Thornhold (43 page)

When the sounds of battle had died away, Bronwyn unbolted the shutter and looked out over the village. A small cry escaped her at the terrible destruction. Four houses had been reduced to smoldering circles of foundation stone. From this height, they looked like large and very sad campfires. Doors and windows and shutters had been broken, and goods from households and stores lay crushed and scattered in the street. Much worse were the terrible injuries dealt those slumped onto the street, and worse still those who no longer moved.

“Cara…“ began Bronwyn.

“I want to find Ebenezer,” the child insisted, sensing what was coming. “I want to see that he is all right.”

She couldn’t deny the child this, nor could she leave her here alone. “Come, then,” she said, and led the way down into the street.

Bronwyn almost stumbled over the paladin. He had taken terrible head wounds, and her gaze didn’t linger on his face, but there was no mistaking that blue and white tabard. A wave of relief swept over her, only slightly darkened by guilt. It did not seem right, to be glad that a “good man”—for he would certainly be regarded as such—had been brutally slain.

They found Ebenezer at the toy store, kicking through the rubble and swearing with impressive creativity. He broke off in mid curse when he saw Cara at Bronwyn’s side. “You kept her here?” he demanded incredulously.

“She wouldn’t go,” Bronwyn responded.

The dwarf shook his head. “Lacks for nothing but a beard, that one. Well, I’ve got some bad news. You’ve got ten guesses, and there’s your first clue.”

He pointed to the back door. The body of an elderly elf stood sentry at the door, pinned to the wooden beam by what might have been his own sword. Inside the store lay two more elf corpses and the remains of five ores. The elves had fought with a fervor all out of proportion to the apparent value of their wares.

Bronwyn stepped over a gray-skinned female ore and began to survey the devastation. The shelves had been tossed down, and toys littered the floor. Dolls and wooden carts and carved farm animals had been tossed contemptuously aside.

Bronwyn noted that there were no small bows and arrows, no wooden swords, no slingshots or miniature catapults. In short, all the toys that trained youngsters for the art of war had been taken.

It was an odd sort of plundering, and from Bronwyn’s point of view, the worse possible situation. She sifted and kicked through the rubble, but she had no more luck than Ebenezer.

“I’m-a gonna take a look around outside,” the dwarf said. “There’s stuff dropped all over. Those ores were in a hurry. Might be I can find it here. Or—” he broke off suddenly and shrugged.

Bronwyn caught the dissonant note, but was too distracted to dwell on it. “Fine,” she muttered. She kept looking, turning over every bit of wood, every scrap of cloth and paper, until she finally had to admit the truth.

The Fenrisbane was gone.

Defeated, she sank down onto an overturned shelf

“But you’re dead!” Cara protested.

Bronwyn jerked around to face the open door. There stood another paladin, a tall, fair-haired young man who matched the description she’d heard from Cara, Alice, and Danilo. This was the paladin who had stolen Cara from her foster family, who had followed Bronwyn to Waterdeep, then to Summit Hall. He simply did not quit. Like a troll, he just picked up the pieces and kept coming. Exasperation swept through Bronwyn.

“What the hell are you?” she demanded.

“I am Algorind of Tyr, and it is my duty to take this child back to the Order of the Knights of Samular for proper fosterage.”

“You did that once,” Bronwyn snapped. “It didn’t turn out so well. I found her on a ship, bound for the slave markets of the south. You will take this child only when I’m too dead to stop you.”

The young man looked saddened, but determined. “Lies will not help you. It is not my wish to harm you, but I will take the child. It would be better if you returned with me to the order to answer for your crimes of theft and treason. Perhaps doing so will bring you peace.”

“I don’t lie.” Fury swept through Bronwyn, and she went for her knife. “But I’d be happy to do what you say, just as soon as you turn that sword of yours point up and sit down on it hard.”

Algorind colored, but did not flinch. “It is plain that you are no fit guardian for a child.” he said. “Stand aside, or face Tyr’s justice.”

“No!’

Cara’s small, piping voice startled them both. She walked forward, placing her small body between the armed paladin and Bronwyn. “Don’t hurt Bronwyn. I’ll come with you.”

“Cara, don’t!” Bronwyn appealed. “Just leave. Now!”

The girl shook her head stubbornly. “I won’t leave you here with him.” She walked toward Algorind, holding out her tiny hand.

The paladin watched as the child approached. She was pale, but trusting. She came close and placed her hand in his. “I will go with you and not give you any trouble, but first you must answer a question. Will you give me your word on this, and keep it?”

The paladin gave her a puzzled look. “I am pledged to always keep my word.”

“Well, that’s fine, then. Here’s the question: what is my raven’s name?”

Algorind was not greatly gifted with imagination, but he dredged his memory for names that he had heard given to such birds. “I do not know. Midnight? Blackwing? Po?”

“No, no,” Cara said impatiently. She withdrew her hand from his, then held it in a fist over Algorind’s palm. “What do you call a cat who lives in a shop?”

“A shop’s cat, I suppose.”

As soon as he spoke the words, she opened her hand. A large, red gem tumbled into his palm. Instantly he felt himself being sucked away, as if by a strong wind.

Algorind tried to fight it, using every vestige of his iron will and his disciplined strength. To no avail. The ransacked shop began to blur and fade, and a sound like an angry sea began to crescendo in his ears. Above the tumult, Algorind heard the merry music of the child’s laughter. His fading vision fell upon the treacherous woman. She was on her knees beside the child, her arms around the girl and her face both glad and proud.

And then it all disappeared, and Algorind’s world became a terrible, terrifying white whirl. He was taken away, torn away from his duty by some treacherous magic.

The tunnel that lay between Danilo’s posh townhouse and Blackstaff Tower was a great convenience. In Danilo’s opinion, it was becoming too damned convenient. He strode down the tunnel to answer his third summons in a tenday.

The tunnel ended in a magical gate. Danilo murmured the phrase that enabled him to pass, then walked through the apparently solid stone wall and into Khelben’s study.

The archmage was painting again, which was certainly a sign of duress. Danilo glanced at the canvas. It was a seascape, with livid streaks of lightning darting down from a heap of billowing purple clouds. Despite the pending sky, the sea was an inexplicably calm shade of green.

“An interesting work, Uncle. Might I name it? ‘Umberlee having a nightmare’ is one that comes to mind.”

Khelben stabbed a paint brush in his direction, splattering him with dabs of purple paint. The fury on the archmage’s face convinced Danilo that it might be unwise to protest the matter.

“What possessed you to do such a stupid, ore-brained thing?”

Danilo lifted one shoulder. “You will have to be more specific. I do a great many stupid, ore-brained things.”

The archmage dug in the pocket of his artist’s smock and took out a bright blue stone. “What is this?”

Bluffing was hopeless, but Danilo gave it a try. “A topaz?” The archmage snorted angrily. “Gemstones. You gave the child enspelled gemstones and taught her to use them. You have done some foolish things in your life—”

“But this is not one of them,” Danilo cut in. “Cara is just a child. She’s smarter than most, but few people of any age have the sort of enemies she’s collected. A paladin saw her outside Bronwyn’s shop and gave chase. My agents saw to it that the watch was called and the would-be abductor of children summarily dealt with.”

“Yes, I know,” groused Khelben. “And thank you very much for your quick thinking. As a result, I still have Piergeiron’s boot print on the back of my breeches.”

“The paladin had it coming,” Danilo said without a touch of his customary humor. “No one has the right to take a child from her family.”

“Her family is Dag Zoreth, a priest of Cyric.”

“Bronwyn is Cara’s family, too,” Danilo argued. “She is Dag Zoreth’s sister.”

“Yes, I believe that came up in conversation with Piergeiron, too. Or don’t you recall?”

Danilo folded his arms. “With a little help, Bronwyn can take care of Cara. If you have no regard for the concept of family, consider this: Wouldn’t it be better to have whatever power this family wields in the hands of the Harpers, rather than at the disposal of the Holy Order of the Knights of Samular?”

The archmage considered this. “You make a good argument, but understand that whatever we do could place a wedge between the Harpers and the paladins. That is a dangerous situation. We cannot afford to anger the Knights of Samular any more than we have.”

A sudden breeze arose in the room, an intangible wind that spoke of gathering magic. Before either mage could respond with a defensive spell, a flash lit the room. A man stumbled out of the invisible white whirl, almost into Khelben’s arms.

Both men drew back, staring at each other with startled faces. Danilo regarded the newcomer. He was a young man, tall and broad, with curly fair hair cropped unfashionably short. The description was unmistakable, even without the telltale colors of the Knights of Samular. This was the paladin who had been chasing Cara, and this was how the clever little wench had served him back.

Danilo burst out laughing, laughter that rolled from him in waves, that had him clutching his belly and bending over as he gasped for air.

The paladin barely glanced at him, but advanced on Khelben. “What manner of fell sorcery is this?” he demanded in an aggrieved voice.

“None of my doing,” Khelben replied sternly.

“Oh, go ahead and take credit for it,” Danilo gasped out through his laughter. “It would better serve his dignity to be bested by the archmage of Waterdeep than a half-elf child not yet ten.”

The paladin reached for his sword, and that sobered Danilo somewhat. He wiped his streaming eyes and subsided to a chuckle, all the while forming the one-handed gestures needed for a cantrip designed to heat metal. The grip of the paladin’s sword began to blush with heat. With a startled gasp, the young man released his sword, staring down at his hip with an expression that suggested he thought the sword guilty of deliberate treachery.

That set Danilo off again.

“From whence have you come?” Khelben demanded, raising his voice to be heard over his nephew’s laughter. “I will send you back.”

Danilo broke off in mid howl. “Uncle, that would not be-”

“I will send him back a reasonable distance from the place he left,” the archmage specified, and turned back to his “visitor.”

“Gladestone,” the paladin admitted.

“That’s near Summit Hall. I will send you to the monastery, which is about a half day’s ride. If that is acceptable to you,” Khelben added, sending a dark look in Danilo’s direction.

Danilo lifted both hands in a gesture of surrender. “Leave the stone behind, though,” he told Algorind.

The young man looked down at his hand, remembering what he held. He dropped the stone on the floor as if it were a loathsome insect. “I want nothing to do with such things. But you, sir, your assistance I will accept,” he told Khelben stiffly. “For the sake of my duty.”

The archmage began the casting, a complex weaving dance of the hands accompanied by a brief but powerful chant. With this, he wove a silver path through the magic that encircled and sustained the world—which was no small thing, even if magical trinkets such as the gemstones made it appear so to the untrained. Danilo knew the effort of magical travel, and he certainly knew the cost of the trio of stones needed for the gemjump spells.

At the time, he’d had the feeling that little Cara Doon was worth it and more.

As he watched the paladin slowly dissolve, only to be whisked away as a smattering of silvery motes of light, he considered what Cara had done and knew that his decision to give her this magic had proven to be the right one.

Sixteen

By the time the sun rose above the trees, the villagers had buried their dead. A few of the survivors sorted through what was left of their stores, hoping to find enough to feed their exhausted and dispirited kin. They gathered together what food remained and tossed it into a large kettle, so that all might share.

Ebenezer wandered into the village about the time the soup was ready. Bronwyn caught sight of him and hurried over, her footsteps sped by mingled relief and anger. He’d been missing since last night, leaving her nearly sick with worry. As soon as she was within arm’s reach, she smacked him upside the head, as she had seen his sister do. Hard.

“Good one,” he admitted, rubbing at the side of his head. “Been off orc hunting. Hand me that bowl there.”

She passed it over and ladled some soup into it, then took a bit for herself. Bronwyn took a few spoonfuls before setting the bowl aside. Cara was sleeping, exhausted by the terrible night. She would be hungry when she awoke, and there would be no more soup. “How did it go?”

“Got me a few,” the dwarf said with relish. “Didn’t have as much fight in them as I’d-a liked, though. Scrawny things.”

“There’s a reason for that,” said a soft, angry voice beside them. They looked up into the thin, careworn face of a half-elf woman.

Since the villager clearly wanted to talk, Bronwyn patted the ground beside her in invitation. The woman sank down and after a moment’s hesitation took the package of trail rations Bronwyn quietly handed her. She slipped it into her apron. “For my children,” she said grimly. “They will have little enough until the new crops come.”

“This is not the first time the orcs attacked,” Bronwyn surmised.