The dwarf still looked uncertain, but he hopped off the bar stool and followed her out of the Burning Troll. They wove their way between rows of leaning wooden buildings, taking a confusing maze of narrow alleys that led to the docks.
The prospect of a sea voyage left Bronwyn 80 edgy she felt as though several layers of skin had been peeled off, leaving her incredibly vulnerable. She started to chatter softly, to provide a distraction.
“Getting a ship was easier than I’d dared hope. The captain even took credit against plunder or payment. If you’re a praying dwarf you might want to hope that the ship has some plunder worth keeping, or this could break us both.”
“Clan’s good for it,” Ebenezer repeated.
“I’m sure you are. It seems to me, though, there’s more to the captain’s story than he’s letting on,” she said absently, suddenly aware of a soft, rhythmic sound behind them. In Skullport, sound seemed to be everywhere, echoing through the vast sea cavern and bouncing off stone walls, resounding through tunnels. But this particular cadence was too regular and too constant to ignore.
“We’re being followed,” she murmured. She took a small bronze disk from her bag and cast a quick glance over her shoulder. She caught the reflection of a squat, ugly ore peering around a corner at them.
Ebenezer was not so discrete. He turned around and glared, then sniffed dismissively. That clearly angered the ore. Lowering his head like a charging bull, he came at them. Bronwyn reached for her knife and dropped into a crouch.
But the dwarf pushed her aside and stood waiting in the center of the alley, hammer in hand. “Sit this one out,” he said. “Won’t take long, him having a smashed hand and all.”
Bronwyn looked from the gleam in the dwarf’s eye to the hammer in his hand and sighed. “Made friends in the tavern, did you?”
Ebenezer grunted in response and hauled the hammer down and back for the first swing. He caught the ore’s chin with a wicked uppercut that halted the creature’s charge and jerked his lowered head up and back. Ebenezer punched out with his free hand, slamming into the creature’s chest. The ores eyes bulged, and the gray hide of its face turned a ghastly blue. Slowly, it tilted forward and fell facedown into one of the fetid puddles that dotted the alley.
“Stops the heart, if you get a good clean shot,” Ebenezer commented. He tucked his hammer back into his belt and turned to Bronwyn. “You was saying?”
She shut her gaping mouth and turned back down the alley.
“The captain is an ogre,” she said, picking up where they left off. “But he was knowledgeable, well dressed, well spoken. Not a desperate second-rate thug by any means.”
“Your better class of smugglers,” Ebenezer said dryly.
“There’s truth to that,” she rejoined. “Think about it. There’s a city below and a city above. There is traffic between the two, and you can bet that hammer of yours that many of Waterdeep’s merchants know someone who knows someone who can pay someone to do a favor Are you following?”
“Easily enough, but the question is, do you know someone who’s in a position to do all that other knowing?”
Bronwyn hesitated, not certain but wanting to believe. “You remember that man who came into the shop? Tall, fair-haired, good-looking?”
“No beard. Too much jewelry,” Ebenezer remembered. “You were mad enough at him to chew trade bars and spit nails. What about him?”
“He’s a friend, and he’s also a member of a rich merchant family. It’s possible he made some arrangements, helped pave the way. Here we are,” she said as they emerged from the alley onto a broad, rotting boardwalk. “And over there’s our ship.”
Ebenezer’s gaze followed the line indicated by her pointing finger His dubious expression darkened into a scowl as he took in the maze of docks and the ships bobbing alongside them in an expanse of undulating black water A flock of sea bats whirled and shrieked over the ship Bronwyn had indicated, which was being rapidly prepared to sail. Burly dockhands hauled barrels of supplies aboard, and a huge ogre captain clung to the rail and bellowed down orders in a voice that held all the music of a bee-stung mule’s bellow.
“That Mend of yours,” Ebenezer said darkly as he eyed the ship with trepidation, “might not have done you as big a favor as you seem to think.”
* * * * *
Dag Zoreth stood on the wail of Thornhold and watched the caravan pass. Three wagons, plus a mercenary guard. Nothing of interest. He would not even suggest that his men attack and demand toll from the traders. He looked past them, seeking for another, smaller caravan, one with a much more precious cargo.
Several days had passed since Dag’s victory. With each day he found himself spending more and more time walking the walls, searching the High Road for signs of his daughter’s caravan. The escort of Zhentilar soldiers should have retrieved her by now from her place of secret fosterage. She was late, and Dag was growing ever more concerned.
He was therefore greatly relieved to see a group of riders turn off the road onto the path that led up to the fortress, and gladder still when they lifted the standard of Darkhold by means of introduction. Dag gave a few terse orders to one of the guards to carry word to the castellan and then hurried down to meet his daughter
To his great consternation, the gate opened to reveal a group of men familiar to him but not under his command. At their head rode Malchior. Dag quickly arranged his features into a expression of honor and welcome and strode forward to help his former mentor and superior down from his horse.
Malchior landed heavily and swept an appraising look over the fortress bailey. “Very impressive, my son. I never thought the day would come when I saw the interior of this particular Caradoon stronghold—except, perhaps, for the dungeons.”
Dag smiled faintly to acknowledge the jest. Malchior seemed in a rare mood, so jovial that he looked likely to break into dance at any moment. “You’ve had a long ride from the villa. Come, I will show you to your room and have the servants bring refreshment.”
“Later, later” Malchior flapped his hands, brushing aside this notion as if he were shooing flies. “You’ve gone through Hronulf’s papers?”
“Yes,” Dag said coolly. There had been little enough to see. Three or four lore books, recounting stories of past glories attributed to the Knights of Samular, and a few blackened, curling bits of parchment that he had found in the hearth fire next to his father’s charred heart.
The older priest rubbed his hands together in his eagerness. “I would be most interested in seeing any papers you have.”
Dag shrugged and began to lead the way up to the tower. He had claimed the commander’s quarters as his own, of course, and in them he kept the few goods that Hronulf of Tyr had left behind. “There is not much to see,” he cautioned.
“What of treasure? Some holds, even those of religious orders, have a considerable hoard. Silver reliquaries holding the finger bone of some hero or saint, ancient weapons, an occasional artifact. Even lesser treasures, such as jewelry.”
Malchior’s voice dropped on the last observation, becoming a subtle note softer, more casual. Dag’s quick ear marked the difference and the probable reason for it. Malchior knew of the ring.
As Dag showed Malchior up to the tower chamber, he pondered what to do about the ring. Say little, he decided, in hope that Malchior would reveal more of the rings’ true purpose. So Dag waited until Malchior was seated behind Hronulf’s—no, Dag reminded himself, his—writing table. He noted the open greed in the older priest’s eyes as Dag placed a pile of lore books before him. Perhaps the rings were not the treasure that Malchior held most dear.
“You mentioned jewelry. You were speaking, of course, of the ring of Samular that Hronulf wore,” Dag said coolly. “Regrettably, it was not on Hronulf’s hand when he died. My sister arrived before me, it would appear, and made off with my inheritance. She will be found.”
The old priest looked up, his eyes shrewdly measuring his former student. “And the other rings?”
“I will find them, as well,” Dag said confidently. No need to tell Malchior that one was already in his possession. He waited until Malchior opened one of the books and began to leaf through it.
“How long will you be able to stay?” Dag asked.
“Not long,” the priest murmured in a distracted tone. “This is most interesting. Most interesting. Three or four days’ study should suffice, unless, of course, you can see your way clear to loan me these books.”
“By all means,” Dag said quickly—too quickly, judging from the shrewdly calculating look that Malchior sent him. The priest always suspected, and rightly so, that every other priest of Cyric knew more on any matter than he was willing to reveal.
At that highly inopportune moment, there came a sharp knock from the open door. Dag glanced over, and his throat clenched with apprehension as he recognized the captain of the escort he had sent for his daughter The man’s too stiff posture and the tight, grim lines of his face announced more clearly than words that the news was not good.
“Excuse me,” Dag murmured to a very interested Malchior. “Please help yourself to any of the books and papers, and wine as well, if you will.”
He hurried into the hail and shut the door behind him. “Well?” he hissed.
The captain blanched. “Lord Zoreth, there is grave news. When we arrived at the farm, the child was gone. Both the elf and his woman had been slain.”
The sound like a roaring sea rose in Dag’s ears, threatening to engulf him. He summoned all of his iron control and pushed away any response at all to this, the apparent ruin of his dreams. “And then? What did you do?”
“We followed. One man, on horse, headed swiftly toward the city of Waterdeep. We lost the trail once he took to the roads, but his destination was clear enough.” The man stood straighter still. “What would you have us do?”
Dag turned a coldly controlled gaze upon the failed soldier “I would like you to die, slowly and in terrible pain,” he said in an expressionless voice.
Surprise leaped into the man’s eyes, and an uncertainty that suggested he was unsure whether or not his commander was jesting with him. Then the first wave of pain ripped through him, tearing this notion from his mind—and tearing his lowermost ribs from his chest.