Thornhold (48 page)

A fierce, red-bearded dwarf erupted from the tower in full charge. Ringlets of bright red sprang from her head in wild profusion and streaked behind her as she ran, giving her the appearance of a vengeful medusa. Though stunned into immobility, Dag remembered that dwarf. His raid had disrupted her wedding feast and had left her new-made husband lying dead from many wounds. As he eyed the female’s furious approach, it came to Dag that he might well have done that slaughtered dwarf a favor.

Then the shock lifted, and fierce anger took its place. Sensation flooded into his dazed mind. The thunder of perhaps fifty pairs of dwarven booth, the roars and cries of the vengeful attackers, the sound of axe against sword, the smell of blood and of bodies already voiding themselves in death, and the bright, coppery taste of fear.

Dag whiried and seized a sword from the scabbard of the soldier nearest him. He ignored the battle raging around him as his eyes sought out the gift his sister had so thoughtfully delivered.

The paladin was not difficult to find. His bright hair caught the faint light of the dying day, and his young, strong baritone was raised in a hymn to Tyr. Dajs jaw tightened. He knew that hymn and could sing along with Algorind of Tyr if he chose to do so.

What he chose to do was to cut that song from the man’s throat.

Never had Algorind seen such a transformation come over a mortal face. As the priest of Cyric gazed upon him, life and warmth and humanity itself drained away.

Dag Zoreth raised a sword and touched it slowly to his forehead in salute, his eyes holding Algorind’s. As he lifted it, the silver blade darkened, and began to glow. Purple fire danced along the edges, throwing eerie shadows across the sharp lines and hollows of the Cyricist’s face.

“You signed on to fight evil, boy,” Dag Zoreth said, in a voice that was less like that of a single mortal man than a chorus of angry beings speaking in concert. The voice rang out easily over the chaos of battle and reached out for Algorind like a grasping, unseen hand. “You are about to realize your fondest ambition.”

The force of so much evil, so much hatred, drained the blood from the paladin’s face, but he lifted his sword, mirrored Dag Zoreth’s salute, and ran to meet the priest’s charge.

Black and violet fire flashed forward. Algorind parried, sending sparks flying. He advanced, his eyes steady on that inhumanly evil face, his sword dipping and slashing, working the priest’s blade and keeping him on the defensive. He had little choice. The unholy fire gave incredible speed and strength to the Cyricist’s sword, more than compensating for the difference in their stature and training. Algorind had found more skilled opponents, but never had he faced one as dangerous.

This victory, if such he was granted, would be not his, but Tyfs.

Bronwyn covered Cara’s eyes from the glare of the purple fire and the terrible fury of the duel raging just a few feet away, and—most horrifying of all—the evil incarnated on Dag Zoreth’s face. She scooped Cara into her arms and started to rise. “We’ve got to get away,” she whispered.

The child wrenched out of her grasp. “I won’t leave him,” she insisted. “I can’t! It’s my right to see what happens.”

Bronwyn remembered her own despair at the siege of Thornhold and knew she could not deny the child this. Nor could they leave if they wanted to. They were backed against the inner wall, and the duel had shifted to block their escape.

A clear, baritone voice began to ring above the sounds of battle, softly at first and then gaining in strength and power. Though Bronwyn could not see the paladin’s face, she was certain that it wore its usual expression of absolute faith, and she had reason to know that Algorind was not one to be lightly dismissed. Algorind sang as he fought, calling out to Tyr in ringing faith that evil would not long prevail.

Slowly, imperceptibly at first, the light that limned Dag Zoreth’s sword began to dim. The Fire of Cyric faltered before the power of Tyr. The purple light began to flicker and then to vanish. In moments, the priest held nothing but a blade.

With three deft movements Algorind disarmed Dag Zoreth. Another stroke sent the priest plummeting to the ground. Cara screamed as her father fell, blood darkening the already-black vestments of his god.

“He’s killing him! Don’t let him kill my father!”

Bronwyn reacted to the pain in the girl’s voice. The Harper leaped forward and hurled herself at the paladin’s back. She fisted one hand in his curly blond halt In one swift movement she pulled her knife, reached around, and placed it at his throat.

For a moment, Bronwyn was sorely tempted to pull the knife back hard and fast. She could finally end this, and she could do it now, but there was enough of her father in her to reject such a dishonorable act. She had caught the paladin in an unguarded moment, when all his being was thrown into the hymn, all his soul devoted to vanquishing evil. Despite everything Algorind had done, she did not want to kill him. But neither would she let him kill Cara’s father before the child’s very eyes.

“Bran,” she said, calling her brother by his old name. “How badly are you hurt? Can you stand? Can you hear me?”

The priest stirred, grimaced, and pressed his hand to his side. He whispered the words of a healing prayer, and some of the color crept back into his pale face. Using his sword as a cane, he struggled to his feet. His gaze settled on Bronwyn and her captive, and a smile of chilling evil curved his lips.

“Well done, Bron,” he said. “You hold him, and I’ll finish this.”

“No.”

Dag looked puzzled, and more than a little angry. “No?”

“If I let go, he will kill you. If you try to kill him, I will let go. You have to leave. Now.”

Comprehension swept over Dag’s face. “So that is your game. You made one mistake—one that could be fatal,” he said in a coldly controlled voice. “Why would you let me go, why would you bother to save my life at all, when you know you may well have cause to regret it someday?”

“I’ll take my chances.” She lifted the knife at Algorind’s throat just a little, just enough to suggest the threat. “Just go.”

“Very well.” His eyes quickly swept the fortress as he took a last look at what he had lost, and then they settled on the little girl. “Come, Cara.”

Bronwyn squeezed her eyes tight for a moment, trying to damp down the sudden, searing pain. This is what Cara wanted, she told herself. She belonged with her family, her father.

“No,” the child said, clearly and firmly.

Dag Zoreth looked astonished. “What do you mean?”

“I want to stay with Bronwyn,” Cara stated.

“But I want you with me!”

The child’s smile was sad and old far beyond her years. “Yes, father. So you have often said.”

The silence stretched between them, and in it Bronwyn could hear broken promises, just as surely as her ears rang with the sounds of battle.

Dag looked stricken, but he managed a small, rueful smile. “This is a strange end, indeed,” he said in a strangled voice. “After all this, I find that I am more like Hronulf than I would have thought possible.”

“Never,” said Algorind, risking the safety of his voice to speak what he saw as truth.

The priest sent him a look of purest hatred. “You know nothing. Your kind is known to me—your mind is empty of everything but Tyr. It should be an easy matter, therefore, for you to remember this: I will find you and kill you, in the most painful manner I can devise.”

Dag Zoreth took a long breath and chanted the words to a spell. He held one hand poised in an unfinished gesture and looked to his daughter. “Good-bye, Cara,” Dag said softly. “We will meet again soon.”

His gaze sought Bronwyn, and this time his eyes were hard. “As will we.”

And then he was gone, leaving behind a small wisp of purple smoke.

Bronwyn caught Cara’s eye, jerked her head toward the still-fighting dwarves, and mouthed the word, run!

Then she took her knife away from Algorind’s throat and danced back a step. Still holding her grip on his hair, she kicked with all her strength at the back of his knee. His leg buckled. At the same moment, she yanked back hard. The paladin fell backward and landed in a painfully twisted heap. Bronwyn resisted the urge to kick him while he was down, and took off running madly after Cara.

A small knot of dwarves had run out of opponents and seemed to be quarreling among themselves. Cara ran straight at them.

“Good girl,” Bronwyn panted as she pounded along behind. The dwarves looked up as Cara approached and parted to let first her and then Bronwyn past. Bronwyn glanced back to see that they had closed ranks, forming a wall of dwarven resolve against the paladin.

For once again, Algorind was fervently pursuing his quest.

Bronwyn groaned. “Stop him,” she shouted back.

She snatched up Cara and all but threw the girl over her shoulder. There was an open door before them. The chapel. Bronwyn remembered the steps that ran up the back of the chapel into the towers. She dashed into the low building.

The sight before her stopped her in mid stride. Hanging over the altar was an enormous black skull, behind which burned a lurid purple sun. Malevolence emanated from the manifestation, washing over her with a wave of hatred and evil that was fully as debilitating as the lich’s touch.

Algorind clattered in after her, barely noticing the dwarf who clung doggedly to one of his legs. He stopped, as Bronwyn had done, and raised his eyes to the unholy fira. But there was no fear on his face, and his eyes held calm certainty. For a moment, Bronwyn envied him the simple beauty of his faith.

Again he began to sing, the same chant that had banished the purple fire from Dag Zoreth’s sword. Such was the power of his prayer that the dwarf—who had given up his hold and was now attempting repeatedly to bash at the paladin with a battle hammer—could not even get close. After several moments of this, the dwarf shrugged and took off in search of something he could actually hit.

The manifestation of Cyric was more difficult to banish than the sword’s enchantment, and it resisted Algorind’s prayers with a hideous crackling and hissing. The sunburst’s rays fairly danced with rage.

Bronwyn did not stay to see the outcome. She put Cara down and took her hand. They edged around the chapel, hugging the walls and keeping as much distance as possible between themselves and the angry evil fire in the midst of the room. Once, a spray of purple sparks showered them. The skirt of Cara’s dress began to smolder. Bronwyn dropped to her knees and beat out the tiny flames with her hands. To her relief, the child was not burned—only a few empty, brown-ringed holes marred the pink silk.

To her astonishment, this loss brought a tremble to the girl’s lip. This, after all Cara had endured. “I will get you another,” Bronwyn told her as she pulled her into a run.

The fire was dying now, and Algorind would not be far behind them. They dashed up the winding stone steps, and out onto the walkway that ringed the interior of the wall. Their way was clear, for all the Zhentarim had flooded down into the bailey to meet the dwarf invaders.

They ran toward the front gate tower, hoping to get to the horses. The dwarves had shut the door and barred it. There were but two horses outside the gate. If they could get to the horses, they could outrun the paladin.

But swift footsteps closed in and a heavy hand dropped on Bronwyn’s shoulder. She huried her elbow back in a sharp jab and whirled after it. Stiffening her fingers, she went for his eyes.

The paladin was quick, and he dodged her jabbing attack. Her hand stabbed into his temple, and she changed tactics— spreading her fingers into raking claws and slashing down over his face.

Algorind had not expected his, and for one instant he fell back on his heels. Bronwyn looked around frantically for an escape.

The only way was down. The roofs of the small interior buildings were neatly thatched, and they slanted sharply down. It was the best she could do.

“Jump,” she told Cara, then hurled herself onto the roof, never once doubting that the girl would follow.

They slid on their backsides down the low-hanging eaves and leaped out into the bailey. Bronwyn ran for the gatehouse stairs, pulling Cara after her. She shot a look over her shoulder and stopped dead.

A young dwarf had stepped into Algorind’s path, his axe raised and his beardless face set in determination. The paladin never slowed. He cut the lad down with a swift, terrible blow and kept coming.

Bronwyn squeezed her eyes shut to force back the wave of pain and indecision. She could not leave the dwarves here to deal with this man. He was too skilled, too determined. The dwarves were just as stubborn, and they wouldn’t give up until Algorind lay dead.

Inspiration struck. She reversed direction, zigzagging across the bailey toward the siege tower. On the way, she cuffed Ebenezer’s head. He glanced at her, which earned him a thudding blow from the staff of the man he was fighting.

“Bar the door behind!” she shouted, and then she dragged Cara through the open door of the Fenrisbane.

Bronwyn looked around the siege tower. The inside was vast and equipped with many weapons: piles of spears, swords, barrels full of quarrels. None of these, not in her hands at least, would be sufficient to stop the determined paladin from fulfilling his quest.

She looked up. The interior was a maze of scaffolding, leading up to a second floor and beyond. She hoisted Cara up onto a crate. “Can you climb?”

“Like a squirrel,” the girl said somberly. She kilted up her ruined skirt and then proceeded to prove her claim.

Bronwyn came after her, hauling herself up from one timber to another. She knew with absolute certainty the moment when they were no longer alone in the tower.

“Faster,” she urged Cara. “He’s still coming.”

The girl scampered up with an agility that Bronwyn duplicated only through sheer force of will. Algorind came after them, slowly gaining.

But they were almost to the top. Almost cleat Bronwyn put her shoulder to the hatch and pushed.

Nothing.

She tried again, hurling herself at the door and almost losing her balance. “It’s barred,” she said in despair.