betrayal seeped away, but her determination was stronger than ever. "I need to go to Thornhold," she said. "I have to see my father."

"Of course you do, child." The gnome looked at her shrewdly. "But that's what they expect you to do. There might be problems. Unless, of course, we can distract them."

Bronwyn nodded as a plan started to fall into place. But one question remained. She met and held Alice's gaze. 'We?" she asked pointedly.

"We," the gnome said firmly. "You do what you must, and I'll help you however I can." Alice hesitated, then held out her hand, offering both an apology and a pact.

A clasp of the wrist, Harper to Harper. Bronwyn understood the gesture and found it inadequate to what Alice offered and what they shared. She struck the tiny hand aside. Before the shock in Alice's eyes could turn to hurt, she gathered the little gnome into her arms. The two women clung together in a brief, fierce embrace.

After a moment Alice cleared her throat and drew back. "Well, I'd better go see what Shopscat is squawking about," she said hurriedly, dashing the back of her hand against her eyes.

"Good idea," Bronwyn replied, though she had not heard the raven's raucous voice since they'd left the shop. A fond smile curved her lips as she watched the gnome scurry out to the shop. Then she wiped her eyes and climbed the back stair to her room, to collect her thoughts and to prepare for the trip ahead.

The small sea cave, located to the south of the Stone-shaft tunnels by a half day's brisk walk, measured six paces from side to side. Ebenezer marked off the width again, then again, pacing distractedly as he considered his predicament.

It wasn't much of a cave. Exceedingly small, it was littered with dried seaweed, crab claws, and broken shells. Various mussel-like critters clung to the stone walls and ceiling, and the floor was a combination of cliff rock and ocean sand. Not exactly homey by the dwarf's standards, but it served him now as a combination haven and prison. The large boulder he'd shoved into the opening nearly covered the mouth of the cave, keeping it secure-for now. Ebenezer wasn't sure what he'd do when the tide came in. Drown, most likely. He could hear the sea and even smell its salty tang, though that was hard to do over the much closer and far more foul aroma outside.

"Off the chopping board and into the stew pot," Ebenezer muttered. It was a dwarven cliche, but since it fit the situation so perfectly he thought he could maybe get by with using it, just this once.

Glumly he reviewed the steps that had led him to this predicament. He'd survived the drop from the ledge onto solid stone below just fine and had kicked his way out of the splintered crate-only to lose his balance and splash into the river. Ebenezer had never learned to swim, and now he knew why. Being in cold, moving water was damned unpleasant. He'd been tossed and buffeted about for what seemed like hours, going under more times than he could count. The only thing that had kept him from drowning was sheer cussedness- that, and the large rock that he'd slammed smack into. Fortunately, the rock was not the only one of its kind, and once his eyes had uncrossed he'd been able to make his way to shore. Problem was by then he was well past the warren of Stoneshaft tunnels and the only way back was up the river he came down on. Thank you, no. So he'd taken to the surface by the quickest tunnel and headed south along the sea's shoreline-noisy, nasty thing, that sea-to a point where he could scale the nearly sheer cliff and get up to the Trade Way. Ebenezer's thinking was that the road was the fastest way back to the tunnels' entrance. Unfortunately, he had a long walk ahead-at least a half day, the way he figured it. He suspected that he would be too late.

That was what the "chopping board" looked like. The "stew pot" was no improvement. Ebenezer sighed and edged closer to the mouth of the tiny cave.

A skeletal hand lashed out toward him. The dwarf leaned back, and the grasping claw swiped past, so close that the smell of rotting flesh nearly knocked him on his backside.

"That was close," Ebenezer admitted as he backed away. "Good thing I shaved off the mustache, or he might 'a got a grip."

The dwarf adjusted the boulder that blocked most of the cave's mouth and settled down to think. Men, he could fight.

Orcs, goblins, even elves if it came to that. But he had no idea what the creatures outside his cave were-or, more accurately, had been. Wasn't enough left of the things to tell. And even if he knew what style of fighting was called for, he had no weapons to fight with. Yep. This was a stew pot, all right.

Ebenezer ventured another peek over the rock. On the rocky shore beyond his hiding place, three misshapen creatures, their flesh so bloated and rotten as to render them unrecognizable, paced hungrily. The dwarf knew that undead creatures abounded in the Mere of Dead Men, but this was the farthest away from the swamp he'd heard of them coming.

"Lost, are you?" he bellowed out at them. "Head north, then. Follow the sea. When the going gets mushy underfoot, you're almost home."

There was more than bravado prompting his words. Ebenezer knew a zombie when he smelled one. Someone had raised up these poor creatures, turned dead men or whatever else they'd been into rotting, unthinking warriors. It was a long shot, but he figured the zombies might just listen to him, lacking another master to tell them what to do.

As it happened, his words had an effect-though not the one he'd anticipated.

"Hello the cave!" shouted a clear, young baritone voice. "Are you unhurt, friend?"

The shout came from the direction of the road. Ebenezer scrambled to his feet. "Got no complaints," he hollered back, "other than being pinned down by three very dead people who forgot to lie down and quit."

There was a pause, silence broken only by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. "I see them."

The young man's voice held repugnance, but no fear. That worried Ebenezer. "You got company, I hope?"

"I am alone," the voice answered calmly, "but the grace of Tyr is with me."

One man, confident in the favor of some human god. The dwarf groaned and slumped against the cave wall. He slid down and sat and tried his best not to listen to what was sure to come. Zombies were not tidy fighters and generally liked to tear their prey messily apart.

To his surprise, the young man's voice lifted in a song, a hymn by the sounds of it. Wouldn't be well received in a tavern, leastwise, being slow and solemn and not real catchy. But Ebenezer felt its power and was drawn by it. He scrambled to his feet and peered out over the boulder.

A young man, curly-headed as a lamb and nearly as fair, approached on a tall white horse. The three zombies staggered toward him, a fact that disturbed the man's composure not at all. He merely lifted one hand to the sky and pointed the other at the undead creatures. His song lifted, swelled to a shout of power. "In the name of Tyr, I command you to yield to your fate!"

Instantly, the creatures sagged and fell. Rotten flesh dissolved, bones made brittle by long contact with unnatural, prolonged decay gave way and crumbled into powder.

Ebenezer shouldered the rock out of the way and emerged from the cave. "That's a good trick," he admitted.

The young man nodded. "You are most welcome, friend dwarf. It was a good thing that I heard your shouts. Now you must excuse me."

"Hold on," the dwarf said, catching the horse's reins. "I gotta get word to my clan. Can you take me where I need to go?"

"Icewind could not long carry the two of us," the young man said, nodding at his splendid white horse, "and my duty takes me elsewhere."

"But this is important!"

"Then may Tyr speed your steps and provide a means for your swift journey."

"Might could be that he already has," Ebenezer muttered. He reached up and seized a handful of the man's white and blue tabard, and yanked him down off the horse.

They tumbled together, and the young man reached for his sword. Ebenezer grabbed the first weapon that came to hand-a rock about twice the size of his fist-and slammed it between the human's eyes. The young man groaned and fell limp. Ebenezer hopped to his feet. "Sorry about that," he muttered, relieved to see that the human still breathed. Borrowing a horse in dire straits was one thing, outright killing a man who'd done him a good turn was quite another. But, as the man had said, Tyr would provide. It'd be downright ungrateful for Ebenezer to ignore such a thoughtful and timely gift.

The dwarf seized the horse's reins and led the beast over to the boulder. He climbed onto the rock and just barely managed to hoist his foot into the stirrup. He hauled himself up and settled down in the saddle. Unlike most dwarves, he liked horses and rode when he could. This was the finest horse he'd ever had. It wouldn't be easy to give the beast back, but Ebenezer determined that he would find a way to do so.

"I'm off, then," he advised the man, who was beginning to shake off the effects of the blow. "If you've got problems with that, you might want to take it up with Tyr."

Ebenezer shook the reins over the white horse's neck, and headed northward toward his clan and home.

Danilo was a frequent visitor to Curious Past. Until now, he not given much thought to his role in fostering Bronwyn's business. He liked rare and beautiful things, and so did many of his wealthy peers. It was a small matter to send them Bronwyn's way, a favor no larger than he would do for any friend. The difference was that he was doing this at Khelben's direction and for the express purpose of keeping Bronwyn in Waterdeep and under the eye of the archmage.

As he stood before the tall, trim building that housed the shop, Danilo wondered what Bronwyn would think of this involvement or how she would react if she knew that her shop-like many others on this street and others-was in fact owned by the Harpers. Perhaps he should tell her outright, Danilo mused as he pushed open the large oak-plank door. Perhaps he should tell her everything he had learned about her heritage. But Khelben insisted that doing so would endanger her. In Danilo's opinion, the archmage was overly cautious and often downright miserly with information, but how could he be certain that Khelben's warnings were not valid?

"Think about it," advised a raucous, inhuman voice, speaking almost in his ear.

Danilo jumped, then turned to find himself face to beak with a large raven. A wry smile curved his lips. Odd that the raven's standard rejoinder meshed so perfectly with his ambivalent state of mind.

"I assure you, my dear Shopscat, I have been doing precisely that. Is your mistress in attendance?"

The raven merely cocked his head and eyed the shiny gold hoop in Danilo's ear. Danilo clapped one hand to his ear and took several judicious steps back. Shopscat was a shoplifter's bane, but the raven occasionally showed himself unable to discern which valuables belonged in the shop and which the shoppers were entitled to take with them by right of prior ownership.

"He doesn't understand you, and he doesn't answer back," Alice Tinker said, coming out from behind the counter.

"I stopped by to see Bronwyn," he said bluntly. "Is she about?"

"You missed her," Alice said, her blue eyes wide and ingenuous. "Just. She left for Daggersford this morning. Took the South Gate out," she added helpfully.

"Really."

"She's on commission. Some paladin sent her off looking for an old sword. A paladin's sword. Not exactly magical, but blessed-though exactly what the difference might be, I couldn't tell you. It seems it was lost, some two hundred years back in an important battle with lizard men. Bronwyn heard tell of a sword that might fit the bill. The marsh has been receding, you know, and there's a boy in Daggersford who found an old sword when he was out digging mussels. She's off to see if these swords are one and the same."

"My, that's quite a bit of information," Danilo observed lightly.

Alice shrugged again. "That's what I do. Anything else you need to know?"

"When do you expect her back? Daggersford is-what? About two days' ride? I imagine she'll need a day or two to conduct her business, and then about the same time back."

"Yes, that sounds about right," the gnome agreed.

As well it should, Dan noted. Daggersford and Thornhold were almost equal distances from Waterdeep, albeit in opposite directions. He suspected that Bronwyn probably did leave by the South Gate, only to blend in with a northbound caravan, return through the city, and slip out the North Gate with yet another caravan. She had used such ploys before, to good effect. And he had to admire the bit Alice had added about the paladin's commission. That was simply inspired. Clearly, the Harpers would not want to alert the paladins to their interest in Bronwyn, and they could hardly knock at the doors of the Halls of Justice and demand to know what errand they'd sent Bronwyn to attend. The reasonable thing for the Harpers to do would be to pursue her to Daggersford and ensure her safety.

Well, that is what the "Harpers" would do. Danilo, personally, had other plans. He stooped and kissed the gnome's brown cheek. "Thank you, Alice."

"What for?" She sniffed and scrubbed at her cheek with one hand. "I gave you my report, same as always. You'll pass along the report, same as always. Business as usual."

"I'll pass along the report you gave me," he said, giving the words deliberate emphasis.

Awareness dawned in the gnome's eyes, and a small, grateful smile curved her lips. She cleared her throat and turned aside. She opened a glass-topped table and snatched up a pair of teardrop earrings; silver, set with moonstones and sapphires. They were beautiful, and perfect for Danilo's half-elf partner.

"These are elven, and if I remember aright, the elf festival of Springrite is just around the corner."

He counted out the price and put the gold coins into the gnome's hand. "Arilyn will love them. She may even wear them. You are an excellent saleswoman, Alice," he said, punctuating his remark with another kiss to her cheek, "and an even better friend."

Danilo turned and left, shooing off the suddenly suspicious raven and noting, with great satisfaction, that this time the gnome permitted his heartfelt kiss to remain where he'd left it. And as he went, he sent up a silent prayer to Selune, the goddess of moonlight and the patron of all seekers, that Bronwyn would find her way safely to Thorn-hold, and that there she would find what she had been seeking so long.

Dag Zoreth had heard stories about the vastness and complexity of the underground world, but all of them paled before the reality. The tunnels and caverns beneath the Sword Mountains went on forever, delving far deeper than he had imagined a man could go. Dag Zoreth had never been so far underground. It was oppressive in a way that no fortress dungeon, no matter how dank and fearful, could ever duplicate. Perhaps it was the knowledge that tons of rock and soil loomed overhead, or the constant danger posed by the river that careened through the heart of the mountain.

The river path was wet and treacherous. More than one man had fallen down the steep embankment, to be swept away to his death. They had been forced to slaughter one of the pack mules who'd fallen and broken a leg amid the uneven stones. The noise of the rushing water was nearly deafening, and the only light was the luminous moss that grew in uneven patterns on the tunnel walls.

But Dag had chosen the path for its very hazards. The river's roar would drown out the sounds of the approaching army, and the glowing moss made torchlight unnecessary. It was never easy to surprise dwarves. Taking out their outposts-a reclusive smith and some far-ranging mining parties-would help. One of the miners had yielded up some interesting news. Not willingly, of course. He had died without speaking, despite the Zhentish soldiers' most creative efforts to wrest information from him by torture. The dwarf's spirit had been more accommodating. Grudging even in death, the dwarf had given up, bit by bit, the fact that most of the Stoneshaft clan had gathered to celebrate the wedding of the patriarch's youngest daughter. There would be days of festivity and merriment. Wedding ale, a particularly potent brew, would be abundant.

None of the soldiers believed that this guaranteed an easy time of it. Dwarves were fearsome fighters whose prowess and ferocity only seemed to rise with the level of ale in their bellies. But what the Zhentarim had in their favor was surprise, in the form of access to tunnels that, until recently, no one but the paladins of Thornhold knew existed.

Sir Gareth's information proved accurate, though Dag had taken care to verify it wherever he could. Finally they reached the last tunnel, the one that led to the Stoneshaft clanhold's great hall.

A call for silence and readiness passed down the line, moving swiftly by blow and gesture. Dag watched as the soldiers loosened their weapons and removed extras from the nearly empty packs on the mules. The animals would stay back with the drovers, for they would be useful in the new trade routes that would follow this conquest. When all was ready, Dag nodded to his captain, and the soldiers crept forward.

Excitement, dark and compelling, welled up in Dag's heart. He bad seen battle before, but only from a distance. His superiors at Darkhold deemed him too valuable to risk in close combat. He had earned his position in the war-clerics through his command of strategy and the clerical spells he had developed with Cyric's blessing. This was the first time he would smell the blood and the fear, taste the potent wine of destruction.

He fell into place behind the fighters and began murmuring a low prayer. Into it he poured all his long-repressed anger, his hatred, his desire for blood and power and death.

The evil spell gathered force and power, growing until it felt to Dag like a living thing, a third being born of Cyric's dark power and his own unfathomable yearning. The power reached out and seized the soldiers with unseen hands, swept them along into the vortex of what Dag felt, saw, and summoned. Soon the men were running, thundering down the tunnel with weapons aloft and eyes glittering with bloodthirst.

The dwarves heard and came running out to meet them, as Dag had intended for them to do. They came barreling down their tunnel and into an antechamber, a vast work of art so grimly beautiful it nearly distracted Dag from his terrible devotions.

Almost, but not quite. Dag's voice lifted into a sound like shrieking wind. The spell tore free of his throat and whirled into the chamber.

Power, visible only to his eyes, swept with maelstrom force to engulf and encircle the massive stone statues that ringed the chamber. Instantly the statues began to tremble.

The dwarves paused, startled into temporary inaction by this harbinger of the one thing their kind feared above all others: earthquake.

But the reality of Cyric's wrath was something both less and more terrible. The wondrous statues of long-dead dwarf heroes turned on their descendants. They tilted inward, breaking free of their pedestals with thundering booms, and then crashed into the dwarven throng.

Some of the dwarves were fleet enough of foot and wit to escape back down the tunnel, but dozens were crushed beneath falling stone. The Zhentish soldiers rushed into the swirling cloud of dust.

The sounds of furious battle echoed through the tunnel that led to the great hall. Though the Zhentarim had the strength of numbers and arms and magic, Dag did not count the dwarves out yet, not by any means.

He had reason to know how fiercely people could fight to defend their homes and family. He bad seen his brother Byorn die doing just that, living longer than he should have against odds far greater than any sane man would face. Young Byorn's face rose up before him now, bringing with it a stab of poignant loss. Dag ruthlessly thrust the memory aside.

He began the chant of another dark spell, one that he himself had developed as a Darkhold war-cleric, one that he had taught to the men and women under him. Dream-pursuit, he called it. It slowed the limbs of their opponents, made each motion as languid and heavy as if they were moving through water. The spell duplicated, with precise and deadly effect, the feeling one had in a nightmare of being pursued and unable to run. Only this spell was not a dream, but grim reality.

The spell took effect, turning the dwarves' battle effort into a slow, macabre dance. Dag studied the surviving dwarves for signs of value. When be saw one be thought might do, he limned the prospective slave in faint purple light, which served both to freeze the dwarf in place, and to mark him as beyond limits. His men knew better, even in the grip of the spell-enhanced battle-lust, to thwart Dag's demonstrated will.

Dag found himself enjoying the process of selection. Each dwarf that died by his command was an offering to Cyric, god of strife. But this offering held something more, something so exhilarating that it bordered on blasphemy. Cyric received, but only the offerings Dag Zoreth chose to give. He pointed, and a dwarf lived. A red-bearded female, probably a gem smith judging from her rich ornaments. A beardless child. Another. That one with the hammer uplifted to crush a soldier's skull. A stout female with festive garb and a long gray beard. No, that one was too old to be of lasting value. The purple light surrounding her vanished, and a Zbent's sword slashed in.

It was over too soon. In the relative silence that followed the slaughter, Dag's heart pounded so hard that he was certain all could hear it. That mattered not. His men would not think less of him for it. His dark pleasure was mirrored on the face of every surviving Zhent.

Dag took a long breath, gathering himself and turning to the next task. "Chain the captives, no more than three together," he instructed. "Drive them to the surface. The wagons are ready?"

"They are, my lord," his captain answered.

Dag nodded. Slavery was outlawed in much of the northlands, and he had deemed it imprudent to march the dwarves overland. Enclosed wagons offered a degree of security. The dwarves would be shipped to the south and sold in the markets where dwarven lives and skills had a price. The money would go to Zhentil Keep, ensuring that there would be little discussion over whether Dag would be permitted to hold what he had conquered.

The task, however pleasurable it might have been, was not yet done. There were tunnels to explore and tunnels to seal. And then, the best of all…

The destruction of Thornhold and the reclamation of Dag Zoreth's birthright.