Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

Bronwyn wrenched herself away from him and dived for the pair of crossed swords displayed on the wall. She tugged one free and brandished it at the buckling, cracking door.

“I just found you,” she said from between clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving.”

The paladin’s smile was both sad and proud. “You are truly my daughter,” he said. For a moment their eyes met, and it seemed to Bronwyn that he was actually seeing her— her , not a reflection of her long-dead mother or a conduit for the bloodline of Samular—for the first time. “Bronwyn, my daughter,” he repeated with a touch of wonderment. “Because of who you are, you will do as you must. As will I.”

With that, he knocked the sword from her hand and seized her by the back of her jacket. Spinning her around, he grabbed her belt with his other hand and lifted her from the ground. As if he were a half-orc bouncer and she a rowdy patron at a tavern, he hauled her back for the traditional Dock Ward Drunk Toss. She hit the smooth stone floor, skidded on her stomach, and disappeared head first into the tunnel.

Beyond the hole was a steep, smooth incline. Down she slid, the wind whistling in her ears as she picked up speed. But even so, she heard the solid thump of the stone wall’s closure, the terrible splintering of the wooden door, and a deep, ringing voice singing out to Tyr as the paladin began his final battle.

Dag Zoreth swept through the door into the bailey and leaped from his horse. Darting a look around, he saw that most of the fighting was over. Many of the fortress servants had been slain. Their bodies were lying limp and sodden in heaps, like so many beheaded chickens ready for plucking. Soldiers were rounding up the survivors and forcing them to their knees in a single precise row. A pair of priests worked their way down the line, casting the spells needed to discern character and allegiance.

This was an unusual precaution—usually castle servants were considered plunder, regarded as simple fools eager to save their skins and their livelihoods by serving whatever lord controlled the fortress. Dag knew that his priests considered the testing process a nuisance and a waste, but he thought otherwise. The influence of a paladin was insidious. On his orders, any man who displayed too strong or steadfast an alliance with the forces of righteousness was to be slain.

In Dag’s opinion, it was a highly sensible precaution.

His eyes fell on Yemid, on foot now and in rapid pursuit of a retreating servant. Dag caught the captain’s arm. “Where is the woman?”

Yemid blew out a sharp, frustrated breath. “Gone, my lord. The men have searched the fortress from dungeon to turret.”

Dag’s brows drew down into a deep, angry frown. He had not considered the possibility that his sister might possess magic. She was said to be a merchant, not a mage. But he knew as well as any that magical trinkets were available, provided one had the gold to trade for them. Even so, most devices he knew of had limited range and power. If she had escaped in this manner, she had not gone far. “Send out patrols, range out as far as needs be. Find her!”

Yemid spun and bellowed out the orders. A dozen men took to their horses and galloped from the gates.

“And the keep commander?” Dag persisted, determined not to be cheated entirely. “Where is he?”

The captain hesitated, then nodded toward the line of Zhentish bodies neatly laid out, prepared for cremation, resurrection, or undead animation, as suited Dag’s whim. “There’s some of his handiwork,” he said. “They pinned the old man down in a tower chamber. Even so, it took some doing to drop him.”

“Drop? Him?”

The deadly chill in those words stole the color from the huge soldier’s face. “I swear to you, Lord Zoreth, the man was alive when I saw him. He took a wound, though. Looked serious.” He tossed aside the spiked cudgel he liked to use for in-close fighting, and turned his back to the furious priest. “I’ll take you to him.”

Dag followed the soldier to the back of the fortress, up winding stairs to a tower room in the keep. A pair of guards bookended the shattered door, barring the entrance with crossed spears. Dag took note of their small wounds, their slashed tunics, and the bright marks on the chain mail beneath where a keen sword had slashed or stabbed. These men were numbered among the elite of Darkhold, fighters hand chosen by the Pereghost himself, yet even they had not remained unscathed by Hronulf’s blade.

A small, tight smile stretched Dag Zoreth’s lips. It was rare that childhood memories lived up to their luster. His perception of his father’s battle prowess clearly proved to be an exception.

“The paladin commander lives?” he demanded.

“Aye,” one of the guards said grudgingly. “On your orders.”

Dag nodded in satisfaction. “Step aside.”

The guards hesitated, exchanging a glance that mingled foreboding and indecision. “I would be doing less than my duty if I didn’t warn you,” ventured the man who had already spoken. “Several good soldiers died underestimating that old man.”

“So noted.” Dag’s eyes narrowed in menace. “Fortunately for me, I am not a good soldier, but a priest of Cyric. Do you understand me, soldier?”

The threat was a potent one. Both men saluted smartly and moved aside. Dag stalked past them and into the room, dark head held high, his black and purple cape flowing behind him like a storm cloud. He was exhilarated rather than daunted by the prospect of facing the tall, powerful paladin who even in his late years could dispatch a half score of Darkhold’s best. Perhaps he might still have to look up at Hronulf of Tyr, physically, but he would do so, for the first time in his life, from a position of power. There was an irony in this that pleased him.

But Dag was robbed of this small triumph. The father he had come so far to vanquish was no longer a warrior to be hated and feared, but an old, dying man.

Hronulf of Tyr sat stiffly upright on a chair. He held his sword out before him, the point resting on the floor, one hand on the hilt, in a manner that recalled a monarch and his staff. His other hand was fisted, and driven into a gaping wound just below his ribs.

Dag Zoreth turned slowly to his guide. “It is as you said. He was gravely wounded, against my express orders.”

The captain nodded and swallowed hard. The knowledge of his coming death was written clearly in his eyes.

But Dag shook his head. “I do not kill bearers of bad news, either for entertainment or to demonstrate that I am a man to be feared. Good messengers are hard to find, and good captains even harder. You’ve served me well, Yemid, and I will award you accordingly. But if you fail in the assignment I am about to give you, you will taste my wrath.”

“Of course, Lord Zoreth!”

“Go find the man who dealt this wound and do likewise to him. But first, stake him to the ground. Gut him so that he dies slowly, so that his screams will call hungry ravens to help finish the task.”

Again Yemid swallowed hard—bile, if the sudden greenish tinge to his skin was any indication. “All will be done as you say.” He saluted and left the room with a haste that spoke more of grateful self-preservation than of any real zest for his duty.

Dag dismissed the guards and shut what was left of the door. When he was alone with his captive, he folded his arms and stared down at him coolly.

“I am a priest,” he said in a coldly controlled tone that revealed none of his wrath, or his elation. “I could heal you. I could stop that pain instantly. I could even offer you protection from the soldiers who stormed your fortress, or a quick death fighting, if you so prefer.”