Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

The knight studied him, then nodded. “If the knowledge is mine, it shall be freely given.”

Dag doubted this, but information received from Sir Gareth would be a fine starting place. He would check and confirm and expand upon what he learned from this wily knight, and only then would he act.

The priest leaned back in his chair. “Speak to me of my father,” he said. “Tell me all about him—and tell me everything you know about the fortress he commands.”

This Sir Gareth did, at great length and in admirable detail. He described the old fortress known as Thornhold, its defenses, the terrain around and beneath it. He yielded up information to which few men, even among the Knights of Samular, were privy. Hronulf, it seemed, had trusted his old friend with many secrets. As Gareth spoke, a plan began to take shape in Dag Zoreth’s mind.

When the meeting was over and the paladin had gratefully left, Dag Zoreth rose and walked over to the hearth, deep in thought. The magical flames caught his eye and diverted him. The Fires of Cyric was a spell of his own devising, and one of his favorites. The fire itself was deep purple, and the heart of each leaping spire was utterly black. The colors of amethyst and obsidian, the colors of his god, glowed with intense and unnerving power. The fire was a symbol of Dag Zoreth’s ambition, and the path to power that had suddenly opened before him.

Who would have thought, he mused as he gazed at a dancing flume, that something so very black could also be so beckoning and bright?

Algorind reigned his horse around a pile of boulders that had fallen onto the path from the cliff above. They were too large for one man to move; he would have to note this in his report so Master Laharin could send more men on the next patrol. Keeping the paths between the river and the Dessarin Road clear and safe was one of the duties of the young paladins who trained in Summit Hall—a duty that Algorind was glad and proud to shoulder.

This was his first solitary patrol, and his first time riding Icewind, the tall white horse that he had spent long days breaking to saddle and bridle. Icewind was not a true paladin’s mount—that Algorind had yet to earn—but he was a fine beast. Algorind settled happily into the rhythm of the horse’s long-legged stride and allowed his thoughts to stray to the evening ahead.

Tonight, three young paladins would be inducted into the Order. They would become Knights of Samular through an ordeal of faith and arms, and by the grace of Tyr, god of justice and might. The prospect of witnessing this ritual filled Algorind with sublime joy.

All his life, he had longed to be a knight. By the happiest of circumstances, his father, a nobleman of proud lineage but light purse, had delivered his third-born son to Summit Hall before his tenth birthday to be raised and trained by the Order. Algorind had not seen his family since, but he did not feel loss. He was surrounded by young men of like ambition, future priests and paladins devoted to Tyr’s service. Were not all the young acolytes his brothers? And the masters of the hall more than father to him?

These thoughts contented him as he fulfilled the last hour of his watch. Other than the dislodged boulders, the patrol had been without incident. Algorind was almost disappointed; he had hoped to contribute to the Order’s latest venture. The knights, during their training forays into the surrounding countryside, had discovered and routed clans of orcs. The surviving beasts roamed the hills, terrorizing travelers and farmers. May Tyr grant that the last of them be found soon, Algorind thought piously, and the evil they represent vanquished.

A muffled cry caught his ear, followed by a chilling riff of guttural laughter that could not possibly have come from a human throat. Algorind drew his sword and held it aloft as he spurred his horse on to battle.

The white horse thundered around a bend in the path, down a rock-strewn hill and toward a scene that kindled Algorind’s wrath. Four orcs—great, monstrous creatures with stringy muscles covered by filthy greenish hide—were tormenting a lone messenger. The man was on the ground and curled up tight, his arms clutching his many garish wounds as if he could hold in life by sheer will. The orcs were circling him and prodding at him with their rude spears, looking for all the world like a small pack of sadistic tomcats worrying a single mouse.

The orcs looked up at Algorind’s swift reproach, their sneers frozen by sudden terror into skeleton-grins. As he closed in, Algorind lifted his sword high and to his left, and dealt a terrible sweeping blow. The keen sword caught one of the monsters in the throat and cleaved head from body with a single stroke.

Algorind reined his horse around to face his remaining foes. The three of them had abandoned their blood sport and stood to face him, their spears braced and leveled at the white steed’s breast. The young paladin sheathed his sword and took his lance from its holder. He raised it high, a chivalrous salute too deeply ingrained to withhold from this unworthy foe, and then couched it under his right arm. He leveled the lance at the foremost orc and urged his horse into a full, galloping charge.

The horse ran straight at the braced weapons, its wild whinny ringing free as if to acknowledge the danger and defy it. But Algorind had no thought to endanger his steed. This was a tactic they had practiced together many times in the training arena of Summit Hall. His eye measured his lance at twice the length of the orcs’ spears, and he silently began the rhythmic prayer to Tyr that would count off the measure of his attack.

At just the right moment, he raised himself in the stirrups and pulled up on the reins. On command, the mighty horse leaped. Algorind’s lance caught one of the surprised orcs just below the ribs and bore him up and over his shrinking comrades.

Mustering all his strength, Algorind hurled the lance forward as if it were a giant javelin. The effort did not launch the weapon, but countered the force of the impaled orc and kept the paladin’s arm from wrenching painfully back. Before the horse’s hooves touched down, Algorind pushed out to the side with all his might, casting aside the lance and the dying orc.

The horse landed, cantered a few paces, then wheeled. Two orcs remained. Algorind could not surprise them again. He swung himself down from the saddle and drew his sword.

The orcs rushed at him, spears level. Algorind stood his ground. When the first orc was nearly upon him, he swept the sword up hard, catching the spear and turning it toward the sky. He spun, sliding his blade off the upturned spear and bringing it down and around as he turned. The edge sliced across the orc’s belly, spilling the contents. The creature stumbled several paces more before he tripped on his own entrails and fell on his face, never to rise again.

Algorind turned to face his final foe. The orc circled him cautiously, using the longer spear to keep the paladin and his blade at a safe distance. “Challenge,” the beast grunted. “Same weapons, one to one.”

The young paladin recoiled in surprise. How had a base creature such as this orc learned anything of the paladin’s creed? By the rules of his Order, he could not refuse a challenge given, unless the challenger was clearly outmatched. On the other hand, the messenger was badly wounded, perhaps dying. Algorind glanced toward the fallen man. His tunic was sodden with blood, his breathing shallow. To make matters worse, the sun was near to setting, and the wind whistled sharply over the bleak hills. The man needed aid and warmth, and soon. A paladin was pledged to aid the weak. How, Algorind puzzled, was he to chose between these duties?

Algorind eyed his opponent. The orc was the largest of his kind that Algorind had ever seen. He easily topped seven feet, and though his slack greenish hide showed signs of lean times, he was still nearly as broad and thick and fierce as an owlbear. A carved medallion bearing the bloody claw symbol of the evil god Malar hung on a thong around the ore’s neck. The wooden disk was nearly the size of a small dinner plate, but it did not seem out of proportion to the creature who wore it.