Thornhold (26 page)

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.