'Hello, Bron,' he said, voicing the almost-forgotten nickname with a faint smile.
'Bran?' She stood staring at him, her eyes huge and her face a canvas awash with more emotions than he could name. 'I suddenly remember… so much?'
As did he. Bron and Bran, they had called each other. Nearest in age, if not in disposition, they were intense friends and foes during childhood. Images, fleeting and bittersweet, assailed him.
She took a step forward and held out a hand in an unthinking gesture. He took it in both of his own. 'You've made an offer, but I would like you to reconsider it. You could stay here, if you wished, with Cara and me.'
Her large brown eyes focused on him and went utterly cold. She snatched back her hand. 'tinder the same roof as my fathers murderer? Not a chance. Give me Cara, and I'll go.'
He refused to let her response sting. 'Not quite yet. There is the matter of the rings and the artifact,' he reminded her then tsked lightly. 'Same old Bron. Hoarding all the toys.' Dag understood the undeniable charm of memory and he wielded like a sword his knowledge that he once had been the person that Bronwyn loved above all others.
She shook her head, refusing to succumb. 'I want to see Cara,' Bronwyn said adamantly.
He lifted one brow. 'Do you not hear her? She is in the gatehouse, under the care of hardened soldiers who, at this moment, are no doubt wishing they were patrolling the Mere of Dead Men, instead.'
She cocked her head and smiled fiercely when the sounds of Cara's angry struggle reached her.
Dag turned to the guard at his elbow. 'Have the men send her down.'
The message was relayed, and Cara flew out of the gate-house door like a small brown bird. She threw herself into Bronwyn's arms with a glad cry. 'My father said you've come to visit! He said maybe you will stay.'
Bronwyn looked at Dag over Cara's head, holding his eyes as she spoke. 'Plans have changed, Cara. You are going with me. Give your father the ring.'
Without hesitation, the little girl peeled off the artifact and handed it to Dag. That concerned him, and stung more than a little. Hadn't he impressed upon her the importance of the ring and the power that came with her heritage? Did she value it-and him-so lightly?
Dag thrust aside these thoughts and turned back to Bronwyn. 'The artifact,' he said, and his voice sounded colder to his ears than he had intended to make it.
Bronwyn set Cara down and shouldered off her pack. From it she took a small object, carefully wrapped in a travel blanket. Dag watched avidly as she peeled off the covering, holding his breath and hardly daring to imagine what the item might be.
She handed him a small, wooden object. Puzzled, he took it from her. It was a miniature siege tower. A cunning piece of work, certainly, but a toy for all that.
He raised furious eyes to her face. 'What is this?'
'Precisely what it appears to be,' she said curtly. 'Look at the platform. There are three small grooves. When the rings are placed into them by a descendant of Samular, the tower will grow to enormous size.'
Dag looked at the tower with new interest. This was what he needed, exactly what he needed! With it, he could make short work of an escalade and gain another stronghold for the Zhentarim. That is, if it worked as Bronwyn claimed.
He handed her back the tower. 'Show me.'
She looked hesitant. 'You'd do better to wait until morning and take the tower out into the open. I've seen it grow. This courtyard might not accommodate it.'
That, Dag doubted. Judging from the depth and breadth of the toy's base, in relation to its height, it could most likely fit into the bailey without difficulty. 'How tall does it grow?'
'As tall as it needs to be,' she said reluctantly. 'The artifact seems to sense the need and intent of the person who wields it. I believe it will adjust to the wall it is meant to conquer.'
'Well, then, we have no problem, do we? Nor would we, unless Thornhold's wall were a hundred feet tall.'
She struggled to hide her consternation, but Dag took careful note of it. 'As you wish,' she said, and handed him two rings identical to the one in his hand.
Too easily, Dag thought. He shook his head. 'You do it.' Bronwyn took a long breath and closed her hand in a fist around all three rings. 'Stand out of the way, Cara,' she warned the girl. 'I want you to go over to the far wall, by the tower. Just to be safe.'
To Dajs surprise, the child offered no resistance. But though she watched from a distance, there was little of her usual curiosity in her brown eyes. In fact, her expression was unusually shuttered.
'Do not do this thing!' burst out the paladin. He struggled mightily against the men who held him. 'Better to die than to give such power into the hands of evil.'
Dag Zoreth lifted one brow and shot a sidelong glance at Bronwyn. 'Earnest sort, isn't he?'
'You have no idea,' she gritted out from between clenched teeth.
She threw an angry look at the man and set the tiny siege tower on the ground. She put the three rings into place, one at a time, and then she leaped to her feet and ran toward Can.
Instinctively Dag followed suit. Behind him, he heard the scrape of a heavy object being dragged quickly against packed dirt and the creaking groans of expanding wood. He darted a look over his shoulder and then redoubled his pace. The size of the tower, and the speed with which it grew, were astonishing. Exhilarating!
In moments, the tower had reached its full height. It stood in their midst, like a shining beacon showing Dag the way to the future he craved.
Not a man moved, not a person spoke. All gazed in awe at the huge siege tower in their midst.
Suddenly the silence was shattered by the sound of splintering wood. A door on the side of the enclosed tower flew open, sending shards of wood spinning as the bolt which had held it shut gave way.
A fierce, red-bearded dwarf erupted from the tower in full charge. Ringlets of bright red sprang from her head in wild profusion and streaked behind her as she ran, giving her the appearance of a vengeful medusa. Though stunned into immobility, Dag remembered that dwarf. His raid had disrupted her wedding feast and had left her new-made husband lying dead from many wounds. As he eyed the female's furious approach, it came to Dag that he might well have done that slaughtered dwarf a favor.
Then the shock lifted, and fierce anger took its place. Sensation flooded into his dazed mind. The thunder of perhaps fifty pairs of dwarven booth, the roars and cries of the vengeful attackers, the sound of axe against sword, the smell of blood and of bodies already voiding themselves in death, and the bright, coppery taste of fear.
Dag whiried and seized a sword from the scabbard of the soldier nearest him. He ignored the battle raging around him as his eyes sought out the gift his sister had so thoughtfully delivered.
The paladin was not difficult to find. His bright hair caught the faint light of the dying day, and his young, strong baritone was raised in a hymn to Tyr. Dajs jaw tightened. He knew that hymn and could sing along with Algorind of Tyr if he chose to do so.
What he chose to do was to cut that song from the man's throat.
Never had Algorind seen such a transformation come over a mortal face. As the priest of Cyric gazed upon him, life and warmth and humanity itself drained away.
Dag Zoreth raised a sword and touched it slowly to his forehead in salute, his eyes holding Algorind's. As he lifted it, the silver blade darkened, and began to glow. Purple fire danced along the edges, throwing eerie shadows across the sharp lines and hollows of the Cyricist's face.
'You signed on to fight evil, boy,' Dag Zoreth said, in a voice that was less like that of a single mortal man than a chorus of angry beings speaking in concert. The voice rang out easily over the chaos of battle and reached out for Algorind like a grasping, unseen hand. 'You are about to realize your fondest ambition.'
The force of so much evil, so much hatred, drained the blood from the paladin's face, but he lifted his sword, mirrored Dag Zoreth's salute, and ran to meet the priest's charge.
Black and violet fire flashed forward. Algorind parried, sending sparks flying. He advanced, his eyes steady on that inhumanly evil face, his sword dipping and slashing, working the priest's blade and keeping him on the defensive. He had little choice. The unholy fire gave incredible speed and strength to the Cyricist's sword, more than compensating for the difference in their stature and training. Algorind had found more skilled opponents, but
