Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

A few minutes more and the cavern was clear. Some of the dwarves cranked up buckets of water from the wells and sluiced the stone floor, sending the last traces of the battle down several small openings in the floor that were covered with finely crafted iron grates.

“Can we get on with this?” demanded Palmara Stoneshaft, fists planted on her ample hips. “Got me a daughter to wed, a son to welcome back. And lookit!” she added, pointing toward the festive board that stood waiting over to one side of the cavern. “The stew’s getting cold, and the ale warm!”

These practical considerations marshaled the wedding guests and sent the priestess scurrying back to the altar. Ebenezer fell back and swept his gray-bearded mother into a fierce hug that had her bellowing in happy protest.

The ceremony was brief, solemn. The celebration that followed was anything but. All of Clan Stoneshaft gathered at tables, telling tall tales and exchanging extravagant insults until the last stew pot was wiped clean and more than half the kegs of wedding ale drained dry. At a sign from Palmara—who as mother of the bride was master of the festivities—a score of musicians leaped onto the tables and set up a merry din with their horns and pipes and drums. The dwarves fell to dancing with a zest and vigor that rivaled their battlefield exploits.

A rare sense of contentment swept Ebenezer as he watched his kin leap and whirl and thunder their way through the intricate patterns of a circle dance. He was glad to be home. The knowledge that he’d be nearly as glad to leave in a tenday or so did nothing to diminish the moment’s pleasure.

But even now his feet got to twitching. He reached for his bag and removed from it pipe and weed before he remembered that Palmara Stoneshaft would have nothing of that in her cavern. Ebenezer had picked up the habit in his travels, and he liked a good pipe now and again. But the Stoneshaft dwarves frowned upon such vices and had made loud complaints about the smoke last time he’d visited. Ebenezer had pointed out—reasonably enough, it seemed to him—that in a clanhold warmed and scented with the smoke of forges and hearth fires, a wisp or two more made no never mind at all. But they couldn’t see it. With a resigned sigh, Ebenezer pocketed his pipe and headed for the nearest river tunnel.

He walked along the river for maybe an hour, puffing contentedly and enjoying the wild rush and gurgle of the water. The river got right riled up, come spring, what with all the melting snow from the Sword Mountains high overhead, but that was the only intrusion of the upper world. The tunnels were pleasantly chilly and dark. Not safe, exactly—the Stoneshaft clan had to deal with vermin ranging from osquips to kobolds to drow—but there was a nice secure feeling to having a rock ceiling overhead, and walls on every side. It was a world apart from the light and bustle that held sway under the sun.

Ebenezer finished his pipe and got out flint and stone to light another. The spark and flicker was echoed by another light, far ahead and filtering out of a side tunnel. Ebenezer pursed his lips and squinted. Light so far underground was odd, and generally a bad sign. Anybody who belonged in the tunnels could see well enough without it.

As the thought formed, a trio of tall, scrawny figures emerged from the side tunnel, their gaunt frames clearly silhouetted against the light of their own torch. Ebenezer spat, then swore. Humans. Bad enough they squatted on the mountain above, but they had no call to be in the dwarven tunnels. How’d they find out about these warrens, anyhow? Only a handful of humans knew anything at all about the Stoneshaft clan, and they were a closed-mouthed bunch.

Suddenly Ebenezer remembered the chisel he’d taken from the osquip hoard. He pulled it from his belt and studied the mark carved into the mithral handle. Yes, it belonged to his Uncle Hoshal. No doubt there—there was Hoshal’s mark, big as a gnome’s nose. But how had the rodents got hold of it? Ebenezer dredged his memory, trying to conjure the image of Hoshal’s grim, pockmarked face at the edge of the wedding celebration. He could not. Hoshal was not one for festivals, but come to think on it, he was powerful fond of wedding ale. His absence, combined with the fact of humans in the tunnels, looked suspiciously like problems brewing.

“Stones!” Ebenezer swore again. He tucked the chisel back into his belt and followed after the three intruders.

Algorind hastened back to Summit Hall, the body of his brother paladin decently covered and lashed to a makeshift litter Algorind had fashioned from branches. Dragging this burden added extra time to his journey, and the ceremony of induction was already underway when Algorind came to the monastery gates.

Darkness enveloped the hills, and the sand-colored stone of the outer walls seemed to melt into the terrain. If not for the bright lights rising from the chapel and his own detailed knowledge of the area, Algorind might not have seen the monastery at all. Many travelers passed by in full sight of the tower watchmen, never once seeing the monastery. That seemed to Algorind a remarkable thing, considering the vast size of the complex.

The gatekeeper, a strapping young paladin who was often Algorind’s training partner, looked his friend up and down. “You saw battle,” he said, a note of unseemly envy in his voice.

“Orcs.” Algorind dismissed the creatures with a shrug and gestured to the slanted litter. “They fell upon this messenger. They have received Tyr’s justice, but I was not in time to save this brave man.”

“I’ll see to this brother. You’ll be wanted in the chapel.” The paladin stripped off his spotless blue and white tabard and handed it to Algorind. Gratefully, the young man accepted the loan and quickly donned the fresh garment. The two men were of a size—both being an inch or two over six feet, their flesh hard-chiseled by nearly constant drilling with sword and lance and staff. Algorind smoothed down his curly, close-cropped fair hair, and hastened to the chapel that, along with the training field, dominated life at Summit Hall.

He halted at the arched entrance. His brothers were singing, a hauntingly beautiful chant extolling the justice of Tyr and the courage of the young men who had chosen this path. That meant the ceremony was nearly over.

Algorind felt a stab of disappointment. He had seen men invested before, but nothing moved or inspired him as much as this sacred ceremony. It was his dream, and all his life had been lived in expectation of a moment such as this. Witnessing an investiture made him feel that much closer to his goal. Much had led up to this moment: the years of training at arms and devotions, the paladin’s quest, the trial by ordeal, the night of wakeful prayer in the chapel, the ritual bath and the donning of the white robes and new tabard. Algorind was still in training and expected a year or more before he would be granted a paladin’s quest.

He lingered near the open door, head reverently bowed as Mantasso, the High Lord Abbot—a massive warrior who despite his rank still trained the clerical acolytes at arms—prayed for Tyr’s blessing. The ceremony of investiture, the giving of the sword and the ceremonial drawing of blood as a symbol that life was forfeit to service, was the task of Master Laharin Goldbeard. It was an ancient ceremony, conveying honor with the touch of a sword but conducted with more solemnity by the Knights of Samular than romantic tales of chivalry suggested. Algorind watched with awe and deep longing as the regally tall paladin conducted the final dubbing ceremony, accepting the sword of each young paladin in turn, and imposing upon them a reminder that their lives were forfeit to the service of Tyr. Finally the young paladins sheathed their new weapons, still stained with their own blood, and rose as full Knights of the Order.