Thornhold

The river path was wet and treacherous. More than one man had fallen down the steep embankment, to be swept away to his death. They had been forced to slaughter one of the pack mules who’d fallen and broken a leg amid the uneven stones. The noise of the rushing water was nearly deafening, and the only light was the luminous moss that grew in uneven patterns on the tu

But Dag had chosen the path for its very hazards. The river’s roar would drown out the sounds of the approaching army, and the glowing moss made torchlight u

None of the soldiers believed that this guaranteed an easy time of it. Dwarves were fearsome fighters whose prowess and ferocity only seemed to rise with the level of ale in their bellies. But what the Zhentarim had in their favor was surprise, in the form of access to tu

Sir Gareth’s information proved accurate, though Dag had taken care to verify it wherever he could. Finally they reached the last tu

A call for silence and readiness passed down the line, moving swiftly by blow and gesture. Dag watched as the soldiers loosened their weapons and removed extras from the nearly empty packs on the mules. The animals would stay back with the drovers, for they would be useful in the new trade routes that would follow this conquest. When all was ready, Dag nodded to his captain, and the soldiers crept forward.

Excitement, dark and compelling, welled up in Dag’s heart. He bad seen battle before, but only from a distance. His superiors at Darkhold deemed him too valuable to risk in close combat. He had earned his position in the war-clerics through his command of strategy and the clerical spells he had developed with Cyric’s blessing. This was the first time he would smell the blood and the fear, taste the potent wine of destruction.

He fell into place behind the fighters and began mur­muring a low prayer. Into it he poured all his long-repressed anger, his hatred, his desire for blood and power and death.

The evil spell gathered force and power, growing until it felt to Dag like a living thing, a third being born of Cyric’s dark power and his own unfathomable yearning. The power reached out and seized the soldiers with unseen hands, swept them along into the vortex of what Dag felt, saw, and summoned. Soon the men were ru

The dwarves heard and came ru

Almost, but not quite. Dag’s voice lifted into a sound like shrieking wind. The spell tore free of his throat and whirled into the chamber.

Power, visible only to his eyes, swept with maelstrom force to engulf and encircle the massive stone statues that ringed the chamber. Instantly the statues began to tremble.

The dwarves paused, startled into temporary inaction by this harbinger of the one thing their kind feared above all others: earthquake.

But the reality of Cyric’s wrath was something both less and more terrible. The wondrous statues of long-dead dwarf heroes turned on their descendants. They tilted inward, breaking free of their pedestals with thundering booms, and then crashed into the dwarven throng.

Some of the dwarves were fleet enough of foot and wit to escape back down the tu

The sounds of furious battle echoed through the tu

He had reason to know how fiercely people could fight to defend their homes and family. He bad seen his brother Byorn die doing just that, living longer than he should have against odds far greater than any sane man would face. Young Byorn’s face rose up before him now, bringing with it a stab of poignant loss. Dag ruthlessly thrust the memory aside.

He began the chant of another dark spell, one that he him­self had developed as a Darkhold war-cleric, one that he had taught to the men and women under him. Dream-pursuit, he called it. It slowed the limbs of their opponents, made each motion as languid and heavy as if they were moving through water. The spell duplicated, with precise and deadly effect, the feeling one had in a nightmare of being pursued and unable to run. Only this spell was not a dream, but grim reality.

The spell took effect, turning the dwarves’ battle effort into a slow, macabre dance. Dag studied the surviving dwarves for signs of value. When be saw one be thought might do, he limned the prospective slave in faint purple light, which served both to freeze the dwarf in place, and to mark him as beyond limits. His men knew better, even in the grip of the spell-enhanced battle-lust, to thwart Dag’s demonstrated will.

Dag found himself enjoying the process of selection. Each dwarf that died by his command was an offering to Cyric, god of strife. But this offering held something more, some­thing so exhilarating that it bordered on blasphemy. Cyric received, but only the offerings Dag Zoreth chose to give. He pointed, and a dwarf lived. A red-bearded female, probably a gem smith judging from her rich ornaments. A beardless child. Another. That one with the hammer uplifted to crush a soldier’s skull. A stout female with festive garb and a long gray beard. No, that one was too old to be of lasting value. The purple light surrounding her vanished, and a Zbent’s sword slashed in.

It was over too soon. In the relative silence that followed the slaughter, Dag’s heart pounded so hard that he was cer­tain all could hear it. That mattered not. His men would not think less of him for it. His dark pleasure was mirrored on the face of every surviving Zhent.

Dag took a long breath, gathering himself and turning to the next task. “Chain the captives, no more than three together,” he instructed. “Drive them to the surface. The wagons are ready?”

“They are, my lord,” his captain answered.

Dag nodded. Slavery was outlawed in much of the north­lands, and he had deemed it imprudent to march the dwarves overland. Enclosed wagons offered a degree of security. The dwarves would be shipped to the south and sold in the mar­kets where dwarven lives and skills had a price. The money would go to Zhentil Keep, ensuring that there would be little discussion over whether Dag would be permitted to hold what he had conquered.

The task, however pleasurable it might have been, was not yet done. There were tu

The destruction of Thornhold and the reclamation of Dag Zoreth’s birthright.

Six

When she neared the top of the winding path, Bronwyn slid from her horse and stood, looking up at the fortress her father commanded.