Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [110]
She tucked the log book under her arm and walked out onto the deck. Captain Orwig stalked by and she caught his arm.
“The battle was a great victory. I want to thank you for your help,” she began.
His gold-capped tusks flashed in what she hoped was a smile. “You don’t have to thank me. You have to pay me.”
“You’ll have your full fee,” she assured him, “and as a bonus, I’ll yield my right-of-hire ownership of the cargo.” She told him what the hold contained: unworked gems, bolts of wool, valuable pelts, weapons, coin, barrels of mead.
The prospect of such treasure touched the ogre’s soul. “All?”
“Except for the dwarves. You don’t want them, of course.” He snorted as if to indicate that this went without saying. “I will yield my right to the cargo in exchange for two things,” Bronwyn continued, “this book with the ship’s logs and records, and your promise that we’ll make port in Waterdeep rather than return to Skullport.”
The ogre hesitated, but temptation danced in his small red eyes. He scratched his snout and considered. “There’ll be a dock fee to pay and a tax on the booty.”
“And after paying the tax, you’ll still have far more than you expected. I’ll pay the fee. Agreed?’
Still he looked doubtful. “One dwarf is trouble enough. Eats enough for two humans. How many did we turn loose? Fifty?”
“Close enough,” she responded. “But the stores from the Grunion should serve to feed them until we get to Water-deep.”
The ogre scowled, but gave in with an ungracious shrug. “Very well, but keep that red-bearded dung heap away from me, or I won’t be responsible for his safe arrival.”
“Done,” she agreed, though she doubted she bad enough influence with Ebenezer to persuade him to leave his favorite new toy alone.
She strode to the hatch and listened. No sounds of battle emerged, but a rhythmic thudding indicated that Ebenezer was still busy with his axe.
Bronwyn clattered down into the hold. She blinked, startled by the destruction. Shards of wood were scattered about, looking like the blasted limbs of trees in the aftermath of a volcanic eruption. Ebenezer was doggedly chopping away at the far end of the wood pile.
“You got them all?” Bronwyn called.
“This one’s the last of’em,” the dwarf said. “The others all took to fighting but me, the selfish sods,” he grumbled. He nodded toward a small stack of crates. “All but that one, that is.”
Bronwyn tracked his gesture. Her gaze fell upon the small girl-child who crouched upon the stack, the dwarfs table knife clutched in her hand.
Terrible memories flooded back into Bronwyn’s mind, striking her like a sword to the heart. For a moment her ears rang with the cries of the doomed and drowning slaves, the shrill piping of the rats. She absently raised her hand and rubbed the long-healed place on her head where two of them had clawed her.
But that was long ago, Bronwyn reminded herself firmly. This was now, and another small girl required comfort. She could not slay her own demons, but perhaps she could keep them from laying claim to this tiny victim.
She swallowed hard and fixed what she hoped was a reassuring smile on her face. Slowly, as if she was approaching a spooked horse, she began to move toward the girl.
“I’m Bronwyn,” she said softly. “You’ve already met my friend Ebenezer. We came to set free the dwarves. You are safe with us. We will take you home.”
She extended her hand, the offer of her pledge. The girl studied her with large, somber brown eyes, then placed her own small hand in Bronwyn’s. The contact seemed to reassure the child, and her fingers slid up to Bronwyn’s wrist and tightened into a desperate grip.
“But I don’t know where my home is,” she said in a high, clear voice that retained just a hint of early childhood lisp.
“I’ll help you find it. Don’t you worry,” Bronwyn assured her in the same soothing voice. “What’s your name? How old are you?”
“Caradoon. I was nine last winter”.
The child looked younger than nine, perhaps because she was small and exceedingiy thin. When she raised