“Speak freely, or die swiftly,” the paladin said. “It is your choice.”
“Easy enough, put that way,” the soldier muttered. “What do you want to know?”
“You are of Darkhold, and you are far from your fortress. Do you hold another stronghold nearby?”
The man’s quick, wicked grin reminded Algorind of a buzzard preparing to feed. “As of last night, that we do.”
Algorind’s heart seemed to turn to stone. “Thornhold. You have taken it.”
“Made a nice piece of work of it, too.”
Algorind nodded and knew at once that he would not be able fulfill his charge and carry a message to Hronulf. He himself would gladly fight to the death to protect a stronghold of the order from Zhentisb capture. He did not know of a paladin who would not. Even so, he had to ask. “And the paladins who held it. . . are they all dead?”
“To a man. I saw ‘em burn.”
The black smoke, Algorind realized. His wrath kindled, prompting him to slay this evil man who recounted the destruction of goodly men with such unconcern.
But Algorind had given his word. He could not break it, nor had he learned all that he must. Since he studied the lore of the order with scholarly devotion, he knew that HronulfofTyr wore a great artifact, one of the Rings of Samular It was Algorind’s duty to learn what had become of it.
“You answer plainly. For that, I thank you. Tell me one thing more. What became of the paladins’ possessions?”
The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “The usual. Weapons and valuables went to the commander. His captains sorted through them and passed them out as booty.”
“The paladin commander, known as Hronulf of Tyr, wore a gold ring. Do you know who now holds it?”
“That damn ring,” echoed the soldier in a resigned voice. “Bane’s balls, but I’m tired of hearing about the thing! The commander had us search the whole damn fortress for it more times than I know how to count. As far as we can figure, the old knight gave the ring to a pretty young wench who escaped. No one knows how she escaped or where she went. My patrol was one of several out looking for her. That is the truth, and it’s all I know.”
Algorind studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I believe you,” he said. “You may go.”
The soldier stared at him for a moment. “Just like that?” he said in disbelief.
“You fulfilled your part. You may go.”
The man laughed-a bitter, mocking sound. “It sounds easy, the way you put it. Do you know what Dag Zoreth will do to me when he finds out that I lost my patrol to a single man? When he learns what I’ve told you? And he will learn. He has ways of finding out things that I don’t even want to know about. If I go back to the fortress, I’m a dead man.”
Algormd was thoroughly confused. “Then why did you speak?”
“You offered me a quick death. I figured that was the best bargain I could make.”
This appalled the young paladin. It was a terrible thing that a man must fear his superiors as this one did. He studied the Zhent for a long moment, silently calling on Tyr to help him judge the true measure of this man. What he found surprised him greatly and made the task of disposing of the soldier all the more perplexing.
And what of his own quest? The capture of Thornhold and the death of Hronulf put an end to it. Yet what of the ring and the woman? This matter was grave indeed and required the wisdom of an elder paladin. Perhaps Sir Gareth was still at the Halls of Justice. And if not, what better place for Algorind to start his search for the mysterious “pretty wench” than in that decadent city?
“We are both at something of a loss,” Algorind said. “I made a bargain with you, not expecting it could go awry in this manner. As for myself; I think it best to travel south to Waterdeep. You might come along, if you desire. Surely, in so large a place, you could lose yourself and find a new, better life.”
The soldier dragged himself up on his elbows, staring incredulously up at the young paladin. “What are you offering? A conspiracy?”
“Companionship on the way south,” Algorind corrected, “and my word of honor that I find little true evil in you. I can also offer you, in the name of Tyr, the gift of redemption. Accept, abandon the path you have chosen, and when your time comes you need not die with such horror in your eyes as I saw this day. But be warned,” he cautioned the wary man. “Tyr is the god of justice, and it may well be that your life among the Zhentarim has left deeds that require restitution. Tyr’s redemption does not come without a price.”
“What does?” grumbled the soldier, but he took the hand that Algorind offered him and let the young paladin help him to his feet. In this soldier’s eyes, Algorind read the flickering rebirth of the gifts that Tyr could bestow: hope, honor, and the grim yet comforting belief in stem justice.
“I can travel with you as far as Waterdeep,” the soldier said.
* * * * *
Bronwyn ran with the dwarf until she was certain her sides would split. When she was sure she couldn’t go another step, the dwarf veered off the river path into an utterly black tunnel. She stumbled along behind, aware oily that they turned several times. Finally her guide came to a stop.
For many moments she stood, her hands on her knees, and struggled to regain her breath. The dwarf sounded in about the same condition, only louder. Air rasped in and out of the stout fellow with a force and volume that suggested a forge bellows at work.
“How’d you get in that shaft, anyhow?” he demanded when he’d gathered enough breath for speech.
“Believe me, it wasn’t my idea.” Bronwyn sank down to sit on the cold stone floor of the tunnel. “There was a battle. Zhents got into the fortress—through the mIdden, by the smell of them. When it was clear that the fortress would be taken, one of the paladins dropped me down that hole.”
She did not say who or what the paladin had been too her. Her loss was too new, too raw, to bear the burden of words.
“Hmmph.” The dwarf considered this. “Well now, that fits into the picture. Zhents mean trouble, plain and simple. A few dwarves in my clan used to trade with them. Don’t do it, I told them. Never pays, I said. Well, it paid, all right.”
The bitter grief in the dwarf’s voice smote Bronwyn’s heart. She began to put together the pieces. Most fortresses had escape tunnels, but these were secret and closely guarded. Even the midden, a necessity of any settlement, was always warded from possible intruders. The presence of a dwarf clan would provide a powerful shield for these escape routes. The angry mixture of shock and sorrow in the dwarf’s voice suggested why the midden shoots were suddenly accessible.
“The shaft led into your tunnels?” she asked gently.
“That’s right. Not many knew of the slide, even among the dwarves. Only the head human was supposed to know of it. Guess you happened to be in the right place at the right time.”
The heavy irony in his voice did not escape her, nor did the ragged sound of terrible grief. For several moments Bronwyn and her unseen companion sat in silence. Nothing she could say to him would ease his pain. She knew, for she could think of no words of consolation that would make any difference to her own loss.
A small, strong hand gripped her wrist. “Come on,” he said gruffly. “We’d best get out of this place.”
They walked in silence for perhaps an hour before Bronwyn began to notice shapes and shadows emerging from the darkness. “There’s an opening ahead?”
“That’s right. Oh, damnation!”
Bronwyn stopped, startled by the dwarf’s sharp tone. “What is it?”
“I’m-a gonna have to put a blinder on you. No human knows this opening. Best I keep it that way.”
That struck Bronwyn as a sad variation of locking the barn door after the horse was stolen, but she wasn’t about to point that out to the grieving dwarf “1 understand. Rip a strip of cloth off the bottom of my cloak if you want.”