Thornhold

EIGHT

Algorind and his newfound companion headed south on foot toward the great port city. One of the Zhentilar horses had been regrettably lamed during Algorind's attack and had to be put down. The men tried without success to recapture the other horses. It seemed that the steeds lacked the sense of loyalty and duty that was trained into a paladin's mount.

Jenner, the former Zbent, was a surprisingly good companion. He could sing rather well, and he knew some old ballads that spoke ringingly of deeds of heroism and valor- strange songs indeed to come from the throat of a man who had spent his youth riding patrol around Darkhold. This puzzled Algorind greatly.

"How is it that you fell into the service of evil?" Algorind asked him.

The young paladin's words drew a rueful smile from the man. "I didn't see it that way. It was more like survival. I was born in the Greycloak Hills, grew up herding my father's sheep. The land and the sheep would go to my older brother. I always knew that, but then came three bad years running with no crops and few lambs. Didn't have much of a choice but to take whatever work came to hand."

"There are always choices," Algorind said firmly. He laid one hand on the man's shoulder. "You have made a good choice this day, the first of what I trust will be many."

"Trust, do you?" Jenner chuckled without amusement. "Seems to me that you're a trusting sort. That'll bring you to grief, come soon or late."

Algorind could not dispute that. The treachery of the dwarf he'd saved from the zombies still troubled him deeply.

"There is a travelers' rest not far ahead," he commented. 'We can fill our waterskins at the well and gather some of the berries that grow in profusion nearby."

Jenner let out a sigh of great longing. "I like spring berries. They're good any way you can get them, but best with honey and new cream, heaped over a pile of sweet biscuits. I mean to have some of that, first thing, when we reach Waterdeep. After a nice roast of venison and a few mugs, that is."

The paladin was mildly offended by this picture of gluttony. "You would do better to seek gainful employment for yourself."

Jenner winked. "And what better place than in a tavern? That's where men come to hire swords and to hire their swords out."

"You would find work as a sell-sword?"

"It's what I know. Don't worry yourself," he said, casting a wry half-smile at Algorind. "I'll do well enough as a caravan guard or some such. Well, there's the rest house."

Algorind nodded, then froze. The sight before him was one of such boldness and villainy that it stole his breath.

The red-bearded dwarf came out from the stone structure, leading Icewind by the reins. With him was a young woman with exceptionally long, thick hair plaited back into a single braid. She was comely enough to suit the Zhent's description of "a pretty wench," and, since women traveling alone were uncommon in these wild lands, she was probably the one that the Zhentarim of Thornhold sought. The dwarf tossed her up into Icewind's saddle as if he had every right to dispose of the horse, and then hauled himself up onto the back of a squat, nasty-looking pony. He glanced back and did an astonished double take when he caught Algorind's dumbfounded gaze.

The dwarf lifted a hand in an insouciant salute, then kicked the pony into a surprisingly quick canter The woman followed along behind on Algorind's stolen horse.

"The woman you seek," Algorind said grimly, "she is allied with the Zhentarim?"

Jenner shook his head, obviously not following this line of reasoning. "Not that I know of. Why'd you ask?"

"That white horse is mine," Algorind said, pointing. "The dwarf stole him from me in an act of base treachery. If the woman consorts with horse thieves, one must ask if she could be allied with the very scum of evildoers."

The former Zhent let out a snort of laughter. "No offense intended, I suppose."

Algorind looked at him in puzzlement. "No, I had no wish to offend. Why do you ask?"

Jenner chuckled dryly and shook his head. "Never mind. Let's just get us to Waterdeep the fastest way we can-or let me put it better, the fastest way your scruples will allow."

Lath in the afternoon, two days after the fall of Thornhold, Bronwyn led her new companion into the Curious Past. When they entered the shop, the dwarf looked around in begrudging wonderment at the old and rare things that crowded the shelves and tables in glittering display.

"Lot of dusting to do," he concluded gruffly.

A loud huff announced Alice Tinker's presence. The gnome rose to her full height, her brown face peering over the rim of the large brass vase she'd been polishing, her small form quivering with indignation. "Dust, nothing! I challenge you to find a single pot, gem or book in this entire place that isn't polished to a gleam."

Ebenezer folded his arms. "If I were a betting sort of dwarf, I still wouldn't take that one. You can stuff that so-called challenge in the who-cares bucket and take it on out to the slop heap."

"Alice, meet Ebenezer Stoneshaft," Bronwyn said dryly. "He'll be with me for a tenday or two."

The gnome's face went wary "And staying where?"

"Neither of us are staying. A bath and a meal, and we'll be on our way."

Alice huffed. "Well, by the looks of you, child, you could certainly use a good meal." Her eyes slid disdainfully over the dwarf, leaving the last part of her insult unspoken.

Bronwyn noted this exchange with great puzzlement. Alice was the most genial of souls; it was not like the gnome to so mistreat a visitor to Curious Past. She was about to admonish her assistant when she noticed the delighted battle gleam in the dwarf's eye. He had spoken little on the journey south, and she'd given him silence and time to deal with his loss. Judging by the animation on his face, maybe she would have done better to pick a fight or two with him.

"Grow a beard, woman," Ebenezer gruffly advised Alice. This comment baffled Bronwyn, but Alice seemed to understand it perfectly. The gnome's eyes widened, then turned coy, and bright color bloomed on her already rosy cheeks.

Belatedly, Bronwyn got the point. Dwarven women were as bearded as their men. Apparently, Ebenezer was expressing his approval of Alice's gruff reception, even flirting with her a bit. Bronwyn cast her eyes toward the ceiling-which, despite Alice's claims, was liberally festooned with cobwebs. "Did anything interesting happen while I was gone?"

The gnome collected herself. "Your friend Lord Thann has found excuse to stop by, or send someone on his behalf, at least thrice a day. He seems most concerned about you."

"I can just imagine," Bronwyn muttered. "I suppose he has been watching me and reporting back to Khelben all this time, too. No offense meant, Alice," she added hastily when she saw hurt and self-reproach creep into the gnome's eyes.

Watching. Reporting back.

Suddenly something else occurred to Bronwyn, something that widened her eyes with shock and fury. When she had wanted to identify herself to her father, she named her telltale birthmark. Surely that identifying mark was one measure used by those who once searched for Hronulf's missing daughter. The Harpers might have heard of the search, and remembered that birthmark. Was it possible that the invitation to join the Harpers, to move to Waterdeep and work under Khelben Arunsun's direction, was not motivated by the skills she could bring to the Harpers, but by who she was?

All these years, she had searched so desperately for her family, and they had known.

If that was so, then the brief days and nights of merriment that she and Danilo had shared several years before suddenly took on new and ominous meaning. And with that realization came a stab of betrayal so painful that it almost sent her to her knees. Danilo had known who she was-or at least suspected. By the time he left Amn, he knew beyond doubt.

"Oh, my god and goddess," she whispered in a appalled voice, stunned by this duplicity in a man she had long called friend. "Sweet sister Sune."

"Some might think it's a bit early in the day to be invoking the goddess of love and beauty," observed a familiar, languid male voice behind her. "Myself, I see no reason to put off what I might want to do again later."

This observation, coming on the heels of her sudden and disturbing insight, raised Bronwyn's temper past boiling. She fisted her hand and spun toward the shop door, swinging out high and hard.

Danilo dodged the blow and caught her wrist. "Really! Is that any way to greet an old friend?" he chided her.

Bronwyn wrenched her arm from his grasp and backed away. "You son of a snake," she said in a low, furious tone.

"An."

Just that. He didn't bother to ask her what she meant. Of course not. But if Bronwyn had not known what a chameleon her fellow Harper could be, she would have sworn there was real regret in his eyes.

He took a step toward her, one hand held out in entreaty. "Bronwyn, we need to talk about that."

"The hell we do. Get out of my shop."

Ebenezer came to stand beside her, and the expression on his bearded face suggested an entire battalion taking flank position. He folded his arms and looked Bronwyn's visitor up and down. He snorted when his gaze fell on Danilo's jeweled sword. When his scrutiny was completed, his upper lip curled, leaving no doubt concerning his opinion of the faired-haired dandy. "Haven't killed anyone today," he announced. "Might be I ought to, just to keep in practice."

"Hold that thought," Bronwyn told him, secretly rather touched that the dwarf would come to her defense without question or hesitation. It helped a little, especially when all her perceptions and alliances seemed to be shifting, and her emotions in such chaos that she couldn't think things through with her usual clarity.

But at that moment, another disturbing piece molded itself into the spreading puzzle. It suddenly occurred to Bronwyn to wonder about the reason for the Harpers' recent, intense interest in her. Did Khelben suspect the Zhentarim had designs on her father's keep? If the Harpers had known and had done nothing to stop it, then she was finished with the lot of them!

She whirled back to Danilo, her pain over his earlier transgression forgotten. "How much of this did you know?"

He spread his hands, palms up. "I swear to you, Bronwyn, I had no idea who you were when we met in Amn," he said earnestly, "nor did I know of your lineage until a few days ago. There was no subterfuge or design in our friendship. We were young and congenial. When I vouched for you as Harper many months later, I did name your distinguishing marks. Such things are important for a Harper Master to know, and when Khelben asked the question I thought nothing amiss. I told him, but I made no mention of how this knowledge was acquired."

"Ever the gentleman," she sneered. "But that's a small thing. A few moments ago, I wouldn't have thought so. This new betrayal outshines all that went before."

This clearly took him aback. "What is this about?"

"You deny it still!" Furious now, she snatched up a carved ivory statue and hurled it at him. It missed and crashed into the lintel, breaking into several pieces. "You killed my father! If you hadn't withheld information, he might still be alive."

Bronwyn was raving and knew it, but she was beyond caring. The bitter words tore from her like living things determined to be born, regardless of the pain of their birthing.

Danilo stooped and gathered up the ivory bits; Bronwyn suspected he wished to buy time to gather his composure and shape his next remarks. But when he rose, his face was still bewildered. "Bronwyn, what is going on?"

"Tell me this: did you know that Thornhold would come under attack?"

Danilo looked honestly and thoroughly stunned by this news. He sank down to sit on a carved chest, and he rubbed both hands over his face. "Thornhold was attacked?" he echoed.

"And taken," she said shortly.

From the corner of her eye Bronwyn noticed that Shop-scat was showing keen interest in her visitor's ear-cuff and was starting to edge closer for the attack. Out of habit, she started to grab for the raven-then thought better of it and left the bird alone to do as it willed.

"The fortress of Thornbold is now held by the Zhentarim," she said, her voice gaining volume and passion as she spoke. "Isn't that why Khelben Arunsun was so concerned about my dealings with Malchior? He was afraid I might give away family secrets, is that it? Or perhaps you thought I was in collusion with the Zhentarim?"

"Not that. Never that." Danilo rose and took a step toward her. His progress was halted when a very angry dwarf stepped between him and Bronwyn.

"Back away," Ebenezer growled. He reached up and thumped the Harper's chest with his stubby forefinger. "Seems to me the lady of this here shop told you a ways back to git. And you ain't got yet. Now, I see a problem there that we could solve one of two ways."

The Harper took a long breath and exhaled with a sigh. "I have no quarrel with you, good sir. Bronwyn, even if you are content to lay to rest the old matter, we must discuss this new one. Send word, when you are ready."

Her only response was a stony stare. After a moment Danilo nodded a silent farewell and left, unwittingly evading the quick stabbing attack of Shopscat's beak.

"I could get to like that bird," Ebenezer observed, eyeing the raven with grim approval.

Danilo strode through the streets toward Blackstaff Tower, hands clasped behind him and brow deeply furrowed in thought. He caught a glimpse of himself in the polished glass of a milliner's shop window, and the sight pulled him up short. It took him a moment to realize what bothered him about the reflected image. He had seen that stance before, and the expression was a mirror image of that he'd often beheld on the visage of the archmage he served.

"I have been at this business far too long," Danilo murmured as he took off down the street again, this time at a saunter.

He found the archmage at his table, which did nothing to brighten his mood. Khelben had a perverse fondness for such foods as pottage of lentil, thick oat porridge, and fruit unadorned by pastry or sugar. If that was the secret of the archmage's long life, Danilo fervently hoped to die when his naturally allotted span was through.

As they exchanged greetings, Danilo selected a ring of dried apple from a tray. He sat down across from the archmage, munching the leathery fruit as he pondered how best to pass along the dire message Bronwyn had hurled at him. Danilo had given his word to Alice, albeit tacitly, that he would not report to Khelben word of Bronwyn's trip to Thornhold. Nor would he tell the archmage that Bronwyn was back in the city. Khelben would find that out soon enough. Danilo's days of reporting on his old friends were over.

A simple ruse came to him. Nothing annoyed Khelben more than reference to Danilo's bardic pursuits. Perhaps that very pique would serve to keep the archmage from examining the tale too closely.

"I heard a most amazing ballad last night at the Howling Moon," Danilo began, naming a new tavern popular with traveling bards of all stripe. "The singer describea the fall of Thornhold and claimed that this dire event occurred but two days past. I am inclined to believe him, Uncle. I do not wish to criticize a fellow bard, but the song sounded rather hastily composed."

Khelben stared at him for a long moment. "Wait here," he commanded.

The archmage rose and swept from the room. In Khelben's absence, Danilo nibbled away at the plate of dried fruit and studied the dining hall. There was not overmuch to see. Polished wood covered the walls, and the stone floor had been neatly strewn with fresh rushes mingled with sweet-smelling herbs, as was the custom. The room was dim and cool, lit only by the light that filtered in from the ever-shifting windows. The archmage had remarkably simple habits and insisted that there was no need to waste candles unless they were needed for reading.

Khelben returned in moments, his visage even grimmer than the reflection of his own face that Dan had glimpsed in the shop window.

"It is as you say," the archmage said. "How could such a thing occur without word or warning? How could a siege force of sufficient size march not more than two days' ride north of this city and no one notice anything amiss? What good are we doing here in Waterdeep?"

The last question was a challenge, leveled at the Harpers in general and Danilo in particular, and delivered with the force of a thrown lance.

"It is possible," Dan ventured, "that the Zhentarim have been preparing for this attack for a longtime. There would be no time better, given the coming of the spring fairs and the heavy traffic on the High Road. Soldier and horse could easily be disguised as part of a merchant caravan and could pass unnoticed. Small groups could slip away into the hills and mountains and gather at the appointed time."

Khelben looked at him with surprise. "That is well said."

"But said too late. We should have thought of this possibility." Dan sighed and reached for a dried plum. He slipped a jeweled knife from the cuff of his shirt and deftly pitted the fruit. I have no expertise in siege tactics, but surely some of your Harpers keep watch for such things."

"We have not seen the need," the archmage said shortly. "Thornhold was considered a secure fortress."

"And?" Danilo prompted, seeing a familiar film of secrecy settle over his uncle's face.

Khelben considered, then threw up his hands as if resigned to yield up the truth at once rather than endure the pestering that would surely ensue if he did not. "If truth must be told, the Harpers and the paladins of the Knights of Samular have a wary relationship. The source of this conflict is a tale too old to profit from retelling."

"Really?"

"Really." This time, Khelben's forbidding expression declared his intention to hold firm. "And though your assessment of the possible strategy of the attackers has merit, it is not sufficient to explain the fall of Thornhold. The paladins send out patrols into the hills. If a force large enough to scale the walls was camped about, slowly gathering in number, the paladins surely would have discovered it. No, there is something else here, something hidden." He cast a quick, sharp look at Danilo. "Something that should remain hidden from casual eyes. Where did you say you heard this ballad?"

"The Howling Moon," Danilo repeated, "and a dreadful ditty it was." Or would be, he amended silently, given the time he would have to compose it!

"Good." Khelben nodded with satisfaction and began to spoon up his now-cold soup. "A poor tale has less chance of being repeated."

"It is clear that you have not spent much time in taverns of late," Dan said dryly. "I assure you, Uncle, the Ballad of Thornhold is the sort of song most frequently requested in the taverns, most eagerly sought by young bards and minstrels who make their living traveling about with news and gossip."

"You couldn't squelch this ballad?" Khelben demanded.

More easily than you could imagine, thought Danilo with a stab of guilt. He could simply leave it unwritten and unsung. But in truth, what would that profit? His words to Khelben painted the picture clearly enough; if he himself did not write such a ballad, someone else would, and the tale might grow dangerously larger in the telling.

"How so? Forbid a song? That would only spread it the faster. And you must admit, this has in it all the elements of a fine tale: heroism, tragedy, mystery It will strike a particular chord with retired men of the sword, in which Water-deep abounds."

"How so?"

'Well, other than the men who rode patrols, Thornhold was manned by aging paladins, veterans who chose to serve rather than retire. The paladins of Thornhold defied their age and infirmities. They died fighting, as heroes, long after their time. This holds much appeal."

Danilo reached for the ladle of the soup tureen, then thought better of it. "There is more. Although listeners expect tales in which good triumphs over evil, many are surprised and secretly delighted when evil triumphs-as long as the results do not touch them personally."

The archinage wiped his lips with a linen napkin. "That is a harsh thing to say."

Danilo shrugged. "But true, nonetheless. Since there is much mystery about the fall of Thornhold, there will be speculation. All who listen to the ballad become storytellers themselves, as they spin tales about what might have happened."

"But not all men are content with gossip," the archmage said. "How long before small forces gather to throw themselves against Thornhold? The paladins at the Halls of Justice will probably make a quest of it, not to mention the knights of Summit Hall. I don't need to tell you what a waste that would be. Only an enormous, full-scale assault of massive power could bring down those walls."

Danilo examined his fingernails. "Thinking of trying your hand, Uncle?"

The archmage sniffed. "As to that, I have but one word: Ascalhorn."

"An. Excellent point."

For a time, the men fell silent, and the air was thick with the memory of dire, unforeseen results of powerful magic wrought. The fall of the fortress that Khelben had named opened the gate to darker, more deadly powers. For years Ascalhorn had been aptly known as Hellgate Keep and represented the failure of extreme magical remedies. Evoking it declared Khelben's firm intention to keep himself free of direct involvement in the matter. Danilo often suspected that Khelben had a deep, personal stake in the matter as well, but he had never found a way to broach the subject.

"So, what do you propose that the Harpers do?" Danilo prodded.

"You are not going to like my suggestion," the archmage warned him, "but listen to my concerns, and weigh them well. Hronulf of Tyr was one of the men slain. Lost with him was an artifact, a ring of considerable and mysterious power. We must get it back."

"There is that 'we' again," the young man said in a voice heavy with foreboding.

Khelben's smile was grim and fleeting. "This task will not fall to you. There is one better suited for it."

"Bronwyn, I suppose."

"Who better? She has demonstrated great skill in searching out artifacts. And what she does not know of her heritage this day, she will soon find out. It is only prudent to bind her to the Harpers' service in this matter."

Danilo was more than a little unhappy about this turn of events. "This task would put her in great danger"

"Is that so different from many other assignments she has willingly taken?"

There was truth in that, yet Danilo still scoured his wits for a compelling argument against this plan. Then it occurred to him that Bronwyn might already possess this ring. If she had managed to see her father, perhaps he had passed it on to her It was a possibility that bore looking into. If that were the case, Danilo could conceive of nothing important enough to warrant taking from Bronwyn the only family treasure she had ever possessed or was ever likely to possess.

"Bronwyn will do as you direct," Danilo said, letting a bit of anger creep into his voice. "She always has. But why is this ring so important that you consider its worth above hers?"

"I didn't say that," Khelben cautioned him. "Finding the rings and keeping them safely away from those who wish to use their power is the only course that will guarantee Bronwyn's safety. As long as the rings are obtainable, any descendant of Samular is a much-desired commodity."

Danilo reached for the pitcher of ale and poured himself a mug. "Uncle, do not send me out blind. There has been too much of that, and I won't be party to it any longer Tell me plainly what these rings do."

"Some old tales say-"

"Let us dispense with prevarication," the bard cut in impatiently. "What do they do?"

Khelben tugged at the silver hoop in his ear, a sure sign that he was ill at ease. "I do not know," he admitted. "When the three rings are combined, they produce a powerful effect that is, unfortunately, unknown to me. The wizard who created them on behalf of Samular and his knights was not inclined to share his secrets."

Aha, Danilo thought. Some of Khelben's earlier comments took on more meaning, when considered by this light. "An old rivalry, perhaps?"

The archmage merely shrugged. "Find the ring," he repeated.

Danilo leaned back in his chair and took a sip of the ale. The beverage was flat and bitter He grimaced and set the mug down.

"That might prove difficult," he said. "As I reported earlier this tenday, Bronwyn is away on business. My scouts have not found word of her in Daggersford, so it is possible that she had this story put about as a blind. My guess would be that she had another, deeper destination in mind."

He spoke those words with heavy portent, deliberately misleading the archmage. Khelben scowled. "Skullport, again, eh? Well, check it out. Help her complete her business, so we can move on to the matter at hand."

Danilo smiled, relieved to be able to speak whole truth at least once. "On that, Uncle, you may depend."

Ebenezer waited impatiently as Bronwyn held council with the aging human who kept the inn. The Yawning Portal, it was called. The yawning customer was more like it. He was beginning to nod off over his third mug of ale when the young woman strode over to his table, an expression of grim triumph on her face.

"Durnam will let us in," she said softly. "This is not the only entrance to Skullport, but it's the quickest. It's like being a bucket in a well. He ties a rope around you and lowers you down."

"A well, eh? A dry one, I'm hoping."

"At first." She grinned fleetingly, fiercely. "Skuilport is neither dull nor dry not by any measure."

The dwarf perked up at this news. He'd been doing too much sitting around for his liking and was about ready for a rowdy hour or two. He hopped up from the chair. "Well then, let's get to it."

Ebenezer followed Bronwyn back to the locked room and watched as the old man slid the cover from a gaping hole in the floor. The dwarf insisted on going first, figuring he'd be the better one to look around for danger, seeing as he could see in the dark and she couldn't. She agreed and told him briefly what to look for

It was a good thing he'd chosen to go first, for the ride down was far longer than Ebenezer had expected. If he had had to sit and twiddle his thumbs while they cranked Bronwyn down, he might have changed his mind and demanded they take another route. It was hard to rethink the matter in the middle of a dark, narrow well shaft.

Finally he caught sight of the opening Bronwyn had told him would be there. He swung back and forth on the rope a bit to get some momentum, then seized the first of several iron handholds set into the stone wall. He hauled himself into the side tunnel, then wriggled out of the leather harness and gave the rope a couple of good tugs.

Instinct prompted him not to holler up a got-here-just-fine. Darkness and silence surrounded him, but there was a watchful quality to the place. Ebenezer wasn't keen to alert who-knows-what of his arrival.

The dwarf waited impatiently, hand never far from the handle of his hammer, until Bronwyn came into view. He grabbed her by the belt and hauled her into the tunnel. She touched down with a whisper of soft-soled leather. She shrugged off the harness and gestured to Ebenezer to follow her-a bold gesture, considering that she herself could not see in the utter blackness of the hole.

Ebenezer fell into step beside her, moving comfortably though the darkness. His eyes, like those of all dwarves, slipped easily past the range of light and color to perceive subtle patterns of heat. Humans had no such abilities, but Bronwyn moved along well enough, finding her way by running the fingertips of one hand along the wall.

They passed two passages before Bronwyn turned off into a side tunnel. This one sloped down swiftly in a tight, curving spiral, widening as it went. Slowly, the heat patterns faded from the dwarf's vision to be replaced by a faint, phosphoric light. Glowing lichen clung to the damp stone walls, and globs of luminous, mobile fungi inched along the walkways.

Ebenezer booted one out of the way. It splatted against the wall in a smear of weirdly glowing green, then oozed down to meld with a passing fungus.

"Looks like a deep dragon sneezed in here," he muttered darkly.

"It gets worse. Take care what you step in."

This proved to be good advice. Some of the leavings were more disgusting than others, and more than once they skirted the rotting carcass of some poor critter who'd been ambushed and half eaten.

They walked for hours without talking, listening intently to the sounds of the tunnel-the hollow, echoing sound of their footsteps, the dripping of water, the squeak of rats and the distant roars of prowling monsters. In time the faint clamor of a settlement edged into the tunnels.

"Almost there," Bronwyn murmured.

Ebenezer nodded and lifted one hand to cover his nose. The unmistakable stench of a seaport filled the air They turned down another passage and came out into a huge cavern, the floor of which was scattered with low, dark buildings

They made their way through a squalid marketplace crowded with more beings, hailing from more races than Ebenezer had ever seen in one place. It was almost a relief when Bronwyn veered off into a narrow side tunnel.

The tunnel ended abruptly, opening into a small cavern glowing with faint, flickering blue light. At the entrance stood two of the largest illithids Ebenezer had ever seen. They were hideous brutes-man-sized, bipedal creatures whose misshapen bodies were not recognizable as either male or female. Large, bald heads of a sickiy lavender hue rose above robes the color of dried blood. Their faces were utterly without expression-at least, none that the dwarf could read. fllithid eyes were large, white, and blank, and the lower half of their face comprised four writhing lavender tentacles. The guards clutched spears in their three-fingered purple hands, but their real weapon lay behind those impassive eyes.

"I need to talk to Istire," Bronwyn told the guards, jerking her head toward Ebenezer "Got a dwarf for sale." In response, the guards stepped aside, and a third illithid emerged from the shadows, beckoning them to follow.

Ebenezer threw his friend a derisive glare, which he kept firmly in place as he followed the woman into the cavern. The way he saw it, a scowl would look well matched with the swagger he threw into his walk. Maybe these purple critters could look into his mind and know what he thought of all this, but he'd be damned as a duergar if he'd look scared!

"Not a bad plan, I guess, but you couldn't have warned me about it ahead of time?" complained Ebenezer in a low whisper as he and Bronwyn fell into step behind their guide.

"Hard to do, considering that I'm making this up as we go," she countered.

"Hmmph! Just see that you don't go selling me off to some two-legged squid," the dwarf returned with more bravado than he felt.

When they emerged into another small cavern, their guide disappeared back into the thick shadows and yet another illithid, this one draped in expensive-looking silks and fine gold jewelry, glided forward. Apparently, the message had been relayed through the mysterious mind-speak the creatures employed. Since there was little point in lying to a creature who could pluck thoughts from another being's mind, Bronwyn sensibly got right to the point. "Istire," she said, nodding a greeting. "We're trying to locate a shipment of dwarf slaves. I want the whole lot of them."

That is not the message the guard relayed, responded the illithid Istire, its unearthly "voice" sounding in Ebenezer's mind.

"I want an Arbiter," Bronwyn said calmly, ignoring her own lie. 'We are entitled to one, by Skullport's laws of trade."

A touch of emotion-irritation, frustration, and perhaps respect-emanated from the illithid. This way, it. said grudgingly.

The creature led them deeper into the cavern. As they went, the bluish glow intensified, until the gleam forced Ebenezer to shade his eyes. He just barely made out the source of the light-and promptly wished he hadn't bothered.

A strange, malformed illithid sat on a pedestal on a square dais with steps leading up on all sides. Instead of four short tentacles, this one had nine or ten extremely long ones that branched out from all sides of an enormous, glowing head. These tentacles undulated softly through the air like a cave octopus feeling about for prey.

"An Arbiter," Bronwyn explained softly. "You need to hold the tip of one of those tentacles. As long as you do, we're all equal. The illithid can't influence us, any more than we can control it."

Ebenezer eyed the writhing tentacles with dismay. "When we find the rest of my clan, those dwarves are going to owe me big for this," he muttered.

Istire took up one of the tentacles, nodding at Bronwyn and Ebenezer to do the same.

The experience was every bit as unpleasant as the dwarf feared. Immediately Ebenezer was enveloped by a cloud of strange sensations. He'd never much thought about evil-other than the natural impulse to pull out his axe and get to work whenever a critter bent on such mischief got in his way-and he'd had no idea that evil had a sound and shape and stench all its own. Linking thoughts with an illithid convinced him of that beyond debate. Even worse was the hunger-the dark, grasping, endless hunger that was the illithid's power

Fortunately, Bronwyn seemed better able to twist her thinking to the illithid way of doing business. After some brisk bartering, Istire answered Bronwyn's questions readily enough. Who had dwarf slaves, where they were being kept, what ship they were going out on? Ebenezer suspected that the discussion cost Bronwyn, though, far more than the ridiculous price she'd agreed to pay. Glad though he was for the information the creature sold them, he would rather crawl into a dragon's gullet than ever again willingly enter an illithid's head.

On his way out, Ebenezer didn't bother trying for bravado. Speed seemed more sensible. He practically dragged Bronwyn out of the blue-glowing cavern and into the relative darkness and purity of the tunnels beyond.

"A pouch of silver and a long rope of black pearls," Ebenezer muttered, marveling at the cost Bronwyn had paid for the information, but not wanting their guide to hear his words. Since it was easier to think ahead, to the settling up of scores and debts, than to ponder the grim reality before them, he added, "The clan will be hard pressed to pay you back the price of that ransom, but we're good for it. Just might take a little time, is all."

She cut him off with a scowl. "We'll talk about that later Right now we're nowhere close to discussing reimbursement."

"Yeah," he admitted with a sigh. "What's this place we're bound to, then?"

"The Burning Troll. It's a tavern frequented by pirates and smugglers. It's one step up from a midden, but we should be able to get the information we need."

About an hour later, Ebenezer sat slumped on a high, rickety stool, getting the elbows of his jacket sticky on the unwashed bar in front of him. He sipped gloomily at his ale, too downcast to care overmuch that it had been desecrated by the addition of water

The ship had already sailed. The ship that carried his kin away to slavery had sailed just that day, and they had missed it. No tunnel could reach where they'd gone. Even the cold comfort of vengeance was denied Ebenezer The murderous, thieving humans who had done this were beyond the reach of his avenging axe.

Ebenezer let out another curse and signaled for a third mug.

"Game o' dice?" suggested a coarse, grating voice beside him.

Ebenezer swiveled on the stool to find himself nearly nose to snout with the ugliest excuse for an orc he'd ever seen. The critter was not much bigger than a dwarf though it was as broad and powerful as most of its kind. It struck Ebenezer that some god with time on his hands and a twisted sense of humor had placed the orc lengthwise between his palms and compacted the critter like a snowball. In Ebenezer's opinion, the god in question should have kept squlshing until the task was done.

Ebenezer pointed to his chest. "You talking to me?"

"Why not?" The sawed-off orc bared his fangs in a drunken grin and swatted Ebenezer companionably on the shoulder

A satisfying, cleansing flood of dwarven ire swept through Ebenezer. Earlier, he had pitched a kobold through the window of the tavern-not first bothering to unlatch the shutters-for taunting him about his lack of a mustache. That really hadn't taken the edge off, though. But a friendly orc, now, that was enough to raise a considerable froth.

"Since you asked," the dwarf growled, "I'll show you why not."

His hand flashed out and seized the offered dice from the ore's palm. He slapped them down on the table and pulled the hammer from his belt. The orc's roar of protest rattled the mugs on the bar as he understood Ebenezer's intent. He grabbed for his dice-just in time to get one finger smashed under the descending hammer.

Several patrons, most of them just as ugly as the ore, came over to investigate the disturbance, their faces made memorable by scars and fangs and the uniform expression of menace that they currently wore. Ebenezer acknowledged their approach with a nod.

"Lookit," he said grimly, pointing to the shattered dice. A small, iridescent blue beetle, sort of a pretty thing that looked like a sapphire with legs, scuttled frantically away. Smart little critters, they could be trained to throw their weight against the colored side of their tiny prison.

A low, angry murmur rose from the cluster of men, orcs, and worse that surrounded Ebenezer and his orcish challenger Using loaded dice didn't win many friends, Ebenezer noted with satisfaction, not even in a place like this.

The ore's howl of pain and outrage died suddenly as be realized how the tide of opinion had turned. He backed away a few steps, his piggish eyes wary and his shattered finger clutched close against his chest. Then he turn and ran with the whole pack of his former dice-mates roiling after him. Ebenezer raised his mug in mock salute, then turned back to the bar and his intended goal of waking up to find himself facedown on the bar after a few hours of hard-won oblivion.

An hour or so later, Bronwyn found the dwarf still at the bar. Ebenezer looked so defeated that her own shaky resolve firmed. She had found a solution-one that terrified her, but it was the best she could do. And it was the only chance the dwarf's lost family had.

She strode over to the bar, slapping away a few grasping hands on the way, and seized the dwarf's arm as he lifted his mug. Ale splashed over the bar and dampened the dwarf's beard. He turned a dispirited face to her. "Now why'd you go doing that?"

"I've got us a ship," she said urgently.

His eyes narrowed. "A ship?"

"And a crew. Smugglers waiting for cargo. It's been delayed, and the captain is losing too many men while he waits. He's eager for a job and will work cheap."

"Now hold on there. You're saying we should go out on the sea?" the dwarf asked. "In a ship?"

"That's the usual method," she hissed impatiently. "Now, come on. We haven't much time to get to the docks."

The dwarf still looked uncertain, but he hopped off the bar stool and followed her out of the Burning Troll. They wove their way between rows of leaning wooden buildings, taking a confusing maze of narrow alleys that led to the docks.

The prospect of a sea voyage left Bronwyn 80 edgy she felt as though several layers of skin had been peeled off, leaving her incredibly vulnerable. She started to chatter softly, to provide a distraction.

"Getting a ship was easier than I'd dared hope. The captain even took credit against plunder or payment. If you're a praying dwarf you might want to hope that the ship has some plunder worth keeping, or this could break us both."

"Clan's good for it," Ebenezer repeated.

"I'm sure you are. It seems to me, though, there's more to the captain's story than he's letting on," she said absently, suddenly aware of a soft, rhythmic sound behind them. In Skullport, sound seemed to be everywhere, echoing through the vast sea cavern and bouncing off stone walls, resounding through tunnels. But this particular cadence was too regular and too constant to ignore.

"We're being followed," she murmured. She took a small bronze disk from her bag and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She caught the reflection of a squat, ugly ore peering around a corner at them.

Ebenezer was not so discrete. He turned around and glared, then sniffed dismissively. That clearly angered the ore. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he came at them. Bronwyn reached for her knife and dropped into a crouch.

But the dwarf pushed her aside and stood waiting in the center of the alley, hammer in hand. "Sit this one out," he said. "Won't take long, him having a smashed hand and all."

Bronwyn looked from the gleam in the dwarf's eye to the hammer in his hand and sighed. "Made friends in the tavern, did you?"

Ebenezer grunted in response and hauled the hammer down and back for the first swing. He caught the ore's chin with a wicked uppercut that halted the creature's charge and jerked his lowered head up and back. Ebenezer punched out with his free hand, slamming into the creature's chest. The ores eyes bulged, and the gray hide of its face turned a ghastly blue. Slowly, it tilted forward and fell facedown into one of the fetid puddles that dotted the alley.

"Stops the heart, if you get a good clean shot," Ebenezer commented. He tucked his hammer back into his belt and turned to Bronwyn. "You was saying?"

She shut her gaping mouth and turned back down the alley.

"The captain is an ogre," she said, picking up where they left off. "But he was knowledgeable, well dressed, well spoken. Not a desperate second-rate thug by any means."

"Your better class of smugglers," Ebenezer said dryly.

"There's truth to that," she rejoined. "Think about it. There's a city below and a city above. There is traffic between the two, and you can bet that hammer of yours that many of Waterdeep's merchants know someone who knows someone who can pay someone to do a favor Are you following?"

"Easily enough, but the question is, do you know someone who's in a position to do all that other knowing?"

Bronwyn hesitated, not certain but wanting to believe. "You remember that man who came into the shop? Tall, fair-haired, good-looking?"

"No beard. Too much jewelry," Ebenezer remembered. "You were mad enough at him to chew trade bars and spit nails. What about him?"

"He's a friend, and he's also a member of a rich merchant family. It's possible he made some arrangements, helped pave the way. Here we are," she said as they emerged from the alley onto a broad, rotting boardwalk. "And over there's our ship."

Ebenezer's gaze followed the line indicated by her pointing finger His dubious expression darkened into a scowl as he took in the maze of docks and the ships bobbing alongside them in an expanse of undulating black water A flock of sea bats whirled and shrieked over the ship Bronwyn had indicated, which was being rapidly prepared to sail. Burly dockhands hauled barrels of supplies aboard, and a huge ogre captain clung to the rail and bellowed down orders in a voice that held all the music of a bee-stung mule's bellow.

"That Mend of yours," Ebenezer said darkly as he eyed the ship with trepidation, "might not have done you as big a favor as you seem to think."

Dag Zoreth stood on the wail of Thornhold and watched the caravan pass. Three wagons, plus a mercenary guard. Nothing of interest. He would not even suggest that his men attack and demand toll from the traders. He looked past them, seeking for another, smaller caravan, one with a much more precious cargo.

Several days had passed since Dag's victory. With each day he found himself spending more and more time walking the walls, searching the High Road for signs of his daughter's caravan. The escort of Zhentilar soldiers should have retrieved her by now from her place of secret fosterage. She was late, and Dag was growing ever more concerned.

He was therefore greatly relieved to see a group of riders turn off the road onto the path that led up to the fortress, and gladder still when they lifted the standard of Darkhold by means of introduction. Dag gave a few terse orders to one of the guards to carry word to the castellan and then hurried down to meet his daughter

To his great consternation, the gate opened to reveal a group of men familiar to him but not under his command. At their head rode Malchior. Dag quickly arranged his features into a expression of honor and welcome and strode forward to help his former mentor and superior down from his horse.

Malchior landed heavily and swept an appraising look over the fortress bailey. "Very impressive, my son. I never thought the day would come when I saw the interior of this particular Caradoon stronghold-except, perhaps, for the dungeons."

Dag smiled faintly to acknowledge the jest. Malchior seemed in a rare mood, so jovial that he looked likely to break into dance at any moment. "You've had a long ride from the villa. Come, I will show you to your room and have the servants bring refreshment."

"Later, later" Malchior flapped his hands, brushing aside this notion as if he were shooing flies. "You've gone through Hronulf's papers?"

"Yes," Dag said coolly. There had been little enough to see. Three or four lore books, recounting stories of past glories attributed to the Knights of Samular, and a few blackened, curling bits of parchment that he had found in the hearth fire next to his father's charred heart.

The older priest rubbed his hands together in his eagerness. "I would be most interested in seeing any papers you have."

Dag shrugged and began to lead the way up to the tower. He had claimed the commander's quarters as his own, of course, and in them he kept the few goods that Hronulf of Tyr had left behind. "There is not much to see," he cautioned.

"What of treasure? Some holds, even those of religious orders, have a considerable hoard. Silver reliquaries holding the finger bone of some hero or saint, ancient weapons, an occasional artifact. Even lesser treasures, such as jewelry."

Malchior's voice dropped on the last observation, becoming a subtle note softer, more casual. Dag's quick ear marked the difference and the probable reason for it. Malchior knew of the ring.

As Dag showed Malchior up to the tower chamber, he pondered what to do about the ring. Say little, he decided, in hope that Malchior would reveal more of the rings' true purpose. So Dag waited until Malchior was seated behind Hronulf's-no, Dag reminded himself, his-writing table. He noted the open greed in the older priest's eyes as Dag placed a pile of lore books before him. Perhaps the rings were not the treasure that Malchior held most dear.

"You mentioned jewelry. You were speaking, of course, of the ring of Samular that Hronulf wore," Dag said coolly. "Regrettably, it was not on Hronulf's hand when he died. My sister arrived before me, it would appear, and made off with my inheritance. She will be found."

The old priest looked up, his eyes shrewdly measuring his former student. "And the other rings?"

"I will find them, as well," Dag said confidently. No need to tell Malchior that one was already in his possession. He waited until Malchior opened one of the books and began to leaf through it.

"How long will you be able to stay?" Dag asked.

"Not long," the priest murmured in a distracted tone. "This is most interesting. Most interesting. Three or four days' study should suffice, unless, of course, you can see your way clear to loan me these books."

"By all means," Dag said quickly-too quickly, judging from the shrewdly calculating look that Malchior sent him. The priest always suspected, and rightly so, that every other priest of Cyric knew more on any matter than he was willing to reveal.

At that highly inopportune moment, there came a sharp knock from the open door. Dag glanced over, and his throat clenched with apprehension as he recognized the captain of the escort he had sent for his daughter The man's too stiff posture and the tight, grim lines of his face announced more clearly than words that the news was not good.

"Excuse me," Dag murmured to a very interested Malchior. "Please help yourself to any of the books and papers, and wine as well, if you will."

He hurried into the hail and shut the door behind him. "Well?" he hissed.

The captain blanched. "Lord Zoreth, there is grave news. When we arrived at the farm, the child was gone. Both the elf and his woman had been slain."

The sound like a roaring sea rose in Dag's ears, threatening to engulf him. He summoned all of his iron control and pushed away any response at all to this, the apparent ruin of his dreams. "And then? What did you do?"

"We followed. One man, on horse, headed swiftly toward the city of Waterdeep. We lost the trail once he took to the roads, but his destination was clear enough." The man stood straighter still. "What would you have us do?"

Dag turned a coldly controlled gaze upon the failed soldier "I would like you to die, slowly and in terrible pain," he said in an expressionless voice.

Surprise leaped into the man's eyes, and an uncertainty that suggested he was unsure whether or not his commander was jesting with him. Then the first wave of pain ripped through him, tearing this notion from his mind-and tearing his lowermost ribs from his chest.

The soldier looked down in disbelief as the two slim, curved white bones sprang from his chest like a door flung open. His eyes glazed, and his mouth opened to emit a scream of agony and horror But all that emerged was a choked gurgle as blood rose into his throat and poured down over his ruined chest.

Dag watched impassively as the power of his focused rage tore the soldier apart. When the man lay dead, he calmly walked back into the room and tugged at a belipull. A servant arrived in moments, his face pale from the shock of what he had discovered in the hall.

"Have this mess cleaned up, and send Captain Yemid to me," Dag said calmly. The man gulped and turned away. "Oh, and one more thing. Prepare my horse and guards. I will be leaving tomorrow at first light for Waterdeep."