Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [118]
She seized his arm and pointed. The road had widened up into a broad, cobblestone courtyard. At the far end was the enormous, elaborate palace built for the first lord of the city, and behind that swept the majestic summit of Mount Waterdeep. But somewhat closer was the sight peculiar enough to stop Tarlamera in mid-complaint, a tall, slender tower before which stood a skeleton, arms raised high and feet not quite touching the ground.
“Don’t be going too close to that tower,” Ebenezer said casually. “Alghairon’s Tower, it’s called. Been empty for a long time. Seems it used to belong to some big-axe wizard, long since gone to his ancestors. It’s a monument now. The folks hereabouts let it alone mostly, except for the fellow you see there.”
“Good warding sign,” one of the dwarves behind them offered. That sent a weak chuckle rippling through the group.
The company got some strange looks as they marched in formation through the courtyard. Ebenezer didn’t suppose they looked like much of a threat, as scrawny as they were, and not more than three weapons among the lot of them, but still he raised his hand in a conciliatory salute whenever a curious member of the guard looked their way.
They veered east onto Waterdeep Way, toward the massive castle that was the heart and strength of the city. Ebenezer had always admired that castle. “Lookit that,” he said grandly, pointing up at the far towers. “Four hundred feet high, that is.”
Tarlamera sniffed. Dwarves, as a rule, weren’t terribly impressed with up. They were more interested in through.
“Got walls some sixty feet thick,” he added.
“That’s a wall,” she admitted, impressed at last.
Ebenezer pointed ahead. “See that sign what’s a-hanging from that lantern pole? Marks the Way of the Dragon. Big street. Goes down to the Trade Ward and the man we gotta see.”
“I seen a man already,” the dwarf maid grumbled. “Seen hundreds of ‘em so far today.”
“This one’s a smith. They say his pieces are as good as any human can make. Better than some dwarves.”
She scoffed. “I’m not buying that at the asking price. How can you get a good forge going without the tunnels to pull a powerful updraft?”
Ebenezer pointed up toward the blue dome of the sky. “Got lots a wind.”
“Yeah.” She scowled and plucked at her ruined clothes. “And I’m feeling every breath of it in these rags. Back at the clanhold, I got me a new linen kirtle and a leather apron.”
A bleak, wistful note crept into her voice. Though her eyes kept steadily fixed ahead, Ebenezer could read the pain in them. The kirtle and apron were part of every dwarf maid’s wedding chest. By all that was right, she should be home scrapping happily with her new-made husband. But Frodwinner was dead, as were their four brothers and their sister, their mother, their da. They hadn’t spoken of their slain kin, not once since the day Ebenezer had chopped her loose from the slave ship.
“Frodwinner fought well,” Tarlamera said. A struggling smile rippled across her face, as if she were trying to accept that this was enough. “I saw that much before they dropped me. How many did he take?”
“Fifteen,” Ebenezer said promptly, upping the number without a qualm.
“Good,” she said. “That’s good.”
They walked in silence for a while. “I made them a cairn,” he said softly. “Just one, for all of them.”
“That’s the way things are done in time of battle,” she agreed. “You accounted for all?”
“Not all,” he said grimly. “Didn’t see old Hoshal, but I’m pretty sure they got to him ahead of time. Found one of his chisels in an osquip trove.”
“They got him,” Tarlamera agreed. “Hoshal’s particular about his tools. Da always said Hoshal could put a hand to any one of his tools quicker than he could grab his own-”
She broke off, her jaw dropping in astonishment. Ebenezer tracked her gaze into a side alley, and his own eyes widened in astonishment. “Now, that’s something you don’t see every day,” he admitted.
An enormous, disembodied hand, each finger longer than a dwarf was tall, floated aimlessly