Thornhold (47 page)

He had to be clear on one thing. “Understand this,” he said. “I intend to fulfill the paladin’s quest given me. Once the child has been rescued, I am honor-bound to take her back to the paladins at Waterdeep.”

“I never doubted it,” Bronwyn replied, looking straight ahead.

They rode in unbroken silence until the walls of Thornhold loomed before them. Algorind had never seen the fortress, and he marveled at the strength of the ancient walls. He scanned the citadel, searching for something that might aid their escape.

“See that wooden door, about halfway up the walls?” he said, nodding toward the stronghold. “That is a sally port. When we are within the walls, look for a way up to it. There should be a ramp, or stairs.”

“Both,” Bronwyn said. “I remember that. When I was in the fortress, Hronulf showed me around.”

“That is good. Once you have the child, we will fight our way up to the port.”

She shaded her eyes against the setting sun and squinted. “It’s a good twenty feet down.”

“Nonetheless, it is our best hope of escape. My horse will come to my call. When we reach the fortress, we will leave our horses outside the gates. if we tie your mare’s reins to mine, Icewind will bring her along.”

Bronwyn nodded as she took this in. “It might work.”

One thing more concerned him. “How will you find the child in the fortress?”

“My brother has not seen me since I was four years old,” she said. “He is likely to ask Cara if I am who I claim to be. Knowing Cara, she will not be content to go tamely back to her room afterward.”

In his brief tenure as master of Thoruhold, Dag Zoreth had transformed the commander’s chambers. The rooms that had once been Hronulf’s, and that had reflected the knight’s austere life, were now luxurious and comfortable. A bright hearth fire was always burning to stave off the chill that lingered Within the thick stone walls, even though it was mid Mirtul and quite warm for that month. Fine furniture had been shipped from Waterdeep, lamps of colored glass from Neverwinter, fine furs from Luskan. His chamber did not quite possess the elegance of the Osterim villa near Waterdeep, but in time it would. Already it surpassed any Zhentarim outpost. But today, this small success gave him no pleasure.

“My Lord Zoreth.”

Dag looked up from the papers on his table, almost grateful for the interruption. Already Ashemmi was making good her threat. Swift riders had brought word from Darkhold. Sememmon, the mage who ruled the fortress—and who was in turn ruled by his dark affection for the elven sorceress— wanted Dag to return to Darkhold, bringing the child with him. Thornhold would be turned over to another commander. For hours now, Dag had been wracking his thoughts for some way to keep control over his command and his daughter. Another conquest, perhaps. That might sway the matter. If he proved he could thus enhance the power of the Zhentarim, not even Ashemmi’s charms could dissuade Sememmon from approving, even applauding, Dag’s ambitions.

“Well?” he asked the messenger.

“The sentry on the north tower reports two riders approaching. A man and a woman.”

Dag stood up abruptly. “Is this my sister?”

“It might be. The men who saw her enter the fortress before our attack think it is possible, but they saw her only from a distance.”

There was one way to be certain. Dag strode to the door that led into the adjoining room. Cara sat on her bed, looking oddly dispirited. The playthings he had supplied her with lay neatly on the chest, in which, he supposed, were all her new clothes and baubles. She preferred to wear the clothes she came with—a gown of pink silk. Some day very soon he would have to find a way to persuade her to part with it long enough to allow the laundry a chance at it. In the girl’s hands was a small, wooden doll, roughly carved and so squat and square that it resembled a dwarf far more than it did a human.

“Cara, we have visitors,” he said. “As lady of the castle, you need to greet them.”

That pleased her. She rose at once and followed him up a flight of stairs to the walkway that followed the entire wall. The height did not seem to bother her in the slightest—she was an intrepid child, that Dag had noted—but nonetheless, he claimed her hand and held it tightly as they made their way around to the front gate.

A delighted cry burst from the child. “It’s Bronwyn! She has come to visit?”

“To stay, if you like,” he said, and meant it. If he could find a way to keep them both, to use the power only they could wield, he would surely do it. “And the man with her?”

Cara’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lip jutted out. “That is the man who stole me. He killed my foster parents and took me away. He chased me in Waterdeep.”

So Sir Gareth was telling the truth after all, Dag mused. Dark pleasure rose in him like a tide at the thought of having this man, this paladin, delivered so conveniently into his hands. The single-minded fool probably expected to fight his way clear or die gloriously.

“He will not hurt you here,” Dag assured her, “but we cannot be certain he will not hurt Bronwyn, unless we let them in. Do not be afraid.”

Cara shot him an incredulous look. “I am not afraid. I am angry.”

He smiled with approval and started forward. They walked until they had reached the small parapet overlooking the gate.

His first glimpse of his sister affected him in ways he had not expected. She was beautiful, and though he had not seen her for twenty years and more, so very familiar. Memory stirred, one of those memories that would forever be branded in his mind with utter, terrible clarity. He saw again his mother’s white face, set in grim determination as she leaped to the defense of her children. That expression was reborn in his sister Bronwyn’s eyes.

He could use that, Dag thought, striving mightily for detachment. If she was so attached to Cara, she might be willing to do nearly anything for the girl. Their mother had died protecting her brood. Let us see, he mused, if Gwenidale’s daughter had inherited her mother’s heart as well as her face.

Dag stepped forward, so that he was in full view of the riders who waited outside the gate. “State your name, and your purpose,” he called down.

Pain, sharp and stabbing and insistent, thrummed along Algorind’s temples. He shaded his eyes and tilted back his head to look up at the wall. There was no doubt in his mind who the speaker was. Evil emanated from the man in waves, Algorind silently prayed for strength and for the shield needed to hold back evil’s power long enough to defeat it.

The woman beside him suffered no apparent ill effects. In fact, she looked disturbingly at home, and a small smile curved her lips.

“Ask Cara who I am,” she tossed back.

There was a moment’s silence. “Very good, sister. You say much in a few words, but you have answered only one of my questions. What do you seek here?”

Bronwyn slid a quick glance at Algorind and nodded. That was the signal they had agreed upon. They dismounted and walked together toward the walls. Praise be to Tyr, his mental shields held, and the pain caused by proximity with evil did not intensify.

“I am a merchant,” Bronwyn called up. “I have learned that there is nothing that cannot be bought, if the price is high enough.”

Algorind marveled at her calm. She stood easily, her head cocked and her hands resting lightly on her hips. One would think that bartering for a child’s life meant nothing to her.

“Your terms?” the priest called down. There was a hint of amusement in his voice that Algorind found more chilling than shrieking rage.

“Simple enough. I want Cara. In exchange, I will give you all three rings of Samular and the powerful artifact they command. What you chose to do with them is no concern to me.”

This betrayal smote Algorind with an icy fist. “Do not!” he protested, utterly aghast at this revelation of her true, base nature.

Bronwyn turned and gave him a small, cool smile.

He reached for his sword, but it was too late. The massive door swung open, and a score of Zhentish soldiers surrounded them. They swarmed him, pushing him roughly through the gates and toward whatever fate this treacherous woman had in mind for him.

Nineteen

Dag hurried down the gatehouse stairs as Bronwyn and the captive paladin entered the courtyard. He smiled and strode forward to reclaim his heritage at last.

“Hello, Bron,” he said, voicing the almost-forgotten nickname with a faint smile.

“Bran?’ She stood staring at him, her eyes huge and her face a canvas awash with more emotions than he could name. “I suddenly remember… so much?’

As did he. Bron and Bran, they had called each other. Nearest in age, if not in disposition, they were intense friends and foes during childhood. Images, fleeting and bittersweet, assailed him.

She took a step forward and held out a hand in an unthinking gesture. He took it in both of his own. “You’ve made an offer, but I would like you to reconsider it. You could stay here, if you wished, with Cara and me.”

Her large brown eyes focused on him and went utterly cold. She snatched back her hand. “tinder the same roof as my fathers murderer? Not a chance. Give me Cara, and I’ll go.”

He refused to let her response sting. “Not quite yet. There is the matter of the rings and the artifact,” he reminded her then tsked lightly. “Same old Bron. Hoarding all the toys.” Dag understood the undeniable charm of memory and he wielded like a sword his knowledge that he once had been the person that Bronwyn loved above all others.

She shook her head, refusing to succumb. “I want to see Cara,” Bronwyn said adamantly.

He lifted one brow. “Do you not hear her? She is in the gatehouse, under the care of hardened soldiers who, at this moment, are no doubt wishing they were patrolling the Mere of Dead Men, instead.”

She cocked her head and smiled fiercely when the sounds of Cara’s angry struggle reached her.

Dag turned to the guard at his elbow. “Have the men send her down.”

The message was relayed, and Cara flew out of the gatehouse door like a small brown bird. She threw herself into Bronwyn’s arms with a glad cry. “My father said you’ve come to visit! He said maybe you will stay.”

Bronwyn looked at Dag over Cara’s head, holding his eyes as she spoke. “Plans have changed, Cara. You are going with me. Give your father the ring.”

Without hesitation, the little girl peeled off the artifact and handed it to Dag. That concerned him, and stung more than a little. Hadn’t he impressed upon her the importance of the ring and the power that came with her heritage? Did she value it—and him—so lightly?

Dag thrust aside these thoughts and turned back to Bronwyn. “The artifact,” he said, and his voice sounded colder to his ears than he had intended to make it.

Bronwyn set Cara down and shouldered off her pack. From it she took a small object, carefully wrapped in a travel blanket. Dag watched avidly as she peeled off the covering, holding his breath and hardly daring to imagine what the item might be.

She handed him a small, wooden object. Puzzled, he took it from her. It was a miniature siege tower. A cunning piece of work, certainly, but a toy for all that.

He raised furious eyes to her face. “What is this?”

“Precisely what it appears to be,” she said curtly. “Look at the platform. There are three small grooves. When the rings are placed into them by a descendant of Samular, the tower will grow to enormous size.”

Dag looked at the tower with new interest. This was what he needed, exactly what he needed! With it, he could make short work of an escalade and gain another stronghold for the Zhentarim. That is, if it worked as Bronwyn claimed.

He handed her back the tower. “Show me.”

She looked hesitant. “You’d do better to wait until morning and take the tower out into the open. I’ve seen it grow. This courtyard might not accommodate it.”

That, Dag doubted. Judging from the depth and breadth of the toy’s base, in relation to its height, it could most likely fit into the bailey without difficulty. “How tall does it grow?”

“As tall as it needs to be,” she said reluctantly. “The artifact seems to sense the need and intent of the person who wields it. I believe it will adjust to the wall it is meant to conquer.”

“Well, then, we have no problem, do we? Nor would we, unless Thornhold’s wall were a hundred feet tall.”

She struggled to hide her consternation, but Dag took careful note of it. “As you wish,” she said, and handed him two rings identical to the one in his hand.

Too easily, Dag thought. He shook his head. “You do it.” Bronwyn took a long breath and closed her hand in a fist around all three rings. “Stand out of the way, Cara,” she warned the girl. “I want you to go over to the far wall, by the tower. Just to be safe.”

To Dajs surprise, the child offered no resistance. But though she watched from a distance, there was little of her usual curiosity in her brown eyes. In fact, her expression was unusually shuttered.

“Do not do this thing!” burst out the paladin. He struggled mightily against the men who held him. “Better to die than to give such power into the hands of evil.”

Dag Zoreth lifted one brow and shot a sidelong glance at Bronwyn. “Earnest sort, isn’t he?”

“You have no idea,” she gritted out from between clenched teeth.

She threw an angry look at the man and set the tiny siege tower on the ground. She put the three rings into place, one at a time, and then she leaped to her feet and ran toward Can.

Instinctively Dag followed suit. Behind him, he heard the scrape of a heavy object being dragged quickly against packed dirt and the creaking groans of expanding wood. He darted a look over his shoulder and then redoubled his pace. The size of the tower, and the speed with which it grew, were astonishing. Exhilarating!

In moments, the tower had reached its full height. It stood in their midst, like a shining beacon showing Dag the way to the future he craved.

Not a man moved, not a person spoke. All gazed in awe at the huge siege tower in their midst.

Suddenly the silence was shattered by the sound of splintering wood. A door on the side of the enclosed tower flew open, sending shards of wood spinning as the bolt which had held it shut gave way.