Son of Thunder (2 page)

The tribal assembly murmured with wonder. A tingling anticipation electrified the crowd. They awaited an explanation of why their number declined; they waited for their path to be shown to them.

But no response came. The racket dwindled to nothing, the skies parted above, and the ring of magic binding the spellcasters together winked out. A murmur of confusion wormed through the barbarians, and Sungar’s face became a mask of shame. Vell’s heart leaped in his chest. The worst suspicions whispered among the Thunderbeast tribe were true. They had lost their totem’s favor. Uthgar had forsaken them.

Without warning, the bones came to life. They rose from their places ringing Morgur’s Mound and lifted high above the assembly, swirling in the air together, frantically trying to find the shape they had held in life. They eventually came together in the familiar form of a wingless dragon, a great bulky shape with a long serpentine neck. A collective gasp spilled from the tribe. Most had never seen the Thunderbeast before, but knew its shape well from the images that many of them tattooed on their bodies.

Vell’s mouth opened wide. The Uthgardt were not trained to bow and cower in the face of their god, but to stand tall and stare in reverence. Vell felt his knees weaken and tremble at the spectacle of the totem come to life.

The skull was last to rise from its pike and find its place. Two brown lights flared into life within the vacant eye sockets, and they scanned the assembly, shining their radiance in the darkness. Swooping uneasily, the Thunderbeast encircled Morgur’s Mound, casting its eyes over the throng. It turned to the altar stone and looked intently at Keirkrad. The shaman stood, his arms outstretched, his eyes closed in rapture, waiting to commune with his totem.

But the link never came. The Thunderbeast pulled away from Keirkrad and the altar mound, turning instead to the throng at the mound’s foot. Its flaring eyes scanned the tribe, examining Sungar and many others as it slowly gazed upon the assembly. At last the creature came to rest in midair, its eyes trained directly on Vell.

Though his limbs trembled, Vell did not look away. The sounds of the world around him—the gasps of the warriors standing alongside him, the gentle wind blowing overhead—vanished. The unblinking gaze pulled Vell in. Something inhuman awakened in him, and he began to scream as he felt his own identity milked away. But his scream was cut short, and he stood rigid as a post: his face blank and his eyes empty.

Above, the bones of the Thunderbeast hovered but did not move, and the brown light vanished in its eyes. Most of the Uthgardt could not see Vell or the beast. A wave of confusion spread through them. Sungar pushed his way through the gawking Uthgardt to reach Vell.

“Can you hear me?” the chieftain cried, grasping Vell’s face.

Keirkrad rushed down the altar mound to join them, his old bones carrying him through the throng with surprising speed. The shaman looked carefully into Vell’s brown eyes.

“The beast has chosen a receptacle,” he declared to the assembly. “This warrior—one of you—has received the beast’s blessing. Let Uthgar be praised.” His voice was tinged with astonishment and disappointment.

Sungar looked to Keirkrad for confirmation. “Speak to him,” the shaman said. “Speak to him. He is the voice of the Thunderbeast.”

Sungar looked Vell straight in the eye. “We beseech you. Our tribe needs guidance. We must know your will.”

Vell’s features remained impassive, and he showed no sign of comprehending or caring.

“What should we do to please you?” Sungar pleaded.

Vell’s lips opened slowly. Sungar leaned closer.

“Find the living,” Vell said. The voice was his, but the words were not.

“Find the living?” repeated Sungar. But no explanation came, nor any further words from Vell’s mouth. His eyes closed, and he fell backward into the arms of some of his fellow warriors. Keirkrad leaned forward to tend to him. Above, the hovering construct tore apart in a whirlwind of bone, the skull taking its place on the pike once again, and all the other massive bones resuming their original places around Morgur’s Mound, set and immovable in the earth once again.

“Is he safe?” Sungar whispered to Keirkrad. Keirkrad nodded. Sungar climbed the altar mound and looked out over the massive assembly of his tribe, all waiting for his words.

“The spirit has spoken!” he shouted. “It has told us to find the living.”

A murmur of confusion spread through the throng.

Sungar yelled, “And find them we shall!”

A cheer went up, rolling off the distant crags and echoing into the night. The orders of the Thunderbeast were rarely forthcoming. Even words as cryptic as these were cause for much celebration.

A strange rattle sounded—faint at first, but growing louder as it echoed off the stone walls. It disturbed Kellin Lyme, asleep at her desk before a stack of books, her candle burned down to a stump. Since early morning she had been studying the account of Yehia of Shoon and his interactions with the Uthgardt during their early history, attempting to assess its historical veracity. Now, out of her window, she could see that the Way of the Lion was dark. But large portions of it would soon be awake if that rattling kept up.

Shaking the fog from her mind, Kellin paced the library—her father’s own writings plus his collection, mixed with an increasing number of her own additions—looking for the source of the sound. She traipsed down the stairs into the archives, where she searched through the multitude of boxes collected by her father decades earlier. She was forced to open each crate carefully, to protect the priceless relics within. The noisy culprit was hidden at the bottom of a large stack. By the time she found it, she scolded the crate, telling it that every monk and scholar in the whole of Candlekeep was probably awake.

Kellin tore open the crate and found a heavy petrified bone rattling against the hardwood sides. It had already smashed and destroyed whatever other artifacts were stored with it, and when the lid came off, the bone jumped into midair. Almost automatically, Kellin reached out and grasped it, and when she did, the object’s mysterious animation subsided.

Find the living. The words flashed through her mind as she clutched the bone. Something else came with it: an impression of terrible need and danger that washed over her and set her trembling. It would be a long time before she would feel right again.

Kellin held the bone up to her face and muttered, “Thunderbeast.”

Geildarr Ithym, Mayor of Llorkh, made his way back from the Ten Bells tavern flanked by a few of the Lord’s Men. He cursed that even his own drunken stumble home had to be moderated by troops, but security was always of the essence. No sooner had Hellgate Keep fallen, eliminating one threat, than another—Shade—had appeared in the desert in the form of a floating city. And Shade was hardly the only threat Llorkh faced. Agents from the Silver Marches, Harpers and Moonstars, rival wizards from the Brotherhood of the Arcane in Luskan, and rebellious townsfolk who remembered a time before Llorkh was under Zhentarim rule—all these threatened. Plus there was the present danger of insane dragons sweeping out of the Graypeaks or the High Forest. It wasn’t so long ago that the phaerimm sent a force of bugbears against the city, and not long after that a rabble of dwarves thought to retake their old mines and stronghold—though their conspiracy was put down before any damage was done, it served as a grim reminder of how fragile Geildarr’s rule really was.

Geildarr took his leave of the guards at the gateway to the towering Lord’s Keep: his residence as Mayor of Llorkh, and the city’s seat of power. The windowless Lord’s Keep was the tallest building in Llorkh, and perhaps the dullest in a town filled with plain, utilitarian structures of stone. Beneath it was an extensive complex of tunnels and dungeons, the residence of many of Llorkh’s enemies over the years. He could hear a few muffled screams from the torture chambers even now. Just before the gates, Geildarr lingered a moment at the spot where the previous lord, Phintarn Redblade, was found dead all those years before.

Lord’s Men opened the iron doors. In the front foyer, a large painting of Geildarr hung on the wall, depicting him standing before the Lord’s Keep and smiling as the happy people of Llorkh crowded around him. Geildarr climbed the staircase several floors to his private residence. He passed his custom-made golem in the anteroom and opened the sturdy iron door into a long hallway dotted with wall hangings and pedestals. Each bore an assortment of arcane and mundane relics, most recovered from the nearby ruins. Geildarr had personally studied each of them, learned something of their history and power, and applied many of their principles in the new magical items and weapons he designed. He relished being wrapped in antiquity. The items here hailed from dwarf kingdoms, elf kingdoms, and human kingdoms—all of them fallen and gone, remembered only by historians.

Lately, Geildarr had been wondering when he’d fall along with them.

A chill draft from his balcony greeted him when he reached the door to his wood-paneled study at the end of the hall. He found a missive waiting for him, likely arrived on the latest caravan from Zhentil Keep. It was marked with the new symbol of the Zhentarim—Fzoul Chembryl’s symbol, Geildarr laughed bitterly—featuring Fzoul’s own Scepter of the Tyrant’s Eye.

This was the greatest threat to Geildarr’s leadership in Llorkh: not the shades or any other external force, but his own superiors across Anauroch. He snatched up the letter and broke the seal.

“I can tell you what it says,” came a voice from behind him. Geildarr spun to face the corner of the room and a tall man standing there in long, blue and purple robes, clutching a staff with a bat at its top. The wizard wore a smirk that showed just how pleased he was to have caught Geildarr by surprise. But Geildarr held his reaction in check and sized up the intruder with an aloof eye instead.

“I wonder,” Geildarr mused, his voice slightly slurred from his earlier drinking, “am I drunker than I think, or is this Sememmon I’m seeing?”

“Is that all you have to say?” the raven-haired wizard asked. “There was a time when you would fall on your knees at my very presence.”

“But I am not addressing Sememmon,” answered Geildarr, “am I?” He began to gesture a spell of dispel, but Sememmon extended his hand.

“No need,” he said. “Let’s drop the masks.” The form of the imperious wizard melted all around him, leaving a body half its height. A red tricorn hat topped a plump-cheeked gnome face. The figure wore robes of rich crimson—a small parody of nobility. The gnome clutched a thin blackwood cane at his side, and a mad, merry nature twinkled in his green eyes.

“What brings you here, Moritz the Mole? Do you need somewhere to sleep or something?” This wasn’t the first time this peculiar emissary of the wizard Sememmon had dropped in on Geildarr unannounced since Sememmon had fled from the Zhentarim’s prime western stronghold of Darkhold.

In the intervening years, Sememmon and his elf ladylove Ashemmi had scarcely been seen by anyone. Last he heard they were living in seclusion and traveling Faerun, collecting magic and cementing allies for some endeavor as yet unrevealed.

Geildarr knew them both well from his own trips to Darkhold over the years, but never really came to understand them. Ashemmi was a heart-stopping beauty with flaxen hair and almond-shaped eyes. How had an elf woman ended up in the Zhentarim? He had heard she had been corrupted to evil by magical means. Geildarr couldn’t even guess at the truth of this. What was clear to him, though, was that Sememmon and Ashemmi were utterly devoted to each other. Even such dark-hearted creatures as this pair were bound together by love. Geildarr yearned to trust another so completely.

Moritz laughed heartily in typically gnomish fashion. “I always enjoy visiting you because of that tongue of yours. You really ought to welcome my presence, for I come with a warning. Fzoul blames you for your failed incursion into the Fallen Lands.”

“My failed incursion,” Geildarr snorted. The plan had been Fzoul’s order. “Doomed to failure. I minimized the damage. And now he thinks to make me his sacrificial animal.”

“Fzoul courts dangerous enemies,” Moritz said. “The might of Shade has Elminster shaking in his tower. But then again, you’ve served Fzoul well. Under your mayoralty, Llorkh has been one of the most trouble-free places under Zhentarim control. Most likely he’ll keep you around a bit longer.” Moritz took a step closer to Geildarr. “But let me ask. Have you ever considered working for another power?”

“Does Sememmon’s customary offer follow? Am I to cast my lot against Fzoul? Hide in the dark like Sememmon?”

“I suspect it’s this town you love, Geildarr,” said Moritz. “You love being mayor, having that control. Llorkh is an inglorious post, but you love it all the same. I can respect that. You don’t care too much for the Zhentarim any longer. That’s why you refuse to sponsor that little girl Ardeth for membership. Or do you have other reasons for keeping her close to you?”

Geildarr’s head swirled from the drink, and he was tired of playing games.

“Why have you come here, Moritz?” he asked testily.

“I may just be the truest friend you have, Geildarr. I’ve come here to tell you something. Fzoul wants a few changes in Llorkh. You can work with them, or end up like your predecessor Redblade.” He extended his blackwood cane and used it to poke Geildarr in his pendulous belly.

“What kind of changes?” Geildarr asked, taking a step back.

“The same changes that are sweeping the Zhentarim. Bane is back. Would you like to see the Dark Sun replaced by the Black Hand?”

Geildarr shook his head grimly; he understood exactly what Moritz meant. The Dark Sun was both a title for Cyric, and the name of the god’s temple in Llorkh. But Cyricists like Geildarr were growing unpopular within the Zhentarim as Fzoul—Bane’s Chosen, and his mightiest priest—solidified power. This was a factor in Sememmon’s flight from Darkhold.

“All this you know,” Moritz went on, “but what you may not know is this: rumor has it that Mythkar Leng has already cut a secret deal with Fzoul to take your place as mayor of Llorkh.”