Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

“I have been at this business far too long,” Danilo murmured as he took off down the street again, this time at a saunter.

He found the archmage at his table, which did nothing to brighten his mood. Khelben had a perverse fondness for such foods as pottage of lentil, thick oat porridge, and fruit unadorned by pastry or sugar. If that was the secret of the archmage’s long life, Danilo fervently hoped to die when his naturally allotted span was through.

As they exchanged greetings, Danilo selected a ring of dried apple from a tray. He sat down across from the archmage, munching the leathery fruit as he pondered how best to pass along the dire message Bronwyn had hurled at him. Danilo had given his word to Alice, albeit tacitly, that he would not report to Khelben word of Bronwyn’s trip to Thornhold. Nor would he tell the archmage that Bronwyn was back in the city. Khelben would find that out soon enough. Danilo’s days of reporting on his old friends were over.

A simple ruse came to him. Nothing annoyed Khelben more than reference to Danilo’s bardic pursuits. Perhaps that very pique would serve to keep the archmage from examining the tale too closely.

“I heard a most amazing ballad last night at the Howling Moon,” Danilo began, naming a new tavern popular with traveling bards of all stripe. “The singer described the fall of Thornhold and claimed that this dire event occurred but two days past. I am inclined to believe him, Uncle. I do not wish to criticize a fellow bard, but the song sounded rather hastily composed.”

Khelben stared at him for a long moment. “Wait here,” he commanded.

The archmage rose and swept from the room. In Khelben’s absence, Danilo nibbled away at the plate of dried fruit and studied the dining hall. There was not overmuch to see. Polished wood covered the walls, and the stone floor had been neatly strewn with fresh rushes mingled with sweet-smelling herbs, as was the custom. The room was dim and cool, lit only by the light that filtered in from the ever-shifting windows. The archmage had remarkably simple habits and insisted that there was no need to waste candles unless they were needed for reading.

Khelben returned in moments, his visage even grimmer than the reflection of his own face that Dan had glimpsed in the shop window.

“It is as you say,” the archmage said. “How could such a thing occur without word or warning? How could a siege force of sufficient size march not more than two days’ ride north of this city and no one notice anything amiss? What good are we doing here in Waterdeep?”

The last question was a challenge, leveled at the Harpers in general and Danilo in particular, and delivered with the force of a thrown lance.

“It is possible,” Dan ventured, “that the Zhentarim have been preparing for this attack for a long time. There would be no time better, given the coming of the spring fairs and the heavy traffic on the High Road. Soldier and horse could easily be disguised as part of a merchant caravan and could pass unnoticed. Small groups could slip away into the hills and mountains and gather at the appointed time.”

Khelben looked at him with surprise. “That is well said.”

“But said too late. We should have thought of this possibility.” Dan sighed and reached for a dried plum. He slipped a jeweled knife from the cuff of his shirt and deftly pitted the fruit. “I have no expertise in siege tactics, but surely some of your Harpers keep watch for such things.”

“We have not seen the need,” the archmage said shortly. “Thornhold was considered a secure fortress.”

“And?” Danilo prompted, seeing a familiar film of secrecy settle over his uncle’s face.

Khelben considered, then threw up his hands as if resigned to yield up the truth at once rather than endure the pestering that would surely ensue if he did not. “If truth must be told, the Harpers and the paladins of the Knights of Samular have a wary relationship. The source of this conflict is a tale too old to profit from retelling.”

“Really?”

“Really.” This time, Khelben’s forbidding expression declared his intention to hold firm. “And though your assessment of the possible strategy of the attackers has merit, it is not sufficient to explain the fall of Thornhold. The paladins send out patrols into the hills. If a force large enough to scale the walls was camped about, slowly gathering in number, the paladins surely would have discovered it. No, there is something else here, something hidden.” He cast a quick, sharp look at Danilo. “Something that should remain hidden from casual eyes. Where did you say you heard this ballad?”

“The Howling Moon,” Danilo repeated, “and a dreadful ditty it was.” Or would be, he amended silently, given the time he would have to compose it!

“Good.” Khelben nodded with satisfaction and began to spoon up his now-cold soup. “A poor tale has less chance of being repeated.”

“It is clear that you have not spent much time in taverns of late,” Dan said dryly. “I assure you, Uncle, the Ballad of Thornhold is the sort of song most frequently requested in the taverns, most eagerly sought by young bards and minstrels who make their living traveling about with news and gossip.”

“You couldn’t squelch this ballad?” Khelben demanded.

More easily than you could imagine, thought Danilo with a stab of guilt. He could simply leave it unwritten and unsung. But in truth, what would that profit? His words to Khelben painted the picture clearly enough; if he himself did not write such a ballad, someone else would, and the tale might grow dangerously larger in the telling.

“How so? Forbid a song? That would only spread it the faster. And you must admit, this has in it all the elements of a fine tale: heroism, tragedy, mystery. It will strike a particular chord with retired men of the sword, in which Waterdeep abounds.”

“How so?”

“Well, other than the men who rode patrols, Thornhold was manned by aging paladins, veterans who chose to serve rather than retire. The paladins of Thornhold defied their age and infirmities. They died fighting, as heroes, long after their time. This holds much appeal.”

Danilo reached for the ladle of the soup tureen, then thought better of it. “There is more. Although listeners expect tales in which good triumphs over evil, many are surprised and secretly delighted when evil triumphs—as long as the results do not touch them personally.”

The archmage wiped his lips with a linen napkin. “That is a harsh thing to say.”

Danilo shrugged. “But true, nonetheless. Since there is much mystery about the fall of Thornhold, there will be speculation. All who listen to the ballad become storytellers themselves, as they spin tales about what might have happened.”

“But not all men are content with gossip,” the archmage said. “How long before small forces gather to throw themselves against Thornhold? The paladins at the Halls of Justice will probably make a quest of it, not to mention the knights of Summit Hall. I don’t need to tell you what a waste that would be. Only an enormous, full-scale assault of massive power could bring down those walls.”

Danilo examined his fingernails. “Thinking of trying your hand, Uncle?”

The archmage sniffed. “As to that, I have but one word: Ascalhorn.”

“Ah. Excellent point.”

For a time, the men fell silent, and the air was thick with the memory of dire, unforeseen results of powerful magic wrought. The fall of the fortress that Khelben had named opened the gate to darker, more deadly powers. For years Ascalhorn had been aptly known as Hellgate Keep and represented the failure of extreme magical remedies. Evoking it declared Khelben’s firm intention to keep himself free of direct involvement in the matter. Danilo often suspected that Khelben had a deep, personal stake in the matter as well, but he had never found a way to broach the subject.