What was a lost horse, in comparison to that?
Even so, the memory of the ungrateful, treacherous dwarf rankled. Algorind had to admit that he knew little of the world, but surely this could not be common behavior. He had always heard dwarves spoken of as gruff but honorable. Why did the little red-bearded fellow accost him and steal his horse? It was poor payment, after Tyr had been gracious enough to save his life.
Algorind was also concerned about the delay. On foot, it would take him nearly a day longer to reach the fortress. Losing his horse was a serious matter, for he would not be given another by the order. He would have to earn his next steed, which would add another task to his quest and greatly delay his investiture as a Knight of Samular. Ah, well, he conceded with a sigh, patience was among the knightly virtues.
But there was still more. Sir Gareth’s cryptic parting words continued to trouble him. The old knight had importuned Algorind to stay with Hronulf and watch his back. What prompted this sudden concern? A paladin’s life was fraught with danger, that was true enough, but was there some specific, expected threat to the famous knight?
Another thought hit Algorind. Hronulf was getting along in years. Perhaps his health was failing. Perhaps Sir Gareth feared that the news Algorind brought would throw Hronulf into decline. As joyful as word of a new-found granddaughter might be, there was no discounting the terrible shock of learning that his lost son was alive, but an enemy. Better a dead son than a living priest of Cyric.
Many and troubling were the puzzles before him, but as Algorind walked, the beauty of the spring day beguiled him and lightened his heart. The High Road was broad and even underfoot and often shaded by tall oak trees and majestic pines. Berries, small as his thumbnail and red and sweet and bursting with juice, grew in profusion along the roadside. The birds sang with the sweet urgency of springtime as they sought mates and built nests to cradle their coming young.
It was all new and delightful to him. Algorind had not been so far from Summit Hall since the day he had been entrusted to the order, but for all that, he knew precisely where he must go.
This he knew because he had committed to memory all the maps in the monastery library—most of which he had brought with him as part of his apprentice fee. Algorind’s father and older brothers had had little use for such things, preferring the glittering life of Cormyr’s capital city to anything so dusty and unpleasant as travel. But Algorind had loved maps for as long as he could remember. Even as a small child, he had coaxed the use of them from every traveler and merchant who passed through his father’s doors, committing each line and dot and squiggle to memory. He knew where the mountain passes lay, where the rivers sang swift and treacherous songs, what hills were likely to contain lairs of orcs or goblins or worse. In Algorind’s opinion, all knowledge was useful, but this was information he would most assuredly need if he was to travel the world in Tyr’s service.
This was the first time he had had the opportunity to compare the reality of the wide world with the careful image he had crafted in his mind. For the most part, the two matched with admirable consistency. There ahead was the low stone building built by followers of Tyr as a travelers’ rest. Here the path ahead veered away from the sea to run through some low, rock-strewn hills. The terrain was rougher there, and the trees gave way to small, determined shrubs. Some might find the stretch of land bleak and forbidding, but Algorind was as delighted as a child to see his maps come alive.
Suddenly he caught sight of something that no map could prepare him to face. To the north of him a cloud of thick, oily black smoke rose into the sky.
The sound of rough voices seized his attention and drew his gaze to the hills east of the Trade Way. Next he heard the sound of horses’ hooves against the stony path and a foul curse from one of the riders. Clearly, this was no patrol from Thornhold.
Or was it? The rising smoke and the portent of Sir Gareth’s words of concern gave birth to a terrible suspicion. If trouble had come to Thornhold, Algorind must know of it.
He thought quickly. The horsemen undoubtedly followed a path through those hills. Algorind had once seen it marked, on an extremely detailed map shown him by an elven sage. The path was treacherous and narrow, and at one point it followed the wall of a steep cliff; with nothing but a deep ravine on the other side.
Algorind took off at a run, circling around and bending low as he hurried through the low-growing scrub pine. He listened carefully to the sound of the coarse men’s speech, judging their progress and quickening his pace to match it.
He found the pass and scrambled up a rocky incline that overlooked the path and the ravine beyond. He crouched down behind some rocks to watch and wait, and then sank lower as the men came into view.
There were four of them, and they wore on their black over-tunics the twisted rune that was the emblem of Darkhold. Zhentish soldiers, certainly. That made Algorind feel a bit better about what he was about to do. Laying ambush was hardly a noble task for a paladin, but these men were clearly evil, and great odds required greater valor. This took some of the sting from the needed act.
When the men were almost past his position, Algorind leaped at the one who rode rearguard. He seized the man on his way down and carried him from the horse. They fell together. Algormd delivered two quick, jabbing punches to the Zhent’s throat and temple. The Zhent instantly went limp. Algorind swung himself up onto the startled horse and drew his sword.
The remaining soldiers had noted their comrade’s fate. They wheeled their horses around and drew their weapons. Urging their mounts on with vicious kicks, they came at the paladin in full fury
Fortunately for Algorind, the path was too narrow for two to ride abreast. The first attacker thundered toward him, sword held high. Algorind caught the blade with his, tugged the reins of his borrowed mount to the left, and gave the joined swords a deft twist. Jousting was an art much practiced at Summit Hall, and Algorind unhorsed his opponent with ease. The Zhent hit the ground hard, landing just off the path. He rolled down the punishing, stone-studded ravine. His curses swiftly rose into howls of pain, then faded away.
While their comrade was still rolling down the ravine, the two remaining men came on. The foremost had a wicked spear, which he held couched like a lance under one arm. Algorind waited until the man was nearly upon him, then leaped from the saddle toward the onrushing blade, slashing down with his sword as he went.
His blade caught the spear shaft, and his weight forced the point of the spear down. It struck the ground and dug in hard. Algorind rolled aside beyond the reach of the horse’s thundering hooves. He heard the man’s rising wail as the bent spear lifted him from his mount and hurled him into the air.
Before the heavy thud announced the man’s impact onto solid rock, Algorind was already back on his feet, sword ready. He leaped directly into the path of the last rider. The startled horse reared up, dumping its rider onto the path. Before the fallen soldier could collect himself; Algorind was there, one foot pinning the man’s sword arm down, and the tip of his blade at the man’s throat.
The Zhent’s eyes expected death and feared it greatly. Such it must be, Algorind thought with sudden pity if all that awaited a man was the dubious mercy of Cyric or the other dire gods that the Zhentarim favored, or—most terrible of all—the numbing emptiness of no faith at all.
“Only answer my question, and you may go free and unharmed,” Algorind vowed.
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if I don’t talk?”