Son of Thunder (6 page)

“You are impure,” the Black Raven rasped through his failing breath. “You are weak.”

“Not so weak as you think, it seems,” said Sungar. He sank his hammer into the Black Raven’s brain.

As the dust settled in Grunwald, and the skies cleared of Black Ravens, a mighty cheer rose up from the tribe. Soon after, all eyes turned toward the rubble of the King’s Lodge.

“Is this why the Thunderbeast gave Vell its power?” asked Thluna. “So that he might save us on this occasion?”

“Truly, songs will be sung of his sacrifice,” Sungar said.

“He might still live,” said Keirkrad. He rubbed his skin, now restored and supple.

The tribe set upon the rubble, digging through it for any trace of Vell. They detected a quiet weeping, like the mewing of a kitten. The strongest of the tribe’s warriors were needed to lift the rocks that pinned the youth. Although Vell showed no visible injuries, tears stained his cheeks. The tribe stood staring at him, not knowing what to say.

Sungar and Keirkrad stepped in. “Arise, my son,” the chieftain said. “You are our salvation this day, and there shall be mead and flesh to celebrate.” But Vell lay still and silent, his brown eyes darting. Not a scratch marked his body, but he was wounded, as if he had witnessed all the pain in the world.

“A thousand lines of doggerel and I’m no closer to understanding this axe,” Geildarr complained. His study was littered with handwritten notes scattered on tables and pinned to the walls, and the subject of it all—the battle-axe—still lay across his desk. Ardeth lingered on a few notees.

“Black feathers fall at the open blade,” Ardeth read. “With the name of Uthgar on the lips of both friend and foe, eggshells shatter under the kingly might. A revenge is repaid near the sacred site.” Then another: “Tharkane’s hands on the shaft as the nations clash under tree the eldest. Blue Haloan’s blood spoils the foliage. The people of the forest look on but do not present themselves.”

“Interesting spell, this one,” Ardeth said. “I thought you’d simply cast it and it would tell you what you need to know about the item. Naive of me.”

“Divinations, my dear,” said Geildarr, “are like Alaundo’s Prophecies. They always make perfect sense in the clear light of hindsight. Understanding them beforehand is more difficult. The problem here is that this axe obviously has a very long history. I think it goes back as far as Delzoun, and it hasn’t been lying in the dust for all those years, by any means. It’s had a very active life. Many stories.” He rested his hand on the axe head, curling his fingers over the blade enough to feel its sharpness.

“Learning the stories is just the beginning,” he went on. “The legending spell doesn’t always tell the truth—just the legends people tell, or used to tell.”

“And those can be untrue,” said Ardeth.

“Right. And sometimes the legends leave out the most important parts of a story. Each new casting gives me a fuller understanding and allows me to ask more probing questions, but the problem in this case is that there’s so much story to cover.”

“You do have quite a library on the next floor,” said Ardeth. “Is more research necessary?”

“I’ve called you here for research,” said Geildarr, “but not the kind that uses books. Let me show you what I know. I’ve sorted the notes into several categories.” He indicated a pile of scribblings on the desk before him. “First, my discoveries about the axe’s creation. It was forged in Delzoun and given as a gift to somebody who helped rid the dwarves of an enemy. But the rescuer had powerful enemies of his own.” Geildarr rubbed his chin. “I’m going to try some other divinations about this figure, but I suspect that he’s the one called ‘Berun.’ There’s a Berun’s Hill south of Longsaddle, related or otherwise,

“But here’s what interests me the most. There are various hints that Berun is some sort of leader of men, guiding his people west from ‘fallen skies, dead gods, and rising sands.’ Sounds like Netheril to me—some mass migration after Karsus’s Folly. This one—” Geildarr scanned his desk and snatched up the appropriate note “—may describe new dweomers being woven into the axe that ties it to something else, some kind of object or artifact that alters the axe’s power.” Geildarr read his scribbling aloud. “Joined as one the axe and heart by the stout folks’ spells, a link forged cannot be undone. Swells the power of both, and both in Berun’s hands now leave the underland.” Geildarr smirked. “Bad poetry, but intriguing divination.”

Ardeth giggled. “A Netherese artifact?” she asked. “Do you know anything more?”

“I’m still attempting some divinations. But beyond the important bits about the axe’s creation, most of the legends describe typical adventuring stories—beheading dragons, slaughtering giants, that kind of thing. The clear majority of what I’ve uncovered is of this sort. Who knows if they’re true?”

Geildarr drummed his fingers on the table. “But it scarcely matters. The sheer volume of the tales means the axe has had a very active history. I’ve even gleaned that it’s been in the hands of one of the barbarian tribes from up north,” Geildarr said with a smile, and he produced an old book called Tulrun’s Totem Tales of the Beast Shamans from amid the piles of notes. “I think I’ve identified it as the Thunderbeast tribe.”

“An Uthgardt tribe,” Ardeth said. “But don’t they shun magic? Isn’t it unlikely that they’re hoarding Netherese magic after fourteen hundred years?”

“They had this axe until fairly recently,” said Geildarr. “How they lost it and how it ended up in the Fallen Lands is still a mystery to me, but my spells have given me a few references to fairly recent events. And while axes are a fairly standard barbarian weapon, Tulrun’s book talks about the chief of the Thunderbeasts—who called himself King Gundar—owning an impressive axe, the symbol of his leadership.” Geildarr closed his hand around the axe’s shaft. “Perhaps this is the very same.”

“So the other artifact that’s linked to this axe,” Ardeth mused. “What do you know about it?”

“I’ll keep trying,” said Geildarr. “I don’t know much about it yet. Perhaps I’ll have more answers once you get back.”

“Get back? From where?”

Geildarr smiled. “There’s an old friend of mine I haven’t thought about in some time. Arthus Tyrrell. He knows plenty about the Uthgardt. That’s if you don’t mind a trip outside of Llorkh.”

“Not at all,” said Ardeth.

“You’ll need to move quickly.” Geildarr stood and walked across the room, snatching from the wall a primitive bone dagger, carved with a sharp point. He tossed it to Ardeth and she caught it by the hilt. “Be sure to give him my best. The skymage Valkin Balducius just came in with a caravan from the Keep—I’ll have him escort you.” Geildarr hesitated a moment, then said, “There’s something else I want to talk to you about, something you can’t mention to anyone. It could mean my neck if you do.”

“What’s that?” asked Ardeth.

“You know who Sememmon is?”

“Of course,” said Ardeth.

“A… person loyal to him paid me a visit recently, and not for the first time.”

“Gods,” said Ardeth. “Did you alert Zhentil Keep?”

“No,” said Geildarr. “What good would it do? If they haven’t been able to catch him with all their resources, a tip from me isn’t going to help.”

“Who visited you?” asked Ardeth. “What did he want?”

“His name is Moritz. He’s a gnome, and an illusionist.”

“Truly?” Ardeth giggled.

“No comic trifle, this gnome,” said Geildarr. “He’s a slippery creature. He’s probably as versatile an illusionist as you’ll find. No one has ever known him to engage in violence personally, but there are many deaths on his head nonetheless. He’s served Sememmon for years, but I wouldn’t be surprised if Fzoul still has no knowledge of his existence.

“Let me tell you a story. Moritz—I like to call him Moritz the Mole, burrowling that he is—comes from the village of Hardbuckler.” Ardeth knew of this gnome settlement—somewhat south of Llorkh, it served as a stopover along the caravan route between Llorkh and Darkhold. “Or so I believe … it’s possible that it’s all just an elaborate deception Moritz has woven. I suspect he does such things for his own amusement. He was trained in the smoke arts of illusion—but he found the way of Baravar, the gnome god of illusion, too modest; not a path to the power he wanted. He learned about Leira, the Lady of the Mists, and pledged himself to her worship.

“So he left his people and met some human illusionists, who ultimately directed him to a place called the Mistkeep—I don’t know where it is. He studied with the Leiran mistcallers there, learning spells, improving his power. Of course, by this point, there was no Leira. Cyric had killed her, and since then, he grants spells to her worshipers in her place. Most Leirans don’t care, may not even believe it, or they think the entire world is just one big illusion. But Moritz was a gnome, and he thought differently. He stopped praying to Leira and prayed instead to Cyric. And Cyric gave him a vision.”

Geildarr settled into a comfortable chair. “The vision bade him home, so Moritz went back to Hardbuckler in disguise. He found that he felt no sympathy for his people, not even his own family, and when he discovered Zhentarim agents working in secret to take over the town, he helped them—essentially handing over his own folk to Darkhold. His actions brought him the notice of Sememmon, who stripped away the illusion he wore and insisted that Moritz tell him the whole story. Pleased, Sememmon decided to make Moritz into the most secret of his agents, using him as an infiltrator, yes, and as a mole.”

“Nice story, Geildarr,” said Ardeth. She smiled slightly. “Kinda reminds me of something.”

“I thought it might,” said Geildarr. “Not many people know it, believe me. I repeat that the story may not be true—but I heard it from Sememmon himself one night over too many ales. Anyway, not long after Sememmon fled Darkhold, Moritz popped up here—Sememmon must have given him some sort of teleportation device, or perhaps he’s exploiting illusion cleverly. He came to talk me into joining Sememmon’s side. To do what, I’m not entirely sure—cower under a table somewhere with his master and Ashemmi, maybe.”

“But you wouldn’t do it. Would you?”

“I haven’t yet, have I?” Geildarr asked. “But I mention it because… the last time he visited, he mentioned you.”

“For true?” asked Ardeth. “What about me?”

“Nothing memorable—just a mention. That’s what puzzles me. He must have had a reason. Maybe he’ll try to get at me through you.” Geildarr looked down at his desk a moment. “He probably sees you as a weakness of mine.”

“But we’re not lovers,” said Ardeth.

“You and I know that,” Geildarr said with a lukewarm smile, “but not everyone does.”

An uncomfortable silence hung over Geildarr’s study. Then Ardeth turned to him, gripping the dagger by its carved bone hilt.

“About Arthus Tyrrell, then,” she said.

A lone creature, a tangle of roots, vines, and leaves, wandered through the high valley by moonlight. Spawned in the bubbling bogs of the Evermoors, it plodded east through the Silverwood and spread its taint and rot through the valleys at the feet of the Nether Mountains. The grass withered and died where it stepped. Natural creatures—the bears, elk, and red tigers that inhabited these heights—fled at its presence.

But then something arrived to challenge it. A man with thick, hard muscles, armed with nothing but his own strength, stared at the creature, waiting. He stood still and silent in the moonlight, facing down the shambler. A creature of pure instinct, it stepped forward and opened its rotting arms to welcome the barbarian.

The barbarian stood still and accepted the embrace of those putrescent limbs. He let the shambler seize hold of him, feeling its acid sting his flesh. The barbarian gritted his teeth and tried to hold back, but the change came over him nonetheless; his skin changed to scales within the shambler’s grasp. The great rotten plant tightened all the more, but strong arms dug into it from within. The barbarian locked his eyes on the twin pools of green that served the shambling mound for vision. He clenched his muscles, and—with a mighty scream—flung his arms apart. The shambler’s body was torn asunder.

Vell sat alone in that meadow till the sun rose, the rotting remains of his enemy lying all around him. The scales had left him, but the feeling did not. Eventually, Keirkrad arrived.

“It was not difficult to find you,” Keirkrad said. “I needed only to follow the trail of dead ogres and trolls. Sungar may have let you take your leave of the tribe after Grunwald,” Keirkrad went on, “but I’m telling you now, your tribe has even greater need of you than before.”

“I do not feel like a member of the tribe now,” Vell told him.

“You mean you feel better than the rest of us?”

“No!” Vell thundered, rising to his feet. “How could you ask such a thing?”

“You dare raise your voice to a shaman?” Keirkrad snarled. Vell shrank away like a chastised child. “Have you found enlightenment out here, away from your people? Has the beast given you guidance?”

“No,” Vell confessed.

“That’s because you’re not following its instructions. It did not tell you to set yourself apart from our tribe. The beast despises such arrogance, and the more you resist the call, the worse your anguish will become. Uthgar is an accepting deity. Why else would he allow himself to be worshiped through so many different forms—the Thunderbeast, the Sky Pony, the Black Raven, and all the others. Perhaps in Uthgar’s halls at Warrior’s Rest we shall all be united as brothers, friend and foe alike. But the beast does not accept defiance of its instructions.”

“You said the beast had a greater purpose for me. A destiny. That I was set apart.”

“That may be so,” Keirkrad admitted. “But you seem to believe that the gift of Uthgar was meant for you. This is not so—the gift is for our tribe. You are merely the vessel. I know the burden you bear. Perhaps I alone can help you through it. I have spent my life serving the beast and Uthgar, and I know full well what you’re feeling.”

Vell shook his head. “You say you know, but how can you?”

“I should have left the world decades ago,” Keirkrad admitted. “I feel unnatural, an aberration. Some call me ‘Uthgar’s freak.’ My skin crawls with age. Sometimes,” he smiled grimly, “I wish I could just die, but if I live still, I must have some further function. I have not yet fulfilled my role for our tribe, for Uthgar. I must keep living until I do.”