Thornhold
Elaine Cunningham
Prelude
27 Tarsakh, 927 DR
Two young wizards stood on a mountaintop, staring with awe at the terrible outcome of their combined magic.
Before them lay a vast sweep of spring grasses and mountain wildflowers. Moments before, they had beheld an ancient and besieged keep. The keep was gone, as were the powerful creatures who had taken refuge within. Gone, too, were any survivors—sacrificed to the war against the demons that spilled up from the depths of nearby Ascaihorn. Gone, leaving no marks but those etched in the memories of the two men who had brought about this destruction.
They were both young men, but there the similarities ended. Renwick “Snowcloak” Caradoon was small and slight, with fine features and a pale, narrow face. He was clad entirely in white, and his flowing cloak was richly embroidered with white silk threads and lined with the snowy fur of winter ermine. His hair was prematurely white, and it dipped in the center of his forehead into a sharp widow’s peak. His bearing bespoke pride and ambition, and he regarded the result of the joint casting with satisfaction.
His companion was taller by a head, and broad through the shoulders and chest. His hair and eyes were black, and his countenance browned by the sun even so early in the year. An observer might be forgiven for thinking him a ranger or a forester, but for the unmistakable aura of magic that still lingered about him. There was a deep horror in his eyes as he contemplated what he had done.
A gaping scar on the mountain, a charred skeleton of a fortress—that would have been easier for the mage to accept than this serene oblivion. He had never heard a silence so deep, so profound, and so accusing. It seemed to him that the mountains around him, and everything that lived upon them, bore stunned and silent witness to the incredible force of magic that had swept away an ancient dwelling place and all those who lived within.
From somewhere in the budding trees below them, a single bird sent forth a tentative call. The song shattered the preternatural silence, and the awe that held the two wizards in its grip. By unspoken agreement, they turned and walked downhill. The memory of what they had done hung heavy between them.
But the mage was not content to leave the matter. He turned to his fellow wizard. The expression on Renwick’s face stopped him in mid stride. Renwick looked content, almost exhilarated. Dreams of power, immortality—Renwick had often spoken of these—were bright in his eyes.
Suddenly feeling in need of support, Renwick’s companion rested one hand on a stout oak. “The rings you used in the casting,” he demanded. “What else can they do?”
The younger wizard gave him a supercilious smile. “Why do you ask? Was this day’s work not enough for you?”
The other mage’s temper flared. He fisted both hands in the folds of Renwick’s white cloak, lifted him bodily from the ground, and slammed him against the oak tree.
“Tell me where you found those three rings, and the nature of their power!”
Renwick only smiled. “What they were meant to be, I do not know. What use I have made of them... you will not know.”
Renwick’s calm demeanor shamed his companion. There were better ways to control the situation. He released Renwick and took a step back. “You know you cannot stand against me in spell battle,” he pointed out.
“I do not intend to,” Renwick retorted smugly. “The rings, and a partial knowledge of the power they wield, are in the hands of an adversary you cannot defeat.”
This set the mage back on his heels. Even among the elves who had raised him, there were few who could match his command of magic.
“You do not ask me of whom I speak. Pride forbids it, I suppose,” Renwick observed. “I will tell you nonetheless. Samular holds the rings, as will his descendants after him.”
“The paladin?”
“Samular is not just any paladin. He is destined for legend. With my help, of course.”
The mage began to understand, could even admire the sophistry of this ploy. Paladins were noble warriors, knights dedicated to the service of their gods. They served kings, protected the weak, and upheld law and justice. Evil in any form was anathema to them; they simply could not abide it. No other single group of men were as widely admired. If the three rings were in the hands of the paladin Samular, and if he used their power for good, then the mage could hardly wrest the artifacts away without appearing to be an enemy of all things noble.
“A paladin’s way is righteous and good,” Renwick taunted softly, in echo of the other’s thoughts. “If you do not stand with him, you are against him.”
He could not deny the truth in this, but felt compelled to add another truth. “So much power cannot be easily contained,” continued the elder mage, a man who, nearly two centuries later would come to be known as Khelben Arunsun. “You will not be able to keep the rings secret forever. Some day they will fall into other hands, and be used for other purposes.”
Again the pale wizard Renwick smiled. “Then it is in your best interest to make certain that this does not occur. Once the tale begins to be told, who knows where it will end?”
One
5 Mirtul, 1368 DR
The young woman, by all appearances a pirate down on her luck, paused at the base of the hill. There was little cover so close to the sea, and the wind that sent her cape whipping about her shoulders brought memories of a winter not long past. The woman cast a quick look over her shoulder to make sure the path behind her was still clear. Assured, she swept aside the dead branches concealing the small opening to a sea cave.
A lone bat darted out of the darkness. She instinctively ducked—a quick, agile motion that sent her long braid of brown hair swinging up to drape over her shoulder. She flipped it back, then took a torch from her pack. A few deft taps of knife against flint produced sparks, then flame. Instantly the stone floor of the cave exploded into life. Rats fled squeaking in alarm, and crabs scuttled away from the sudden burst of light.
“Waterdeep, the City of Splendors,” murmured Bronwyn, her lips curved with affectionate irony. Since taking up residence in the city four years ago, she had spent more time doing business in places like this than she did in her posh shop on the Street of Silver.
There was little splendor in the hills south of the great port city. The tang of the sea hung heavy in the still air, along with the smell of dead fish and the even less pleasant odor of the nearby Rat Hills, a length of shore that served as repository for the city’s garbage. She ducked into the small opening and stood, taking stock of her surroundings. The cave was cold and water was everywhere, dotting the cave floor in dank puddles, drizzling down through the moss and lichen that festooned the walls, and dripping like drool from the fang-shaped rocks hanging down from the ceiling. There would be even more water when the tide came in.
That thought quickened Bronwyn’s step down a steep, uneven path. As she went, she trailed one hand along the damp wall for balance and kept a wary eye on the shadows beyond the circle of her torch’s light. Bats, rats and crabs represented the cream of cave society. She fully expected to encounter worse.
She carefully skirted a broad pool that nearly spanned the stone ledge. Bronwyn hated water, which lent a touch of irony to her seafaring guise.
She lifted her hand to her head to ensure that her rakish scarlet kerchief was still in place and that the cheap bronze hoops evocative of Nelanther pirates were still secured to her ears. This was the Smugglers’ Caves, and as the old saying went, “When in the Coldwood, shiver.” Her years of slavery had taught her that survival meant adapting.