Thornhold h-16

by Elaine Cunningham

  But settled it was, and when morning came, Bronwyn rode swiftly northward to do her part. For the first time in days-for the first time, truly, in her entire life.-she felt as if her destiny was entirely hers to command. What lay ahead would not be easy, but it was worth doing. She felt, if not quite confident, at least buoyantly hopeful.

  The terrain became increasingly rocky as she went north into the foothills surrounding Thornhold. She urged her fine, borrowed steed-a glossy bay mare with a long, tireless stride-to the top of the hill and pulled up to allow the horse a brief rest, and herself opportunity to survey the path ahead for dangers.

  Her gaze swept over the desolate area. There was nothing to see beyond the rolling foothills, scrubby pines, and jagged piles of rock. The sun was warm, and several hawks wheeled and soared on the spring breeze. One of them dropped to the ground, claws outstretched. Bronwyn heard the small, sharp squeak of its prey and instinctively looked away.

  Her gaze skimmed over a small, white form on the path behind her, then jolted back. It was a horse, and upon it was a very familiar figure.

  Bronwyn dug both hands into her hair and clenched her jaws to keep from screaming with frustration. Not Algorind, not again, and surely not now! The paladin could ruin everything.

  She kicked the mare into a run and took off for the north. Leaning low over the horse's glossy neck, she raced down the hill and around the path that led to the High Road. There she might have some small hope of outpacing the paladin's steed. The paths that wound through the hills were uneven and treacherous, and every frantic pace was a gamble that the horse would not stumble on the scattered stone.

  The mare shied suddenly and violently to the right. Bronwyn clenched the horse's sides with her knees and clung to the chestnut mane in a desperate attempt to hold her seat, but she could not. She fell painfully, rolling several times across the rocky ground. As she hauled herself up, her eyes fell on the source of the horse's fright. Several snakes, newly awakened from their winter's slumber, were sunning themselves on the flat rocks ahead. Had the horse not stopped she might have run right through them-with deadly consequences.

  Bronwyn regarded her torn sleeve and the deep, painful abrasion that ran from wrist to elbow. "I owe you thanks," she said softly as she walked toward the skittish mare, "but you'll excuse me if I wait a while before expressing them."

  Behind her she heard the thundering approach of the paladin's great white horse. She was almost to her horse, was just reaching for the reins, when the mare turned and bolted. Bronwyn dropped and rolled as the paladin thundered by.

  He dismounted in a quick, fluid leap and strode toward her, his hand on the hilt of his sword. "I have no desire to fight a woman. If you will yield peacefully, I will bring you safely back to stand judgment."

  Bronwyn pulled her knife and fell into a crouch. As she did, a plan began to formulate in her mind. "Why would you content yourself with performing only half your duty?"

  "Half my duty?" The paladin drew his sword and circled in. "What trickery is this?"

  "None. You want the child. That, you have made plain. I'm on my way to Thornhold to fetch her back."

  "No longer," Algorind said. He lunged in, with a quick hard stroke designed to knock the knife from her hand.

  The force of the blow flung Bronwyn's arm out wide, but she kept her grip. 'We could both get what we want, if we work together. I could get Cara. After that, we will take her to Waterdeep. Together."

  Algorind was clearly skeptical. "Why would you do this?"

  "Would you want to see a child turned over to the Zhents? And what of the coming battle? She has seen enough fighting, thanks mostly to you and yours."

  "It is a paladin's duty to fight for good," he said.

  "And I'm offering you a chance to do just that," she said impatiently. "Do you think it will be easy to get Cara out of Thornhold? You'll get your chance to fight."

  She circled closer and noted that Algorind did not retreat. He seemed to be giving her words careful consideration.

  "How would you get the child?"

  "I am Dag Zoreth's sister. He has been looking for me, just as you and your fellow paladins have been. Apparently, I have some value because of who my ancestors were." She gave an impatient shrug, to indicate she had little knowledge of or interest in this notion.

  "So you would surrender to him."

  "In a manner of speaking. They will let me into the fortress, and I doubt they would worry overmuch about my companion."

  The paladin's face clouded. "Speaking of such, where is that horse-stealing dwarf?"

  She shrugged off the question. "They would view you as a far more likely companion. In fact," she added wickedly, "Master Laharin was giving thought to what young paladin might be chosen to help me continue Samular's line. Perform well in today's task, and perhaps I'll recommend you for the job."

  The young man looked flustered, as Bronwyn hoped he might. "You believe the Zhentarim would allow a paladin into their stronghold?"

  "Why not? You're good with that sword, but you're still one man. The question is, are you good enough to help me fight our way out of the fortress once we have Cara?"

  Algorind gave her question sober consideration. "I will speak truly. It seems to me that your plan holds grave risks and small chance for success. Nevertheless, I will do as you suggest."

  She glared at him and brandished her knife. "If you're looking to die nobly, do it on your own time."

  "That was not my meaning," he said earnestly. "Your bold plan holds danger, but I can think of none better. It is true that I am sworn to follow my duty, even if it leads to death."

  Bronwyn remembered Hronulf" s last battle at Thornhold. The same serene courage shone in this young paladin's eyes. Suddenly she found herself hard pressed to hate this man.

  "But I am not convinced that death will result from this venture," continued Algorind. "Defeat is never certain while life remains. It may be that Tyr will bless this quest and grant success." A sudden, bleak look entered his eyes. "And if success is not to be, still I am content."

  His expression alerted Bronwyn. She remembered the fear she had experienced as a child, and again during her brief reunion with her father, that she would never quite manage to meet the mark set for her. That old ghost haunted Algorind's eyes. For a moment, a very brief moment, she felt sympathy for the young paladin and the harsh life he had chosen.

  "Got yourself into a bit of trouble, did you?"

  "As to that, you know my failings better than any. I allowed a dwarf to trick me and steal my horse, a child to evade my pursuit-"

  "And let's not forget the incident with the gemjump," Bronwyn interrupted, "though I'm sure you'd like to do so."

  A pained expression crossed the young man's face. "I admit my failings and gladly pay the price."

  The calm, steady acceptance in his voice told all. Bronwyn straightened and tucked away her knife. If Algorind failed to rescue Cara, he would probably face disgrace, and possibly even banishment. Had she needed assurance that he possessed enough reason to face the task ahead, this would have outstripped her expectations.

  Bronwyn looked around for her horse. The mare had calmed and was cropping at some grass. She turned back to Algorind.

  "All right, then. Let's go. But remember, when we get to the fortress, let me do the talking."

  Algorind had little desire for speech. He rode alongside Bronwyn, his thoughts churning with confusion. Had he done wrong, throwing his lot in with this woman? She had already proven treacherous, and her choice of companions did not commend her judgment. Yet she had agreed to travel with him, to work together.

  He had to be clear on one thing. "Understand this," he said. "I intend to fulfill the paladin's quest given me. Once the child has been rescued, I am honor-bound to take her back to the paladins at Waterdeep."

  "I never doubted it," Bronwyn replied, looking straight ahead.

  They rode in unbroken silence until the walls of Thorn-hold loomed befor
e them. Algorind had never seen the fortress, and he marveled at the strength of the ancient walls. He scanned the citadel, searching for something that might aid their escape.

  "See that wooden door, about halfway up the walls?" he said, nodding toward the stronghold. "That is a sally port. When we are within the walls, look for a way up to it. There should be a ramp, or stairs."

  "Both," Bronwyn said. "I remember that. When I was in the fortress, Hronulf showed me around."

  "That is good. Once you have the child, we will fight our way up to the port."

  She shaded her eyes against the setting sun and squinted. "It's a good twenty feet down."

  "Nonetheless, it is our best hope of escape. My horse will come to my call. When we reach the fortress, we will leave our horses outside the gates. if we tie your mare's reins to mine, Icewind will bring her along."

  Bronwyn nodded as she took this in. "It might work."

  One thing more concerned him. "How will you find the child in the fortress?"

  "My brother has not seen me since I was four years old," she said. "He is likely to ask Cara if I am who I claim to be. Knowing Cara, she will not be content to go tamely back to her room afterward."

  In his brief tenure as master of Thoruhold, Dag Zoreth had transformed the commander's chambers. The rooms that had once been Hronulf's, and that had reflected the knight's austere life, were now luxurious and comfortable. A bright hearth fire was always burning to stave off the chill that lingered Within the thick stone walls, even though it was mid Mirtul and quite warm for that month. Fine furniture had been shipped from Waterdeep, lamps of colored glass from Neverwinter, fine furs from Luskan. His chamber did not quite possess the elegance of the Osterim villa near Waterdeep, but in time it would. Already it surpassed any Zhentarim outpost. But today, this small success gave him no pleasure.

  "My Lord Zoreth."

  Dag looked up from the papers on his table, almost grateful for the interruption. Already Ashemmi was making good her threat. Swift riders had brought word from Darkhold. Sememmon, the mage who ruled the fortress-and who was in turn ruled by his dark affection for the elven sorceress- wanted Dag to return to Darkhold, bringing the child with him. Thornhold would be turned over to another commander. For hours now, Dag had been wracking his thoughts for some way to keep control over his command and his daughter. Another conquest, perhaps. That might sway the matter. If he proved he could thus enhance the power of the Zhentarim, not even Ashemmi's charms could dissuade Sememmon from approving, even applauding, Dag's ambitions.

  "Well?" he asked the messenger.

  "The sentry on the north tower reports two riders approaching. A man and a woman."

  Dag stood up abruptly. "Is this my sister?"

  "It might be. The men who saw her enter the fortress before our attack think it is possible, but they saw her only from a distance."

  There was one way to be certain. Dag strode to the door that led into the adjoining room. Cara sat on her bed, looking oddly dispirited. The playthings he had supplied her with lay neatly on the chest, in which, he supposed, were all her new clothes and baubles. She preferred to wear the clothes she came with-a gown of pink silk. Some day very soon he would have to find a way to persuade her to part with it long enough to allow the laundry a chance at it. In the girl's hands was a small, wooden doll, roughly carved and so squat and square that it resembled a dwarf far more than it did a human.

  "Cara, we have visitors," he said. "As lady of the castle, you need to greet them."

  That pleased her. She rose at once and followed him up a flight of stairs to the walkway that followed the entire wall. The height did not seem to bother her in the slightest-she was an intrepid child, that Dag had noted-but nonetheless, he claimed her hand and held it tightly as they made their way around to the front gate.

  A delighted cry burst from the child. "It's Bronwyn! She has come to visit?"

  "To stay, if you like," he said, and meant it. If he could find a way to keep them both, to use the power only they could wield, he would surely do it. "And the man with her?"

  Cara's brown eyes narrowed, and her lip jutted out. "That is the man who stole me. He killed my foster parents and took me away. He chased me in Waterdeep."

  So Sir Gareth was telling the truth after all, Dag mused. Dark pleasure rose in him like a tide at the thought of having this man, this paladin, delivered so conveniently into his hands. The single-minded fool probably expected to fight his way clear or die gloriously.

  "He will not hurt you here," Dag assured her, "but we cannot be certain he will not hurt Bronwyn, unless we let them in. Do not be afraid."

  Cara shot him an incredulous look. "I am not afraid. I am angry."

  He smiled with approval and started forward. They walked until they had reached the small parapet overlooking the gate.

  His first glimpse of his sister affected him in ways he had not expected. She was beautiful, and though he had not seen her for twenty years and more, so very familiar. Memory stirred, one of those memories that would forever be branded in his mind with utter, terrible clarity. He saw again his mother's white face, set in grim determination as she leaped to the defense of her children. That expression was reborn in his sister Bronwyn's eyes.

  He could use that, Dag thought, striving mightily for detachment. If she was so attached to Cara, she might be willing to do nearly anything for the girl. Their mother had died protecting her brood. Let us see, he mused, if Gwenidale's daughter had inherited her mother's heart as well as her face.

  Dag stepped forward, so that he was in full view of the riders who waited outside the gate. "State your name, and your purpose," he called down.

  Pain, sharp and stabbing and insistent, thrummed along Algorind's temples. He shaded his eyes and tilted back his head to look up at the wall. There was no doubt in his mind who the speaker was. Evil emanated from the man in waves, Algorind silently prayed for strength and for the shield needed to hold back evil's power long enough to defeat it.

  The woman beside him suffered no apparent ill effects. In fact, she looked disturbingly at home, and a small smile curved her lips.

  "Ask Cara who I am," she tossed back.

  There was a moment's silence. "Very good, sister. You say much in a few words, but you have answered only one of my questions. What do you seek here?"

  Bronwyn slid a quick glance at Algorind and nodded. That was the signal they had agreed upon. They dismounted and walked together toward the walls. Praise be to Tyr, his mental shields held, and the pain caused by proximity with evil did not intensify.

  "I am a merchant," Bronwyn called up. "I have learned that there is nothing that cannot be bought, if the price is high enough."

  Algorind marveled at her calm. She stood easily, her head cocked and her hands resting lightly on her hips. One would think that bartering for a child's life meant nothing to her.

  "Your terms?" the priest called down. There was a hint of amusement in his voice that Algorind found more chilling than shrieking rage.

  "Simple enough. I want Cara. In exchange, I will give you all three rings of Samular and the powerful artifact they command. What you chose to do with them is no concern to me."

  This betrayal smote Algorind with an icy fist. "Do not!" he protested, utterly aghast at this revelation of her true, base nature.

  Bronwyn turned and gave him a small, cool smile.

  He reached for his sword, but it was too late. The massive door swung open, and a score of Zhentish soldiers surrounded them. They swarmed him, pushing him roughly through the gates and toward whatever fate this treacherous woman had in mind for him.

  Nineteen

  Dag hurried down the gatehouse stairs as Bronwyn and the captive paladin entered the courtyard. He smiled and strode forward to reclaim his heritage at last.

  "Hello, Bron," he said, voicing the almost-forgotten nickname with a faint smile.

  "Bran?' She stood staring at him, her eyes huge and her face a canvas awash with more emo
tions than he could name. "I suddenly remember… so much?'

  As did he. Bron and Bran, they had called each other. Nearest in age, if not in disposition, they were intense friends and foes during childhood. Images, fleeting and bittersweet, assailed him.

  She took a step forward and held out a hand in an unthinking gesture. He took it in both of his own. "You've made an offer, but I would like you to reconsider it. You could stay here, if you wished, with Cara and me."

  Her large brown eyes focused on him and went utterly cold. She snatched back her hand. "tinder the same roof as my fathers murderer? Not a chance. Give me Cara, and I'll go."

  He refused to let her response sting. "Not quite yet. There is the matter of the rings and the artifact," he reminded her then tsked lightly. "Same old Bron. Hoarding all the toys." Dag understood the undeniable charm of memory and he wielded like a sword his knowledge that he once had been the person that Bronwyn loved above all others.

  She shook her head, refusing to succumb. "I want to see Cara," Bronwyn said adamantly.

  He lifted one brow. "Do you not hear her? She is in the gatehouse, under the care of hardened soldiers who, at this moment, are no doubt wishing they were patrolling the Mere of Dead Men, instead."

  She cocked her head and smiled fiercely when the sounds of Cara's angry struggle reached her.

  Dag turned to the guard at his elbow. "Have the men send her down."

  The message was relayed, and Cara flew out of the gate-house door like a small brown bird. She threw herself into Bronwyn's arms with a glad cry. "My father said you've come to visit! He said maybe you will stay."

  Bronwyn looked at Dag over Cara's head, holding his eyes as she spoke. "Plans have changed, Cara. You are going with me. Give your father the ring."

  Without hesitation, the little girl peeled off the artifact and handed it to Dag. That concerned him, and stung more than a little. Hadn't he impressed upon her the importance of the ring and the power that came with her heritage? Did she value it-and him-so lightly?

  Dag thrust aside these thoughts and turned back to Bronwyn. "The artifact," he said, and his voice sounded colder to his ears than he had intended to make it.