Thornhold h-16

by Elaine Cunningham

  He fisted his hand and swung hard, connecting squarely with Khelben's jaw.

  The archmage stumbled back a few steps, startled by the first physical attack he had received in what was no doubt centuries. For just a moment, his magical disguise slipped. Danilo confronted not a strong young man with elven blood, but an aging wizard. So old did Khelben look, in fact, that Danilo's heart thudded with mingled guilt and grief. It was one thing to deck a man wearing a magical disguise of his own apparent age, another entirely to look upon the dumbfounded face of the man who was in fact his own grandfather.

  Then the moment passed and the powerful archmage of Waterdeep stood with his hand on his jaw, looking exactly as he always did: stern, powerful, and determined to have his way in this matter and all others.

  Danilo turned and strode off, too full of fury and turmoil to care if retributive lightning was forthcoming.

  All thoughts of sleep forgotten, Bronwyn quickly dressed herself in dark breeches and shirt, then slipped down her back stairs. She hailed a three-copper carriage on the street and gave the driver an address in the Dock Ward, the rough and dangerous part of town where sea met city. There was a warehouse just off Keel Alley that boasted a cavernous cellar. This was a favorite gathering place for denizens of the underground realms. When her duergar "friends" were in town, they invariably stayed there.

  Bronwyn got to the warehouse without incident and crept into the building. The warehouse was vast, resembling a miniature city with narrow, wood-planked streets between structures formed by stacks of wooden crates and piles of sacks. It was fully as dangerous as the larger city beyond its walls. When Bronwyn saw a pair of luminous eyes, narrowed in challenge and hunkered low to the floor, she instinctively reached for her knife. A low, angry growl curled through the dusty air toward her. Bronwyn recognized the sound and relaxed. It was only a scrawny cat, such as many warehouse owners kept to limit the number of rats. The unearthly glow of the cat's eyes was merely reflected light from a crack high on the wall and the street lamp beyond.

  She made her way through the maze of barrels and crates to the back corner of the warehouse. There stood a large, squat keg. She flipped open the knothole and squinted inside.

  There was no floor beneath the barrel, just a ladder that led down into the cellar. A small, smoky fire burned in a stone hearth, and the haunch of rothe spitted over it sizzled and spat. The light of the fire fell upon several gray faces. Bronwyn counted five duergar, including the two she had dealt with earlier that day. The young duergar was not with them, but his elders did not seem to mourn his loss overmuch. The silent duergar sat contentedly munching a hunk of half-cooked rothe, while the leader played dice with the others and argued in a low, angry voice. The huge, empty ale mug at his elbow suggested Bronwyn's next course of action.

  She tied a bit of thin, sturdy cord to the handle of a crate stacked overhead, then wriggled the crate forward a bit so that its position was less than secure. Then she took a place behind a nearby stack of crates and waited for the duergar to emerge. The way she figured it, the rental on his ale would expire shortly, and not even the filthy deep dwarves would permit him to end his lease in the cellar dining hall.

  Sure enough, before long she heard the creak of heavy iron boots on the rickety ladder. When the duergar passed her, intent upon reaching the alley door, Bronwyn sprang. She reached over his shoulder, seized his beard, and jerked it up and back, then laid her knife to his bared throat. With her free hand, she began to loop the end of the cord onto his belt.

  "That necklace you sold me," she whispered. "Where did you get it?"

  The duergar started to wriggle, then thought the better of it. "Not telling," he mumbled. "Not part of the deal."

  "I'm adding it on, as payment for damages. Who sold it to you? "She gave the knife an encouraging little twitch to speed his answer.

  "A human," the duergar said grudgingly. "Short beard, big grin. Runs to fat. Wears purple."

  The picture was forming clearly enough in Bronwyn's mind, but she wanted to be sure. "Does this human have a name?"

  "Calls himself Malchior. Now turn me loose, and go bother him. I got things to do," the duergar complained.

  Bronwyn lowered her knife. She gave the duergar a kick that sent him sprawling-and that brought the crate and several below it tumbling down on him. She turned and fled. Before the other duergar could so much as investigate, she had put two alleys and a shop between them.

  As she made her way back to Curious Past, two conclusions tumbled through Bronwyn's mind. First was the irrefutable fact that Malchior had set her up for no reason that she could fathom. And second was her growing conviction that the duergar had given her this information far too easily.

  Early morning sunshine poured in through windows of fine leaded glass. An impeccably dressed servant unobtrusively placed a breakfast tray on a nearby table. Dag inhaled, enjoying the complex scent of sausage pasties, fresh-baked bread, and even a pot of the Maztican coffee that was becoming so popular in the decadent southern lands.

  "Will that be all, my lord?"

  Dag Zoreth paused in the act of surveying his new domain and glanced at the elegant, dark-clad man who'd addressed him. Emerson was a gentleman's gentleman: a polished, accomplished, and supremely capable servant who could probably run a small kingdom with great success and aplomb. The manservant was precisely the sort of amenity to which Dag intended to become accustomed.

  "One thing more, Emerson. Sir Gareth Cormaeril will be calling this morning. He expects to meet with Malchior. Do not disabuse him of this notion. In fact, should he pose any questions at all, evade them."

  The manservant did not so much as blink at this odd litany. "Shall I announce him, sir, or send him in directly?"

  Dag's lips thinned in a semblance of a smile. "By all means, send him in at once. This meeting is more than twenty years overdue."

  Emerson responded with an admirable lack of curiosity and a quick, perfect bow. After the manservant had shut the elaborately carved door behind him, Dag settled down in a deeply cushioned chair and took a moment to let the sheer luxury of the room flow over him.

  Intricately patterned carpets from Calimport, many-paned windows accented with colored glass and framed with draperies of Shou silk, furniture carved from rare woods and softened with tapestry-covered pillows, shelf after shelf of beautifully bound books. The fireplace was tiled with lapis, and the chandelier that lit the room with scores of extravagant beeswax candles had the sheen of elven silver. Not a single item in the room was less than superlative, and nearly all were in shades of rich blue and deep crimson-the most difficult colors to achieve, and the most expensive.

  This was the library of the Osterim guest villa, a small but lavish manor that was part of the Rassalanter Hamlet in the countryside east of Waterdeep. A complex of manors, cottages, and stables, it was maintained by a wealthy merchant for his use and that of his guests. This was widely known. It was less known that Yamid Osterim was a captain of the Zhentarim. His impeccable credentials as a merchant gave him access to secrets and trade routes; his cunning allowed him to pass along much of this information in such manner that never once had a hint of suspicion touched him.

  Malchior, Dag's mentor and immediate superior, had enjoyed access to Osterim's hospitality for many years. That privilege he had passed on to Dag, along with the services of the inestimable Emerson-and the control of Malchior's paladin.

  In preparation for Sir Gareth's visit, Dag had added his own unique touch to the room's decor. The hearth blazed with magical fire-strange, unholy black and purple flames that cast an eerie purple light and sent macabre shadows dancing across the carpeted floor. It amused Dag to flaunt the colors and the power of Cyric, in unspoken mockery of Sir Gareth's ability to bear such proximity to evil.

  The door opened and a tall, well-made man in vigorous late life stepped into the room, helmet tucked respectfully under his left arm and snowy hair smoothed into precise waves. His bright blue eyes widened
in surprise when they fell upon a slight, dark young man instead of the substantial and falsely jovial priest he clearly anticipated.

  "Welcome, Sir Gareth. It was good of you to come," Dag Zoreth said, inflecting the words with irony.

  The knight's look of puzzlement deepened. "I had little choice in the matter, young sir. I was summoned."

  Dag sighed and shook his head. "Paladins," he said with mild derision. "Always this need to state the obvious. Sit, please."

  "I have no wish to intrude upon your leisure. My duty is with another. Only accept my apologies for this intrusion and I will leave you and seek him-"

  "Malchior will not be attending," Dag broke in smoothly.

  "He sends his regards and his desire that you see in me his replacement."

  Sir Gareth hesitated. "I do not know you, young sir."

  "Do you not? I have chosen the name Dag Zoreth, though you may well have heard me called by another. You knew my father extremely well, if the stories tell truth." Dag nodded at the older man's right arm, which hung withered and useless at his side. "You took that wound saving his life. Or so they say."

  The color drained from the paladin's face, but still he stood as straight as a sentry.

  "Oh, sit down before you fall," the priest said irritably.

  Sir Gareth moved stiffly to the nearest chair and sank into it, his eyes riveted on Dag's face. "How is it possible?" he whispered. "Hronulf's son. This cannot be true."

  "If you are looking for my father's likeness in me, do not bother," Dag said with a touch of asperity. "As I recall, we were never much alike. But perhaps this little trinket will convince you of my claim."

  He lifted a silver chain from around his neck and handed it to Sir Gareth. The old knight hesitated when he glimpsed the medallion bearing the symbol of Cyric. He forgot his scruples, however, when he caught sight of the ring behind it. He took the chain and studied the ring carefully.

  After a few moments Sir Gareth lifted his gaze to Dag's face. "You do not wear this ring," the paladin said. "I suspect that you cannot."

  That was true enough, but Dag shrugged it aside. "Someone can wield it for me. If the ring is in my control, it matters little whose hand it bedecks."

  An expression of shrewd speculation flashed into the knight's eyes, coming and going so quickly that Dag wondered if he had only imagined it. But he remembered it, as he remembered all things Malchior had told him about this man Dag now owned.

  "There are two other rings," Dag continued. "My father wears one. Where is the third?"

  Sir Gareth reluctantly handed back the ring. "Alas, we do not know. The ring was lost to the Holy Order long years ago, during the time of the great Samular."

  The priest studied the older man's face for signs of hesitation. Malchior had advised him that Sir Gareth never lied, yet often managed to speak truth in highly misleading fashion. It was difficult, Malchior had warned, to tell whole truth from artfully contrived prevarication. Dag suspected that Sir Gareth himself would be hard-pressed to tell the difference. According to Malchior, the knight was a master at the art of rationalization. Sir Gareth worked hard, desperately hard, to conceal from his brothers in the Order- and from himself, most likely-the fact that he was a fallen paladin. The grace of Tyr was no longer with him and hadn't been for a very long time. In light of this, Dag concluded with grim, private amusement, Sir Gareth could hardly object to carrying a bit of Cyric-granted magic.

  The priest reached into the folds of his purple tabard and removed a small black globe. This he handed to Sir Gareth. "You will carry this with you, keeping it on your person at all times. When I wish to contact you, you will feel a sensation of cold fire. I will not try to explain this-you will know what it is when you feel it. When this occurs, hasten to a private spot and draw the globe out of its hiding place. The touch of your hand will open the portal-and dim the pain." Dag smiled thinly. "But I'm sure that warning is twice unnecessary, since alacrity and fortitude are both knightly virtues."

  Sir Gareth took the globe with an unwilling hand. He drew back in horror at the image within: Dag's pale, narrow face, back lit by purple flames.

  "Speak into it in a normal voice. I will hear you," Dag continued. His eyes mocked the knight, who hastily put aside the globe and wiped his fingers as if the touch not only burned, but sullied him. "With this device, you can continue to serve the Zhentarim, as you have for nearly thirty years."

  Dag's words were a deliberate insult, and were received as such. Sir Gareth's jaw firmed and his chin lifted. "Think what you will, Lord Zoreth, but I serve the Order still. The Knights of Samular venerate the memory of Samular, our founder. In serving you, a child of the bloodline of Samular, I am fulfilling my vows."

  "Twisted," Dag Zoreth said with mild admiration. "Perhaps you can enlighten me on another matter. I am curious have you any idea what kind of diversions a priest of Cyric finds amusing?"

  The priest smiled at his visitor's reaction. "You blanched just now. I will take that as a yes. How, then, do you justify the use of your Order's funds to finance Malchior's leisure activities?"

  Sir Gareth's face was ashen, but his gaze remained steady. "Whatever else he may be, Malchior is a scholar and most knowledgeable in the lore and history of my Order. It is right and fitting that some of the Order's monies support this work. I have no firsthand knowledge that these funds were used in any other manner."

  "A fine distinction, and one that I'm sure you find soothing," the priest commented. His face hardened and the dark amusement in his eyes vanished. "Permit me one more question. By what possible light could you justify condemning children to death?"

  The former paladin dropped his head into his hands, as if the weight of his unacknowledged guilt was too heavy to bear. "I had no hand in what happened to Hronulf's children."

  "Did you not? Did you not sell some of your Order's most precious and closely guarded secrets? If that led raiders to my father's village and to me, I suppose none of the taint clings to your garments."

  Sir Gareth sat up abruptly, his shoulders squared. The awareness of imminent death was in his eyes, but he was still paladin enough to meet his anticipated fate squarely.

  "It is rather late for you to die a martyr," Dag said coldly. "Killing you slowly and painfully would be vastly amusing, but all things considered, it would be administering simple justice. That is the purview of your god, not mine."

  "Then what do you want from me, priest of Cyric?"

  "No more than Malchior wanted," Dag said. "Information is worth far more to me than the brief satisfaction I would derive from your demise."

  The knight studied him, then nodded. "If the knowledge is mine, it shall be freely given."

  THREE

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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