Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [57]
But the reality of Cyric’s wrath was something both less and more terrible. The wondrous statues of long-dead dwarf heroes turned on their descendants. They tilted inward, breaking free of their pedestals with thundering booms, and then crashed into the dwarven throng.
Some of the dwarves were fleet enough of foot and wit to escape back down the tunnel, but dozens were crushed beneath falling stone. The Zhentish soldiers rushed into the swirling cloud of dust.
The sounds of furious battle echoed through the tunnel that led to the great hall. Though the Zhentarim had the strength of numbers and arms and magic, Dag did not count the dwarves out yet, not by any means.
He had reason to know how fiercely people could fight to defend their homes and family. He bad seen his brother Byorn die doing just that, living longer than he should have against odds far greater than any sane man would face. Young Byorn’s face rose up before him now, bringing with it a stab of poignant loss. Dag ruthlessly thrust the memory aside.
He began the chant of another dark spell, one that he himself had developed as a Darkhold war-cleric, one that he had taught to the men and women under him. Dream-pursuit, he called it. It slowed the limbs of their opponents, made each motion as languid and heavy as if they were moving through water. The spell duplicated, with precise and deadly effect, the feeling one had in a nightmare of being pursued and unable to run. Only this spell was not a dream, but grim reality.
The spell took effect, turning the dwarves’ battle effort into a slow, macabre dance. Dag studied the surviving dwarves for signs of value. When be saw one be thought might do, he limned the prospective slave in faint purple light, which served both to freeze the dwarf in place, and to mark him as beyond limits. His men knew better, even in the grip of the spell-enhanced battle-lust, to thwart Dag’s demonstrated will.
Dag found himself enjoying the process of selection. Each dwarf that died by his command was an offering to Cyric, god of strife. But this offering held something more, something so exhilarating that it bordered on blasphemy. Cyric received, but only the offerings Dag Zoreth chose to give. He pointed, and a dwarf lived. A red-bearded female, probably a gem smith judging from her rich ornaments. A beardless child. Another. That one with the hammer uplifted to crush a soldier’s skull. A stout female with festive garb and a long gray beard. No, that one was too old to be of lasting value. The purple light surrounding her vanished, and a Zbent’s sword slashed in.
It was over too soon. In the relative silence that followed the slaughter, Dag’s heart pounded so hard that he was certain all could hear it. That mattered not. His men would not think less of him for it. His dark pleasure was mirrored on the face of every surviving Zhent.
Dag took a long breath, gathering himself and turning to the next task. “Chain the captives, no more than three together,” he instructed. “Drive them to the surface. The wagons are ready?”
“They are, my lord,” his captain answered.
Dag nodded. Slavery was outlawed in much of the northlands, and he had deemed it imprudent to march the dwarves overland. Enclosed wagons offered a degree of security. The dwarves would be shipped to the south and sold in the markets where dwarven lives and skills had a price. The money would go to Zhentil Keep, ensuring that there would be little discussion over whether Dag would be permitted to hold what he had conquered.
The task, however pleasurable it might have been, was not yet done. There were tunnels to explore and tunnels to seal. And then, the best of all…
The destruction of Thornhold and the reclamation of Dag Zoreth’s birthright.
Six
When she neared the top of the winding path, Bronwyn slid from her horse and stood, looking up at the fortress her father commanded.
Her father. She had said the words often in the silence of her mind and had even practiced them aloud a time or two on the way to Thornhold.