Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [68]
Yemid spun and bellowed out the orders. A dozen men took to their horses and galloped from the gates.
“And the keep commander?” flag persisted, determined not to be cheated entirely. “Where is he?”
The captain hesitated, then nodded toward the line of Zhentish bodies neatly laid out, prepared for cremation, resurrection, or undead animation, as suited flag’s whim. “There’s some of his handiwork,” he said. “They pinned the old man down in a tower chamber. Even so, it took some doing to drop him.”
“Drop? Him?”
The deadly chill in those words stole the color from the huge soldier’s face. “I swear to you, Lord Zoreth, the man was alive when I saw him. He took a wound, though. Looked serious.” He tossed aside the spiked cudgel he liked to use for in-close fighting, and turned his back to the furious priest. “I’ll take you to him.”
Dag followed the soldier to the back of the fortress, up winding stairs to a tower room in the keep. A pair of guards bookended the shattered door, barring the entrance with crossed spears. flag took note of their small wounds, their slashed tunics, and the bright marks on the chain mail beneath where a keen sword had slashed or stabbed. These men were numbered among the elite of Darkhold, fighters hand chosen by the Pereghost himself, yet even they had not remained unscathed by Hronulf’s blade.
A small, tight smile stretched flag Zoreth’s lips. It was rare that childhood memories lived up to their luster. His perception of his father’s battle prowess clearly proved to be an exception.
“The paladin commander lives?” he demanded.
“Aye,” one of the guards said grudgingly. “On your orders.”
Dag nodded in satisfaction. “Step aside.”
The guards hesitated, exchanging a glance that mingled foreboding and indecision. “I would be doing less than my duty if I didn’t warn you,” ventured the man who had already spoken. “Several good soldiers died underestimating that old man.”
“So noted.” Dag’s eyes narrowed in menace. “Fortunately for me, I am not a good soldier, but a priest of Cyric. Do you understand me, soldier?”
The threat was a potent one. Both men saluted smartly and moved aside. Dag stalked past them and into the room, dark head held high, his black and purple cape flowing behind him like a storm cloud. He was exhilarated rather than daunted by the prospect of facing the tall, powerful paladin who even in his late years could dispatch a half score of Darkhold’s best. Perhaps he might still have to look up at Hronulf of Tyr, physically, but he would do so, for the first time in his life, from a position of power. There was an irony in this that pleased him.
But flag was robbed of this small triumph. The father he had come so far to vanquish was no longer a warrior to be hated and feared, but an old, dying man.
Hronulf of Tyr sat stiffly upright on a chair. He held his sword out before him, the point resting on the floor, one hand on the hilt, in a manner that recalled a monarch and his staff. His other hand was fisted, and driven into a gaping wound just below his ribs.
Dag Zoreth turned slowly to his guide. “It is as you said. He was gravely wounded, against my express orders.”
The captain nodded and swallowed hard. The knowledge of his coming death was written clearly in his eyes.
But Dag shook his head. “I do not kill bearers of bad news, either for entertainment or to demonstrate that I am a man to be feared. Good messengers are hard to find, and good captains even harder. You’ve served me well, Yemid, and I will award you accordingly. But if you fail in the assignment I am about to give you, you will taste my wrath.”
“Of course, Lord Zoreth!”
“Go find the man who dealt this wound and do likewise to him. But first, stake him to the ground. Gut him so that he dies slowly, so that his screams will call hungry ravens to help finish the task.”
Again Yemid swallowed hard-bile, if the sudden greenish tinge to his skin was any indication. “All will be done as you say.” He