Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

There were four of them, and they wore on their black over-tunics the twisted rune that was the emblem of Darkhold. Zhentish soldiers, certainly. That made Algorind feel a bit better about what he was about to do. Laying ambush was hardly a noble task for a paladin, but these men were clearly evil, and great odds required greater valor. This took some of the sting from the needed act.

When the men were almost past his position, Algorind leaped at the one who rode rearguard. He seized the man on his way down and carried him from the horse. They fell together. Algorind delivered two quick, jabbing punches to the Zhent’s throat and temple. The Zhent instantly went limp. Algorind swung himself up onto the startled horse and drew his sword.

The remaining soldiers had noted their comrade’s fate. They wheeled their horses around and drew their weapons. Urging their mounts on with vicious kicks, they came at the paladin in full fury.

Fortunately for Algorind, the path was too narrow for two to ride abreast. The first attacker thundered toward him, sword held high. Algorind caught the blade with his, tugged the reins of his borrowed mount to the left, and gave the joined swords a deft twist. Jousting was an art much practiced at Summit Hall, and Algorind unhorsed his opponent with ease. The Zhent hit the ground hard, landing just off the path. He rolled down the punishing, stone-studded ravine. His curses swiftly rose into howls of pain, then faded away.

While their comrade was still rolling down the ravine, the two remaining men came on. The foremost had a wicked spear, which he held couched like a lance under one arm. Algorind waited until the man was nearly upon him, then leaped from the saddle toward the onrushing blade, slashing down with his sword as he went.

His blade caught the spear shaft, and his weight forced the point of the spear down. It struck the ground and dug in hard. Algorind rolled aside beyond the reach of the horse’s thundering hooves. He heard the man’s rising wail as the bent spear lifted him from his mount and hurled him into the air.

Before the heavy thud announced the man’s impact onto solid rock, Algorind was already back on his feet, sword ready. He leaped directly into the path of the last rider. The startled horse reared up, dumping its rider onto the path. Before the fallen soldier could collect himself, Algorind was there, one foot pinning the man’s sword arm down, and the tip of his blade at the man’s throat.

The Zhent’s eyes expected death and feared it greatly. Such it must be, Algorind thought with sudden pity, if all that awaited a man was the dubious mercy of Cyric or the other dire gods that the Zhentarim favored, or—most terrible of all—the numbing emptiness of no faith at all.

“Only answer my question, and you may go free and unharmed,” Algorind vowed.

The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if I don’t talk?”

“Speak freely, or die swiftly,” the paladin said. “It is your choice.”

“Easy enough, put that way,” the soldier muttered. “What do you want to know?”

“You are of Darkhold, and you are far from your fortress. Do you hold another stronghold nearby?”

The man’s quick, wicked grin reminded Algorind of a buzzard preparing to feed. “As of last night, that we do.”

Algorind’s heart seemed to turn to stone. “Thornhold. You have taken it.”

“Made a nice piece of work of it, too.”

Algorind nodded and knew at once that he would not be able fulfill his charge and carry a message to Hronulf. He himself would gladly fight to the death to protect a stronghold of the order from Zhentish capture. He did not know of a paladin who would not. Even so, he had to ask. “And the paladins who held it … are they all dead?”

“To a man. I saw ’em burn.”

The black smoke, Algorind realized. His wrath kindled, prompting him to slay this evil man who recounted the destruction of goodly men with such unconcern.

But Algorind had given his word. He could not break it, nor had he learned all that he must. Since he studied the lore of the order with scholarly devotion, he knew that Hronulf of Tyr wore a great artifact, one of the Rings of Samular. It was Algorind’s duty to learn what had become of it.

“You answer plainly. For that, I thank you. Tell me one thing more. What became of the paladins’ possessions?”

The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “The usual. Weapons and valuables went to the commander. His captains sorted through them and passed them out as booty.”

“The paladin commander, known as Hronulf of Tyr, wore a gold ring. Do you know who now holds it?”

“That damn ring,” echoed the soldier in a resigned voice. “Bane’s balls, but I’m tired of hearing about the thing! The commander had us search the whole damn fortress for it more times than I know how to count. As far as we can figure, the old knight gave the ring to a pretty young wench who escaped. No one knows how she escaped or where she went. My patrol was one of several out looking for her. That is the truth, and it’s all I know.”

Algorind studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I believe you,” he said. “You may go.”

The soldier stared at him for a moment. “Just like that?” he said in disbelief.

“You fulfilled your part. You may go.”

The man laughed—a bitter, mocking sound. “It sounds easy, the way you put it. Do you know what Dag Zoreth will do to me when he finds out that I lost my patrol to a single man? When he learns what I’ve told you? And he will learn. He has ways of finding out things that I don’t even want to know about. If I go back to the fortress, I’m a dead man.”

Algorind was thoroughly confused. “Then why did you speak?”

“You offered me a quick death. I figured that was the best bargain I could make.”

This appalled the young paladin. It was a terrible thing that a man must fear his superiors as this one did. He studied the Zhent for a long moment, silently calling on Tyr to help him judge the true measure of this man. What he found surprised him greatly and made the task of disposing of the soldier all the more perplexing.

And what of his own quest? The capture of Thornhold and the death of Hronulf put an end to it. Yet what of the ring and the woman? This matter was grave indeed and required the wisdom of an elder paladin. Perhaps Sir Gareth was still at the Halls of Justice. And if not, what better place for Algorind to start his search for the mysterious “pretty wench” than in that decadent city?

“We are both at something of a loss,” Algorind said. “I made a bargain with you, not expecting it could go awry in this manner. As for myself, I think it best to travel south to Waterdeep. You might come along, if you desire. Surely, in so large a place, you could lose yourself and find a new, better life.”

The soldier dragged himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously up at the young paladin. “What are you offering? A conspiracy?”

“Companionship on the way south,” Algorind corrected, “and my word of honor that I find little true evil in you. I can also offer you, in the name of Tyr, the gift of redemption. Accept, abandon the path you have chosen, and when your time comes you need not die with such horror in your eyes as I saw this day. But be warned,” he cautioned the wary man. “Tyr is the god of justice, and it may well be that your life among the Zhentarim has left deeds that require restitution. Tyr’s redemption does not come without a price.”

“What does?” grumbled the soldier, but he took the hand that Algorind offered him and let the young paladin help him to his feet. In this soldier’s eyes, Algorind read the flickering rebirth of the gifts that Tyr could bestow: hope, honor, and the grim yet comforting belief in stern justice.