Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

“I can travel with you as far as Waterdeep,” the soldier said.

Bronwyn ran with the dwarf until she was certain her sides would split. When she was sure she couldn’t go another step, the dwarf veered off the river path into an utterly black tunnel. She stumbled along behind, aware only that they turned several times. Finally her guide came to a stop.

For many moments she stood, her hands on her knees, and struggled to regain her breath. The dwarf sounded in about the same condition, only louder. Air rasped in and out of the stout fellow with a force and volume that suggested a forge bellows at work.

“How’d you get in that shaft, anyhow?” he demanded when he’d gathered enough breath for speech.

“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” Bronwyn sank down to sit on the cold stone floor of the tunnel. “There was a battle. Zhents got into the fortress—through the midden, by the smell of them. When it was clear that the fortress would be taken, one of the paladins dropped me down that hole.”

She did not say who or what the paladin had been too her. Her loss was too new, too raw, to bear the burden of words.

“Hmmph.” The dwarf considered this. “Well now, that fits into the picture. Zhents mean trouble, plain and simple. A few dwarves in my clan used to trade with them. Don’t do it, I told them. Never pays, I said. Well, it paid , all right.”

The bitter grief in the dwarfs voice smote Bronwyn’s heart. She began to put together the pieces. Most fortresses had escape tunnels, but these were secret and closely guarded. Even the midden, a necessity of any settlement, was always warded from possible intruders. The presence of a dwarf clan would provide a powerful shield for these escape routes. The angry mixture of shock and sorrow in the dwarf’s voice suggested why the midden shoots were suddenly accessible.

“The shaft led into your tunnels?” she asked gently.

“That’s right. Not many knew of the slide, even among the dwarves. Only the head human was supposed to know of it. Guess you happened to be in the right place at the right time.”

The heavy irony in his voice did not escape her, nor did the ragged sound of terrible grief. For several moments Bronwyn and her unseen companion sat in silence. Nothing she could say to him would ease his pain. She knew, for she could think of no words of consolation that would make any difference to her own loss.

A small, strong hand gripped her wrist. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “We’d best get out of this place.”

They walked in silence for perhaps an hour before Bronwyn began to notice shapes and shadows emerging from the darkness. “There’s an opening ahead?”

“That’s right. Oh, damnation! ”

Bronwyn stopped, startled by the dwarfs sharp tone. “What is it?”

“I’m-a gonna have to put a blinder on you. No human knows this opening. Best I keep it that way.”

That struck Bronwyn as a sad variation of locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but she wasn’t about to point that out to the grieving dwarf. “I understand. Rip a strip of cloth off the bottom of my cloak if you want.”

The dwarf busied himself with the task, then led Bronwyn out of the tunnel and into the open. Since being blindfolded was not much different from walking through the black tunnel, she didn’t mind it as much as she thought she would. And even if she couldn’t see, the sound and feel of the sea winds lifted her spirits. Until she’d left the tunnels behind, she hadn’t realized how oppressive they’d felt.

Finally the dwarf stopped and removed her blindfold. She blinked and shielded her eyes from the sudden stab of light. When her vision cleared, she noted that they were on a wide dirt path—the High Road. She was also able to form a detailed impression of the dwarf.

He was, well, square. Probably just short of four feet tall, he was built like a barrel with thick arms and shoulders of a width that most six-foot men would envy. Curly reddish-brown hair rioted over his shoulders, and a beard in a brighter hue of auburn spilled down over his chest. Unlike most dwarves, he wore no mustache, and that lent a slightly boyish look to his broad face. A horseshoe hung about his neck on a thong, another bit of whimsy, but there was nothing of the child in his eyes, which were the color of a stormy sky and just as bleak.

She extended her hand. “I’m Bronwyn. Thank you for getting me out of the tunnels.”

He hesitated, then clasped her wrist in a brief adventurer’s salute. “Ebenezer.”

His answer was curt, almost challenging. Bronwyn didn’t expect anything different. Dwarves were slow to trust and loath to give more of their names than absolutely necessary.

By unspoken consensus, they started south along the road. Bronwyn noted the dejected slope of his shoulders. “You lost people in the tunnels,” she said with deep sympathy.

A moment of silence stretched out, growing ever more tense until it exploded into an earthy dwarven curse. “My clan,” he admitted. “Most killed. Some gone.”

“Some of them escaped,” she pointed out. “That’s something.”

“Bah! You don’t know dwarves after all, if you’re thinking that way. Running away when there’s fighting to be done? They’re not gone by choice, I’m telling you that for free.”

Bronwyn’s eyes narrowed as this sank in. She stopped and seized the dwarf’s arm, spinning him around to face her. “They were taken by the Zhents? Why?”

“Why indeed?” he raged helplessly. “Why would a human learn to read the stones or sweat himself dry chipping ore and gems out of solid rock? Why spend twenty years learning the craft of sword smithing, another thirty making practice pieces, then start turning out swords at the cost of a decade apiece? Why go through the trouble to cut and polish gems until they sparkle like the Tears of Selûne on a clear night? Why do any of that when you can steal someone else to do it for you?”

“Slavers,” she gritted out. Her own past rose up before her, lending that single word more venom than a nest full of pit vipers could muster.

The dwarf eyed Bronwyn with curiosity. “That’d be my guess. What’s it to you?”

She dropped his arm and started down the road at a brisker pace. After a moment, Ebenezer jogged up to her side. “With the spring fairs coming up, a southbound caravan should be along soon,” she said briskly. “I’ve enough coin to buy us a horse. Can you ride?”

“Yes, but—”

“Two horses then. We should be in Waterdeep before nightfall day after tomorrow. If we’re lucky, well be in Skullport by midnight.”

“Skullport!” he scoffed. “More of your tall tales. Tavern legend. No such place.”

“There most certainly is, and it’s the nearest port for slave transport. If you want to find the surviving members of your clan before they’re halfway to Calimport, that’s where we’ll have to go. Live with it.”

He jogged along, considering this. Finally he turned a skeptical gaze upon her. “What’s this to you, human?”

“My name is Bronwyn,” she said grimly. “You might as well get used to using it. Where we’re going, singing out ‘Hoy, human!’ will get you too many responses. Most of them, you won’t like.”

“Bronwyn, then,” he agreed. “And it might be that you could save your coin. I got a horse stashed. Here you have Ebenezer Mac Brockholst ’n’ Palmara, of Clan Stoneshaft.”

She nodded, understanding the honor he conferred upon her by giving his full name and lineage—and seeing in his eyes the effort it cost to name his parents, whom he had probably just laid to rest. He was agreeing with her plan, trusting her to help him find his lost family. The enormity of that staggered her. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but tried anyway.