Thornhold - Elaine Cunningham [80]
“Slavers,” she gritted out. Her own past rose up before her, lending that single word more venom than a nest full of pit vipers could muster.
The dwarf eyed Bronwyn with curiosity. “That’d be my guess. What’s it to you?”
She dropped his arm and started down the road at a brisker pace. After a moment, Ebenezer jogged up to her side. “With the spring fairs coming up, a southbound caravan should be along soon,” she said briskly. “I’ve enough coin to buy us a horse. Can you ride?”
“Yes, but-”
“Two horses then. We should be in Waterdeep before nightfall day after tomorrow. If we’re lucky, we’ll be in Skull-port by midnight.”
“Skullport!” he scoffed. “More of your tall tales. Tavern legend. No such place.”
“There most certainly is, and it’s the nearest port for slave transport. If you want to find the surviving members of your clan before they’re halfway to Calimport, that’s where we’ll have to go. Live with it.”
He jogged along, considering this. Finally he turned a skeptical gaze upon her. “What’s this to you, human?”
“My name is Bronwyn,” she said grimly. “You might as well get used to using it. Where we’re going, singing out ‘Hoy, human!’ will get you too many responses. Most of them, you won’t like.”
“Bronwyn, then,” he agreed. “And it might be that you could save your coin. I got a horse stashed. Here you have Ebenezer Mac Brockholst ‘n’ Palmara, of Clan Stoneshaft.”
She nodded, understanding the honor he conferred upon her by giving his full name and lineage-and seeing in his eyes the effort it cost to name his parents, whom he had probably just laid to rest. He was agreeing with her plan, trusting her to help him find his lost family. The enormity of that staggered her. She couldn’t think of anything to say, but tried anyway.
“Stoneshaft,” she repeated. “Your clan were miners, then?”
“No, we got that name because my grandsire managed to sire himself thirteen kids,” he shot back.
Bronwyn raised her eyebrows, acknowledging the bawdy sarcasm. “Fine. Straight to business.”
“Speaking of which,” the dwarf asked with a sudden return of suspicion, “what did you say you did to earn your keep?”
“I didn’t say, but I’m not a slaver, if that’s what you’re thinking. I find lost antiquities. You’d probably call me a treasure hunter.”
He nodded, clearly understanding this bias; after all, collecting treasures was a very common dwarf impulse. “Whereabouts do you keep your hoard?”
“It’s more of a shop, really, and I’m seldom there. Most of my days are spent on the road, searching for new pieces. I often work on commission, but everything I find is for sale.”
“Practical,” approved Ebenezer. “Don’t need stuff lying around gathering dust. Too much trouble to be toting it around. Where’d you learn to fight?”
Bronwyn chuckled helplessly, feeling somewhat dizzied by the quick change of topic. “By doing, mostly. I’ve had no formal training as a fighter, but so far, I’ve won more times than I’ve lost.”
“Best training there is,” he said. He cast her a stern look. “You always fight dirty?”
She shrugged. “When I have to.”
He nodded again. “Good. Well then, let’s have a look at this Skuliport of yours.”
Eight
Algorind and his newfound companion headed south on foot toward the great port city. One of the Zhentilar horses had been regrettably lamed during Algorind’s attack and had to be put down. The men tried without success to recapture the other horses. It seemed that the steeds lacked the sense of loyalty and duty that was trained into a paladin’s mount.
Jenner, the former Zbent, was a surprisingly good companion. He could sing rather well, and he knew some old ballads that spoke ringingly of deeds of heroism and valor- strange songs indeed to come from the throat of a man who had spent his youth riding patrol around Darkhold. This puzzled Algorind greatly.
“How is it that you fell into the service of evil?” Algorind asked him.
The young paladin’s words