Thornhold (16 page)

“That was close,” Ebenezer admitted as he backed away. “Good thing I shaved off the mustache, or he might ‘a got a grip.”

The dwarf adjusted the boulder that blocked most of the cave’s mouth and settled down to think. Men, he could fight.

Orcs, goblins, even elves if it came to that. But he had no idea what the creatures outside his cave were—or, more accurately, had been. Wasn’t enough left of the things to tell. And even if he knew what style of fighting was called for, he had no weapons to fight with. Yep. This was a stew pot, all right.

Ebenezer ventured another peek over the rock. On the rocky shore beyond his hiding place, three misshapen creatures, their flesh so bloated and rotten as to render them unrecognizable, paced hungrily. The dwarf knew that undead creatures abounded in the Mere of Dead Men, but this was the farthest away from the swamp he’d heard of them coming.

“Lost, are you?” he bellowed out at them. “Head north, then. Follow the sea. When the going gets mushy underfoot, you’re almost home.”

There was more than bravado prompting his words. Ebenezer knew a zombie when he smelled one. Someone had raised up these poor creatures, turned dead men or whatever else they’d been into rotting, unthinking warriors. It was a long shot, but he figured the zombies might just listen to him, lacking another master to tell them what to do.

As it happened, his words had an effect—though not the one he’d anticipated.

“Hello the cave!” shouted a clear, young baritone voice. “Are you unhurt, friend?”

The shout came from the direction of the road. Ebenezer scrambled to his feet. “Got no complaints,” he hollered back, “other than being pinned down by three very dead people who forgot to lie down and quit.”

There was a pause, silence broken only by the sound of approaching hoofbeats. “I see them.”

The young man’s voice held repugnance, but no fear. That worried Ebenezer. “You got company, I hope?”

“I am alone,” the voice answered calmly, “but the grace of Tyr is with me.”

One man, confident in the favor of some human god. The dwarf groaned and slumped against the cave wall. He slid down and sat and tried his best not to listen to what was sure to come. Zombies were not tidy fighters and generally liked to tear their prey messily apart.

To his surprise, the young man’s voice lifted in a song, a hymn by the sounds of it. Wouldn’t be well received in a tavern, leastwise, being slow and solemn and not real catchy. But Ebenezer felt its power and was drawn by it. He scrambled to his feet and peered out over the boulder.

A young man, curly-headed as a lamb and nearly as fair, approached on a tall white horse. The three zombies staggered toward him, a fact that disturbed the man’s composure not at all. He merely lifted one hand to the sky and pointed the other at the undead creatures. His song lifted, swelled to a shout of power. “In the name of Tyr, I command you to yield to your fate!”

Instantly, the creatures sagged and fell. Rotten flesh dissolved, bones made brittle by long contact with unnatural, prolonged decay gave way and crumbled into powder.

Ebenezer shouldered the rock out of the way and emerged from the cave. “That’s a good trick,” he admitted.

The young man nodded. “You are most welcome, friend dwarf. It was a good thing that I heard your shouts. Now you must excuse me.”

“Hold on,” the dwarf said, catching the horse’s reins. “I gotta get word to my clan. Can you take me where I need to go?”

“Icewind could not long carry the two of us,” the young man said, nodding at his splendid white horse, “and my duty takes me elsewhere.”

“But this is important!”

“Then may Tyr speed your steps and provide a means for your swift journey.”

“Might could be that he already has,” Ebenezer muttered. He reached up and seized a handful of the man’s white and blue tabard, and yanked him down off the horse.

They tumbled together, and the young man reached for his sword. Ebenezer grabbed the first weapon that came to hand—a rock about twice the size of his fist—and slammed it between the human’s eyes. The young man groaned and fell limp. Ebenezer hopped to his feet. “Sorry about that,” he muttered, relieved to see that the human still breathed. Borrowing a horse in dire straits was one thing, outright killing a man who’d done him a good turn was quite another. But, as the man had said, Tyr would provide. It’d be downright ungrateful for Ebenezer to ignore such a thoughtful and timely gift.

The dwarf seized the horse’s reins and led the beast over to the boulder. He climbed onto the rock and just barely managed to hoist his foot into the stirrup. He hauled himself up and settled down in the saddle. Unlike most dwarves, he liked horses and rode when he could. This was the finest horse he’d ever had. It wouldn’t be easy to give the beast back, but Ebenezer determined that he would find a way to do so.

“I’m off, then,” he advised the man, who was beginning to shake off the effects of the blow. “If you’ve got problems with that, you might want to take it up with Tyr.”

Ebenezer shook the reins over the white horse’s neck, and headed northward toward his clan and home.

Danilo was a frequent visitor to Curious Past. Until now, he not given much thought to his role in fostering Bronwyn’s business. He liked rare and beautiful things, and so did many of his wealthy peers. It was a small matter to send them Bronwyn’s way, a favor no larger than he would do for any friend. The difference was that he was doing this at Khelben’s direction and for the express purpose of keeping Bronwyn in Waterdeep and under the eye of the archmage.

As he stood before the tall, trim building that housed the shop, Danilo wondered what Bronwyn would think of this involvement or how she would react if she knew that her shop—like many others on this street and others—was in fact owned by the Harpers. Perhaps he should tell her outright, Danilo mused as he pushed open the large oak-plank door. Perhaps he should tell her everything he had learned about her heritage. But Khelben insisted that doing so would endanger her. In Danilo’s opinion, the archmage was overly cautious and often downright miserly with information, but how could he be certain that Khelben’s warnings were not valid?

“Think about it,” advised a raucous, inhuman voice, speaking almost in his ear.

Danilo jumped, then turned to find himself face to beak with a large raven. A wry smile curved his lips. Odd that the raven’s standard rejoinder meshed so perfectly with his ambivalent state of mind.

“I assure you, my dear Shopscat, I have been doing precisely that. Is your mistress in attendance?”

The raven merely cocked his head and eyed the shiny gold hoop in Danilo’s ear. Danilo clapped one hand to his ear and took several judicious steps back. Shopscat was a shoplifter’s bane, but the raven occasionally showed himself unable to discern which valuables belonged in the shop and which the shoppers were entitled to take with them by right of prior ownership.

“He doesn’t understand you, and he doesn’t answer back,” Alice Tinker said, coming out from behind the counter.

“I stopped by to see Bronwyn,” he said bluntly. “Is she about?”

“You missed her,” Alice said, her blue eyes wide and ingenuous. “Just. She left for Daggersford this morning. Took the South Gate out,” she added helpfully.

“Really.”

“She’s on commission. Some paladin sent her off looking for an old sword. A paladin’s sword. Not exactly magical, but blessed—though exactly what the difference might be, I couldn’t tell you. It seems it was lost, some two hundred years back in an important battle with lizard men. Bronwyn heard tell of a sword that might fit the bill. The marsh has been receding, you know, and there’s a boy in Daggersford who found an old sword when he was out digging mussels. She’s off to see if these swords are one and the same.”

“My, that’s quite a bit of information,” Danilo observed lightly.

Alice shrugged again. “That’s what I do. Anything else you need to know?”

“When do you expect her back? Daggersford is—what? About two days’ ride? I imagine she’ll need a day or two to conduct her business, and then about the same time back.”

“Yes, that sounds about right,” the gnome agreed.

As well it should, Dan noted. Daggersford and Thornhold were almost equal distances from Waterdeep, albeit in opposite directions. He suspected that Bronwyn probably did leave by the South Gate, only to blend in with a northbound caravan, return through the city, and slip out the North Gate with yet another caravan. She had used such ploys before, to good effect. And he had to admire the bit Alice had added about the paladin’s commission. That was simply inspired. Clearly, the Harpers would not want to alert the paladins to their interest in Bronwyn, and they could hardly knock at the doors of the Halls of Justice and demand to know what errand they’d sent Bronwyn to attend. The reasonable thing for the Harpers to do would be to pursue her to Daggersford and ensure her safety.

Well, that is what the “Harpers” would do. Danilo, personally, had other plans. He stooped and kissed the gnome’s brown cheek. “Thank you, Alice.”

“What for?” She sniffed and scrubbed at her cheek with one hand. “I gave you my report, same as always. You’ll pass along the report, same as always. Business as usual.”

“I’ll pass along the report you gave me,” he said, giving the words deliberate emphasis.

Awareness dawned in the gnome’s eyes, and a small, grateful smile curved her lips. She cleared her throat and turned aside. She opened a glass-topped table and snatched up a pair of teardrop earrings; silver, set with moonstones and sapphires. They were beautiful, and perfect for Danilo’s half-elf partner.

“These are elven, and if I remember aright, the elf festival of Springrite is just around the corner.”

He counted out the price and put the gold coins into the gnome’s hand. “Arilyn will love them. She may even wear them. You are an excellent saleswoman, Alice,” he said, punctuating his remark with another kiss to her cheek, “and an even better friend.”

Danilo turned and left, shooing off the suddenly suspicious raven and noting, with great satisfaction, that this time the gnome permitted his heartfelt kiss to remain where he’d left it. And as he went, he sent up a silent prayer to Selune, the goddess of moonlight and the patron of all seekers, that Bronwyn would find her way safely to Thornhold, and that there she would find what she had been seeking so long.

Dag Zoreth had heard stories about the vastness and complexity of the underground world, but all of them paled before the reality. The tunnels and caverns beneath the Sword Mountains went on forever, delving far deeper than he had imagined a man could go. Dag Zoreth had never been so far underground. It was oppressive in a way that no fortress dungeon, no matter how dank and fearful, could ever duplicate. Perhaps it was the knowledge that tons of rock and soil loomed overhead, or the constant danger posed by the river that careened through the heart of the mountain.

The river path was wet and treacherous. More than one man had fallen down the steep embankment, to be swept away to his death. They had been forced to slaughter one of the pack mules who’d fallen and broken a leg amid the uneven stones. The noise of the rushing water was nearly deafening, and the only light was the luminous moss that grew in uneven patterns on the tunnel walls.

But Dag had chosen the path for its very hazards. The river’s roar would drown out the sounds of the approaching army, and the glowing moss made torchlight unnecessary. It was never easy to surprise dwarves. Taking out their outposts—a reclusive smith and some far-ranging mining parties—would help. One of the miners had yielded up some interesting news. Not willingly, of course. He had died without speaking, despite the Zhentish soldiers’ most creative efforts to wrest information from him by torture. The dwarf’s spirit had been more accommodating. Grudging even in death, the dwarf had given up, bit by bit, the fact that most of the Stoneshaft clan had gathered to celebrate the wedding of the patriarch’s youngest daughter. There would be days of festivity and merriment. Wedding ale, a particularly potent brew, would be abundant.

None of the soldiers believed that this guaranteed an easy time of it. Dwarves were fearsome fighters whose prowess and ferocity only seemed to rise with the level of ale in their bellies. But what the Zhentarim had in their favor was surprise, in the form of access to tunnels that, until recently, no one but the paladins of Thornhold knew existed.

Sir Gareth’s information proved accurate, though Dag had taken care to verify it wherever he could. Finally they reached the last tunnel, the one that led to the Stoneshaft clanhold’s great hall.

A call for silence and readiness passed down the line, moving swiftly by blow and gesture. Dag watched as the soldiers loosened their weapons and removed extras from the nearly empty packs on the mules. The animals would stay back with the drovers, for they would be useful in the new trade routes that would follow this conquest. When all was ready, Dag nodded to his captain, and the soldiers crept forward.

Excitement, dark and compelling, welled up in Dag’s heart. He bad seen battle before, but only from a distance. His superiors at Darkhold deemed him too valuable to risk in close combat. He had earned his position in the war-clerics through his command of strategy and the clerical spells he had developed with Cyric’s blessing. This was the first time he would smell the blood and the fear, taste the potent wine of destruction.

He fell into place behind the fighters and began murmuring a low prayer. Into it he poured all his long-repressed anger, his hatred, his desire for blood and power and death.

The evil spell gathered force and power, growing until it felt to Dag like a living thing, a third being born of Cyric’s dark power and his own unfathomable yearning. The power reached out and seized the soldiers with unseen hands, swept them along into the vortex of what Dag felt, saw, and summoned. Soon the men were running, thundering down the tunnel with weapons aloft and eyes glittering with bloodthirst.

The dwarves heard and came running out to meet them, as Dag had intended for them to do. They came barreling down their tunnel and into an antechamber, a vast work of art so grimly beautiful it nearly distracted Dag from his terrible devotions.