“Excuse me,” Dag murmured to a very interested Malchior. “Please help yourself to any of the books and papers, and wine as well, if you will.”
He hurried into the hail and shut the door behind him. “Well?” he hissed.
The captain blanched. “Lord Zoreth, there is grave news. When we arrived at the farm, the child was gone. Both the elf and his woman had been slain.”
The sound like a roaring sea rose in Dag’s ears, threatening to engulf him. He summoned all of his iron control and pushed away any response at all to this, the apparent ruin of his dreams. “And then? What did you do?”
“We followed. One man, on horse, headed swiftly toward the city of Waterdeep. We lost the trail once he took to the roads, but his destination was clear enough.” The man stood straighter still. “What would you have us do?”
Dag turned a coldly controlled gaze upon the failed soldier “I would like you to die, slowly and in terrible pain,” he said in an expressionless voice.
Surprise leaped into the man’s eyes, and an uncertainty that suggested he was unsure whether or not his commander was jesting with him. Then the first wave of pain ripped through him, tearing this notion from his mind—and tearing his lowermost ribs from his chest.
The soldier looked down in disbelief as the two slim, curved white bones sprang from his chest like a door flung open. His eyes glazed, and his mouth opened to emit a scream of agony and horror But all that emerged was a choked gurgle as blood rose into his throat and poured down over his ruined chest.
Dag watched impassively as the power of his focused rage tore the soldier apart. When the man lay dead, he calmly walked back into the room and tugged at a belipull. A servant arrived in moments, his face pale from the shock of what he had discovered in the hall.
“Have this mess cleaned up, and send Captain Yemid to me,” Dag said calmly. The man gulped and turned away. “Oh, and one more thing. Prepare my horse and guards. I will be leaving tomorrow at first light for Waterdeep.”
Nine
By dawn the following day, Dag Zoreth’s horse and guard stood ready for the journey south. He was not pleased, therefore, when one of Malchior’s servants came down to the gate to bid Dag to await his guest, who wished to accompany him.
An hour and more passed while the older priest lingered at breakfast and carefully supervised the packing of Hronulf’s lore books into his bags. That accomplished, the members of the party mounted and began to wind their way down the hillside to the High Road.
The size of the group worried Dag. Although none of the guards wore the symbols of Darkhold, and neither of the priests their vestments, the addition of Malchior and his score of attendants made them more suspicious and more subject to scrutiny. A group of two score armed men arriving at the gates of Waterdeep might attract too much attention and too close an examination into Dajs affairs.
He had worries enough without the close attention of Waterdeep’s officials, both overt and secret. The city was a veritable nest of Harper activity, and the secret lords of the city were nearly as intrusive and pervasive as the Harpers. The inquiries Dag needed to make in the city were extremely sensitive, and he could use none of his usual Zhentilar informers. If Malchior discovered that Dag had a daughter, and that he had kept the girl’s existence secret for over eight years, there would certainly be trouble.
And there was always the possibility that Malchior did know and that the girl’s disappearance had been the work of the Zhentarim. Dag had reason to know that the society he served used such methods.
He cast a sidelong glance at Malchior. The fat priest rode like a sack of grain, but his face showed no sign of the discomfort his body must have been experiencing. He caught Dag’s eye.
“You have met Sir Gareth. Are you finding that liaison useful?” Malchior asked pleasantly.
Dag considered his words carefully; after all, he intended to use the paladin to find his missing sister and his stolen child. “He managed to get Bronwyn to Thornhold. He handled the disposition of some newly acquired . . . cargo for me. In short, he seems able enough. I would hesitate to trust him too far, however, as he demonstrates a remarkable capacity for self-deception. I have no doubt he could justify any treachery.”
“Well said,” Malchior agreed. “That is always the risk of any agent, is it not? A man who is willing to betray his comrades at arms is not likely to show absolute loyalty to the men who bought him.”
This presented as good an opening as Dag ever expected. “You presented Sir Gareth as an ambitious man, jealous of Hronulf’s fame and lineage. That I can readily accept, but how did the Zhentarim hope to profit from the raid on Hronulf’s village, and what do you personally intend to gain by pointing me toward my heritage?”
Malchior cast a glance around to ensure that the guards were beyond earshot. “The answer to your first question is easy enough. Paladins and Zhentarim are natural enemies, much as mountain cats and wolves. Hronulf had more enemies among us than I could count or name.”
“You state what is known rather than answer the question,” Dag observed, keeping his voice cool only with great effort. “You taught me better than to accept such sophistry. Please, do not insult your own fine instruction.”
The priest chuckled at this tactic. “Again, well said!”
“Why were some of Hronulf’s children taken?” Dag persisted.
Malchior sighed and flapped away a fly that buzzed about his horse’s ears. “That I cannot tell you. It is the nature of the Zhentarim that one hand does not always know what the other is doing. There are many ambitious men among us. Who knows? Perhaps there was intent to seek ransom, or vengeance. Who is to say what is in the heart of any Zhentilar?”
Again, Dag noted grimly, a question evaded. “And how did you come to learn of my family’s history and to connect me, a child lost some twelve years by the time I came to your attention, to Hronulf of Tyr?”
“Ah, that. I have made a study of the Caradoon family, you see. Sometime I must show you the old portrait of your ancestor, Renwick Caradoon. You are enough like him to be his son, perhaps even his twin. I saw the resemblance instantly when you were brought to Zhentil Keep for testing as a lad, and I made a point to look into your history. Tracing your path was no easy thing, I assure you. Years passed before I was convinced that you were indeed the child stolen from the Jundar’s Vale and lost by the Zhentish soldiers who took you.”
Dag listened carefully, but habit prompted him to study the path ahead, the seemingly endless stretch of hard-packed dirt shaded and scented by the stand of giant cedars growing on the eastern side. He absently signaled to his captain and pointed to the trees, thus indicating the need for additional vigilance. The man saluted and sent a pair of men off into the trees to scout ahead for possible ambush.
“You have grown quite practiced in the art of command,” Malchior observed. “Perhaps there is something of Hronulf of Tyr in you, after all.”
Dag’s eyes narrowed. His first impulse was to believe the remark a deliberate taunt. Then, upon consideration, he realized that Malchior had at last given him the answer to his question—albeit in the roundabout manner that the priest favored. “And that is why you sought me out,” Dag summarized bluntly.
“There is power in the bloodline of Samular,” the priest agreed, “as I have said before.”
“Then why not Hronulf himself?”
Malchior scoffed. “I would have a better chance of turning the tide itself than bending a man such as Hronulf Caradoon to my purpose. No, the only way to deal with a noble paladin is the manner that you chose—and no doubt executed yourself.”