Son of Thunder (12 page)

As his energy left him, and he collapsed into a defeated heap in his cell, it occurred to him that the bars survive the prisoner much more readily than the prisoner survives the bars.

Only a small shower of pebbles broke free from the walls where he had battered them. Sungar reached out to gather them up in his weak hands.

“If yer finished,” came a whispered voice, “I’d like to welcome you. If you can call it a welcome.” The voice was low and gruff and came from the cell next to Sungar’s.

Sungar could barely speak—his throat was parched, his energy sapped. He leaned against the stone wall.

“Where is this?” Sungar asked.

“We’re residents of the Lord’s Keep. Dignitaries and other important folks guesting in Llorkh get to stay in the Lord’s Keep, and so do we. I’m guessin’ their rooms are nicer.”

“Llorkh,” repeated Sungar. “Where is Llorkh?”

“You don’t know it?” said the voice. “Then I really can’t imagine what yer in here for. Just who are you?”

“Who are you?” demanded Sungar.

“I’m Hurd Hardhalberd. Who are you?”

“You’re a dwarf,” Sungar said.

“Excellent guess,” said Hurd. “And now it’d be polite to give me yer name in return.”

“Sungar. Of the Thunderbeast tribe.”

“Thunderbeast?” the dwarf said in surprise. “Uthgardt?” He took Sungar’s silence as confirmation. “I used to meet with your people when I worked up in Mirabar. Bought yer timber now and again.”

“Are we near Mirabar now?”

“No,” Hurd told him. “I guess you don’t get to look at maps very often. Llorkh’s well on the other side of the North, nestled pleasantly among the Graypeaks like an open wound oozing Zhentarim corruption throughout Delimbiyr Vale. We’re south and east of the High Forest, if that means more to you.”

“Is that anywhere near the Fallen Lands?” asked Sungar.

“Aye, rather near,” Hurd said. “Why do you ask?”

There had to be some connection, Sungar knew. The decisions he made in the Fallen Lands had set the stage for all of this—the Thunderbeasts’ disfavor had drawn them to Morgur’s Mound where powers were bestowed on Vell, and the attack on his camp couldn’t have been coincidence. And now he was here in this dirty hole, with no company but a nattering dwarf.

If it had been King Gundar in the Fallen Lands, Sungar wondered, would Gundar have done any differently?

“Fine conversationalist you’ll be, I’m sure,” Hurd said. “But you really have no idea why they’ve brought you here?”.

“I don’t even know who ‘they’ are.”

“I can help with that part,” said Hurd. “They’re the Zhentarim. Or some arm of it, led by the fop wizard Geildarr, who murdered the rightful ruler of this town long ago, chased out most of the dwarves, closed down the mines, and handed Llorkh over to the Black Network.”

Few in the North had not heard of the Zhentarim, even among the insular barbarians. Sungar knew that warriors loyal to the Zhentarim had slain the Great Wyrm—one of the most respected of the Uthgardt beast totems—just to scavenge its treasure hoard.

“One thing’s fer sure,” said Hurd. “If they brought you here, they have a reason. You should be able to figure it out soon enough, once Kiev’s assistant asks you his questions. He’s the chief torturer down here. You’ll know him when you see him. One of them half-breeds of men and orcs, made of the vilest parts of each.”

“He’ll get nothing out of me,” Sungar said.

“That’s what I thought,” Hurd told him. “But I spilled my guts, puking it out till there was nothing left. That was in the first months of my stay here. But listen to this: afterward, Kiev’s assistant told me that they already knew everything I’d said. Kiev took it from me while I was unconscious, using magic. He just did it again for the pleasure of seeing me break. I don’t know if he told me the truth, but it could be that every secret you have, you’ve already given up. It’s been a year since then, and they still torture me again every now and then. They know I have nothing else to say, but they do it anyway.”

“Have you ever thought about killing yourself?” asked Sungar.

“I plan to,” said Hurd. “Every morning I wake up thinking that this’ll be the day. But it never is.”

“Cowardly dwarf,” Sungar shot at him, though he instantly wished he hadn’t.

“Maybe I am a coward,” Hurd replied. “But I don’t see what my death will accomplish. Llorkh’s on the verge of big changes, one way or the other, and I want to stay alive long enough to see what happens. So kill yourself if you want,” Hurd went on. “But don’t do it just to prove you’re braver than a dwarf.”

Sungar welcomed the thought of the lash; it would be punishment either for the past betrayal of his tribe or his future betrayal of its secrets. He knew that either way, he would earn the ire of the Thunderbeast and the shame of dead King Gundar.

Five men marched silently to the main door of the Lord’s Keep and were shown through immediately. The strangers were a common enough sight in Llorkh, but even if they hadn’t been, few guards would have dared question them. Their features were worn and battered, and though they were fairly young, they looked as if they had lived many lifetimes of danger and strain in their years. The Lord’s Men opened the great iron doors and nodded to them as they passed. They climbed several flights of stairs, finding their way to Geildarr’s purple-curtained audience chamber, where they were greeted by a person they’d come to appreciate much in the last year.

“Welcome back,” said Ardeth, embracing each of the Antiquarians in turn—Bessick, Vonelh, Gunton, Nithinial, and Royce Hundar.

“I can’t tell you how glad we are to see you again, Ardeth,” said Royce, their de facto leader, and the most handsome and dynamic of the bunch. His ready smile was disarming but weary. “We’re puzzled about the reason Geildarr pulled us back. We think we were close to something big in Highstar Lake.”

“Have no fear,” said Ardeth. “Highstar Lake is child’s play compared to where you men are going. You’re all about to be sent on the mission of missions.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” asked Vonelh, the company’s wizard. “Tell us about it.”

“And spoil the suspense?” Ardeth grinned. “Don’t worry. Geildarr will explain everything soon. We first need a few more people to arrive for this briefing. You’ll have companions on this mission.”

“Gods, no!” protested the heavyset warrior Bessick. He wore his usual maniacal grin and toyed with his favorite weapon—a heavy spiked chain. “Not more of those damned Lord’s Men! Doesn’t Geildarr remember what happened last time?”

“I promise,” said Ardeth. “No Lord’s Men. You’ll have more interesting companions.” On that note, she vanished through a door and left the Antiquarians wondering just who would be joining them. A short time later, the answer arrived. Their eyes grew wide with disbelief and they dropped their heads.

Mythkar Leng nodded in vague satisfaction at their display of supplication.

“I trust you can explain what I’m doing here,” Leng said.

“Forgive us, Strifeleader Leng,” said Royce, “but we are wondering the same. We would be honored if you were to accompany us on this mission.”

“What?” demanded Leng. “What mission?”

“We don’t know,” Royce told him. “Geildarr has just recalled us for some important new mission.”

“Ardeth said that we’re waiting for somebody who’ll come with us on this mission,” said Nithinial. “We’re honored if that’s you.” He was a half-elf, lean and small-boned, though most folk he met learned quickly never to bring up his elf heritage. His companions still told the story of a man who hurled an ethnic slur at Nithinial from across the Ten Bells tavern and found his hand nailed to the wall by Nithinial’s expertly-thrown dagger.

“What?” Leng hissed. “Geildarr summoned me to a meeting. He said it was a matter of critical importance to the Zhentarim. He wouldn’t dare send me on one of his fool’s errands!”

“Indeed I wouldn’t,” said Geildarr, walking through the door with Ardeth beside him. Behind them came an armor-clad hobgoblin, so tall he had to duck to pass through the doorway. In his hands he held a massive axe and he walked deliberately, as if he invested each step with momentous reverence. The effect was hilarious, and the Antiquarians had to hold back laughter.

“You’d better have a good explanation, Geildarr,” said Leng.

“Trust me, I do,” the mayor answered. “Gan, if you’d like to put that down.” The hobgoblin laid the axe on a table in the audience chamber’s center and backed off to a corner where he stood as still as a statue. “Welcome back, men. Gunton, perhaps you’d like to look at this.”

Heavily-bearded Gunton walked forward to look over the axe. “Dwarven,” he said, and looked up at Geildarr. “That much is obvious. Could it be Delzounian?”

Geildarr patted his shoulder. “Your instincts do not disappoint, my friend.” Geildarr was clearly excited about the news he had to share, but wanted to delay the pleasure of revealing it. “Here’s a brief history lesson.” At the priest’s sneer, he said, “You’ll have to bear with me, Mythkar. You’ll understand why in a moment.

“We all know about Netheril, the Empire of Magic from so long ago. Anyone who hadn’t heard of it before should be acquainted with it now, ever since the Plane of Shadows spat up its last survivors. Netherese magic was so great that it could make cities fly, transform lands, and accomplish other feats that the Weave simply doesn’t support any longer. When magic failed during Karsus’s Folly, most of the artifacts made by the Netherese mages were lost. As you can imagine, any exception to this catastrophe is of great interest to me, and to the Zhentarim. This axe, with a tangled history behind it, is as old as Netheril, and I believe—” he slowed for dramatic effect “—it will point the way to the lost magic of the greatest archwizards Faerun has ever known.”

Geildarr ignored the derisive laughter coming from Leng’s direction and continued. “One of the cities of fallen Netheril was called Runlatha. A man whom history recalls only as ‘the Bey of Runlatha’ led an exodus to the west, taking the wealth of their fallen home with them. Along the way, they were hounded by a tanar’ri named Zukothoth … a nalfeshnee, I believe. For a time they took refuge in the dwarven realm of Delzoun, where the Bey acquired an axe—this axe, so graciously brought to our door by our hobgoblin friend Gan, who sensed the power in it and brought it to the right place.”

Geildarr swelled with self-importance. “The Bey and his group wove dweomers into the axe that linked it to a powerful artifact from Runlatha. The axe is a key that will reveal the artifact’s hiding place when brought into its proximity—a place simply called ‘the Sanctuary,’ which I have divined as lying just outside of the Star Mounts.”

The Antiquarians exchanged glances in their excitement. They’d never set foot in the High Forest and knew the legends about it—the Star Mounts, especially—better than anyone.

“I see that catches your attention,” said Geildarr with a smile. “But this power has been lost to the people who possessed it in the centuries since. The Bey used this axe to defeat Zukothoth and died in the process. In time, his followers became the Uthgardt, and this axe became a ceremonial weapon of the Thunderbeast tribe. Even the god Uthgar is said to have wielded it at one time, perhaps when he was a mortal Northlander. But two years ago, the tribe’s chief, Sungar, decided to leave this ancient object of power, this priceless piece of their heritage, in the Fallen Lands. Barbarians have never been the best reasoners.”

“What kind of artifact is it?” asked Royce. “The one that is linked to the axe?”

“I don’t know exactly,” Geildarr admitted. “But because the Runlathans to go to such lengths to hide it, it must be important. Its own innate magic capably kept it hidden all these centuries, after all. It’s something the Zhentarim will be pleased to possess, I’m quite sure.”

“How do you know all this?” Leng asked.

“Divination magic has uncovered much, along with research in my library. The rest we owe to Ardeth.” He placed a hand on her shoulder. “She consulted one of the few experts on the Uthgardt living in the North, and she kidnapped the chieftain Sungar, who’s currently a resident of the lower floors of the Lord’s Keep.”

“So that was the mysterious mission on which the skymage died?” asked Leng. “By Cyric, Geildarr, you can’t imagine that they will…”

“Skymages are plentiful, at least compared to powerful Netherese artifacts,” Geildarr shot back. “I don’t doubt that Fzoul will forgive all, if you succeed.”

“You honestly mean to order me along with these mercenaries?” Leng demanded.

“No. I wouldn’t presume to order about a high priest of Cyric. But I hope you might choose to go, once you hear this.” At that, Ardeth stood and told the story of the attack on Sungar’s Camp, or at least her version of it. When she finished, expressions of new interest were on the faces of all assembled, except for Gan, who looked puzzled.

“From what we’ve learned from Sungar,” said Geildarr, “the creature that attacked Ardeth and Valkin was probably a member of their tribe who was recently given extraordinary powers by their giant lizard totem animal.”

“You mean from Uthgar,” said Leng. “These totems they worship are just different faces of Uthgar.”

“Was I right?” Geildarr asked him. “Does the knowledge that another god was taking notice draw your interest?”

Leng shrugged. “Uthgar is a minor power. Cyric pays little attention to his activities. But if Uthgar has truly invested enough power to turn a man into a behemoth.” He trailed off, leaving his awed expression to convey the rest.

“What’s more, the Thunderbeast gave his tribe a message to find the living behemoths,” said Geildarr. “It could be that this Sanctuary of which I spoke was designed to hide the last dinosaurs of the North, and that the magic of Runlatha is sustaining it. Unfortunately, Kiev tells me that Sungar knows absolutely nothing about the Sanctuary.”

“Living dinosaurs,” said Royce, looking to his fellow Antiquarians and gauging their reactions. “It takes a lot to find something we haven’t seen.”

“I’m amused by the prospect of dinosaurs in the High Forest,” said Geildarr, “but I suspect Leng could find a more interesting use for them than I.” He could already see dark thoughts breeding in the priest’s eyes. “I’m already working on a way to contain them in the Central Square.”