Dag stiffened. “I did not mention Hronulf’s fate.”
“You did not have to. I trained you well, and we both know that only fools leave the destruction of an enemy to even a trusted underling. The important thing now is that Hronulf’s power will be yours. When you discover what that is, and how to use it, then I trust that your gain wili also be mine.”
“You are a trusting man,” Dag said with heavy. “I suppose that is why you also seek my sister. You are, perhaps, placing bets on more than one horse?”
Malchior laughed heartily, slapping one fleshy thigh with his hand. “Alas, betting upon racing horses is one vice I have not yet had occasion to develop. But you are astute. I would like to have this woman under the influence of the Zhentarim. Yours, mine—it makes no real difference. Are we not like father and son?”
An interesting comparison, Dag thought wryly, considering the history of betrayals that lay between him and his blood father. But Dag carefully considered the older priest’s words, reading between and behind them for the true meaning. Perhaps his first conclusion was off the mark. Perhaps Malchior did not need him or Bronwyn. Perhaps he needed them both.
The family rings. There were two of them, that he knew of. One was on his daughter’s hand, the other most likely in his sister’s possession. But the inscription on the ring he found in his ruined village indicated that there were three and that when they came together, “evil would tremble.”
The third ring, then. Three rings, in the hands of three of Samular’s descendants. That had to be what Malchior wanted.
Dag’s jaw clenched, and again he turned his eyes to the road ahead. No, he certainly could not rely on the Zhentarim to help him find what he had lost. Sir Gareth, for all his limitations, was Dag’s best recourse. Two days’ travel, and then he would confront his paladin “ally” face to face. There was grave danger in this, of course. If the paladins under Sir Gareth’s command recognized the ring on the little girl’s hand, Dag might be hard pressed to get her back.
“And your sister? Have your men found any sign of her yet?”
Dag lifted a hand to his lips to hide his knowing smile. Yes, Malchior seemed very interested in finding Bronwyn. “As of this morning, no. But, sooner or later, she will return to her place of business in the city, and I shall find her there. There is no real harm in the delay. I shall have my little family reunion in due time.”
He turned a bland expression toward his former mentor, carefully studying his reaction to these words.
But the priest’s face gave away nothing. “I’m sure you are right. Now, on to more practical matters. We have been on the road for hours. Surely we should break for the midday meal.”
Dag glanced toward the east. The sun was barely visible over the tall cedars. Highsun was at least two hours away. He suppressed a sigh and gestured for his quartermaster’s attention.
The trip to Waterdeep, it seemed, would take considerably longer than Dag had anticipated.
* * * * *
Ebenezer Stoneshaft had never been so thoroughly and completely miserable in his nearly two centuries of life. He slumped on the deck of the ship, his back against a barrel and his eyes fixed with determination on the sky—rather than on the heaving waves beneath.
Every jolt and roll of the ship sent shivers of atavistic terror through him. How humans and elves put up with sea travel, he would never know. The feeling was too much like that of the first shivers of an earthquake, that unpredictable and devastating force that was every dwarf’s deepest fear. Being on a ship was a constant, terror-filled waiting for the damn quake to start.
The rolling motion, and the unrelieved state of expectant dread, kept the dwarf’s belly in turmoil. Ever since they’d left that cesspool of a port in this floating excuse for a coffin, Ebenezer hadn’t been able to keep much down.
Not that he’d stopped trying. When Bronwyn found him, he was doggedly spooning up salty chowder.
She crouched beside him. “The ship’s food is terrible,” she commiserated.
“Aye,” he agreed sourly, regarding the small bowl is his hands. “And the portions are pretty damn skimpy.”
For some reason she found this amusing, but she sobered quickly as she sat down beside him. “We’re making good progress. Captain Orwig was able to bribe the Gate Keepers in Skullport and learn where they sent the ship we’re seeking.
Ebenezer nodded. He remembered all too well the trip up from the subterranean port through a series of magical locks. “How much longer, do you figure?”
“This caravel is fast and light. The ship we’re chasing is single-masted, with a deep hold for cargo. It was fully loaded. According to the captain, if we keep to the course the Keepers gave us, we should outrun it soon. If not today, then surely tomorrow.”
“Good,” the dwarf said stoutly. He wiped the bowl clean with a bit of hard biscuit, which he popped into his mouth. “Like the old saying goes: Nothing settles the stomach like the scent of an enemy’s blood.”
“I missed that one,” Bronwyn murmured. “Must be strictly a dwarven proverb.”
It seemed to Ebenezer that she sounded a mite peaked. He looked keenly at her. “You’re looking green around the gills, yourself. Sea travel don’t agree with you, I take it.”
“No.”
Her grim, curt answer hinted at a tale. A tale, Ebenezer suspected, that might do her some good to tell. “So, this wouldn’t be your first voyage, then?”
“Second.” She glanced at the dwarf, her expression forbidding. Clearly, she didn’t want to take this particular tunnel.
But Ebenezer was not easily put off. He nodded expectantly, inviting the tale. When that yielded no result, he leaned forward slightly and pointedly raised his eyebrows.
With a sigh, Bronwyn capitulated. “I was taken south on a ship after the raid on my village. I was, maybe, three or four at the time.”
“Stones,” he muttered. The thought of a child, any child, being submitted to the terror of a sea voyage set Ebenezer’s blood simmering with rage. Which, in his opinion, was a big improvement over a churning belly. Danged if he shouldn’t a-got riled up early on in this voyage, and stayed that way. “Hard thing, especially on a kid that age,” he said darkly.
“It was.” She fell silent for a moment. “I never actually saw the sea.”
Ebenezer’s gaze dipped down to the endless silvery waves. He gulped and yanked his attention back up to the billowing clouds that dotted the sky. “No loss there.”
“There’s bad, and there’s worse,” Bronwyn pointed out. “At least this trip, I have a choice. On my first voyage I was kept in the hold, along with maybe a dozen or so other prisoners.”
Imprisonment. The dwarf didn’t quite manage to suppress a shudder. “That’s worse,” he admitted.
They sat in silence for a few moments. Ebenezer caught Bronwyn looking in the direction of his belt, and tracked her gaze down to his “wine skin.” He had replaced it in Skull-port. The Burning Troll, whatever its other shortcomings as a tavern might be, kept dwarven spirits in stock. He untied the string that held the skin to his belt and handed it to Bronwyn. She uncorked it and took a long, fortifying swig. To Ebenezer’s surprise, she swallowed the strong spirits— known among dwarves as “molten mithral”—without a cough or a sputter. He didn’t know a human who could do that, leastwise, not without practice. Maybe, he mused, she had had more than a little experience with dwarves and their ways. Later he’d probably be tempted to ponder on that a mite.
Bronwyn corked the skin and handed it back with a nod of thanks. “For some reason, I was the only prisoner not chained. They treated me well enough, I suppose. I had enough food, a blanket, and a corner of my own to sleep in, and even a couple of toys. The others were destined for slavery—they spoke of it, wept over it. I don’t think I was. Not at first.”