Thornhold (42 page)

“Might be this should wait until morning,” Ebenezer suggested as he eyed the softly growling guardian.

Fifteen

Bronwyn awoke in the grip of a nightmare, thrashing at her covers and struggling to get away from the demons that howled and roared through her dream.

“Hush, now!” admonished a stern dwarf voice. Strong hands seized her arms and shook her awake. “You’re to stay here and watch over the girl.”

As she emerged from sleep, Bronwyn realized that the nightmare had roots in reality as well as memory. Beyond the window was a hellish cacophony of shrieks, thundering hooves, and the clash of steel on steel. Above it all roared and hissed the hungry voice of fire. Bright tongues of it leaped up to lick at the night sky.

Bronwyn kicked off her covers and tugged on her boots. Her mind shoved old fears into the background and nimbly assessed the situation. Their rented room was large, a single open chamber that took up the entire second floor of the cottage. There was but one door, and the windows had shutters. She could keep invaders out for quite some time, and if need be, Cara could always use her gems to escape.

She shot a glance over at the little girl. Cara’s face was set, but calm. She walked over to the window and stared at the orc who had pinned two half-elven villagers against the clay oven. Suddenly a fire leaped up from the ground, licking up high between the creature’s splayed legs. The ore yodeled in pain and surprise and stumbled back.

“I can help,” Cara said adamantly, turning to face Bronwyn. Her brown-eyed gaze dared Bronwyn to try to send her away.

“You’ll go if necessary;” Bronwyn felt compelled to say.

“And not until.”

She nodded in agreement, and they settled down to wait.

In the streets below, Ebenezer had to chuckle when the bit of wizard fire roasted the ore. He wondered, briefly, if Cara could do that again.

Not that they needed any more fire. Four cottages at the east side of the village were ablaze, utterly beyond saving. The ores didn’t seem interested in putting the torch to anything else, though. They were here to loot, and fairly desperate about it.

It seemed to Ebenezer, though, that there was a bit of vendetta thrown in. There was a craziness to the attack, a wild, bloodlusting lack of know-how and think-it-through that made the critters harder to fight. Like bee-stung mules, they were. No way to tell which way they’d be going or why.

One of the ores caught sight of him and came at a run, a farmer’s pitchfork held like a lance under one arm. For just a moment, Ebenezer puzzled over how to best meet this attack. Then he remembered where he stood—directly in front of one of the thick plaster walls of the rooming house.

The dwarf took out his hammer to make the fool ore think he planned to stand and fight, and let him come on. At the last moment, he dropped and rolled to the side. The ore kept coming, and the pitchfork’s tongs dug deep into the wall.

Ebenezer was up before the ore’s startled grunt died away. He swung his hammer hard, crunching into the base of the ore’s spine. Down went the ore, sped on his way by another crushing hammer blow to the back of his head.

The dwarf looked around for something else to do. Not far away, an elf woman with a tumble of pale yellow curls and a nightdress of a matching hue stared with dismay at the broken sword in her hand. Two dead ores lay nearby, but it seemed like she wasn’t quite through.

That, Ebenezer could respect. If he’d had a chance to defend his clan and home, he wouldn’t care to stop until the job was done.

“Hoy, Goldie!” bellowed the dwarf He pulled his axe from his belt and brandished it. “Need a blade?”

Doubt flickered across the elf’s face, then disappeared in resolve. She darted over to the dwarf and took the axe. “Like chopping kindling?” she asked as she hefted the blade.

“Pretty much.” He nodded with satisfaction as she took after an ore who was creeping off with an armload of loot. She held the borrowed axe poised high overhead and brought it forward with a respectable downward chop. “Lacks for nothing but a beard,” he mumbled as his blade cleaved thick orcish skull.

He saw an uneven fight over by the well. A hulking ore had pinned dowr a scrawny elf lad, who had no weapon at all that Ebenezer could see. He barreled over to see what might be done and pulled up to a stop just as the ore slammed down hard with a short sword. The elf dodged, but not by much. Wood chips flew as the blade slammed against the well’s cover.

A second boom followed quickly as Ebenezer brought the hammer down on the ore’s hand. The elf lad, no fool, snatched up the dropped sword and did what he had to do.

The dwarf noted the lad’s stricken eyes and remembered back a century and more to when he stood in the same boots. “Hang onto that sword,” he advised kindly. “It don’t never get much easier, but it generally won’t be any worse.”

And then he was off, looking for someone else in need of a chance to fight.

Algorind was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of battle and the flicker of fire against the sky. He shook Corwin awake and they quickly mounted and set off at a gallop to give aid.

They had not far to go. Even though the paladins from Summit Hall did not patrol this area, Algorind knew of the village from a map in the monastery library. The villagers were mostly elves and half-elves, but peaceable folk.

The reason for the disturbance became clear as they drew closer. Mingled with the crackle and hiss of the fire and the screams of the wounded was the guttural, roaring battle cries of an ore band. Algorind’s jaw firmed with resolve.

But Corwin hung back, naked horror on his face. “This is our doing! The ores tracked us. We led them here.”

“This is a village, and they are ore raiders,” Algorind argued. “Come!”

But Corwin caught his arm. “Don’t you see? We killed their children when we truly did not have to. This is vengeance, but these people were in our path and are paying the price.”

“If that is so, justice belongs to Tyr,” said Algorind. “Stay or come, as you will. This is no time for words.”

He reined Icewind toward the village and leaned low over the horse’s neck as they sped toward battle. Behind him he heard the sound of the black horse’s hoof beats and was glad that Corwin had found his way back to duty.

Some of the ores were escaping. The paladins beat them back, cutting them down when they could or pressing them back toward the blades of the grimly determined villagers.

The work was Tyr’s, and Algorind served with all his strength and conviction. Yet even as he fought, his eyes scanned the hellish melee for some glimpse of a small, brown-haired woman and the child she had unrightfully claimed.

Upstairs in the cottage, Bronwyn waited by the door, a wooden chair held high overhead. She counted the steps as heavy feet thundered up the stairs.

“Do you have your gem ready?” she asked Cara.

The girl nodded, but her words were swallowed in the shattering crash. The door buckled and splintered, but held. It gave way entirely with the second assault, and a large, gray-skinned ore came stumbling into the room.

Bronwyn smashed down with the chair, hitting the ore before he could regain his balance. He went down hard, but he quickly brought up his arms and pressed his palms against the floor as he prepared to push himself back up. Bronwyn reacted, attacking with the weapon at hand—a leg of the chair that had splintered at one end into a jagged point. She drove the stake home like a crazed vampire hunter and stomped on it for good measure.

Another ore thundered into the room. Bronwyn pulled her knife and deflected a sword slash. For several moments they exchanged ringing blows, moving about the room in a shifting pattern of advance and retreat. She was beginning to think she might be able to take the match when the sound of more footsteps in the hall below dashed her chances.

She heard the scrape of a small wooden chest across the floor, and instantly knew what Cara had in mind. The blanket chest would hit the ore at just the right spot, if only she could maneuver him into position.

Bronwyn went into furious attack, slashing and jabbing at the ore and forcing him into a defensive stance. Slowly she beat him back across the room. He stumbled over the chest and went down heavily. Bronwyn leaped, knife leading, and threw her weight against his suddenly unprotected chest.

She rolled aside, wrenching her knife free. Two ores roiled into the room. Bronwyn flipped her knife and caught it by the tip. In the same motion, she hurled it at the first ore. But the knife was slippery with blood, and her aim faltered. She went for the throat. The knife went considerably lower.

The ore roared and stumbled, doubling over as if he’d been gut-punched by a giant. Bronwyn snatched up the dead ore’s sword and leaped up, swinging out wildly. The blade sliced across the chest of the ore just entering the room and he slumped over his doubled-up comrade. They both fell. Bronwyn finished first one, then the other with quick, decisive strokes.

She straightened up, breathing hard, and looked to the far side of the room for Cara. The child had flattened herself against the wall. Her face was white and her eyes huge. It made Bronwyn heartsick that the child had seen all that.

“You should have gone,” she panted.

“I moved the chest,” Cara reminded her in a small, pale voice.

Bronwyn smiled faintly. “You did well, but you aren’t safe here.”

The child’s eyes darkened, and suddenly they looked far too old for her tiny face. “I really don’t think,” she said softly, “that I’m safe anywhere.”

Back in Thonhold, Dag Zoreth paused before the altar and studied the purple flame that leaped and danced in an ever-changing sunburst, and the enormous black skull that leered out from the fire. It was a symbol of his god, proof of Cyric’s favor. Such a thing would bring him great honor, and inspire men to consider him with fear. It was more than he had hoped for.

But it was not enough.

Dag carefully knelt before the altar, lowering a round, low bowl to the floor. The bowl was brass and so finely crafted that not a single ripple or flaw marred its surface. A perfect receptacle for power, it would seize mystical force and throw it back, much as mountains playfully turned a shout into an echo. Filled with water, the bowl became a scrying pool of enormous power.

Filled with blood, it begged the level of dark power that only an evil god might grant.

Dag braced his hands on either side of the bowl and stared intently into the dark pool. He began to chant, an arrogant prayer that importuned a god for power, and scorned the price that would surely come due. He would pay it in time, and consider it worthwhile—as long as he found Cara.

He formed an image of the girl in his mind and reached out to her through the dark thread of the chant.

The words of the prayer enveloped him, gathering in power. Magic rose like incense toward the purple flame, carrying with it a heady scent of night-blooming flower, musk, and brimstone.

That scent prodded at his memory. Through the ritual-induced haze, Dag felt the first sharp tugs of alarm. His chanting faltered, then broke off altogether as blood began to rise from the bowl.

The blood rose swirling into the air, taking on the shape of a slender, furious elven woman. The image of Ashemmi floated before him, clad in a gown a shade deeper than her usual crimson.

It occurred to Dag suddenly that he was still on his knees. Quickly he rose to his feet and stared down the apparition. “You take a fearful chance, interrupting a ritual to Cyric,” he warned her.

“I felt the magic and followed it!” the image of Ashemmi snapped. “Do not think for a moment that I cannot find you, and that I wifi not!”

A shimmer of dread rippled through Dag as he wondered if the elf had also found Cara. But no, she would have said so if she had. There was no tie binding her and her child, and her seeking magic did not know the paths that belonged to Cara alone. But Dag she knew to the depths of his black heart, as he knew her.

“What do you want, Ashemmi?” He tried to imbue his words with a weary patience.

“The child!”

Not my child, Dag noticed, or even our child. A tool, a weapon. That was all. Cara deserved better.

“She is safe,” Dag said, and believed it to be so. His best intelligence indicated that the child was being kept in Blackstaff Tower, and he was inclined to believe that she was still there. Still, he wanted to see for himself No mere scrying device could pierce that fastness—which was why he had decided to seek a god’s power.

“Safe?” shrieked the apparition. “I have learned that she was apprehended from a southbound slave ship! Do not talk to me of safety.”

This startled Dag. Instantly, he knew who the culprit must be. It would appear, he mused, that he owed his sister a debt of gratitude. It was she who had thwarted this plan and brought Cara back to Waterdeep.

“I had nothing to do with that,” Dag assured Ashemmi’s magical image. “I have no intention of bringing harm to my own child.”

She sniffed. “It does not matter what your intentions are. After a certain level, there is no real difference between evil and ineptitude. I want her, Dag. Find her and bring her to me.”

“You relinquished your rights to the child,” he protested.

“I reclaim them. When you find her, she will be brought to Darkhold. You can bring her, or she will be taken from you. But mark me: the child will be mine!”

The apparition disappeared as suddenly as a lightning bolt. Blood splashed back into the bowl, splattering the floor and the priest.

Dag lifted his eyes to the symbol of Cyric. It seemed to him that the skull had a watchful mien, rather like a wild cat considering the moment to pounce, but the godly manifestation gave no sign of Cyric’s displeasure. Strife, intrigue, illusion—all these things were present in the tableau he and Ashemmi had just presented. Cyric must have found it quite diverting.

But Dag was taking no chances. He left the chapel at once and sent his most expendable servants to clean up after the failed ritual.