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 saluted and left the room with a haste that spoke more of grateful self-preservation than of any real zest for his duty. flag dismissed the guards and shut what was left of the door. When he was alone with his captive, he folded his arms and stared down at him coolly.
'I am a priest,' he said in a coldly controlled tone that revealed none of his wrath, or his elation. 'I could heal you. I could stop that pain instantly. I could even offer you protection from the soldiers who stormed your fortress, or a quick death fighting, if you so prefer.'
Hronulf lifted his eyes to Dag's pale, narrow face. 'You have nothing that I could desire.'
'That is not strictly true.' Dag made a quick, complex gesture with both hands, unleashing a spell he had prepared. An illusion rose in the air between them, the glittering image of an ornate golden ring. 'Unless I have been misinformed, you want this very much. And it is mine.'
The paladin's eyes blazed. 'You have no right to it!'
'Again, not true. I have every right to the ring.' Dag lifted his chin. 'I am your second-born son, whom you named Brandon in honor of my mother's father. I took the ring from the hand of my brother Byorn, after he fell in a battle he should never have had to fight.'
'Lies!'
'Cannot a paladin discern truth? Test me, and see if there is any deceit in my words.'
Hronulf fixed a searching gaze on the priest. His eyes went bleak as the truth came to him, but his face hardened.
His gaze pointedly swept flag's black and purple vestments, then fixed upon the symbol engraved on his medallion. 'I have no son, Cyricist. My son Byorn died a hero, fighting against the Zhentarim.'
Even though he had expected them, these words struck flag's heart with painful force. 'Did he really? Have you never wondered how the closely held secret of your family's village reached Zhentarim ears? Or for that matter, how a Zhentilar band managed to unravel the secrets of this fortress? Look, and wonder no more!'
Dag snatched the black globe from its hiding place and held it before his father's eyes. The purple fire burned high, casting unholy light upon the face of Hronulf's oldest and most trusted Mend.
'How may I serve you, Lord Zoreth?' inquired the image of Sir Gareth Cormaeril.
Shock, disbelief, and sudden bleak acceptance flashed through Hronulf' s silver-gray eyes. He lifted his gaze to flag's coldly vindictive face. 'Gareth was a good man. To corrupt a paladin is a most grievous evil and a black stain on the souls of all who had a hand in his downfall. You will not find another here who will have aught to do with you, Cyricist.'
With great effort, flag kept his face neutral. 'I've come to claim my heritage and meet my sister,' he said. 'Where is she?'
'This is a fortress of the Knights of Samular. No women reside here.'
'Finally, you speak something resembling truth,' flag said coldly. 'But let us not play foolish games. We saw a young woman enter this fortress. We did not see her leave.'
'Nor will you. She is beyond your reach, Cyricist.'
Dag merely shrugged. 'For now, perhaps, but the day will come, and soon, when the three rings of Samular are reunited in the hands of three of his bloodline. Tell me what that means. What power will that unleash?'
'It matters not. You do not wear the ring. You cannot,'
'Perhaps not, but my daughter can, and she will do as I tell her. Soon my sister will do the same. As long as I command the power, it matters not whose hands wield it.' The priest unfolded his arms. He held out one hand and took a step forward. 'It is time for you to bequeath me my inheritance. The second ring, if you please!'
Pain flared in the paladin's eyes as his fallen son approached, for the evil of Cyric burned men such as Hronulf as surely and painfully as dragonfire. Dag Zoreth saw this, expected it. Nevertheless, he kicked the regal sword out of Hronulf's grasp and snatched up the paladin's hand between both of his own.
'No ring. The other hand, then,' he demanded. In defiant response, Hronulf raised his bloodied fist and spread the fingers so that the priest could see that there was no ring upon them.
Dag's face darkened as anger rose in him. 'Once, when I was no more than seven winters of age, I hid such a ring for safekeeping in a hole gashed into an oak, rather than have it taken by the raiders. Could it be possible that you have done much the same?'
'I do not have the ring,' Hronulf stated.
'We shall see.'
Dag did not doubt that the paladin spoke the truth. He knew that by all that was reasonable, he should find a way to heal the man and question him, but flag was beyond reason. Rage, grief, the madness of his life of terrible isolation- a torrent of emotions too many and complex to catalogue or understand-tore him over the edge. In one swift motion, he plunged his own hand deep into the paladin's wound.
A roar of agony and outrage tore from Hronulf's throat. Dag suspected that the touch of a priest of Cyric caused pain greater than the paladin would know if a dwarven smith quenched a red-hot iron in his belly. This pleased flag, but it was not quite enough to sate him.
Dag held his father's anguished eyes as he began to chant the words of a spell. The god Cyric heard his priest and granted the fell magic. Dag's frail fingers suddenly became as sharp and powerful as mithral knives. Up they tore, through walls of muscle and flesh, and closed surely around the paladin's beating heart.
With one quick jerk, flag Zoreth pulled the heart out through the wound and showed it to the dying paladin. Then, just as quickly, he threw the heart into the hearth fire.
Dag Zoreth spun on his heel and stalked from the room, still chanting softly. The last sounds Hronulf of Tyr heard were the hissing, sputtering death of his own heart and the voice of his lost son, cursing him in Cyric's name.
SEVEN
The sounds of battle faded swiftly as Bronwyn plummeted down the steeply sloping shaft. Down she slid, picking up speed as she went.
Dimly she realized that the tunnel was carved into the thick wall of the keep and that she had fallen down what was a nearly vertical drop. She wrapped her arms over her head and steeled herself for whatever would come at the bottom of the shaft.
But the tunnel curved suddenly, sliding her into what seemed to be a spiraling arc. She suspected that the tunnel was sweeping down through the curved wall, but she could not be certain. Balance and sense of direction had abandoned her, swept aside by the speed of her headlong slide. There was no time to consider her situation, to plan or even to react. She had no choices, no options, but to surrender to the force that held her in its grip. This she understood without words or even conscious thought, and the understanding raised her frustration into simmering rage. Was there nothing in her life, nothing at all, over which she had any control?
