Thornhold (32 page)

She tucked the log book under her arm and walked out onto the deck. Captain Orwig stalked by and she caught his arm.

“The battle was a great victory. I want to thank you for your help,” she began.

His gold-capped tusks flashed in what she hoped was a smile. “You don’t have to thank me. You have to pay me.”

“You’ll have your full fee,” she assured him, “and as a bonus, I’ll yield my right-of-hire ownership of the cargo.” She told him what the hold contained: unworked gems, bolts of wool, valuable pelts, weapons, coin, barrels of mead.

The prospect of such treasure touched the ogre’s soul. “All?”

“Except for the dwarves. You don’t want them, of course.” He snorted as if to indicate that this went without saying. “I will yield my right to the cargo in exchange for two things,” Bronwyn continued, “this book with the ship’s logs and records, and your promise that we’ll make port in Waterdeep rather than return to Skullport.”

The ogre hesitated, but temptation danced in his small red eyes. He scratched his snout and considered. “There’ll be a dock fee to pay and a tax on the booty.”

“And after paying the tax, you’ll still have far more than you expected. I’ll pay the fee. Agreed?’

Still he looked doubtful. “One dwarf is trouble enough. Eats enough for two humans. How many did we turn loose? Fifty?”

“Close enough,” she responded. “But the stores from the Grunion should serve to feed them until we get to Waterdeep.”

The ogre scowled, but gave in with an ungracious shrug. “Very well, but keep that red-bearded dung heap away from me, or I won’t be responsible for his safe arrival.”

“Done,” she agreed, though she doubted she bad enough influence with Ebenezer to persuade him to leave his favorite new toy alone.

She strode to the hatch and listened. No sounds of battle emerged, but a rhythmic thudding indicated that Ebenezer was still busy with his axe.

Bronwyn clattered down into the hold. She blinked, startled by the destruction. Shards of wood were scattered about, looking like the blasted limbs of trees in the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. Ebenezer was doggedly chopping away at the far end of the wood pile.

“You got them all?” Bronwyn called.

“This one’s the last of’em,” the dwarf said. “The others all took to fighting but me, the selfish sods,” he grumbled. He nodded toward a small stack of crates. “All but that one, that is.”

Bronwyn tracked his gesture. Her gaze fell upon the small girl-child who crouched upon the stack, the dwarfs table knife clutched in her hand.

Terrible memories flooded back into Bronwyn’s mind, striking her like a sword to the heart. For a moment her ears rang with the cries of the doomed and drowning slaves, the shrill piping of the rats. She absently raised her hand and rubbed the long-healed place on her head where two of them had clawed her.

But that was long ago, Bronwyn reminded herself firmly. This was now, and another small girl required comfort. She could not slay her own demons, but perhaps she could keep them from laying claim to this tiny victim.

She swallowed hard and fixed what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. Slowly, as if she was approaching a spooked horse, she began to move toward the girl.

“I’m Bronwyn,” she said softly. “You’ve already met my friend Ebenezer. We came to set free the dwarves. You are safe with us. We will take you home.”

She extended her hand, the offer of her pledge. The girl studied her with large, somber brown eyes, then placed her own small hand in Bronwyn’s. The contact seemed to reassure the child, and her fingers slid up to Bronwyn’s wrist and tightened into a desperate grip.

“But I don’t know where my home is,” she said in a high, clear voice that retained just a hint of early childhood lisp.

“I’ll help you find it. Don’t you worry,” Bronwyn assured her in the same soothing voice. “What’s your name? How old are you?”

“Caradoon. I was nine last winter”.

The child looked younger than nine, perhaps because she was small and exceedingiy thin. When she raised one tiny hand to tuck a stray bit of brown hair behind her ear, Bronwyn saw another explanation for her size and seemingly delayed development. The child was a half-elf. Her ears were slightly pointed, and the fingers that gripped Bronwyn’s wrist were long and delicate.

And on one of them, she wore a very familiar ring.

Bronwyn’s eyes widened in shock. Her heart thudded painfully, then picked up the beat at a quickened pace. The child’s ring was golden, and richly carved with distinctive, mystic designs. Bronwyn had one just like it in her safe back in Curious Past.

“That’s a very pretty ring,” she said, pointing. “May I see it?”

Cara snatched her hand back and hid it behind her. “My father said no stranger was to look at it, and I was to give it to no one but family. And you can’t take it from me, you know. The bad men tried,” she said, pointing to the deck. “It won’t come off unless I take it off myself.”

This was news to Bronwyn. She wondered if the ring her father had given her would display a similar magical loyalty. But that thought came and went, overwhelmed by one of much greater importance. Cara’s ring was identical to her own. Hronulf had referred to the ring as a family heirloom, meant to be worn only by the blood descendants of the great paladin Samular Caradoon. Once more Bronwyn’s eyes went wide.

“What did you say your name was?”

“Cara,” the girl said with a hint of impatience. “Caradoon.”

Eleven

Dag Zoreth had been to Waterdeep only once before, and the proximity of so many enemies of the Zhentarim left him uncharacteristically edgy. He waited until the maidservant shut the door behind her, then he slid the stout oaken bolt firmly into place. Since one could never be too careful, he walked around the sumptuous chamber, checking for magical spying devices and chanting softly as he sought out any invasive magic.

There was none to find. The Gentle Mermaid, a festhall and tavern in the heart of the staid North Ward, was renowned for its discretion. Private rooms were precisely that, and in this magic-rich city, that was rare enough. The other rare things that crowded the chamber were merely pleasant extras.

There was a fine writing table and chair of polished Chultan teak, a large bed heaped with silken pillows in bright rare shades of yellow and blue, velvet draperies and fine tapestries to keep out the chill, a washbasin and pitcher of delicate porcelain, a small table upon which was laid out silver goblets and a bottle of wine, as well as a tray of small savory bites and another of sweet pastries. Dag missed none of this, for he had a keen appreciation for luxury. As he sampled a small wedge of herb-scented cheese, he vowed to have such amenities brought to Thornhold, to soften and brighten the stark quarters of the former paladins.

But at the moment, Dag Zoreth had another, more immediate task to tend. He took a small dark globe from its hiding place in the folds of his cloak and settled down into the cushioned chair. Holding the globe before him on his palm, he stared intently into its depths.

At his command, purple flames burst into life within the globe. Dag knew from experience what this would do to the man who received the message. The magical summons would bring cold, searing pain that would last until the man found a private place and took the corresponding globe into his own hand.

It did not surprise Dag that he did not have long to wait. Sir Gareth Cormaeril, for all his courtly airs and sanctimonious pronouncements, had a keen instinct for self-preservation. In mere moments the paladin’s lean, dignified face appeared in the globe, looking rather incongruous against the background of sinister purple fire.

“You wished to speak with me, Lord Zoreth? Is there some problem that requires my attention?”

“No, I was merely overwhelmed with desire for the pleasure of your company,” Dag said coldly. “What is occurring in Tyr’s temple? The place is teaming with paladins!”

“They prepare to march on Thornhold,” Sir Gareth responded, forthrightly enough. “Surely you did not think that your victory would long remain unchallenged.”

“Let them try. They will not find it as easy to get into the fortress as we did. Unless of course,” Dag added, “you gave them the same information you gave me.”

The knight’s blue eyes widened with a sharp, sudden flash of fear. “I did not, but there might be others among the order to whom Hronulf entrusted this knowledge.”

Dag didn’t really care—he brought up the matter just to tweak the older man. If the gathering paladin army had this knowledge, it would do them little good. The tunnels beneath the fortress had been so altered that men could wander about for tendays without finding the old passages.

“There is another matter of which we much speak,” Dag continued. “I have a daughter. Though her existence has been kept secret for more than nine years, she is now widely sought. What do you know of her?”

“Sir?” inquired the knight, puzzlement on his reflected face. “Why should I know anything?”

It was not a lie—Dag had yet to catch the fallen paladin utter a direct untruth—but it was a blatant evasion. This irritated the priest.

“I run short of time and patience,” Dag said through gritted teeth. “Hear me well. The girl was abducted from her foster home by a single man, even though her foster father was an elf of considerable skill at arms. The Zhentarim are not known for such acts of foolish bravery That leaves who?”

Sir Gareth bowed his head. “I have earned your suspicions, Lord Zoreth. My part in the raid on your childhood village—”

“Is past history,” Dag cut in coldly. “I have no intention of making you suffer for past misdeeds, but I assure you, your continued existence depends upon your ability to serve me quickly and well. Is that quite clear?”

“Pellucid, my lord,” the knight agreed.

“A straight answer, then. Did you or did you not have a part in abducting my daughter?”

“Alas, the answer to that is not so simple as your question suggests,” the knight said, his face deeply troubled. “My order was indeed responsible, so some of this lies at my door.”

Dag sniffed at the self-serving “confession,” but found in these words welcome news. “My men tracked Cara’s abductor. He was headed to Waterdeep. I want his name, and soon thereafter, I want his heart on a skewer.”

“There are many paladins in Waterdeep,” Sir Gareth hedged. “Tell me more of your daughter, so that I might make discrete inquiries. I myself never saw the girl.”

That seemed a reasonable request. “She is nine years of age, but small and slight, so that she looks to be no more than six or seven. Her hair is brown, as are her eyes. There is a touch of elf blood in her. Her ears are slightly pointed, her eyes are large and tilt up at the corners, and her fingers are very tiny and thin.” As soon as the last words were out, Dag rued them. He did not want to draw any attention to the girl’s hands—and the extremely valuable ring she wore.

“And my sister,” Dag added hastily. “What word on her?”

“I sent her to Thornhold, as you directed. Did she never arrive?”

Dag decided that was a question best left unanswered. “I want the woman and the child found and turned over to me. Find a way to circumvent the other knights. Is that quite clear?”

The knight lifted two fingers to his brow in an archaic salute. “I am pledged to honor the children of Samular’s bloodline. All will be done as you say.”

Dag shook his head in disgust and released the enchantment. Sir Gareth’s face faded abruptly from the globe—but not before Dag caught a satisfying glimpse of the anguish inflicted by the spell’s release.

He despised the old knight. He hated all paladins, and particularly those who, like his own father, took vows as Knights of Samular, but this man simply galled him. Sir Gareth Cormaeril had once been a mighty knight, his father’s friend and comrade. He had saved Hronulf’s life once and had received the wound that shrunk his sword arm and ended his career in battle. But there was a weakness in the man, a weakness of will and heart that Dag particularly despised. He himself had triumphed over physical weakness—why should another man see in it an excuse to give up all he once was?

That was precisely what Sir Gareth had done. He had fallen prey to Malchior’s cunning snares, abusing his new role as exchequer of the order when his younger brother, a rogue and a gambler, ran afoul of Zhentarim-owned pleasure houses. Malchior had assumed the young lord’s debts, and Gareth had quietly “borrowed” money to repay the Zhentish priest rather than risk personal or family scandal. That was the beginning. From there, it had become increasingly easy to purchase the man’s soul, a few words at a time.

It amazed Dag that Sir Gareth did not yet seem to realize this.

What Dag was, he had chosen to be. He had great power, granted him by a mad god and wielded in ways that a man like Sir Gareth could never conceive. And he intended to get more of the same, by much the same methods—or worse, if such path came to him. What he did, he chose. What he was, he acknowledged. There was a basic honesty in this that Sir Gareth could not begin to comprehend or duplicate.

As Dag tucked the globe away, an ironic smile touched his lips as he noted that, in this matter at least, he possessed more virtue than a man lauded as one of Tyr’s great knights.

To Bronwyn, the three days of the return voyage went all too quickly. She spent many hours with little Cara, answering her seemingly endless supply of questions. The little girl had a deep curiosity about the world, and her yearning to see far places was written on her small face as she listened to Bronwyn’s tales.

True, Cara had other things to occupy her time. She played with the five dwarf children, holding her own surprisingly well in tussles and arguments with the much stronger and stockier dwarves. Ebenezer also took a special interest in the girl, and he spent hours telling her stories of his adventures, answering her questions. He even carved a toy for her, a small wooden doll with slightly pointed ears. The limbs were jointed and connected with strings so that the doll could be moved about. Bronwyn, who caught him at work stitching together bits of sailcloth for clothes, commented on the delicate work—and immediately wished she hadn’t. The dwarf gave her a bit of advice on the merits of minding her own affairs, in the form of a tongue-lashing that almost, but not quite, covered his embarrassment at being caught red-handed and soft-hearted.