Son of Thunder (25 page)

But with Arklow’s help and directions, the Thunderbeasts had slaughtered the dark naga who led the phaerimm forces and fled as a massive orc army fell into infighting. Their victory was swiftly tangled with defeat, as Arklow revealed that magic lay in many of the tribe’s weapons, including Sungar’s ceremonial axe. The Thunderbeasts responded by leaving those weapons in the Fallen Lands.

Thluna looked at the oaken club he now clutched, given to him by Gunther Longtooth. It had hurt the werebats when other weapons had not. Thluna knew that the club must be magical, just like the axe. But he would not dream of disposing of it. It was a gift. Moreover, it was an outstanding weapon.

“When we were seeking out Grandfather Tree,” Rask told Thluna as they walked together, “we knew that the Blue Bears were doing the same. We did our best to give them false leads, lure them into traps, counter them wherever we could. And, thanks be to Uthgar, we reached the Tree before they did. But at the same time, our enemy helped legitimize our quest.”

“What do you mean?” asked Thluna.

“Think of what we’re doing now. You quest for your living behemoths. This might seem foolhardy to outsiders, something important only to your tribe. But clearly, this is not the case. If the Zhentarim want your secrets, your secrets must be very important indeed.”

“I had not thought of it that way,” said Thluna. “The Zhentarim have taken great interest in us. Why? Aren’t we beneath their notice?”

“A mystery indeed,” Rask confirmed. “Nothing moves the Zhentarim but power. I knew their workings all too well… they are brutal and cruel, and Geildarr is a petty despot. But contrary to what some would say, they do not practice their vile ways for no reason. They want power, and for power they hoard their coin and whatever else magic can find.”

“Magic,” Thluna repeated fatefully. At the core of all the evil in the world, he decided, there was magic.

“A mystery indeed,” the half-orc repeated. “I only hope we live long enough to solve it.”

“I never thought I had anything to hide,” said Kellin softly.

“What’s that?” asked Vell. They walked together through the underbrush, the Thunderbeast party fanning out around them. Rask and Thluna walked in the lead while Thanar held back, scanning the woods for signs of anything lurking among the trees.

Kellin swallowed. “Until recently, I never had secrets—not any that anyone would care to know. I was as open and forthcoming as anyone could be, and that felt like freedom. When I came to your camp, I kept part of myself hidden, but I could justify that to myself. I knew that if I revealed that I was a sorceress you’d reject me, and my journey would end before it began.”

“You were right,” Vell affirmed.

Kellin forced a smile. Keeping her voice low, she asked, “But am I right this time? What I know about my father…”

“Has nothing to do with you. You are not your father.”

He cast her a sideways glance.

“A curious statement from an Uthgardt,” she said. “Tell me about your father, Vell.”

Vell stood a little taller. Out of pride? Kellin wondered. “He fought with King Gundar. He died when I was young, fighting perytons in the Lurkwood. He was buried with honor outside Grunwald.”

“My father’s body was burned, and his ashes spread into the Trackless Sea at Candlekeep. He wanted to unite with the sea, with everything.” Kellin frowned. “As I keep my father’s shame a secret, it becomes my shame. Maybe I should tell Thluna.”

Vell thought about it. “Thluna’s younger even than I. He’s already proven himself less rigid than Sungar. But all the same, I would not do it. Not now.”

A tear rolled down Kellin’s cheek. “Why should I bear his shame?” She laid her hand on the hilt of the sword she wore. “I took him as my teacher. How he fooled us all. Even Keirkrad said he was a good man.” Vell could see she was holding back her emotions, and he put a hand on her shoulder.

“What will you do when you return home?” asked Vell.

“I’ll have to reveal what I’ve learned to the Candlekeep monks. It will cast doubt on all of his research. His entire work could be discarded, his books culled from the libraries.” She looked up at Vell. “Or perhaps not—I hope not, for most of my work is built on his work. But what I’ve learned must be brought forward, must be revealed.”

“You could keep his secret,” said Vell. “Only Lanaal and I know, and neither of us will reveal it.”

Kellin shook her head. “Oghma is the god of knowledge, and he teaches that knowledge is the most valuable thing. But that doesn’t mean it should be hoarded. It should be freely available to all. I’m not able to start keeping the secrets of thieves.”

“You’re brave,” said Vell. “All my life, I was taught that civilized outsiders were dishonorable and full of deceit.”

“Not all, but some are,” said Kellin. “Your tribe has seen this. Likewise, most of civilization thinks of the Uthgardt as stupid and bloodthirsty. But I always knew better.”

“Because of your father, no doubt,” said Vell. Tentatively, he added, “I’m intrigued by what you said about Oghma. Does he truly spurn all secrets? Even those we carry in our hearts?”

“Well, mostly it concerns the facts of the world,” said Kellin. “Some things are meant just for the individual. The church of Oghma values self-knowledge as well, and sometimes that means privacy. In fact, on my twelfth birthday, the Lorekeepers revealed to me my True Name, a secret name meant to contain the truth of me.”

“Does it?” Vell asked.

“I wondered at first how it was meant to,” she admitted. “It frustrated me. I thought this was a weakness. I thought I was supposed to understand. I struggled to grasp the meaning, the reason this True Name was for me. I probed deep, contemplated many questions. There are moments when I seemed on the verge of understanding, but it always lay just outside my grasp. Then I had an epiphany. I realized that the struggle for understanding held more meaning than the name ever could.” She smiled with a serenity that Vell admired and envied.

“So what name is it?”

“I can’t tell!” she laughed. Vell was thoroughly disarmed. “A lady must keep some secrets for herself.”

“That’s all I wanted to know,” said Vell.

“If I had secrets of the heart?” asked Kellin. “Be assured, I do.”

“I am glad of that,” Vell answered, a smile on his face. It filled him with confidence that perhaps, when all of this was settled, another world might be opened up for him.

But the pressure inside his mind could not be ignored. It was growing stronger with each step closer to the Star Mounts. Gods, he thought. I would not be here if it wasn’t for my affliction, the Thunderbeast inside.

He placed his hand on the side of his head, trying to weigh his thoughts.

It’s leading me around, he thought.

Sungar’s world was a blur as two guards tossed him back into his cell. He’d had another session of Kiev’s ministrations. They grew more brutal each time, Sungar was convinced, and now his body was raw and torn as never before. Falling limply on the hard cell floor, he heard one of the attendants say, “Sweet dreams, chief.” Then Sungar drifted away on the pain.

A hand reached out to grasp his. When he opened his eyes, Sungar found himself staring into the craggy, bearded face of King Gundar.

He was not lying in the prison cell in Llorkh, but on a warm, grassy field, with an open sky sprawling above him. His wounds were gone—not healed, but gone—as if they had never been. Gundar’s familiar, smiling face, so strong and so benevolent, beamed down on him. This was not Gundar as he lay dying in Llorkh, but the vibrant man Sungar had fought beside so many times, now decked in mail as if newly returned from their victorious raid on Raven Rock.

“Arise, Chieftain of the Thunderbeasts,” Gundar said.

Sungar accepted his hand and pulled himself to his feet. He could see the Spine of the World towering in the distance and knew that he was just south of the Lurkwood. Open spaces, a clear sky—he drank in all of those things he had feared he would never see again. But this place was strangely unreal: the colors more vivid, the rose-colored sky so much closer to the ground. Sungar wondered whether he was receiving a vision, or if he was hallucinating. One would be a true gift from Uthgar, the other the meaningless babble of a crippled mind.

“I fear I am chief no longer,” said Sungar. “Perhaps I was never meant to be.”

“I chose you,” Gundar said. “All of my sons were dead. On my deathbed, I named you my successor—not Keirkrad, nor any other.”

“And by doing so, you confirmed my decision to withdraw from Grunwald.”

Gundar shrugged. “Our people thrived in Grunwald in some senses, but in others, we festered. Perhaps a return to nomad ways was wise.”

“I strive to make all of my decisions wise,” said Sungar. “But my decisions have brought us here. Our tribe is in ruins, and I am nothing but a prisoner. They must have been a fool’s decisions. I misled our people.”

“Do not be so certain,” the old chief said. Sungar saw that Gundar held the battle-axe. Better it be in Gundar’s grasp than a hobgoblin’s. “It is possible to make no mistake, and yet fail.”

“What would you have done?” asked Sungar. “I’ve asked myself that a thousand times. That day, in the Fallen Lands. I can’t deny that I felt satisfaction as I threw the axe.” He reached toward the phantasmal battle-axe and rested his hand on its blade. “The civilized mage thought himself better than us—he thought he could make us abandon our principles because he said so. I proved him wrong.”

“You were interpreting Uthgar’s law,” said Gundar.

“So did the Black Ravens when they tried to destroy us in Grunwald,” Sungar said. “They thought they were doing his work. But that day, I had motivations other than serving Uthgar.”

“So you think this is Uthgar’s punishment?” asked Gundar. “Do you think Uthgar placed the axe in that hobgoblin’s hands and sent him to the door of a great enemy—all to teach you a lesson?”

Sungar flinched. “That shows a lack of humility, I confess. I am curious… if you are dead, do you have access to Uthgar’s will?”

Gundar smiled mysteriously. “That is a question. Are you so certain that you are speaking to someone beyond the grave? Honestly?”

“Who could ever be certain of such a thing?” asked Sungar. “Is it humble to think so miraculous a visitor would come to me?”

Gundar let out a roar of laughter. It felt entirely right—exactly how Gundar would have reacted in life. “M’boy, the Chieftain of Chieftains isn’t punishing you. Uthgar is trying to help you, and he is acting to help your tribesmen. Don’t be afraid for them. Nor should you be afraid for yourself. If death awaits you, face it proudly in a manner befitting a chief.”

“Should I kill myself, then?”

Gundar’s blue eyes locked onto Sungar’s. He spoke simply, but his words hit Sungar with unexpected weight. “Do not be in such a hurry to die.”

The sky began to fade away, the dull gray of the stone ceiling peeking out behind it.

“You haven’t answered my question,” said Sungar hurriedly.

“About the axe, you mean?” Gundar lifted it into the air. “Uthgar wielded this axe once. Our people gave it to him as an offering in the time when he walked and breathed as a man. Uthgar gave it to Chief Tharkane Scalehide, not as a rejection of our gift, but because he thought it most appropriate that our tribe wield it. The weapon of Berun stayed with the blood of Berun.”

“So Geildarr spoke the truth,” said Sungar. He desperately tried to keep his eyes shut to the world so that this vision might continue, but it was dissolving despite his efforts.

“Yes,” said Gundar, the world trembling around him. “If you had known that this magical axe had been wielded by Berun of old, and even by Uthgar, would you have acted any differently?”

Sungar’s eyes flew open. His bloodied lips parted, and his hoarse voice rasped, “Yes, I would have.”

When they saw light again, it was through an archway facing north, overlooking the sweep of the High Forest. Royce and Gunton squinted at the welcome light. Their trip through the dark tunnels of Onthrilaenthor had been tedious and exhausting, but thankfully uneventful. Their doorway to the outside lay partway up one of the mountains, cut into the slope of one of the easternmost Star Mounts. Traces of ancient switchbacks cutting down the mountainside and into the forest were evident.

“Mount Vision!” Halzoon pointed up at the peak towering into the clouds. He kept his back to the sun; the bright light was uncomfortable for him. “The place you want is on the other side, down in a valley.”

“How far?” asked Ardeth.

“On wings, not far,” the werebat mused. “But on legs, another day.”

“Very well,” said Ardeth. “Take us there now. But I must ask—what is your agreement with Geildarr? Are you to simply lead us there, or are you willing to join us in battle if needed?”

“Hmm,” said Halzoon. “Heskret told me to deliver you to the place you seek. He said nothing of fighting.”

“I don’t understand something,” said Royce. “What kind of payment has Geildarr given you? Just what do werebats want?”

“Mmm,” Halzoon mused. “Mosquitoes.”

Ardeth, Gunton, and Royce stared at him like he’d just dropped down from the Sea of Night. Even Gan seemed puzzled.

“He paid you in mosquitoes?” Royce asked.

“No, silly,” said Halzoon, baring his saliva-covered teeth. “He paid us in gold.”

Unsure whether to laugh, they just stared at him. At this Gan spoke; none of them could remember him saying anything in several days.

“You will not help us fight, if we must fight?” he asked Halzoon, holding Berun’s axe close.

“I am not paid to fight,” Halzoon rasped. “And you, goblinoid?”

“There is more to life than wealth,” Gan answered.

Halzoon shook his head in confusion. “You, goblinoid, are here for the same reason as I, surely. Zhentarim hired your people…”

“I serve Geildarr out of honor, not for profit. Serving for profit ruined my people, and it will ruin yours.” Gan angrily slammed the shaft of the axe onto the rock at his feet.

“Then why do you serve him?” Halzoon’s hazel eyes looked up at the hobgoblin. “You admit that the destruction of your tribe is on his head. So what has he done to make himself worthy of your loyalty?”