Элейн Каннингем - Thornhold

She glared at him and brandished her knife. “If you’re looking to die nobly, do it on your own time.”

“That was not my meaning,” he said earnestly. “Your bold plan holds danger, but I can think of none better. It is true that I am sworn to follow my duty, even if it leads to death.”

Bronwyn remembered Hronulf’s last battle at Thornhold. The same serene courage shone in this young paladin’s eyes. Suddenly she found herself hard pressed to hate this man.

“But I am not convinced that death will result from this venture,” continued Algorind. “Defeat is never certain while life remains. It may be that Tyr will bless this quest and grant success.” A sudden, bleak look entered his eyes. “And if success is not to be, still I am content.”

His expression alerted Bronwyn. She remembered the fear she had experienced as a child, and again during her brief reunion with her father, that she would never quite manage to meet the mark set for her. That old ghost haunted Algorind’s eyes. For a moment, a very brief moment, she felt sympathy for the young paladin and the harsh life he had chosen.

“Got yourself into a bit of trouble, did you?”

“As to that, you know my failings better than any. I allowed a dwarf to trick me and steal my horse, a child to evade my pursuit—”

“And let’s not forget the incident with the gemjump,” Bronwyn interrupted, “though I’m sure you’d like to do so.”

A pained expression crossed the young man’s face. “I admit my failings and gladly pay the price.”

The calm, steady acceptance in his voice told all. Bronwyn straightened and tucked away her knife. If Algorind failed to rescue Cara, he would probably face disgrace, and possibly even banishment. Had she needed assurance that he possessed enough reason to face the task ahead, this would have outstripped her expectations.

Bronwyn looked around for her horse. The mare had calmed and was cropping at some grass. She turned back to Algorind.

“All right, then. Let’s go. But remember, when we get to the fortress, let me do the talking.”

Algorind had little desire for speech. He rode alongside Bronwyn, his thoughts churning with confusion. Had he done wrong, throwing his lot in with this woman? She had already proven treacherous, and her choice of companions did not commend her judgment. Yet she had agreed to travel with him, to work together.

He had to be clear on one thing. “Understand this,” he said. “I intend to fulfill the paladin’s quest given me. Once the child has been rescued, I am honor-bound to take her back to the paladins at Waterdeep.”

“I never doubted it,” Bronwyn replied, looking straight ahead.

They rode in unbroken silence until the walls of Thornhold loomed before them. Algorind had never seen the fortress, and he marveled at the strength of the ancient walls. He scanned the citadel, searching for something that might aid their escape.

“See that wooden door, about halfway up the walls?” he said, nodding toward the stronghold. “That is a sally port. When we are within the walls, look for a way up to it. There should be a ramp, or stairs.”

“Both,” Bronwyn said. “I remember that. When I was in the fortress, Hronulf showed me around.”

“That is good. Once you have the child, we will fight our way up to the port.”

She shaded her eyes against the setting sun and squinted. “It’s a good twenty feet down.”

“Nonetheless, it is our best hope of escape. My horse will come to my call. When we reach the fortress, we will leave our horses outside the gates. If we tie your mare’s reins to mine, Icewind will bring her along.”

Bronwyn nodded as she took this in. “It might work.”

One thing more concerned him. “How will you find the child in the fortress?”

“My brother has not seen me since I was four years old,” she said. “He is likely to ask Cara if I am who I claim to be. Knowing Cara, she will not be content to go tamely back to her room afterward.”

In his brief tenure as master of Thornhold, Dag Zoreth had transformed the commander’s chambers. The rooms that had once been Hronulf’s, and that had reflected the knight’s austere life, were now luxurious and comfortable. A bright hearth fire was always burning to stave off the chill that lingered within the thick stone walls, even though it was mid Mirtul and quite warm for that month. Fine furniture had been shipped from Waterdeep, lamps of colored glass from Neverwinter, fine furs from Luskan. His chamber did not quite possess the elegance of the Osterim villa near Waterdeep, but in time it would. Already it surpassed any Zhentarim outpost. But today, this small success gave him no pleasure.

“My Lord Zoreth.”

Dag looked up from the papers on his table, almost grateful for the interruption. Already Ashemmi was making good her threat. Swift riders had brought word from Darkhold. Sememmon, the mage who ruled the fortress—and who was in turn ruled by his dark affection for the elven sorceress—wanted Dag to return to Darkhold, bringing the child with him. Thornhold would be turned over to another commander. For hours now, Dag had been wracking his thoughts for some way to keep control over his command and his daughter. Another conquest, perhaps. That might sway the matter. If he proved he could thus enhance the power of the Zhentarim, not even Ashemmi’s charms could dissuade Sememmon from approving, even applauding, Dag’s ambitions.

“Well?” he asked the messenger.

“The sentry on the north tower reports two riders approaching. A man and a woman.”

Dag stood up abruptly. “Is this my sister?”

“It might be. The men who saw her enter the fortress before our attack think it is possible, but they saw her only from a distance.”

There was one way to be certain. Dag strode to the door that led into the adjoining room. Cara sat on her bed, looking oddly dispirited. The playthings he had supplied her with lay neatly on the chest, in which, he supposed, were all her new clothes and baubles. She preferred to wear the clothes she came with—a gown of pink silk. Some day very soon he would have to find a way to persuade her to part with it long enough to allow the laundry a chance at it. In the girl’s hands was a small, wooden doll, roughly carved and so squat and square that it resembled a dwarf far more than it did a human.

“Cara, we have visitors,” he said. “As lady of the castle, you need to greet them.”

That pleased her. She rose at once and followed him up a flight of stairs to the walkway that followed the entire wall. The height did not seem to bother her in the slightest—she was an intrepid child, that Dag had noted—but nonetheless, he claimed her hand and held it tightly as they made their way around to the front gate.

A delighted cry burst from the child. “It’s Bronwyn! She has come to visit?”

“To stay, if you like,” he said, and meant it. If he could find a way to keep them both, to use the power only they could wield, he would surely do it. “And the man with her?”

Cara’s brown eyes narrowed, and her lip jutted out. “That is the man who stole me. He killed my foster parents and took me away. He chased me in Waterdeep.”

So Sir Gareth was telling the truth after all, Dag mused. Dark pleasure rose in him like a tide at the thought of having this man, this paladin, delivered so conveniently into his hands. The single-minded fool probably expected to fight his way clear or die gloriously.

“He will not hurt you here,” Dag assured her, “but we cannot be certain he will not hurt Bronwyn, unless we let them in. Do not be afraid.”

Cara shot him an incredulous look. “I am not afraid. I am angry.”

He smiled with approval and started forward. They walked until they had reached the small parapet overlooking the gate.