feminine wiles.
His comrades laughed uproariously at this and then began to close in. From above them, the steady clack and clatter of the looms never once faltered.
Too late, Algorind realized the trap into which he had been lured. These men knew the ways of a city and had prepared a place where they might fight undisturbed. Well, by the grace of Tyr he would give them the fight they sought.
He held his sword out slightly to the side, his every muscle alert and ready. The first man dashed at him, sword held high and two of his fellows hard on his heels. Algorind lunged forward with a quick, precise motion and ran him though the heart. He ducked under the next attack and stabbed upward at the third man, felling him, too, in a single blow. A skitter of feet behind him dragged to a quick stop on the dirt floor. Algorind rose and spun toward the man who had run past him. It was the man who had tricked him, and he came in with a vicious, upward-sweeping backhand. Algorind caught the sword in a ringing parry. He pressed in close and with his left hand punched out over the joined blades. The man staggered back and again Algorind lunged. His sword sank between the man's ribs and darted back out.
The paladin turned swiftly back to his fourth and final foe. This one was the wiliest of the group, and the worst- content to watch his comrades die as he took the measure of his opponent.
The man was nearly as tall as Algorind, and though not as broad, he had a lean, sinewy look and a way of holding the sword that bespoke long acquaintance with a blade. He lifted the sword to his forehead in a salute that seemed only partially mocking.
They began to circle each other, then exchanged the first ringing blow. His foe was quick, Algorind noted, and fought with a clean economy of motion. The man had been trained, and trained well.
The paladin feinted high. His blow was met and then matched by a quick, spinning cut downward. Algorind parried and answered with a lunge. In all, three fast strokes of steel on steel, coming quickly one after another and each delivered with strength.
Speed, then. The paladin began a stunning routine, raining a quick series of blows upon the man. His opponent stopped each, and got his own in beside. For several moments the two swords rang in rapid, steady dialogue.
The fighters fell apart by unspoken agreement, answering the unique rhythm of their deadly dance. Again they circled, tested, parried.
This time the assassin came in, his blade working Algorind's low and his hand hovering over the knife strapped to his belt. The paladin understood. The man intended to come in over the swords with a knife, much as he himself had served the trickster with a barehanded punch.
But Algorind was ready for him. The young paladin's masters had trained him in many styles of fighting. This one marked the man as from the Dales, a rough but generally peaceable area far to the east and inhabited for the most part by goodly farmers, rangers, and foresters. What had happened to his man, Algorind wondered, to bring him so far from where he once stood?
Some of the pity he felt must have crept into his eyes for the former dalesman to see. A convulsive twitch darted up from his clenched jaw to his anger-filled eyes, and the man drew the knife. But emotion overpowered strategy and he drew too soon and swung too high.
Algorind easily caught the knife on the hilt of his own and sent the man's wild blow out wide. He reversed the direction of the swing and brought the hilt of his knife in hard against the man's nose. Bone shattered, and bright blood spilled down over his worn leather jerkin.
The man came on again, swinging wildly now, all discipline gone. Algorind easily stopped and sidestepped the blows. With a sense of something like regret, he swiftly ended the battle with a stroke across the man's oft- exposed throat.
He stood for a moment over the body of the man, to murmur a prayer for a soul gone astray, a worthy opponent fallen to his own weakness.
Algorind cleaned his sword on a handful of straw that covered a bin of last summer's carrots and slid the weapon back into his sheath. His knife he kept in hand, and he took the torch from the wall holder into which it had been thrust. He had been caught unaware by treachery once this day, and that was all he intended to yield.
At the top of the stairs, he snubbed out the torch, tossed it into the alley, and retraced his steps to the street. To his great relief, his horse was where he left it. He untied Icewind's reins and pondered what next to do.
It seemed likely to him that the woman Bronwyn and her dwarf comrade were somehow behind this. He would immediately report this information to Sir Gareth and leave the matter in his hands.
The knight was in his office, going over a ledger and wearing an expression of martyred resolve. He looked up when Algormd announced himself, and his gray brows rose in question.
Algorind told him what had occurred. The knight considered this for several moments, then reached for parchment and quill. 'Go to the barracks and clean yourself up. We will bring this matter to the First Lord himself.'
In moments they left the Halls of Justice, bound for the First Lord's palace. It was an easy matter for Sir Gareth to gain an audience with Lord Piergeiron. When he and Algorind rode to the gates of the lavish palace, they were met by uniformed guards and taken at once into the First Lord's presence.
Once again, Algorind found himself discomfited by the unseemly splendor around him. The palace was an elaborate structure built entirely of rare white marble, crowned with a score or more of turreted towers and much elaborately carved stonework. The inside was even more lavish. A fountain played in the center of the great hall, and marble statues of heroes, gods, and goddesses encircled the room. Tapestries of incredibly fine detail and brilliant color hung in lavish profusion. The courtiers were richly dressed in silks and jewels-even the servants wore finery appropriate to a young knight's investiture.
They were led up a broad, sweeping stairway, down a succession of halls to the tower that Piergeiron claimed as his own. Here, at least, Algorind found himself in familiar surroundings. The First Lord's study was simple, almost austere. The walls were bare but for a single tapestry. The only luxury was a profusion of books, and the only comfort a small fire on the grate.
Piergeiron rose to greet them both, with bluff good nature and a comrade's firm handclasp. 'Welcome, brothers! You have been much in my thoughts. How goes the preparation for battle?'
'Well, my lord,' Sir Gareth said. He nodded his thanks when Piergeiron indicated a seat, and waited until all were seated before speaking again.
'Paladins from all over the northland are gathering for the assault on Thornhold. In another tenday, perhaps two, our numbers will be sufficient for the march north.'
'That is good news,' the paladin lord agreed. 'The sooner the fortress is back in the hands of your good order, the safer will be the High Road for all who travel it.'
Sir Gareth inclined his head to acknowledge this praise. 'There is other news, my lord, that is not so pleasant to hear. This woman we spoke of. She had been up to mischief since last we met.'
Briefly, the knight told the story of Algorind's arrest and the ruse played on him by assassins who lured him into ambush. He also mentioned, much to Algorind's chagrin, the theft of the young paladin's horse by a dwarf known as Bronwyn's companion. He told of her visit to Thornhold at the time of the assault, and her suspicious escape-doubly suspicious in light of the fact that the Zhentarim commander who took the stronghold was Bronwyn's brother. Sir Gareth ended his litany by repeating that Bronwyn stole a valuable artifact belonging to the order.
Piergeiron absorbed this in troubled silence. 'I have had information gathered on her, but none so dire as this. The young woman has an excellent reputation in her chosen business, and she appears to live a quiet life.'
'Yet she has interesting associates. A brother among the Zhentarim, a dwarf horse thief a rogue gnome. Did you know that Alice Tinker, the shopkeeper employed by Bronwyn, was once known as Gilanda Quickblade? She was a thief and 'adventurer,' later recruited to the Harpers.'
'I did not know this,' Piergeiron admitted.
'There is more,' Gareth continued. 'A frequent visitor to her shop is a young nobleman, one Danilo Thann. Is he not the Harper involved with the new harding college?'
The First Lord nodded grimly.
