A senseless waste, Dag mused as he kicked his horse into a run. It was better to hoard anger like treasure, building and nurturing it until it became a weapon, one that could be unleashed to good effect.
Nearby, one of the soldiers fell from his horse, an arrow protruding from his chest. Good. There was still some fight in the paladins. To minimize his own risk, Dag leaned low over his horse's neck as the steed galloped past the infantry. He kept his eyes fixed on the great wooden door in the fortress wall.
The portcullis rose in a series of quick, sharps jerks as the assassins winched it up. The knights of Darkhold swept toward the wooden door, long spears leveled before them.
Four of them struck the gate at nearly the same instant. The two halves of the wooden door burst inward, a gratifying testament to the invaders' success in throwing the bars. Zhentarim fighters poured into the breached wall. Dag spurred his horse on viciously, determined to enter the fortress before the fighting was done.
In Hronulf's tower chamber, Bronwyn was the first to hear the alarm. She poised, her hand on the door, and then spun back to face her father. 'That horn. I know that signal,' she said grimly.
Hronulf nodded and strode for the door. 'Zhentarim. You stay here-I must go to the walls.'
Bronwyn seized his arm, all thoughts of anger forgotten. 'It's too late for that. Listen.'
The faint sound of battle seeped through the thick stone and stout oak. Hronulf's eyes widened. 'They are inside the fortress!'
She nodded. Her mind raced as she tried and discarded possible plans. 'Is there a back way out of here?'
The paladin smiled grimly and drew his sword. 'Not for me. Thornhold is my command. I will defend it or die.'
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. If she had escaped in this manner, she had not gone far. 'Send out patrols, range out as far as needs be. Find her!'
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
