Thornhold (28 page)

It seemed to Ebenezer that she sounded a mite peaked. He looked keenly at her. “You’re looking green around the gills, yourself. Sea travel don’t agree with you, I take it.”

“No.”

Her grim, curt answer hinted at a tale. A tale, Ebenezer suspected, that might do her some good to tell. “So, this wouldn’t be your first voyage, then?”

“Second.” She glanced at the dwarf, her expression forbidding. Clearly, she didn’t want to take this particular tunnel.

But Ebenezer was not easily put off. He nodded expectantly, inviting the tale. When that yielded no result, he leaned forward slightly and pointedly raised his eyebrows.

With a sigh, Bronwyn capitulated. “I was taken south on a ship after the raid on my village. I was, maybe, three or four at the time.”

“Stones,” he muttered. The thought of a child, any child, being submitted to the terror of a sea voyage set Ebenezer’s blood simmering with rage. Which, in his opinion, was a big improvement over a churning belly. Danged if he shouldn’t a-got riled up early on in this voyage, and stayed that way. “Hard thing, especially on a kid that age,” he said darkly.

“It was.” She fell silent for a moment. “I never actually saw the sea.”

Ebenezer’s gaze dipped down to the endless silvery waves. He gulped and yanked his attention back up to the billowing clouds that dotted the sky. “No loss there.”

“There’s bad, and there’s worse,” Bronwyn pointed out. “At least this trip, I have a choice. On my first voyage I was kept in the hold, along with maybe a dozen or so other prisoners.”

Imprisonment. The dwarf didn’t quite manage to suppress a shudder. “That’s worse,” he admitted.

They sat in silence for a few moments. Ebenezer caught Bronwyn looking in the direction of his belt, and tracked her gaze down to his “wine skin.” He had replaced it in Skullport. The Burning Troll, whatever its other shortcomings as a tavern might be, kept dwarven spirits in stock. He untied the string that held the skin to his belt and handed it to Bronwyn. She uncorked it and took a long, fortifying swig. To Ebenezer’s surprise, she swallowed the strong spirits— known among dwarves as “molten mithral”—without a cough or a sputter. He didn’t know a human who could do that, leastwise, not without practice. Maybe, he mused, she had had more than a little experience with dwarves and their ways. Later he’d probably be tempted to ponder on that a mite.

Bronwyn corked the skin and handed it back with a nod of thanks. “For some reason, I was the only prisoner not chained. They treated me well enough, I suppose. I had enough food, a blanket, and a corner of my own to sleep in, and even a couple of toys. The others were destined for slavery—they spoke of it, wept over it. I don’t think I was. Not at first.”

“What happened?” the dwarf prompted.

“There was a storm,” she said shortly. “A terrible storm that tossed the ship around like a leaf. The mast snapped, and some of the planking tore loose. The hold took on water.”

She shuddered from the memory. “I climbed as high as I could onto a pile of crates. Everyone else was chained. I could do nothing but watch as they drowned, slowly, screaming and cursing like creatures damned to the Abyss.” Her voice dropped to a near whisper, husky with the remembered horror.

“Hard thing on a kid,” the dwarf repeated.

“Nothing else in the hold survived except me-and a few rats. They could climb, too, and they found any footing they could. By the time the water rose to my chin, there weren’t many places left for them to perch.”

Ebenezer suspected what was coming, and muttered a heartfelt oath. He stopped himself, just barely, from reaching for her hand.

“Two of the rats climbed onto my head. They fought each other for the right to be there. Nothing I could do would dislodge them.” She smiled faintly. “When my hair is wet, and parted just so, you can still see the scars.”

She drew in a long, ragged breath. “The sea calmed suddenly. I learned later that we had been caught in the wake of a waterspout, thrown off course and into the path of some Nelanther pirates. Without the mast, the ship could neither fight nor flee. Most of the crew were killed. The pirates seized the valuables and took all the survivors to be sold as slaves. It was night then,” she added, “and there was no moon. That’s why I never once saw the sea.”

Ebenezer sat bolt upright. “So you ended up a slave after all?”

“That’s right. This time, I was chained. The rest of the trip is a blur. I vaguely remember the marketplace, and standing on the block while people gawked and poked. I was sold. There is a dark cloud over the next bit. I think I was resold, or maybe I escaped and was recaptured. I really don’t remember.”

She sighed, and to Ebenezer’s eyes she looked exhausted and drained by the recounting. He was sorry he had asked, but glad to know just the same. A good thing, it was, to know the measure of your friends.

That measure he could summon up in one short statement. “And after all that, you came out on this ship.”

Their eyes linked in understanding. After a moment, the dwarf reached for her hand. Her long, fragile human fingers intertwined with his stubby digits. They sat together, gazing up at the cloud castle that floated gently past and at the silver sea beneath. It didn’t bother Ebenezer quite so much now to see the heaving sea. His own kin most likely didn’t have his kind of choice in the matter. As Bronwyn had said, there was bad, and then there was worse.

Algorind arrived in Waterdeep footsore and dusty. His boots had been made for riding, and the soles were nearly worn through by his days of walking. His once-white tabard was dingy with the dust of the road. He hated to present himself at the gates of the Halls of Justice in such a state, but his brothers must learn of Thornhold’s fate.

He hurried through the streets. As before, he was struck by the noise and the crowds. How did men of Tyr hold fast to their faith, surrounded by such distractions and decadence? It puzzled him why the brothers would see fit to build the Halls of Justice in the heart of this teaming city. Better the remote hills, or the purity of a windswept mountaintop.

The gatekeeper at the Halls of Justice looked him up and down with obvious disapproval.

“It is most urgent that I speak with Sir Gareth,” Algorind said. “Please bear word to him that Algorind of Summit Hall begs audience.”

“Summit Hail, is it?” the guard said, his face showing a bit more warmth. “You’ll be in good and abundant company, then.”

Algorind’s brow furrowed in puzzlement. “Sir?”

“You don’t know? There’s a group of young paladins and acolytes from the training school, led by Laharin Goldbeard himself. They are making a paladin’s quest of it,” the man said. His eyes grew warm and distant with remembered glories. “I would go myself, but for the injuries that keep me tending gate.”

“Yours is an honorable task and a service to Tyr” Algorind said, noting the wistful note that crept into the knight’s voice. “But sir, of what great task do you speak?”

“You have been out of the thick of things. Taking a time of solitude, like old Texter?”

“Not by choice. Sir, the task?”

The knight’s face turned grim. “Why, the reclaiming of Thornhold, of course. Riders are taking word throughout the northlands. The Knights of Samular are gathering to march north. Paladins of other orders are joining in, and those who claim no order at all. It has been many years since such an anny of righteousness gathered together. May the Zhentarim tremble.”

Algorind caught the gatekeeper’s arm. “Sir, I have just come from Thornhold. I was but a few hours’ foot travel away when the capture was complete. I saw the smoke of destruction rise, and exchanged blows with a Zhentish patrol from the army who took the keep.”

The knight’s eyes widened. “Why did you not say so at once? You, Camelior! Come here, and take this young knight to the council room with all haste.”

Algorind fell into step beside his guide. He was led into the largest of the three buildings and into a vast hail. Six long tables dominated this hall, their edges cunningly shaped so that all fit together to form a single large hexagon. Paladins sat around the outer edge only, so that all could converse. Bright banners hung from the ceiling, proclaiming the standards of the many orders and the solitary knights who served the Halls of Justice.

Algorind’s gaze sought out Sir Gareth, and he noted the stunned look on the old knight’s face. This made him exceedingly self-conscious. Neatness and cleanliness were rules of the order and for him to appear thus was an affront, but Algorind had little time to consider his hero’s response, for Camelior quickly relayed the message that Algorind had given the gatekeeper to the assemblage.

“Another seat, if you please,” called Laharin.

Pages—young boys brought to the temple to be tested for suitability to the life of Tyr—leaped to do the Master Paladin’s bidding. Algorind found himself escorted and seated with discomfiting ceremony. All eyes were upon him when Laharin urged him to speak.

Again Algorind’s eyes sought out Sir Gareth. The old knight solemnly tapped one finger to his lips, reminding Algorind of his pledge of discretion. The conflicting duties made Algorind feel uncomfortably like a tethered hawk bid to fly and hunt.

“I rode north to Thornhold to carry a message of a personal nature to Hronulf,” Algorind said carefully. Sir Gareth’s faint nod assured him that these words were well chosen. “When I was but a few hours away, I saw black smoke rising into the sky. From the scent, I knew it to be a bier.”

Algorind fell silent for a moment in respect to the fallen. All around him knights and priests bowed their heads or formed the hand gestures that affirmed their faith and commended the spirits of their brother knights into the hands of Tyr.

“I heard a patrol and lay ambush.” Algorind blushed to admit this, but he was sworn to the truth. “There were four men, mounted and well armed. They were searching for a woman who had been in the fortress at the time of the attack. She escaped, and none knew how, but it seems likely that she took with her a ring that belonged to Hronulf.”

Murmurs of consternation rippled through the hall. “And did you seek this woman?” demanded Laharin.

“Sir, I believe I caught sight of her. She was in the company of a dwarf and riding south for Waterdeep. If it is your wish, I will seek her out.”

Sir Gareth rose slowly, and his expression was that of a man determined to meet a fate of his own making. “Brothers, I may be able to shed some light on this matter. Some days ago, a young woman came to me earnestly seeking word of Hronulf of Tyr. She gave me the name Bronwyn. A slight woman, with large brown eyes and very determined bones about the cheeks and chin, and a very long braid of brown hair. Is this the woman you saw?”

“By your description of her size and hair, it seems likely,” Algorind agreed. “I was too far away to stop her, much less look carefully at her face.”

Sir Gareth sighed and sank down to his chair. “I have gravely erred,” he admitted. “I spoke of Hronulf to this woman, and perhaps my words sent her to Thornhold.”

“Do not reproach yourself, brother,” Master Laharin told him. “You had no reason to doubt the motive for the young woman’s questions.”

“No, none, but I did not pray to Tyr to test her heart and her chosen path. That was a terrible oversight.” Sir Gareth’s brow furrowed suddenly, and he looked to Algorind. “How is it that you are come so late with this news?”

This was the moment Algorind had been dreading. “My horse was stolen from me by the dwarf who accompanied the woman. I had to walk back to the city.”

“In that case, your progress is most noteworthy,” Laharin said dryly. “Tell me, did you fare any better in retrieving the child of Samular’s blood?”

“Oh, yes, sir.” Algorind said earnestly. He looked to Sir Gareth for confirmation.

The old knight swept the room with a steady gaze. “Upon hearing of the fall of Thornhold, I feared for the child’s safety. She was taken to a place of secret fosterage, outside of Waterdeep. It seemed a wise precaution.”

“But—”

Sir Gareth shot Algorind a glare that stopped his protest as surely as an arrow to the heart. How was it, Algorind marveled, that the knight could make this claim? He himself had delivered the child to Sir Gareth well before the fall of the stronghold and had been told at that time that the girl was to be taken to secret fosterage. Perhaps she had been moved to a safer place, Algorind concluded, finding consolation in this reasoning.

“How, then, are we to proceed?” asked a knight whose name Algorind did not know, a man of middle years and exceedingly ruddy visage.

“This young paladin has a quest to complete,” Laharin suggested, nodding to Algorind. “He is able. The loss of his horse is the first fault I have seen in him in nearly ten years of training and service. Let him find the woman and the ring she carries.”

“I agree,” Sir Gareth said quickly. “With your permission, brothers, I would like to lend Algorind a horse from my own stables. This matter is too important to await his earning of another steed.”

“That might not be needed,” put in another knight. “A tall white horse was delivered to our gates just yesterday. Is it possible that this horse thief had a change of heart?”

“I will stop by the stables and see if the horse is mine, sir,” Algorind said gratefully, “but I cannot speak for the dwarf.”

Greatly relieved to have discharged his duties, and eager to see if the white horse was in fact his lost Icewind, Algorind requested permission to leave so that he might attend his new task.

Laharin’s stern face softened as he studied his former student. “No, you are sorely tired and no doubt in need of food and rest. Clean the dust of the road from you, then return and break bread with your brothers. Lord Piergeiron has consented to dine with us. The pages will show you to the barracks, where you may wash and find fresh clothing. Return in all haste.”

Algorind did not need prompting. One of the pages led the way to the barracks. He made short work of washing off the road dust and exchanging his worn garments for new. There was nothing to be done about the holes in the sole of his boots, but after the page attacked them with goose grease and rags, they were at least clean and well shone.