Son of Thunder (3 page)

“Leng!” protested Geildarr. The high priest of the Dark Sun had long been Geildarr’s conduit to the Zhentarim leadership, charged with keeping him informed of directives from Zhentil Keep. Though Geildarr was officially a member of the Zhentarim, he was largely content to function as mayor of Llorkh, letting Leng handle the Network’s day-to-day operations in the region. Leng would keep him advised on the Zhentarim’s ever-shifting agenda, and Geildarr would try to react accordingly. “Why would they let Leng be mayor?” Geildarr demanded. “He’s a Cyricist too!”

“Is he?” asked Moritz. “Cyric is Lord of Illusion—who would know better than I?—and Prince of Lies as well. Perhaps Leng learned the art of deception so well that he can fool his own god. It has been done before, after all. Leng was a priest of Bane before the Godswar, as you’ll remember, and old habits tend to stick. But as I said, I know this only as a rumor. Something for you to investigate. If you wish to keep your job, I suggest taking it up with Leng.

“On the other hand,” Moritz chuckled, “if you wish to keep your life, Sememmon offers his protection. Either way, he extends a message to you. I believe it was, ‘Try to keep this town of mine in one piece.’”

“Llorkh?” asked Geildarr. “Sememmon’s?”

“As much as it is yours, truly,” Moritz said. “I’d wager you harbor fantasies of Llorkh passing from the Zhentarim as your private fiefdom. It’s good to have dreams. The difference between you and Sememmon is his dreams have a chance of coming true.”

“If you believe Sememmon has a prayer of wresting anything from Fzoul and his pet clone,” Geildarr said, “then it’s clear that all this toying with illusion has finally estranged you from reality. Bound to happen, really.”

The gnome frowned. “You have no idea what kind of power Sememmon hoards. But know this—” Moritz aimed his cane upward at Geildarr’s face “—Sememmon’s patience is finite. His offer will be made only so many times, and you may find his friendship withdrawn just when you need it most.”

“Then let your master show up here in person for once,” Geildarr said. “Maybe I’ll catch him in a bottle and hand him over to Fzoul as a present. I wager that would help preserve my rule in Llorkh.”

Moritz cackled, bending over with laughter at this thought.

“And I’m the delusional one? Hear it and know it true, Geildarr—you may have some fun toying around with magical objects, but you are not the wizard Sememmon is.”

And at that, he vanished from the spot, leaving Geildarr to his spinning head.

Thluna found Sungar just where he expected—standing on the outer ring of Morgur’s Mound at the freshest cairn. The rest of the tribe was encamped just outside the Crags; it was forbidden among the Uthgardt to make camp at any ancestor mound, though the decadent Black Lion tribe had violated that rule by settling near Beorunna’s Well. Thluna slowly stepped up to his chief and joined him in reverence of the dead.

In the last two years, young Thluna, son of Hagraavan, had become closer to Sungar than any other Uthgardt. Thluna had wed Sungar’s daughter Alaa, and now stood to succeed him as chieftain, though such lines of succession were not always clearly drawn. Sungar and Thluna were among the few who had survived the shame and devastation brought down upon their tribe in the Fallen Lands. But more importantly, Thluna, though little more than a boy, was the sole member of his tribe who always told Sungar the truth.

“Has King Gundar any answers for you today?” asked Thluna.

“Silence only. I asked him how he became so loved by his people,” Sungar told him. “Even those who disagreed with him. The songs don’t tell that. Hazred and the other skalds tell of how he so impressed the Red Tiger tribe by slaughtering a leucrotta, armed only with one of their ritual claws. And of the time he and his warriors lay siege to the Black Raven aerie near Raven Rock, and smashed fifty raven eggs.”

“Weren’t you with him that day?” asked Thluna. “Was it truly fifty eggs?”

Sungar smiled. “That legend is for Gundar, not me.”

“You must forge your own legends,” said Thluna. “The Thunderbeast has told us how.”

“No easy directive,” Sungar said. “The shamans tell us that the behemoths still live in the depths of the High Forest, but they also say nobody has seen them since before the time of Uthgar.”

“A great adventure in the making,” Thluna said. “A chance to undo what has been.”

“We did nothing wrong!” Sungar’s voice echoed across the Crags.

“They don’t see it that way,” Thluna informed him, pointing toward the camp in the distance.

“They weren’t there.”

“No,” Thluna said, “but they’ve heard the story. No songs will be sung of it, but the whispers will linger for a long time.”

“Then we must find something for them to sing,” Sungar declared, “and sing proudly. When we return to Rauvin Vale, I will pick a party and lead it into the High Forest. The Thunderbeast would not assign an impossible task. Now, how fares the chosen vessel?”

“Vell? He has not yet roused, but Keirkrad believes he is himself again.”

“Odd that the beast should choose him. What do they say about Vell the Brown?”

“Apart from the color of his eyes, there’s little exceptional about him. He is one of the warriors who generally stays behind to guard the camp during expeditions.”

“By his own choice?” asked Sungar.

“I don’t know,” Thluna admitted. “He has few close friends. Though he has already reached the age to claim a mate, he has not. He defers to the warriors with more glory to their names.”

“He may find himself with more friends after this, and women besides,” Sungar said. “The beast chose him, and when we go into the High Forest, Vell will be with us.”

Thluna nodded. “I will let him know when he wakes. For the moment, I have a recommendation.” He looked down at the grave of King Gundar. “We are but a day’s ride from Grunwald. Some of the men plan to visit it. Most of them were born there.”

Grunwald was the abandoned dwarf hold on the edge of the Lurkwood, discovered and settled by the Thunderbeasts. For a few generations they forsook their nomadic ways and thrived at tree felling and lumber cutting. But when Gundar died, the first act of his successor Sungar was to withdraw from Grunwald.

“If orcs have settled in Grunwald,” said Thluna, “then the men wish to clear them out.”

Sungar stroked his beard. “They may go, if they wish. I will not prevent them.”

“You should go, too,” advised Thluna. “The men were denied a Runehunt, so let them have this instead.”

Sungar cocked his head. “Is a chief to obey his warriors, or the other way around?” he asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

“Both, when the cause is right,” said Thluna. “But a chief should not put his own considerations above those of his tribe.”

“Is that what you think I’m doing?” snarled Sungar.

“No,” Thluna said firmly. “But there are those who might.”

Sungar paced. He saw the wisdom of Thluna’s words.

“Why should I go to Grunwald?” asked Sungar. “To invite more comparisons between me and Gundar; or to let them all plead to move the tribe back there?”

“Neither. Show them you’re above those concerns,” Thluna said. He paused a moment, gauging Sungar’s reaction. “You cannot make them forget Grunwald. Many of our people never had the opportunity to properly leave it behind. You need to give them that now. It is like a fallen comrade. Only when he is buried and grieved for, can we move on.”

For a long time Sungar and Thluna stared silently at King Gundar’s cairn. Though neither of them spoke, both thought of their dead fellows, buried so far away in the dismal earth of the Fallen Lands. They, too, could never be mourned properly.

“This whole trip is about embracing our history,” Sungar said. “Consulting our ancestors to find our present path. Grunwald is part of that history.”

“So we’re going to Grunwald?” Thluna said. He erupted in a wide smile that betrayed his youth.

“You forget,” said Sungar. “I was born there, too.”

Images and thoughts swirled through Vell’s mind as he floated in heavy unconsciousness. Something was lost when he awoke. When the darkness parted, Vell sensed places, faces, and ideas that he could not quite seize, though they would haunt the edges of his mind in ways he could never speak of with a fellow Uthgardt. He seemed to recall dreams of escape—of widening his horizons beyond his tribe and its way of life. These were not new dreams, but traces of something that was always there, now bursting into light.

When he awoke, he pushed those feelings deep inside himself. The sensation scared him. Something had changed in him—but what?

Vell found himself in a tent full of ceremonial animal horns. The air smelled sweet from wild sage. This was a tent of honor, he realized. He rose and strode from the tent into the Thunderbeast encampment tucked among the rugged Crags. The sun blazed brightly. Vell’s muscles felt tight, and a new energy swelled in his limbs. All around him, Uthgardt he had known all his life looked at him in a new way. They greeted him with eagerness, even with reverence, but with fear as well.

Vell had dreamed not of being somewhere else, but of being something else. That image stayed with him even after the dream itself was gone. Now in his waking, he felt as if something of himself was lost; yet he did not feel empty, but overstuffed. His psyche felt as if some new identity had been crammed into him and was preparing to burst out from his muscles. But what was it?

Keirkrad rushed up to him. Despite his astonishing age, the shaman could move with catlike speed.

“Vell!” he said. His old frame could not keep still, he was so excited. “What do you remember?”

“The eyes of the beast staring at me from above,” he said. “And then… nothing.”

“You have been touched by the Thunderbeast,” Keirkrad told him, resting a gnarled hand on Vell’s shoulder. “Our totem chose you as his vessel. This is the greatest honor an Uthgardt could receive! How do you feel?”

“Different,” said Vell. He ran a hand over a tense muscle. “Like I could fell a giant single-handed.”

“You have seen the Battlefather’s favor as few ever do. Your destiny is assured,” Keirkrad said. Through all his kind words, he was peering deeply at Vell with his watery blue eyes, trying to gauge him and figure him out. Vell had experienced this often in his childhood; his brown eyes were so rare among his people. He sometimes found that Uthgardt who seemed to be looking at him were merely looking at his eyes.

At that moment, Thluna arrived. The young warrior commanded enormous respect within the Thunderbeasts, even among those much older and more experienced—perhaps even more respect than Sungar.

“Vell, you have risen!” he said. “Have you further messages for us?”

“Messages?” Vell asked, puzzled.

“The beast spoke through you,” Keirkrad said. “It said ‘find the living.’”

“‘Find the living’?” repeated Vell. “What does it mean?”

Thluna sighed. “If you do not know, we surely do not.”

“It means the Thunderbeast wants us to find the living behemoths that still dwell in the High Forest,” Keirkrad supplied, chin held high. “Surely that should be clear.”

“It is a matter of some discussion,” said Thluna. “We had hoped you might clarify.”

“No,” said Vell, shaking his head. “I’m afraid not.”

“Vell has been touched by the Thunderbeast,” Keirkrad said. “He may know more—or be capable of more—than he realizes right now. Sungar should keep him close at hand.”

“Yes, he does,” Thluna said. He lowered his voice slightly. “He plans an expedition into the High Forest, for a select group from the tribe—he’s still debating who, but it includes both of you. Do not share this for now.”

Keirkrad’s ancient, lined face broke into a wide grin.

“The chieftain is wise. I only wish we could have done this years ago.”

“But why should I be included?” asked Vell. “I am honored, but…”

“Surely the Thunderbeast chose you for a reason,” Thluna told him. “It may not have been as simple as delivering a message—Uthgar may plan a further role for you. We shall see. But in the meantime, Sungar has planned something else.” Thluna turned from the two of them and addressed the tribe at large. “Hear me, Thunderbeasts!” he cried. Soon dozens of warriors were assembled before him. Thluna’s voice was not deep, but he spoke clearly and well.

“Spread the word. Our assembly at Morgur’s Mound has been successful beyond our dreams—successful thanks to your faith. An additional pilgrimage will be made. We came here to seek our history and our heritage: to learn something about ourselves by knowing where we have been. So we shall take down this camp and make the path to Grunwald.”

A deafening roar came up from the tribe. Keirkrad led Vell aside and up a low hill on the edge of the Crags, where they could look down on the camp being disassembled for the journey to their new destination.

“Vell,” he said. “You heard Thluna. We shall go into the High Forest seeking to regain the Thunderbeast’s favor for our tribe.”

“A task for heroes of legend,” Vell said. “I can’t imagine myself in that company.”

“What man can know his own destiny?” asked Keirkrad. “Yesterday you were but a voice in the chorus, and one weaker than most. Now you shall stand close to Sungar, and have his ear. He shall respect your counsel as he respects that of the boy Thluna.”

“And as he respects yours,” Vell added.

“Less than you may think.” Keirkrad shrugged. “I am an old man.” A frown crossed his ancient brow. “We are alike, you and I. I felt the calling of the Thunderbeast at a young age. Once, I left my parent’s tent at night and went wandering into the Lurkwood in a blood trance. For days I walked in the cold of deepwinter; not for nothing am I called Seventoes. I saw orcs, ettins, and a hunting party of the shapechanging Gray Wolves, but none of them saw me. By Uthgar’s grace, I was invisible to them.

“Then, as I lay in an animal’s burrow freezing to death, I saw a vision of Morgur’s Mound—when I first saw the mound itself years later, it was exactly as I had seen it in my mind. Then in the bitter cold of the burrow, the strange, radiant force of the Thunderbeast reached out and touched me, and I returned to my parents and our tribe, warm and with a calling. I knew I would be shaman.