* * * * *
On a hilltop not far away, Dag Zoreth stood on the watch-tower of a conquered outpost, his eyes fixed on the fortress. All was in readiness. His minions bad done well. Even Sir Gareth had delivered above expectations. According to Dag’s scouts, a young woman had entered the fortress several hours ago. His reunion with his lost family promised to be more complex and fulfilling than he’d dared to hope.
And it would happen soon. By now, his advance soldiers should have made their way up the unprotected midden chutes. They were handpicked men, among them some of the most skilled and silent assassins known to the Thentarim, and the best archers. It was their task to quietly slip into the fortress. Three assassins would work their way up to the winch room, a small upper-floor chamber where the machinery that lifted the portcullis was housed. The others would take out the men who walked the walls and watched from the high turrets, and work their way to the gate.
Dag was suddenly distracted by the sensation of cold fire that stabbed at his left side—painful, yet not entirely unpleasant. He slipped his hand into the leather bag that hung at his belt and removed from it the source of his discomfort, a small globe like the one he had given Sir Gareth.
The face in it was dusky gray, vaguely elven in appearance, and seamed with scars earned over long decades of service to evil. The haif-drow assassin gave a single, curt nod.
Dag smiled and slipped the globe back into his bag.
“They have secured the winch room and are ready to raise the portcullis,” he said to his captain, a bald, black-bearded man who was more than a head taller than flag and nearly twice his breadth. What Captain Yemid lacked in strategic innovation, he made up in sheer brute force and the corresponding ability to pass along orders and make them stick. “Sound the charge,” Dag commanded.
Yemid thrust a ham-sized fist into the air. Instantly one of the men lifted a curved horn to his lips and winded the signal for attack. A score of heavy cavalry thundered toward the fortress, huge war-horses, barded with plate armor and bearing fully armored warriors. Behind them came the next wave, another twenty mounted soldiers who would chase down and slay any who managed to escape. Finally came the infantry, fifty men, well armed and well trained, fortified with the battle frenzy that came in the wake of flag Zoreth’s Cyric-granted spells.
It was not a large force, but it would more than suffice. Thirteen men were already in the fortress, killers as silent and deadly as ferrets hunting aging roosters and nesting doves. Dag only hoped there would be enough killing for his men to sate their bboodlust; if not, some of them were likely to turn on each other, seizing the opportunities of battle confusion to settle some old insult or petty rivalry. It was not an uncommon occurrence among the Zhentarim.
A senseless waste, Dag mused as he kicked his horse into a run. It was better to hoard anger like treasure, building and nurturing it until it became a weapon, one that could be unleashed to good effect.
Nearby, one of the soldiers fell from his horse, an arrow protruding from his chest. Good. There was still some fight in the paladins. To minimize his own risk, Dag leaned low over his horse’s neck as the steed galloped past the infantry. He kept his eyes fixed on the great wooden door in the fortress wall.
The portcullis rose in a series of quick, sharps jerks as the assassins winched it up. The knights of Darkhold swept toward the wooden door, long spears leveled before them.
Four of them struck the gate at nearly the same instant. The two halves of the wooden door burst inward, a gratifying testament to the invaders’ success in throwing the bars. Zhentarim fighters poured into the breached wall. Dag spurred his horse on viciously, determined to enter the fortress before the fighting was done.
* * * * *
In Hronulf’s tower chamber, Bronwyn was the first to hear the alarm. She poised, her hand on the door, and then spun back to face her father. “That horn. I know that signal,” she said grimly.
Hronulf nodded and strode for the door. “Zhentarim. You stay here-I must go to the walls.”
Bronwyn seized his arm, all thoughts of anger forgotten. “It’s too late for that. Listen.”
The faint sound of battle seeped through the thick stone and stout oak. Hronulf’s eyes widened. “They are inside the fortress!”
She nodded. Her mind raced as she tried and discarded possible plans. “Is there a back way out of here?”
The paladin smiled grimly and drew his sword. “Not for me. Thornhold is my command. I will defend it or die.”
Before Bronwyn could respond, the first crashing assault struck the chamber door. The oak panels buckled, and even the iron bands that bound them bulged inward.
Hronulf thrust his sword back into its sheath and took a richly carved band of gold from his hand. He seized Bronwyn’s left hand and slipped the ring onto her index finger. Though it had fit the paladin’s large hand just a moment before, it slid into place on her slim finger and stayed there, comfortably snug.
“Listen well,” he said, “for the door will not hold much longer. This ring is a family heirloom of great power. It cannot fall into the hands of the Zhentarim. You must protect it at all cost.”
“But—”
“There is no time to explain,” he said, taking her shoulders and pushing her firmly toward the wall. He reached around her and pressed hard on one of the tightly fitted stones. A passage opened in the seemingly solid wall, a rounded, dark hole just above the floor. He gestured to the opening. “You must go,” he insisted.
Bronwyn wrenched herself away from him and dived for the pair of crossed swords displayed on the wall. She tugged one free and brandished it at the buckling, cracking door.
“I just found you,” she said from between clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving.”
The paladin’s smile was both sad and proud. “You are truly my daughter,” he said. For a moment their eyes met, and it seemed to Bronwyn that he was actually seeing her—her, not a reflection of her long-dead mother or a conduit for the bloodline of Samular—for the first time. “Bronwyn, my daughter,” he repeated with a touch of wonderment. “Because of who you are, you will do as you must. As will I.”
With that, he knocked the sword from her hand and seized her by the back of her jacket. Spinning her around, he grabbed her belt with his other hand and lifted her from the ground. As if he were a half-orc bouncer and she a rowdy patron at a tavern, he hauled her back for the traditional Dock Ward Drunk Toss. She hit the smooth stone floor, skidded on her stomach, and disappeared head first into the tunnel.
Beyond the hole was a steep, smooth incline. Down she slid, the wind whistling in her ears as she picked up speed. But even so, she heard the solid thump of the stone wall’s closure, the terrible splintering of the wooden door, and a deep, ringing voice singing out to Tyr as the paladin began his final battle.
* * * * *
Dag Zoreth swept through the door into the bailey and leaped from his horse. Darting a look around, he saw that most of the fighting was over. Many of the fortress servants had been slain. Their bodies were lying limp and sodden in heaps, like so many beheaded chickens ready for plucking. Soldiers were rounding up the survivors and forcing them to their knees in a single precise row. A pair of priests worked their way down the line, casting the spells needed to discern character and allegiance.
This was an unusual precaution—usually castle servants were considered plunder, regarded as simple fools eager to save their skins and their livelihoods by serving whatever lord controlled the fortress, flag knew that his priests considered the testing process a nuisance and a waste, but he thought otherwise. The influence of a paladin was insidious. On his orders, any man who displayed too strong or steadfast an alliance with the forces of righteousness was to be slain.