Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

The sunset colors were fading as Sir Gareth and Algorind rode swiftly toward Summit Hall. They hailed the watch towers as they came so that they need not slow to wait for the gates. They swept in through the wooden doors and bore down upon the startled group emerging from chapel.

“Where is the wench?” demanded Sir Gareth as he slid down from his horse.

Master Laharin strode forward, his yellow brows drawn down in a scowl. “Courtesy is a rule of this Order, brother. The only woman in this fortress is an honored guest.”

The rebuke was a harsh one to a man of his station, but Gareth didn’t seem to take notice.

“She is a traitor and a thief. Lord Piergeiron of Waterdeep told us she was bound here. Find her!”

Such was the knight’s urgency that most of the paladins obeyed at once. Algorind dismounted to join in. Before he took a dozen steps, Yves, a young man perhaps a year behind Algorind in training, came running back to the courtyard. “The chain on the tower tunnel has been disturbed!”

Algorind had never seen such unbridled rage on a paladin’s face as Sir Gareth wore. The knight quickly mastered himself and turned to a suddenly pale Laharin. “You see? This woman has made fools of you.”

It seemed to Algorind that the knight took an unseemly relish in delivering this news.

“This woman was at Thornhold when it fell,” continued Gareth. “Did it not occur to you to ask how a single woman walked out unscathed?”

“She is Hronulf’s daughter,” Laharin stated simply. “She told me that she met with Hronulf and that he showed her a secret tunnel whereby she might escape.”

“Did she also say that Hronulf had given her his ring? Did she mention that the lost child of Samular is in her keeping, held in the fastness of Blackstaff Tower?”

Laharin paled as the enormity of the situation hit him. “She did not.”

“And she has been to the old tower,” Sir Gareth concluded grimly.

Although Algorind did not know what that signified, Laharin clearly did. The master paladin was fairly wringing his hands. “It seems likely. By the Hammer of Tyr! The three rings will again unite.”

Sir Gareth turned to Algorind. “Find her. Take another man with you. Do what you must, but retrieve the rings of Samular.”

The utter coldness of the knight’s voice chilled Algorind, but he could not fault Sir Gareth’s reasoning or question the duty ahead. He whistled for his horse and beckoned for Corwin, a comrade of about his own age, to follow.

The two young paladins struck out for the tower. Algorind assumed that if Bronwyn had left by some hidden door, she could not be far. They would pick up the trail.

Twilight was deepening swiftly toward night when Algorind saw the first tracks—prints made by small, worn boots. There was a single set, and they ran behind a rocky hillock.

He swung down from his horse and knelt for a better look. The woman was small, and these prints looked a little big to be hers, but not so big that a match was impossible. For safe measure, he drew his sword and motioned for Corwin to do the same. Together, they rushed the hillock.

No woman awaited them there, but a small band of orcs did—scrawny, hideous creatures, with their piggish red eyes and jutting canine fangs. This band was armed with nothing but evil grins and bone knives. Most were naked, or nearly so, and only one greenish-hued female had a pair of boots. She must have left the deceitful tracks. This, then, was an ambush.

These creatures were smaller than any Algorind had seen, and younger. The female wore nothing but her ragged boots and a small leather loincloth, and her small young breasts rode high against her clearly delineated ribs. Likely she was not yet of breeding age, and some of the males looked younger still. But they were orcs. The paladins charged as one.

The ambushers lacked the courage for honest battle. When it was clear that the fight would not be easy, most of them shrieked and tried to flee. Algorind cut down one ore who charged him with a knife, then gutted a second with his returning stroke. He lunged forward and high, cutting deeply between the ribs of the coward trying to scramble up and over the rocks.

The survivors scattered and fled. The boot-shod orc had the wit to try to steal a horse. She hauled herself onto Corwin’s black steed and frantically kicked the horse into a run, but she did not reckon with a paladin-trained mount. As the horse cantered past, Corwin gave a sharp whistle. Instantly the black horse reared, pawing the air. The ore rolled backward and fell heavily onto the rocky ground. Corwin was there in a moment, his sword at her throat. The little orc wench managed to spit at him before she died.

Algorind leaped onto Icewind’s back and called for Corwin to follow. Working together, they managed to slay all but two, and even those did not escape unscathed. The two surviving orcs were wounded and promptly left their companions to slink away and lose themselves among the rocks and shadows.

“That is the way with wild animals,” Corwin observed when at last they gave up their search. “Even a wounded dog will seek out a small, quiet space to lick his wounds.”

Algorind nodded. “Let us find a place to make camp. In the morning, we will surely find the trail. If Tyr is willing, we will find Bronwyn before the sun sets again.”

Bronwyn stepped through the tower wall and collapsed onto the ground. Never had she felt so chilled, so drained of life, so utterly despairing. Dimly she noted that the terrain looked different and that the walls of Summit Hall were not where she expected them to be. Later, she would think about that. She pillowed her cheek on the rocky ground and let the darkness claim her.

When Bronwyn awoke, twilight had nearly passed, and the sky’s silver was tarnished with the coming of darkness. A sudden flutter seized and focused her groggy thoughts. Shopscat landed beside her, batting his wings and cawing furiously.

Bronwyn groaned and turned her head so that she was face down. The raven’s raucous voice made her temples throb. “Think about it,” she pleaded with him.

The familiar thunder of Ebenezer’s iron-shod boots came rumbling toward her. The dwarf picked up her head by her braid and scrutinized her face.

“Thought you forgot how to read, woman. Where in the Nine Hells were you—an ice cave? You’re blue as a Moon elf!”

Bronwyn rolled up into a sitting position, hugging her knees and shivering uncontrollably. “A lich. Gods, I’m cold. I didn’t realize how cold until I got away.”

“Fear’s a good thing,” the dwarf commented. “Keeps you going. And speaking of going, we’d best keep on. Can you stand?”

She let him haul her up and after a few trembling steps, her legs held her well enough. She listened as Ebenezer told her about the paladins’ arrival, and how Cara’s idea enabled them to find her. In turn, she told him what the lich had revealed.

“We’re going to Gladestone,” she told him, “a village perhaps two hours’ ride north of here. It’s a small community of elves and half—”

“Stones!” the dwarf spat. “An elf village. Never thought the day would come when I’d be heading to one on purpose. And what’s this thing that we’re looking for?”

“A toy siege engine. I’ll explain later.” She cast a glance over her shoulder. “We’d better move. If that paladin was following me before, odds are he’s still at it.”

They rode by the light of the rising moon, keeping a cautious look out for paladins and orcs. Before long Cara started nodding off, and Bronwyn was riding with one arm wrapped around the girl to hold her in place. By the time they got to Gladestone, Cara was not the only one sleeping. Most of the houses and shops were dark.