Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [77]
While their comrade was still rolling down the ravine, the two remaining men came on. The foremost had a wicked spear, which he held couched like a lance under one arm. Algorind waited until the man was nearly upon him, then leaped from the saddle toward the onrushing blade, slashing down with his sword as he went.
His blade caught the spear shaft, and his weight forced the point of the spear down. It struck the ground and dug in hard. Algorind rolled aside beyond the reach of the horse’s thundering hooves. He heard the man’s rising wail as the bent spear lifted him from his mount and hurled him into the air.
Before the heavy thud announced the man’s impact onto solid rock, Algorind was already back on his feet, sword ready. He leaped directly into the path of the last rider. The startled horse reared up, dumping its rider onto the path. Before the fallen soldier could collect himself; Algorind was there, one foot pinning the man’s sword arm down, and the tip of his blade at the man’s throat.
The Zhent’s eyes expected death and feared it greatly. Such it must be, Algorind thought with sudden pity if all that awaited a man was the dubious mercy of Cyric or the other dire gods that the Zhentarim favored, or-most terrible of all-the numbing emptiness of no faith at all.
“Only answer my question, and you may go free and unharmed,” Algorind vowed.
The man’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “And if I don’t talk?”
“Speak freely, or die swiftly,” the paladin said. “It is your choice.”
“Easy enough, put that way,” the soldier muttered. “What do you want to know?”
“You are of Darkhold, and you are far from your fortress. Do you hold another stronghold nearby?”
The man’s quick, wicked grin reminded Algorind of a buzzard preparing to feed. “As of last night, that we do.”
Algorind’s heart seemed to turn to stone. “Thornhold. You have taken it.”
“Made a nice piece of work of it, too.”
Algorind nodded and knew at once that he would not be able fulfill his charge and carry a message to Hronulf. He himself would gladly fight to the death to protect a stronghold of the order from Zhentisb capture. He did not know of a paladin who would not. Even so, he had to ask. “And the paladins who held it… are they all dead?”
“To a man. I saw ‘em burn.”
The black smoke, Algorind realized. His wrath kindled, prompting him to slay this evil man who recounted the destruction of goodly men with such unconcern.
But Algorind had given his word. He could not break it, nor had he learned all that he must. Since he studied the lore of the order with scholarly devotion, he knew that HronulfofTyr wore a great artifact, one of the Rings of Samular It was Algorind’s duty to learn what had become of it.
“You answer plainly. For that, I thank you. Tell me one thing more. What became of the paladins’ possessions?”
The man lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “The usual. Weapons and valuables went to the commander. His captains sorted through them and passed them out as booty.”
“The paladin commander, known as Hronulf of Tyr, wore a gold ring. Do you know who now holds it?”
“That damn ring,” echoed the soldier in a resigned voice. “Bane’s balls, but I’m tired of hearing about the thing! The commander had us search the whole damn fortress for it more times than I know how to count. As far as we can figure, the old knight gave the ring to a pretty young wench who escaped. No one knows how she escaped or where she went. My patrol was one of several out looking for her. That is the truth, and it’s all I know.”
Algorind studied him for a long moment, then stepped back. “I believe you,” he said. “You may go.”
The soldier stared at him for a moment. “Just like that?” he said in disbelief.