Thornhold

SEVEN

The sounds of battle faded swiftly as Bronwyn plummeted down the steeply sloping shaft. Down she slid, picking up speed as she went.

Dimly she realized that the tunnel was carved into the thick wall of the keep and that she had fallen down what was a nearly vertical drop. She wrapped her arms over her head and steeled herself for whatever would come at the bottom of the shaft.

But the tunnel curved suddenly, sliding her into what seemed to be a spiraling arc. She suspected that the tunnel was sweeping down through the curved wall, but she could not be certain. Balance and sense of direction had abandoned her, swept aside by the speed of her headlong slide. There was no time to consider her situation, to plan or even to react. She had no choices, no options, but to surrender to the force that held her in its grip. This she understood without words or even conscious thought, and the understanding raised her frustration into simmering rage. Was there nothing in her life, nothing at all, over which she had any control?

Suddenly Bronwyn realized that the tunnel had widened.

She no longer felt the walls rushing past her, brushing her along one side and then the other. And she no longer felt the ripple of the closely fitted stones beneath her. The floor over which she careened was still smooth but seemingly of solid stone.

She was inside the mountain now, Bronwyn realized, and still falling.

Her speed hadn't lessened much, but at least she had some room to maneuver. She wrenched herself to one side, tucking her knees up against her chest and then kicking out as hard as she could. Neither her outstretched hands nor her kicking feet managed to graze a wall, but stretching herself out full length had some effect. Her wild slide began to slow. Bronwyn dared to hope that the ride was almost over.

Just then she hit another curve. Her weight shifted, sending her into a spin. Completely out of control now, Bronwyn tumbled and rolled. She flailed about wildly, seeking something, anything, to hold onto that might halt her wild ride. There was nothing; the stone floor and walls were smooth and sheer. She was grateful for that. If the tunnel had been rough, she would have been torn and battered past recognition, but at the moment, she would almost welcome a boulder in her path if it would stop her precipitous slide.

Then, suddenly, one was there-or at least, something that closely resembled a boulder. She caught a glimpse of it, silhouetted against some faint, distant light far beyond. She threw her arms over her head to ward her face, and then plunged headfirst into a hard, rounded wall.

Fortunately for Bronwyn, the "wall" had some give to it. A startled oofl wheezed out, and strong, stubby arms and legs thrashed about in a brief, desperate attempt to hold position on the steep incline. For just a moment, Bronwyn grappled with her unseen "rescuer" as they both teetered on the edge of a fall. They lost the battle, and the slide resumed in a tangle of arms and legs and a flurry of gruff-voiced and exceedingly earthy curses.

The tunnel began to level out, and Bronwyn slowly skidded and spun to a stop. She had no idea where she was, but at least there was a bit of light-a soft, greenish glow, probably due to the phosphoric lichens that grew in some underground caverns. Bronwyn lay flat on her back, willing the whirling shapes and colors to sort themselves out into images she could use. With one hand she groped for her knife, in case she needed to defend herself against what she could not yet see.

A few paces away, Ebenezer groaned and rolled up onto his knees. He hurt from beard to boots, but his belly had definitely taken the worst of it. Physical pain was something he knew, something he could handle. Compared to the agonizing grief of his clan's destruction, a few aches and pains was almost a relief. A distraction. So was the anger that welled up when his eyes settled on the small, disheveled woman sprawled out on the stone floor of the cavern.

Ebenezer rose to his feet and staggered over to the dazed human. "Well, are you gonna lie there all day?" he demanded in a querulous voice.

She opened her eyes and squinted in the direction of his voice. Her head bobbed around a bit, as if she were trying to peer through a swirling haze.

"A dwarf;" she muttered, and her eyes drifted closed again. "No wonder I thought I'd run into a boulder."

"You weren't far wrong," Ebenezer said in a tight, rumbling growl, "only boulders generally don't go taking revenge when they're attacked."

That got her attention. Her eyes popped open, and she pulled a long knife out of a sheath attached to one side of her belt. She hauled herself onto her feet, looking so wildly unsteady that Ebenezer confidently waited for her to fail. She wobbled a mite, but stayed up. Dropping to a respectable crouch, she held her knife in a practiced, blade-down grip.

A fight, then. That was fine with Ebenezer. He pulled from his belt the hammer he'd taken from Frodwinner's cold, clenched fist.

"You're wrong. I didn't attack you," the woman stated as she began to circle around him.

He turned with her, rubbing his aching belly. "Yeah? What would you call it?"

"Falling."

Despite his anger, Ebenezer had to admit that there was something to that. When humans wanted to bombard someone, they didn't generally use their own bodies as missiles. Ebenezer granted that this human might not have deliberately halted his process up to the fortress, but he still had ample justification for wrath. His clanmates had been slain or captured. Ebenezer would kill any Zhent he saw in Stoneshaft tunnels, starting with this one.

"Falling, eh?" Ebenezer echoed bitterly. "Get ready to fall a mite further. I'm-a gonna send you and all your kind straight to the Abyss."

He circled her, measuring her height and balance and stance. Humans, in his experience, were fairly predictable. When they saw a hammer or axe coming at them,! most of them instinctively ducked. But it seemed that their instincts didn't take into reckoning the measure of a dwarf's height and reach. Ebenezer noticed that oftentimes all they managed to do was lean into the coming blow. Aim at the shoulder, and he'd get the head. A good deal, by his measure.

He lashed out, swinging the hammer in a high, side-sweeping blow.

But this human didn't respond as Ebenezer had anticipated. She dropped flat to the cave floor, rolled in the opposite direction of his hammer swing, and came up behind him. Her knife slashed across the seat of his leather breeches.

He whirled at her, one hand clutching at the sudden, stinging breeze. "You've fought dwarves before," he observed coldly. That confirmed his suspicions. Not many humans took on a dwarf, not unless they had a powerful personal grudge or a bunch of Mends close at hand. Judging by the devastation of the clanhold, she had a big bunch of Mends.

The woman danced back a few paces. Her big-eyed gaze darted around the cavern as if searching for a means of escape. "I've known some dwarves, that's all." She lifted one eyebrow and gave him a small, knowing smile. "One of them, I knew very well."

Her meaning was unmistakable, but Ebenezer wasn't buying that. Humans and dwarves did very littie cavorting, and no serious courting to speak of. "Bah!" he scoffed. "What would a dwarf want with the likes of you?"

She proceeded to tell him, in detail so vivid that he was certain his cheeks were as red as his beard. Ebenezer liked a good tall tale as much as the next dwarf; but he was in no mood to swap boasts with a murderous Zhent wench. He cut her off with a quick advance, followed by a series of hammer-swings that kept her dodging and retreating for several long moments.

"You're quick," he gave her, when they both paused for breath. "But trying to distract me just ain't going to work!"

"No?" The woman smirked and lunged forward with a knife feint.

Ebenezer leaned back away from the blade. She sprang at him before he could right himself He did his best to bring the hammer up and around, but she was already in too close.

Her weight slammed into him-a pretty good hit for such a scrawny thing, but Ebenezer was used to harder hits, and he didn't expect to go down. He wouldn't have, except for the large stone right behind him. Seems that he had been a mite distracted, after all. Never saw the rock. It hit the back of his knees, which buckled and folded on him. Ebenezer toppled back, much to his mortification.

The woman went down with him, writhing and scratching and spitting mad, impossible to hit in so close and just generally as hard to hold as a trout. Little and puny she might be, but she fought with a fury that would have had Tarlamera's cats sitting up and taking notice.

Embarrassed now as well as angry Ebenezer wanted nothing more than to be finished with this. He palmed the stone floor in search of his hammer. Nothing. He cast a look to one side-and hollered when the damn female sank her teeth into his exposed ear. The weapon lay well out of reach. Ebenezer swore and shoved the two-legged she-cat away. He scrambled to his feet and then dived for the hammer.

The woman spat blood and leaped after him. Her arms wrapped around his ankles. Down he went, flopping onto his already abused belly. His chin hit the stone with a mind-numbing crack. Worse, his outstretched fingers fell short of the weapon's handle.

She scrambled over his back and grabbed the hammer, then flung it away as far as she could. Ebenezer heard the crack of mithral on stone, then the slithering, metallic slide down the steep bank into the river.

That was one blow too many for him. Ebenezer bucked once, easily throwing her off. He staggered to his feet and stabbed one stubby finger at her in furious accusation.

"Now you're starting to get me riled," he bellowed, with typical dwarven understatement.

The human was already on her feet, circling again, those big eyes all wild looking and wisps of her brown hair sticking up every which way. It occurred to Ebenezer, briefly, that she looked almost as angry and crazed and grief-ravaged as he felt.

"Getting riled, are you?" she gritted out. "Then I suppose it won't make much difference if I do this-"

She leaped at him, cat-quick, and fisted both her hands in his long red beard. Ebenezer yowled in pain and fury and outraged dwarven dignity.

But the wench wasn't done with him yet. She leaped up, yanking back hard on his beard as she tucked up her knees and then kicked out, planting her booted feet squarely into his belly. She went down onto her back, dragging Ebenezer down after her. His hands braced out to catch himself when he fell, partly by instinct and partly because he didn't much like the idea of wiping squashed human off his tunic.

Things didn't quite work out that way. The woman hit the floor first and kicked her feet up and out. Ebenezer felt the cavern shift weirdly, and his boots described a fast arc over his head. Over he went, flipping like an oat cake on a griddle. He soared over the woman and landed hard on his backside.

Quick hands swept his beard up past his face, crossed, then pulled back down. Before his head crashed to the stone, Ebenezer felt a quick, strangling tug. Disbelief coursed through him, along with a fresh wave of anger. The woman had the stones to try to strangle him with his own beard!

Ebenezer struggled to his feet, dragging the stubborn woman up with him. He twisted this way and that, but she clung to him like a burr on a mule and only tightened her grip. His lungs began to burn, and his vision turned dark around the edges. The pounding of his own heart grew until the roaring in his ears thundered and rolled like the dingblasted sea.

This was not the sort of death that would earn him a place in the hall of heroes. Determined not be brought down in this ignominious fashion, Ebenezer staggered over to the cavern wall. If he could get there before he fell, if he could slam her up against the stone a few times, maybe he could break her grip.

He was almost there when her stranglehold suddenly loosened and her weight slid down his back. Ebenezer dragged in a ragged breath and dug his fingers beneath the suddenly slack strands of his beard. He started to pull, but stopped suddenly when he saw what she had seen.

"Stones," he muttered in a voice raw from near strangulation.

The conquest of Thornhold was complete. Dag Zoreth walked through the fortress reviewing the work his men had made of the job.

They had certainly been thorough. Only a few of the servants remained alive. The man who kept and butchered the pigs and chickens, for instance, the brewer, a few of the kitchen staff. Most of the fortress's inhabitants had been too infected by the paladins whom they had served and were even now turning to ash on the massive bier.

Smoke rose in dark, fetid clouds from beyond the fortress walls. The slain paladins and their followers had been tossed onto a burning pile of driftwood and old straw. Such fuel did not produce the hottest fire, but Dag's new castellan-a thin, dark man who would have been handsome but for the livid brand on one cheek-was a practical steward and manager, and he decreed that Thornhold's supply of firewood and timber was too dear to waste on such matters. Dag had been content to yield the decision to the castellan; after all, the man had ably managed the estates of an Amnian nobleman, until the discovery of his dalliance with the man's wife had led to his discharge and disfigurement. Dag cared nothing about a man's habits, and the castellan's advice seemed sound enough. And if the paladins did not burn completely, what of it? Did not the ravens and wild beasts of the Sword Coast need to eat?

The celebration inside the fortress that night was raucous and long. The soldiers raided the cellars and brought casks of ale and wine up to the keep's dining hall. Several of the slaughtered animals, along with leeks and root vegetables from the cellar, went into a huge pot for stew. The men feasted and drank and sang and boasted until the moon had set, and stayed doggedly at it until most of them were snoring at the table with their faces pillowed in their gravy-soaked trenchers.

Dag held himself apart from this, watching and waiting quietly until he was certain he would have the privacy he needed. There was one more thing he must do, the one final thing that would make the victory truly his.

When the night sky had faded from obsidian to sapphire, when dawn was not long in coming and the fortress silent but for a few drunken snores, Dag walked into the chapel and closed the heavy doors behind him.

A few squat candles still burned on the alter, and more in the plain iron sconces set into the wails. Most of the flames had winked out or diminished into fading wisps of blue sinking into tallow puddles. Unusually fine candles, they were. Dag had noticed earlier that the chandler's shop produced a good supply of tall, thick candles, big enough to burn through a day or a night. A pity, Dag mused, that the talented chandler had held so steadfastly to the path of righteousness. Had the man shown a bit more flexibility, he might have lived to bedeck Cyric's altar. Dag could envision the chapel lit by scores of enormous, deep purple tapers.

But perhaps he could do even better. Dag walked up the wide stairs that led to the altar and stood for a moment gazing up at the wooden scales of justice, the symbol of stern Tyr, then he closed his eyes and began to chant.

Power filled the chapel, and with it a ghastly purple light as tall flames rose from the spent candles. The priest opened his eyes and studied the long, writhing shadows that danced against the wall. No, not danced-fought. Shadowy paladins, milling about in an endless battle they could never win. The spectacle pleased Dag, as he suspected it would please Cyric.

Proof of his god's pleasure was not long in coming. A low, thrumming boom sounded through the chapel, and the symbol of Tyr tilted slowly and crashed to the altar. Flames from the candles leaped up to engulf the wooden scales, consumed them utterly, then rose higher still. The unnatural fire converged, rose into the air, and took the shape of a livid purple sunburst. As Dag watched, awestruck, a darkness appeared in the heart of the manifestation, growing larger until it took the form of an enormous black skull.

Dag slowly dropped to his knees, his ambitions both humbled and confirmed by this great sign of Cyric's favor. He raised his hands, which were still stained with dried blood, and began to chant anew. This time, his words formed a prayer of supplication, importuning Cyric to accept the gifts of conquest and intrigue and strife and to guide him as he sought the next step in his path to power.

The priest was confident that his god would be with him. The gift he offered was far more than a chapel of Tyr, its sanctity polluted by foul magic and its grim majesty rededicated to Cyric. In Dag's mind, he could bring no greater offering to his dark god than the death of a great paladin of Tyr, a descendant of the mighty Samular himself, the man who had been his father.

Bronwyn saw the torchlight before she heard the soldiers' approach. The sudden appearance of four armed Zhentilar shocked and sobered her, and the blinding red haze of her anger slipped away. With sudden clarity, she realized that this dwarf was not her enemy. The poor fellow probably made his home in these tunnels. It seemed unlikely he was allied with the Zhentarim; in fact, he looked no happier to see the soldiers than she was. She released her grip on his beard and pushed him away.

"Stones!" he spat, and though his voice was rough from her ill-treatment, the venom and vitriol in that one word marked it as a dwarven curse.

Bronwyn felt the need to let loose a few soft curses of her own. This drew a quick, curious stare from her red-bearded opponent.

"Aren't you with them?"

"I thought you were," she shot back. The enemy of my enemy, she thought grimly. "We fight or run?"

"You lost my hammer," he groused, "which narrows down the choices a mite."

At that moment, one of the soldiers caught sight of them. He pointed and shouted, and the four men kicked into a running charge.

"Run," Bronwyn decided.

The dwarf jerked his head toward the river and was off at a fast, rolling trot. Bronwyn followed, but she ached in every joint and sinew, and her movements felt stiff and awkward. Her eyes widened as they fell upon the slick, uneven path that wound along the very brink of the riverbank's incline. If she kept up with the dwarf's breakneck pace she ran the risk of slipping and tumbling down into the fast-moving water. If she did not, if she lost sight of the dwarf, she could well spend the rest of her life wandering around these tunnels. Which might not be such a long time, if the Zhent patrol found her.

Bronwyn suddenly had grave doubts about the wisdom of tossing her lot in with this dwarf. As if he sensed her hesitation, he skidded to a stop and shot a look over his shoulder. He extended one stubby hand to her.

"Grab hold," he hollered, his deep voice rising over the roar and crash of the river. "No dwarf worth snail slime has ever slipped on this path. I won't be letting you fall."

For some reason, Bronwyn believed him. She ran to him and seized the offered wrist. Immediately he was off and at a pace faster than she would have believed possible.

Behind them, they heard a startled shout, followed by a splash. She and the dwarf exchanged a quick, fierce grin.

"One down," she panted out.

"Good start," he admitted.

At that moment, Bronwyn's feet flew out from under her. She fell hard on her backside and her right elbow and began to slide. Instantly she twisted to the left, as the dwarf dragged her back from the steep bank. Another pull jerked her back onto her feet. Without missing more than a beat, she and the dwarf were running again.

"Told you I'd keep a grip," he bellowed. "Got my word on it."

As she nodded her thanks, some of the desolation lifted from her heart. Suddenly Bronwyn found it wasn't hard at all to keep pace with the dwarf

Algorind tried to count his blessings. The sun was bright, and the cold breeze that blew off the Sea of Swords seemed almost balmy in comparison to the chill winds that had buffeted the hills around the monastery throughout the long winter. He had been given a paladin's quest, and the first part of his journey was complete. Now he was en route to Thornhold to bear great and glad news to Hronulf of Tyr, the paladin whose fame and virtue had been an inspiration to Algorind for as long as he could remember. He had life, health, faith, and a fine sword at his side.

What was a lost horse, in comparison to that?

Even so, the memory of the ungrateful, treacherous dwarf rankled. Algorind had to admit that he knew little of the world, but surely this could not be common behavior. He had always heard dwarves spoken of as gruff but honorable. Why did the little red-bearded fellow accost him and steal his horse? It was poor payment, after Tyr had been gracious enough to save his life.

Algorind was also concerned about the delay. On foot, it would take him nearly a day longer to reach the fortress. Losing his horse was a serious matter, for he would not be given another by the order. He would have to earn his next steed, which would add another task to his quest and greatly delay his investiture as a Knight of Samular. Ah, well, he conceded with a sigh, patience was among the knightly virtues.

But there was still more. Sir Gareth's cryptic parting words continued to trouble him. The old knight had importuned Algorind to stay with Hronulf and watch his back. What prompted this sudden concern? A paladin's life was fraught with danger, that was true enough, but was there some specific, expected threat to the famous knight?

Another thought hit Algorind. Hronulf was getting along in years. Perhaps his health was failing. Perhaps Sir Gareth feared that the news Algorind brought would throw Hronulf into decline. As joyful as word of a new-found granddaughter might be, there was no discounting the terrible shock of learning that his lost son was alive, but an enemy. Better a dead son than a living priest of Cyric.

Many and troubling were the puzzles before him, but as Algorind walked, the beauty of the spring day beguiled him and lightened his heart. The High Road was broad and even underfoot and often shaded by tall oak trees and majestic pines. Berries, small as his thumbnail and red and sweet and bursting with juice, grew in profusion along the roadside. The birds sang with the sweet urgency of springtime as they sought mates and built nests to cradle their coming young.

It was all new and delightful to him. Algorind had not been so far from Summit Hall since the day he had been entrusted to the order, but for all that, he knew precisely where he must go.

This he knew because he had committed to memory all the maps in the monastery library-most of which he had brought with him as part of his apprentice fee. Algorind's father and older brothers had had little use for such things, preferring the glittering life of Cormyr's capital city to anything so dusty and unpleasant as travel. But Algorind had loved maps for as long as he could remember. Even as a small child, he had coaxed the use of them from every traveler and merchant who passed through his father's doors, committing each line and dot and squiggle to memory. He knew where the mountain passes lay, where the rivers sang swift and treacherous songs, what hills were likely to contain lairs of orcs or goblins or worse. In Algorind's opinion, all knowledge was useful, but this was information he would most assuredly need if he was to travel the world in Tyr's service.

This was the first time he had had the opportunity to compare the reality of the wide world with the careful image he had crafted in his mind. For the most part, the two matched with admirable consistency. There ahead was the low stone building built by followers of Tyr as a travelers' rest. Here the path ahead veered away from the sea to run through some low, rock-strewn hills. The terrain was rougher there, and the trees gave way to small, determined shrubs. Some might find the stretch of land bleak and forbidding, but Algorind was as delighted as a child to see his maps come alive.

Suddenly he caught sight of something that no map could prepare him to face. To the north of him a cloud of thick, oily black smoke rose into the sky.

The sound of rough voices seized his attention and drew his gaze to the hills east of the Trade Way. Next he heard the sound of horses' hooves against the stony path and a foul curse from one of the riders. Clearly, this was no patrol from Thornhold.

Or was it? The rising smoke and the portent of Sir Gareth's words of concern gave birth to a terrible suspicion. If trouble had come to Thornhold, Algorind must know of it.

He thought quickly. The horsemen undoubtedly followed a path through those hills. Algorind had once seen it marked, on an extremely detailed map shown him by an elven sage. The path was treacherous and narrow, and at one point it followed the wall of a steep cliff; with nothing but a deep ravine on the other side.

Algorind took off at a run, circling around and bending low as he hurried through the low-growing scrub pine. He listened carefully to the sound of the coarse men's speech, judging their progress and quickening his pace to match it.

He found the pass and scrambled up a rocky incline that overlooked the path and the ravine beyond. He crouched down behind some rocks to watch and wait, and then sank lower as the men came into view.

There were four of them, and they wore on their black over-tunics the twisted rune that was the emblem of Darkhold. Zhentish soldiers, certainly. That made Algorind feel a bit better about what he was about to do. Laying ambush was hardly a noble task for a paladin, but these men were clearly evil, and great odds required greater valor. This took some of the sting from the needed act.

When the men were almost past his position, Algorind leaped at the one who rode rearguard. He seized the man on his way down and carried him from the horse. They fell together. Algormd delivered two quick, jabbing punches to the Zhent's throat and temple. The Zhent instantly went limp. Algorind swung himself up onto the startled horse and drew his sword.

The remaining soldiers had noted their comrade's fate. They wheeled their horses around and drew their weapons. Urging their mounts on with vicious kicks, they came at the paladin in full fury

Fortunately for Algorind, the path was too narrow for two to ride abreast. The first attacker thundered toward him, sword held high. Algorind caught the blade with his, tugged the reins of his borrowed mount to the left, and gave the joined swords a deft twist. Jousting was an art much practiced at Summit Hall, and Algorind unhorsed his opponent with ease. The Zhent hit the ground hard, landing just off the path. He rolled down the punishing, stone-studded ravine. His curses swiftly rose into howls of pain, then faded away.

While their comrade was still rolling down the ravine, the two remaining men came on. The foremost had a wicked spear, which he held couched like a lance under one arm. Algorind waited until the man was nearly upon him, then leaped from the saddle toward the onrushing blade, slashing down with his sword as he went.

His blade caught the spear shaft, and his weight forced the point of the spear down. It struck the ground and dug in hard. Algorind rolled aside beyond the reach of the horse's thundering hooves. He heard the man's rising wail as the bent spear lifted him from his mount and hurled him into the air.

Before the heavy thud announced the man's impact onto solid rock, Algorind was already back on his feet, sword ready. He leaped directly into the path of the last rider. The startled horse reared up, dumping its rider onto the path. Before the fallen soldier could collect himself; Algorind was there, one foot pinning the man's sword arm down, and the tip of his blade at the man's throat.

The Zhent's eyes expected death and feared it greatly. Such it must be, Algorind thought with sudden pity if all that awaited a man was the dubious mercy of Cyric or the other dire gods that the Zhentarim favored, or-most terrible of all-the numbing emptiness of no faith at all.

"Only answer my question, and you may go free and unharmed," Algorind vowed.

The man's eyes narrowed suspiciously. "And if I don't talk?"

"Speak freely, or die swiftly," the paladin said. "It is your choice."

"Easy enough, put that way," the soldier muttered. "What do you want to know?"

"You are of Darkhold, and you are far from your fortress. Do you hold another stronghold nearby?"

The man's quick, wicked grin reminded Algorind of a buzzard preparing to feed. "As of last night, that we do."

Algorind's heart seemed to turn to stone. "Thornhold. You have taken it."

"Made a nice piece of work of it, too."

Algorind nodded and knew at once that he would not be able fulfill his charge and carry a message to Hronulf. He himself would gladly fight to the death to protect a stronghold of the order from Zhentisb capture. He did not know of a paladin who would not. Even so, he had to ask. "And the paladins who held it… are they all dead?"

"To a man. I saw 'em burn."

The black smoke, Algorind realized. His wrath kindled, prompting him to slay this evil man who recounted the destruction of goodly men with such unconcern.

But Algorind had given his word. He could not break it, nor had he learned all that he must. Since he studied the lore of the order with scholarly devotion, he knew that HronulfofTyr wore a great artifact, one of the Rings of Samular It was Algorind's duty to learn what had become of it.

"You answer plainly. For that, I thank you. Tell me one thing more. What became of the paladins' possessions?"

The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "The usual. Weapons and valuables went to the commander. His captains sorted through them and passed them out as booty."

"The paladin commander, known as Hronulf of Tyr, wore a gold ring. Do you know who now holds it?"

"That damn ring," echoed the soldier in a resigned voice. "Bane's balls, but I'm tired of hearing about the thing! The commander had us search the whole damn fortress for it more times than I know how to count. As far as we can figure, the old knight gave the ring to a pretty young wench who escaped. No one knows how she escaped or where she went. My patrol was one of several out looking for her. That is the truth, and it's all I know."

Algorind studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. "I believe you," he said. "You may go."

The soldier stared at him for a moment. "Just like that?" he said in disbelief.

"You fulfilled your part. You may go."

The man laughed-a bitter, mocking sound. "It sounds easy, the way you put it. Do you know what Dag Zoreth will do to me when he finds out that I lost my patrol to a single man? When he learns what I've told you? And he will learn. He has ways of finding out things that I don't even want to know about. If I go back to the fortress, I'm a dead man."

Algormd was thoroughly confused. "Then why did you speak?"

"You offered me a quick death. I figured that was the best bargain I could make."

This appalled the young paladin. It was a terrible thing that a man must fear his superiors as this one did. He studied the Zhent for a long moment, silently calling on Tyr to help him judge the true measure of this man. What he found surprised him greatly and made the task of disposing of the soldier all the more perplexing.

And what of his own quest? The capture of Thornhold and the death of Hronulf put an end to it. Yet what of the ring and the woman? This matter was grave indeed and required the wisdom of an elder paladin. Perhaps Sir Gareth was still at the Halls of Justice. And if not, what better place for Algorind to start his search for the mysterious "pretty wench" than in that decadent city?

"We are both at something of a loss," Algorind said. "I made a bargain with you, not expecting it could go awry in this manner. As for myself; I think it best to travel south to Waterdeep. You might come along, if you desire. Surely, in so large a place, you could lose yourself and find a new, better life."

The soldier dragged himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously up at the young paladin. "What are you offering? A conspiracy?"

"Companionship on the way south," Algorind corrected, "and my word of honor that I find little true evil in you. I can also offer you, in the name of Tyr, the gift of redemption. Accept, abandon the path you have chosen, and when your time comes you need not die with such horror in your eyes as I saw this day. But be warned," he cautioned the wary man. "Tyr is the god of justice, and it may well be that your life among the Zhentarim has left deeds that require restitution. Tyr's redemption does not come without a price."

"What does?" grumbled the soldier, but he took the hand that Algorind offered him and let the young paladin help him to his feet. In this soldier's eyes, Algorind read the flickering rebirth of the gifts that Tyr could bestow: hope, honor, and the grim yet comforting belief in stem justice.

"I can travel with you as far as Waterdeep," the soldier said.

Bronwyn ran with the dwarf until she was certain her sides would split. When she was sure she couldn't go another step, the dwarf veered off the river path into an utterly black tunnel. She stumbled along behind, aware oily that they turned several times. Finally her guide came to a stop.

For many moments she stood, her hands on her knees, and struggled to regain her breath. The dwarf sounded in about the same condition, only louder. Air rasped in and out of the stout fellow with a force and volume that suggested a forge bellows at work.

"How'd you get in that shaft, anyhow?" he demanded when he'd gathered enough breath for speech.

"Believe me, it wasn't my idea." Bronwyn sank down to sit on the cold stone floor of the tunnel. "There was a battle. Zhents got into the fortress-through the mIdden, by the smell of them. When it was clear that the fortress would be taken, one of the paladins dropped me down that hole."

She did not say who or what the paladin had been too her. Her loss was too new, too raw, to bear the burden of words.

"Hmmph." The dwarf considered this. "Well now, that fits into the picture. Zhents mean trouble, plain and simple. A few dwarves in my clan used to trade with them. Don't do it, I told them. Never pays, I said. Well, it paid, all right."

The bitter grief in the dwarf's voice smote Bronwyn's heart. She began to put together the pieces. Most fortresses had escape tunnels, but these were secret and closely guarded. Even the midden, a necessity of any settlement, was always warded from possible intruders. The presence of a dwarf clan would provide a powerful shield for these escape routes. The angry mixture of shock and sorrow in the dwarf's voice suggested why the midden shoots were suddenly accessible.

"The shaft led into your tunnels?" she asked gently.

"That's right. Not many knew of the slide, even among the dwarves. Only the head human was supposed to know of it. Guess you happened to be in the right place at the right time."

The heavy irony in his voice did not escape her, nor did the ragged sound of terrible grief. For several moments Bronwyn and her unseen companion sat in silence. Nothing she could say to him would ease his pain. She knew, for she could think of no words of consolation that would make any difference to her own loss.

A small, strong hand gripped her wrist. "Come on," he said gruffly. "We'd best get out of this place."

They walked in silence for perhaps an hour before Bronwyn began to notice shapes and shadows emerging from the darkness. "There's an opening ahead?"

"That's right. Oh, damnation!"

Bronwyn stopped, startled by the dwarf's sharp tone. "What is it?"

"I'm-a gonna have to put a blinder on you. No human knows this opening. Best I keep it that way."

That struck Bronwyn as a sad variation of locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but she wasn't about to point that out to the grieving dwarf "1 understand. Rip a strip of cloth off the bottom of my cloak if you want."

The dwarf busied himself with the task, then led Bronwyn out of the tunnel and into the open. Since being blindfolded was not much different from walking through the black tunnel, she didn't mind it as much as she thought she would. And even if she couldn't see, the sound and feel of the sea winds lifted her spirits. Until she'd left the tunnels behind, she hadn't realized bow oppressive they'd felt.

Finally the dwarf stopped and removed her blindfold. She blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden stab of light. When her vision cleared, she noted that they were on a wide dirt path-the High Road. She was also able to form a detailed impression of the dwarf.

He was, well, square. Probably just short of four feet tall, he was built like a barrel with thick arms and shoulders of a width that most six-foot men would envy. Curly reddish-brown hair rioted over his shoulders, and a beard in a brighter hue of auburn spilled down over his chest. Unlike most dwarves, he wore no mustache, and that lent a slightly boyish look to his broad face. A horseshoe hung about his neck on a thong, another bit of whimsy, but there was nothing of the child in his eyes, which were the color of a stormy sky and just as bleak.

She extended her hand. "I'm Bronwyn. Thank you for getting me out of the tunnels."

He hesitated, then clasped her wrist in a brief adventurer's salute. "Ebenezer."

His answer was curt, almost challenging. Bronwyn didn't expect anything different. Dwarves were slow to trust and loath to give more of their names than absolutely necessary.

By unspoken consensus, they started south along the road. Bronwyn noted the dejected slope of his shoulders. "You lost people in the tunnels," she said with deep sympathy.

A moment of silence stretched out, growing ever more tense until it exploded into an earthy dwarven curse. "My clan," he admitted. "Most killed. Some gone."

"Some of them escaped," she pointed out. "That's something."

"Bah! You don't know dwarves after all, if you're thinking that way. Running away when there's fighting to be done? They're not gone by choice, I'm telling you that for free."

Bronwyn's eyes narrowed as this sank in. She stopped and seized the dwarf's arm, spinning him around to face her. "They were taken by the Zhents? Why?"

"Why indeed?" he raged helplessly. "Why would a human learn to read the stones or sweat himself dry chipping ore and gems out of solid rock? Why spend twenty years learning the craft of sword smithing, another thirty making practice pieces, then start turning out swords at the cost of a decade apiece? Why go through the trouble to cut and polish gems until they sparkle like the Tears of Selilne on a clear night? Why do any of that when you can steal someone else to do it for you?"

"Slavers," she gritted out. Her own past rose up before her, lending that single word more venom than a nest full of pit vipers could muster.

The dwarf eyed Bronwyn with curiosity. "That'd be my guess. What's it to you?"

She dropped his arm and started down the road at a brisker pace. After a moment, Ebenezer jogged up to her side. "With the spring fairs coming up, a southbound caravan should be along soon," she said briskly. "I've enough coin to buy us a horse. Can you ride?"

"Yes, but-"

"Two horses then. We should be in Waterdeep before nightfall day after tomorrow. If we're lucky, we'll be in Skull-port by midnight."

"Skullport!" he scoffed. "More of your tall tales. Tavern legend. No such place."

"There most certainly is, and it's the nearest port for slave transport. If you want to find the surviving members of your clan before they're halfway to Calimport, that's where we'll have to go. Live with it."

He jogged along, considering this. Finally he turned a skeptical gaze upon her. "What's this to you, human?"

"My name is Bronwyn," she said grimly. "You might as well get used to using it. Where we're going, singing out 'Hoy, human!' will get you too many responses. Most of them, you won't like."

"Bronwyn, then," he agreed. "And it might be that you could save your coin. I got a horse stashed. Here you have Ebenezer Mac Brockholst 'n' Palmara, of Clan Stoneshaft."

She nodded, understanding the honor he conferred upon her by giving his full name and lineage-and seeing in his eyes the effort it cost to name his parents, whom he had probably just laid to rest. He was agreeing with her plan, trusting her to help him find his lost family. The enormity of that staggered her. She couldn't think of anything to say, but tried anyway.

"Stoneshaft," she repeated. "Your clan were miners, then?"

"No, we got that name because my grandsire managed to sire himself thirteen kids," he shot back.

Bronwyn raised her eyebrows, acknowledging the bawdy sarcasm. "Fine. Straight to business."

"Speaking of which," the dwarf asked with a sudden return of suspicion, "what did you say you did to earn your keep?"

"I didn't say, but I'm not a slaver, if that's what you're thinking. I find lost antiquities. You'd probably call me a treasure hunter."

He nodded, clearly understanding this bias; after all, collecting treasures was a very common dwarf impulse. "Whereabouts do you keep your hoard?"

"It's more of a shop, really, and I'm seldom there. Most of my days are spent on the road, searching for new pieces. I often work on commission, but everything I find is for sale."

"Practical," approved Ebenezer. "Don't need stuff lying around gathering dust. Too much trouble to be toting it around. Where'd you learn to fight?"

Bronwyn chuckled helplessly, feeling somewhat dizzied by the quick change of topic. "By doing, mostly. I've had no formal training as a fighter, but so far, I've won more times than I've lost."

"Best training there is," he said. He cast her a stern look. "You always fight dirty?"

She shrugged. "When I have to."

He nodded again. "Good. Well then, let's have a look at this Skuliport of yours."