Elaine Cunningham - Thornhold

"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.

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.