Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [67]
Before Bronwyn could respond, the first crashing assault struck the chamber door. The oak panels buckled, and even the iron bands that bound them bulged inward.
Hronulf thrust his sword back into its sheath and took a richly carved band of gold from his hand. He seized Bronwyn’s left hand and slipped the ring onto her index finger. Though it had fit the paladin’s large hand just a moment before, it slid into place on her slim finger and stayed there, comfortably snug.
“Listen well,” he said, “for the door will not hold much longer. This ring is a family heirloom of great power. It cannot fall into the hands of the Zhentarim. You must protect it at all cost.”
“But-”
“There is no time to explain,” he said, taking her shoulders and pushing her firmly toward the wall. He reached around her and pressed hard on one of the tightly fitted stones. A passage opened in the seemingly solid wall, a rounded, dark hole just above the floor. He gestured to the opening. “You must go,” he insisted.
Bronwyn wrenched herself away from him and dived for the pair of crossed swords displayed on the wall. She tugged one free and brandished it at the buckling, cracking door.
“I just found you,” she said from between clenched teeth. “I’m not leaving.”
The paladin’s smile was both sad and proud. “You are truly my daughter,” he said. For a moment their eyes met, and it seemed to Bronwyn that he was actually seeing her-her, not a reflection of her long-dead mother or a conduit for the bloodline of Samular-for the first time. “Bronwyn, my daughter,” he repeated with a touch of wonderment. “Because of who you are, you will do as you must. As will I.”
With that, he knocked the sword from her hand and seized her by the back of her jacket. Spinning her around, he grabbed her belt with his other hand and lifted her from the ground. As if he were a half-orc bouncer and she a rowdy patron at a tavern, he hauled her back for the traditional Dock Ward Drunk Toss. She hit the smooth stone floor, skidded on her stomach, and disappeared head first into the tunnel.
Beyond the hole was a steep, smooth incline. Down she slid, the wind whistling in her ears as she picked up speed. But even so, she heard the solid thump of the stone wall’s closure, the terrible splintering of the wooden door, and a deep, ringing voice singing out to Tyr as the paladin began his final battle.
* * * * *
Dag Zoreth swept through the door into the bailey and leaped from his horse. Darting a look around, he saw that most of the fighting was over. Many of the fortress servants had been slain. Their bodies were lying limp and sodden in heaps, like so many beheaded chickens ready for plucking. Soldiers were rounding up the survivors and forcing them to their knees in a single precise row. A pair of priests worked their way down the line, casting the spells needed to discern character and allegiance.
This was an unusual precaution-usually castle servants were considered plunder, regarded as simple fools eager to save their skins and their livelihoods by serving whatever lord controlled the fortress, flag knew that his priests considered the testing process a nuisance and a waste, but he thought otherwise. The influence of a paladin was insidious. On his orders, any man who displayed too strong or steadfast an alliance with the forces of righteousness was to be slain.
In Dag’s opinion, it was a highly sensible precaution.
His eyes fell on Yemid, on foot now and in rapid pursuit of a retreating servant. flag caught the captain’s arm. “Where is the woman?”
Yemid blew out a sharp, frustrated breath. “Gone, my lord. The men have searched the fortress from dungeon to turret.”
Dag’s brows drew down into a deep, angry frown. He had not considered the possibility that his sister might possess magic. She was said to be a merchant, not a mage. But he knew as well as any that magical trinkets were available, provided one had the gold to trade for them. Even so, most devices he knew of had limited range and power.