The archmage nodded, satisfied. “Good. Have you made any progress in your studies?”
Danilo blinked. For a moment, he thought that the canny archmage referred to the half-learned spell hidden in his drawer. Then he remembered the other matter of contention that lay between them: Bronwyn, and the secrets of her past.
“Indeed I have,” he said. He rose and crossed the room to a wall lined with books. Selecting one bound in fine red leather, he returned to the archmage’s side.
“I read all I could find concerning the Knights of Samular. Quite an impressive group, with a long history. There were a few things, though, that did not ring true, not even when I discounted a bit of bardic exaggeration and the usual way legends have of growing in the telling. The capture of Thornhold was one such incident.”
Khelben eyed him keenly. “You are not referring to the recent battle, the capture by the Zhents?”
“No, indeed. The original battle, in which the knights wrested the fortress from some petty warlord. Samular himself was involved, and apparently took personal title of the hold. Paladins were less conscientious about personal possession in those days, it would seem. And as Samular was from an exceedingly wealthy family, I suspect he was so accustomed to ownership that he considered it his right, not a violation of his vows.”
“Leave such matters for the Heralds,” the archmage said impatiently. “Continue.”
“Well, according to the best information I can find, the paladins under Samular’s command took the fortress in a single day, with a force of fewer than fifty men. Brunyundar, the warlord, had three times that many. Even taking into account the fervor and skill for which paladins are renowned, that seems an impossible feat.”
Khelben nodded, following Dan’s reasoning to the conclusion. “You believe they called upon the power commanded by the three rings of Samular.”
“It is reasonable,” Danilo said. “What that power might be, I do not know, but I think I can tell you how the third ring came to be lost.”
He lay the book open on the table before the archinage. “This is a new-made copy, not more than five years old, of a very old lore book. The original was copied several times before over the years, but the scribes and artists were among the finest of their times, and I believe the reproduction is true. Look closely at this etching.”
The archmage bent over the desk and studied the page. Danilo leaned over his shoulder and gazed at the drawing he had nearly committed to memory It was an exceptionally well drawn picture of a battle’s aftermath, rendered with an accuracy that suggested that the artist had not only been present, but had possessed some skill or enchantment that enabled him to capture the moment with a near-magical precision. In the background was a stone stronghold, two towers surrounded by a stout, curving curtain wall. The doors were open, indicating that the fortress had already been taken. The stonework was sharp of edge and unworn by time. The terrain was rough and hilly, and seabirds wheeled overhead. Here and there about the outer wall lay fallen men, arrows bristling from their chests or throats. These unfortunates wore chain mail of larger, coarser links than had been in use for centuries, and wore crude helmets of a type not seen in many years. In the picture’s foreground was a young man, his white cloak and robe deeply stained with his own blood. He lay supported in the arms of the burly knight who crouched beside him, and whose face was marked by deep grief. The two men were recognizable as brothers or at least near kin, though they were in many ways very different. The wounded man was young, slight, and small of stature. His face was narrow, his prematurely white hair dipped in the center of his forehead into a pronounced inverted peak, and his gesturing hands had long, supple fingers. He wore a single ring on the index finger of his left hand.
Danilo marked the sudden flash of recognition, quickly covered, that entered the archmage’s eyes. “Do you know him?” the bard asked.
“I did. Or thought I did. That was many years ago,” Khelben said shortly. “It is not a tale I wish to relate, so do not bother to ask.”
It was rare that the archmage was so blunt. Clearly, this old wound had healed badly.
“Note those hands,” he said, pointing to the dying wizard— for wizard he certainly was. That distinctive gesture, frozen in time by an artist who most likely did not understand what he recorded, was part of a long, difficult, and dire spell. A spell born of unquenchable pride and ambition, and a last recourse for a dying wizard who was not content to yield to death.
Khelben’s eyes widened as the implication of that gesture struck him. He shot a concerned glance over his shoulder at his nephew. “How could you know what this means? What in nine hells possessed you to learn that spell?”
“Curiosity,” Danilo assured him. “Not intent. I wished to know how such a thing might be done, but I have no wish to experience it myself.”
“Good.” Khelben expelled a long, shaky breath. “You are trouble enough as you are now.”
“But you see my point.”
“Indeed I do,” the archmage said grimly, “and I believe I know where the third ring may be found. Unfortunately, Bronwyn is the only person alive who has a chance of retrieving it.”
Ten
On the morning of their third day at sea, Bronwyn awoke to the sound of angry voices on the deck above. She groaned and rolled out of her hammock, placing her hands on the small of her back as she straightened up. As she had expected, Ebenezer’s hammock was already empty.
Bronwyn could barely stand straight without banging her head on the low ceiling beams. With four paces, she could easily cross the cabin she shared with her dwarven “partner.” Even so, they were traveling in comparative luxury. In the identical cabin across the narrow walkway that served as a hall, clearly visible through the two open doors, slept six occupants: four men and two ogresses.
One ogress snarled in her sleep, half-roused by the woman’s movements. Bronwyn grimaced and eased toward the cabin door, going one small, stealthy step at a time. The small porthole in the cabin wall showed a sky that was still more sapphire than silver, and her shipmates would not thank her for waking them so early. All six had been late to bed, scorning sleep to sit on the floor of the cabin recounting tales, playing dice, and swigging away at some syrupy, spice-laden drink. Rough though they were, these crew members shared an odd companionship born of long acquaintance and battles shared. Bronwyn almost envied them. She, a newcomer and their employer, had been excluded from this fellowship, but she had seen enough to know better than arouse their collective ire.
Bronwyn stooped at the door to pick up her boots and carried them with her as she slipped through the open door. She crept down the short hail to the ladder leading above deck and climbed it one-handed. On deck she found pretty much what she had expected to find.
Near the bow, standing nearly toe to toe with arms folded and eyes blazing, were Captain Orwig and Ebenezer Stone-shaft. The top of the dwarf’s curly red head barely reached the ogre’s belt, forcing him to tip his head way back to glare at his adversary; but Ebenezer’s angry expression conceded no disadvantage. The two of them were engaged in yet another round of verbal warfare, lobbing insults at each other with a force and fury that brought to mind flaming pitch balls and a pair of trebuchets. Bronwyn was no delicate spring flower, but she caught her breath in surprise at the sheer creativity of the dwarf’s pungent explanation of Captain Orwig’s parentage.
The small sound startled the combatants. They glanced over, and identical sheepish expressions flooded their unlike faces. The captain collected himself first, and after acknowledging Bronwyn with a curt bow, he strode aft to sound the morning rise bell.
Bronwyn’s gaze tracked him. Near the stern was mounted an old cart’s wheel that had been adapted as a steering device suitable to the ogre captain’s strength and size. Two paces to starboard was a huge brass triangle hanging from what appeared to be a miniature gibbet, upon which was a hook holding the long brass rod used to sound the alarm. But Orwig ignored the brass danger. He drew his cutlass, which he thrust into the triangle and spun in several quick, impatient circles.
An urgent clanging shattered the morning quiet and brought sailors roiling up to the deck. They came with their weapons in hand, feet still bared, sleep forgotten in the promise of coming battle. For a few moments, the crew scanned the waters for the threat, and then, when it was clear that there was nothing to be seen, they turned incredulous faces to their captain.
“Practice drill?” one of them ventured.
“Morning!” Orwig roared in response. “Layabouts, the lot of you! To your tasks, and quickly.” He spun away and scampered up the rigging, nimble as a squirrel despite his vast size.
Bronwyn sighed and sat down on a low barrel to pull on her boots. Captain Orwig seemed an able sailor, but he was still an ogre. The captain had no more love for Ebenezer than the dwarf bore him, and the exchange of insults and challenges was growing steadily hotter. Bronwyn suspected it was a matter of hours before the two of them came to blows.
The crew, too, were getting restive. She’d overheard some grumbling about their canceled shore leave, and she had marked their muttered expectations that this unplanned trip would have to pay well, and pay soon, to be worth the while.
She rose and looked about for Ebenezer. He stood with his ankles crossed and his back leaning against the mainsail mast. His current occupation was staring out to sea and puffing at a small clay pipe.
“That’s an interesting notion you shared with Orwig,” she said in a casual voice. “That particular use for lizard man eggs had never occurred to me.”
The dwarf jumped and then colored. “Wasn’t meant for your ears,” he mumbled.
Bronwyn took the pipe from his hand and sipped a bit of the fragrant smoke, then handed it back. “Orwig has a good record as a captain, and a good reputation as a smuggler— odd though that may sound. Everyone I talked to said he delivers what he promises, no tricks, no excuses. He’ll take us where we need to go, but mark me, Ebenezer, you can only push any ogre so fat”
“Itching for a fight, isn’t he?” Ebenezer said with immense satisfaction. He dragged at his pipe, then blew out a trio of smoke rings in quick, expert puffs.
As the implication of this sank in, Bronwyn gaped, then shook her head in disbelief. “You’re doing this on purpose? To work him up for the fight ahead?”
“There’s that,” Ebenezer agreed. “And it’s a bit of sport, to keep my mind off. . . .“ His voice trailed off, and he nodded at the sea.
“It’s almost over,” Bronwyn said, as much for her own assurance as the dwarf’s. “We should catch up with the slave ship today. Tomorrow at the latest.”
“Yeah? Big place, that sea. Easy to miss one small boat.” She shook her head. “Orwig bribed one of the Gatekeepers in Skullport to tell us where the slave ship was sent. We know where the Grunion emerged and have a good idea where it’s bound.”
Ebenezer shuddered at the reminder of the journey up through the magical locks linking the subterranean Skull-port with the open sea. Dwarves, it seemed, did not take kindly to magical travel. Ebenezer’s dense, compact body resisted the process. Unlike any of the other people aboard the ship, he had felt the magical passage as burning physical pain. “Like being ripped through a thick wall all at once, but in lots of little bits,” was how he had described it to Bronwyn after he’d recovered from the ordeal.
His hand shook a little as he lifted the pipe for another long drag. “Lotta water out there,” the dwarf repeated. He glared at Bronwyn, as if daring her to prove him wrong.
Bronwyn understood completely, and she chose her next words as much for her own reassurance as his. “We were set on the same place on the sea as the Grunion emerged. Now, the slavers are going to want to get where they’re going as fast as possible. This time of year, the warming air over the land causes a strong coastal wind. They’ll take full advantage of it. Much farther out to sea, the wind diminishes; much closer to shore, they’ll run the risk of shoals, rocks, and harbor patrols. The corridor is not that wide. As long as Captain Orwig follows the wind, we should pass within sight of them.”
The dwarf glanced up at the sails. There were three of them, mounted on a pair of tall oaken masts. All three were curved tight, so full of wind that not even a ripple disturbed the taut white sheets, but he still looked doubtful. “They got a jump on us.”
“True, but the Narwhal flies three sails to the Grunion’s one. This ship is built for pursuit and battle. The Grunion is a tub—an old ship, with a deep keel designed to hold a great deal of cargo, and according to the dock manifesto, it’s heavily loaded. It can’t possibly outrun us.”
He slid a sidelong glance up at her. “For a person that don’t like water, you know a lot about this sort of thing.”