A second boom followed quickly as Ebenezer brought the hammer down on the ore’s hand. The elf lad, no fool, snatched up the dropped sword and did what he had to do.
The dwarf noted the lad’s stricken eyes and remembered back a century and more to when he stood in the same boots. “Hang onto that sword,” he advised kindly. “It don’t never get much easier, but it generally won’t be any worse.”
And then he was off, looking for someone else in need of a chance to fight.
* * * * *
Algorind was awakened from a deep sleep by the sounds of battle and the flicker of fire against the sky. He shook Corwin awake and they quickly mounted and set off at a gallop to give aid.
They had not far to go. Even though the paladins from Summit Hall did not patrol this area, Algorind knew of the village from a map in the monastery library. The villagers were mostly elves and half-elves, but peaceable folk.
The reason for the disturbance became clear as they drew closer. Mingled with the crackle and hiss of the fire and the screams of the wounded was the guttural, roaring battle cries of an ore band. Algorind’s jaw firmed with resolve.
But Corwin hung back, naked horror on his face. “This is our doing! The ores tracked us. We led them here.”
“This is a village, and they are ore raiders,” Algorind argued. “Come!”
But Corwin caught his arm. “Don’t you see? We killed their children when we truly did not have to. This is vengeance, but these people were in our path and are paying the price.”
“If that is so, justice belongs to Tyr,” said Algorind. “Stay or come, as you will. This is no time for words.”
He reined Icewind toward the village and leaned low over the horse’s neck as they sped toward battle. Behind him he heard the sound of the black horse’s hoof beats and was glad that Corwin had found his way back to duty.
Some of the ores were escaping. The paladins beat them back, cutting them down when they could or pressing them back toward the blades of the grimly determined villagers.
The work was Tyr’s, and Algorind served with all his strength and conviction. Yet even as he fought, his eyes scanned the hellish melee for some glimpse of a small, brown-haired woman and the child she had unrightfully claimed.
* * * * *
Upstairs in the cottage, Bronwyn waited by the door, a wooden chair held high overhead. She counted the steps as heavy feet thundered up the stairs.
“Do you have your gem ready?” she asked Cara.
The girl nodded, but her words were swallowed in the shattering crash. The door buckled and splintered, but held. It gave way entirely with the second assault, and a large, gray-skinned ore came stumbling into the room.
Bronwyn smashed down with the chair, hitting the ore before he could regain his balance. He went down hard, but he quickly brought up his arms and pressed his palms against the floor as he prepared to push himself back up. Bronwyn reacted, attacking with the weapon at hand—a leg of the chair that had splintered at one end into a jagged point. She drove the stake home like a crazed vampire hunter and stomped on it for good measure.
Another ore thundered into the room. Bronwyn pulled her knife and deflected a sword slash. For several moments they exchanged ringing blows, moving about the room in a shifting pattern of advance and retreat. She was beginning to think she might be able to take the match when the sound of more footsteps in the hall below dashed her chances.
She heard the scrape of a small wooden chest across the floor, and instantly knew what Cara had in mind. The blanket chest would hit the ore at just the right spot, if only she could maneuver him into position.
Bronwyn went into furious attack, slashing and jabbing at the ore and forcing him into a defensive stance. Slowly she beat him back across the room. He stumbled over the chest and went down heavily. Bronwyn leaped, knife leading, and threw her weight against his suddenly unprotected chest.
She rolled aside, wrenching her knife free. Two ores roiled into the room. Bronwyn flipped her knife and caught it by the tip. In the same motion, she hurled it at the first ore. But the knife was slippery with blood, and her aim faltered. She went for the throat. The knife went considerably lower.
The ore roared and stumbled, doubling over as if he’d been gut-punched by a giant. Bronwyn snatched up the dead ore’s sword and leaped up, swinging out wildly. The blade sliced across the chest of the ore just entering the room and he slumped over his doubled-up comrade. They both fell. Bronwyn finished first one, then the other with quick, decisive strokes.
She straightened up, breathing hard, and looked to the far side of the room for Cara. The child had flattened herself against the wall. Her face was white and her eyes huge. It made Bronwyn heartsick that the child had seen all that.
“You should have gone,” she panted.
“I moved the chest,” Cara reminded her in a small, pale voice.
Bronwyn smiled faintly. “You did well, but you aren’t safe here.”
The child’s eyes darkened, and suddenly they looked far too old for her tiny face. “I really don’t think,” she said softly, “that I’m safe anywhere.”
* * * * *
Back in Thonhold, Dag Zoreth paused before the altar and studied the purple flame that leaped and danced in an ever-changing sunburst, and the enormous black skull that leered out from the fire. It was a symbol of his god, proof of Cyric’s favor. Such a thing would bring him great honor, and inspire men to consider him with fear. It was more than he had hoped for.
But it was not enough.
Dag carefully knelt before the altar, lowering a round, low bowl to the floor. The bowl was brass and so finely crafted that not a single ripple or flaw marred its surface. A perfect receptacle for power, it would seize mystical force and throw it back, much as mountains playfully turned a shout into an echo. Filled with water, the bowl became a scrying pool of enormous power.
Filled with blood, it begged the level of dark power that only an evil god might grant.
Dag braced his hands on either side of the bowl and stared intently into the dark pool. He began to chant, an arrogant prayer that importuned a god for power, and scorned the price that would surely come due. He would pay it in time, and consider it worthwhile—as long as he found Cara.
He formed an image of the girl in his mind and reached out to her through the dark thread of the chant.
The words of the prayer enveloped him, gathering in power. Magic rose like incense toward the purple flame, carrying with it a heady scent of night-blooming flower, musk, and brimstone.
That scent prodded at his memory. Through the ritual-induced haze, Dag felt the first sharp tugs of alarm. His chanting faltered, then broke off altogether as blood began to rise from the bowl.
The blood rose swirling into the air, taking on the shape of a slender, furious elven woman. The image of Ashemmi floated before him, clad in a gown a shade deeper than her usual crimson.
It occurred to Dag suddenly that he was still on his knees. Quickly he rose to his feet and stared down the apparition. “You take a fearful chance, interrupting a ritual to Cyric,” he warned her.
“I felt the magic and followed it!” the image of Ashemmi snapped. “Do not think for a moment that I cannot find you, and that I wifi not!”
A shimmer of dread rippled through Dag as he wondered if the elf had also found Cara. But no, she would have said so if she had. There was no tie binding her and her child, and her seeking magic did not know the paths that belonged to Cara alone. But Dag she knew to the depths of his black heart, as he knew her.