Son of Thunder (33 page)

Vell’s mind reached out to his imprisoned fellows. He felt their excitement, felt them straining against their bondage even more strongly now that liberation seemed so close.

Shepherd, they seemed to say, give us our freedom!

Vell raised himself partly onto his hind legs and kicked the massive gates to the city, the last barrier between him and the behemoths, and the ancient wood groaned. He kicked again, and the whole gate shuddered. A crack raced to split the wood from the point of impact. With one more kick, the door splintered and fell apart.

Vell lowered his neck to pass through the gateway into Llorkh, where a whole city was ready to fight him.

Sungar lay on the floor of the cramped cell, its walls marking the edges of his world. With his ear to the ground, he could feel the vibrations of the huge thunderbeast steps. He smiled.

His two dungeon guards arrived at the cell door. He lay limp and clenched a fist under his body.

“Wake with the morning, chief,” said one of the dungeon guards, unlocking the cell door. “Kiev requests another audience.” He spoke faster than Sungar had ever heard him, the urgency plain in his voice. Looking up, Sungar could see that both soldiers had swords at their belts, though neither of them had their hands anywhere near the hilts.

The instant the first guard walked into the cell, the keys still in the lock, Sungar burst into action. He unleashed all of the anger he had kept in check till this moment. In his clenched fist, he hid all of the dust and pebbles that had fallen from his cell walls during his imprisonment, and he threw it into the guard’s eyes.

As the guard tumbled back, surprised and blinded by Sungar’s attack, the second guard stepped backward into the passageway and quickly pushed the cell door shut. Sungar grasped his fellow by the hair and slammed him face-first into the stone wall, then pulled him back and let him fall to the ground. With a swift foot, Sungar stamped on the guard’s face, and with the single blow the guard’s skull collapsed, his head smashed open on the cold cell floor.

In the corridor, the surviving guard desperately fumbled with the keys, glancing with fear at Sungar’s raging eyes, gone wild and red with fury. The chieftain made a run for the cell door. The guard jumped backward just as Sungar rammed his foot into the door and sent it flying open, its thick iron hinges trembling as it smashed into the wall.

The guard reached for his sword, but before his hand reached the hilt, Sungar assailed him with both fists. He pushed the guard backward against the far side of the passageway, pummeling him into the stone wall with fast blows. The guard succeeded in drawing his sword, but as soon as it left his scabbard, Sungar snatched it from him and sank it deep into its owner’s chest. The guard spat up blood, and his head lolled in death.

The sound of clapping echoed off the dungeon walls. Sungar turned to see Hurd Hardhalberd at the door of his cell. The prisoners looked upon each other for the first time. The stout dwarf was gray-bearded, with long scars down his cheeks, much as Sungar had imagined.

“Good show, Sungar,” said Hurd. “Now if you’ll be lettin’ me out, we’ll be ready to cause some serious damage.”

Sungar went to his own damaged cell door, where the keys still dangled from the lock. He pulled them out and dashed to Hurd’s cell, trying numerous keys before finding one that would turn.

“Grrruuh…,” came an indecipherable grunt from the dark passageway. Standing in the shadows was Kiev himself, his half-orc features lit by flickering torchlight. A sickly grin crossed the torturer’s hideous face, his sharp tusks glistening with saliva. In his hand he clutched a weapon all too familiar to Sungar—his glass-studded lash.

Sungar turned the key and it clicked in the lock. Kiev’s long whip uncoiled with a resonant crack and it snaked through the air, wrapping around Sungar’s legs and pulling tight. The barbarian chief collapsed onto the hard ground, losing his sword as he fell.

Hurd burst free of his cell. “I’ve been waitin’ fer this too long!” he shouted as he dashed down the passageway as fast as his legs could move him. He leaped into midair as he reached Kiev, colliding with the half-orc and knocking him backward on the dungeon floor in a vicious, reckless attack. Kiev released his whip as the dwarf gripped his throat and squeezed.

Kiev shoved Hurd’s shoulders with both hands, sending the dwarf tumbling backward. The half-orc regained his footing and pulled out a dagger, holding it out before him, daring Hurd to attack him again. And Hurd, unarmed but undeterred, faced him down.

From down the hallway, the lash cracked again, flying directly over Hurd’s head so that the dwarf felt its motion as it passed. The whip found its mark as it coiled around Kiev’s neck, the cruel glass studs digging into his flesh. Kiev’s hands went up to his neck, his dagger falling from his grip. Before the weapon could strike the ground, Hurd caught it and sank it solidly into the torturer’s heart. Kiev fell backward with a force that wrested the whip from Sungar’s hands.

Hurd spun to face Sungar. “You some kinda expert with that whip?” he asked.

“Not really,” Sungar answered, collecting the swords from the dead guards and tossing one to Hurd. “But if a half-orc can swing it, how hard could it be?”

“Be careful to mind my head next time,” said Hurd, rubbing the top of his skull. He looked down at Kiev, lying on his back in the middle of the dungeon passage. “That felt good.” he said, reaching down to give the dagger a final twist as the last light vanished from the half-orc’s eyes. “But it won’t be half as pleasurable as chopping Geildarr’s head off!” He snapped up the sword and raised it to Sungar. The two warriors clanged their weapons together in a gesture of their camaraderie.

In the bowels of the Dark Sun, where Mythkar Leng conducted his vile experiments, a disciple of Cyric paced through narrow subterranean hallways that reeked of burning fur. An acolyte followed him, a huge ebon key in his hand. They had already freed their captive groundlings, the half-badger assassins which Leng had formed from many of the traitor dwarves. The mutants were commanded to attack all enemies of Llorkh, then were sent racing into the streets. The Cyricists knew they would be little resistance against the behemoths, but this was an excuse to let them go to work.

“Llorkh is under siege,” the disciple said in a smooth, emotionless tone. “Our temple may soon be at risk. We must unleash our stock to help defend it.” To the trembling initiate he added, “It is what Leng would have done.”

“Yes, Dark Master.” They reached a metal door, warm to the touch. The acolyte extended the ebon key and slipped it into the lock. As soon as the lock clicked, the hallways echoed with an unearthly barking.

As the last behemoth passed through the gates of Llorkh, he paused and swung his thick neck backward to rub against the wall above it. A few Lord’s Men still clung to their places atop the wall, and ran in terror to avoid falling off as so many of their fellow archers had.

The behemoths went separate ways as the streets forked, each taking a different direction and plowing through lines of Lord’s Men. Some men were trampled under great feet, but most had the sense to step aside. More arrows and spears pierced Vell’s hide, and brave swords slashed at his heels and ankles where he passed, but these were of little consequence to him. What troubled him were the cries of pain he heard from the others. They shared his form, but perhaps not all of his magical armor, so impenetrable when Vell held the form of a man or a thunderbeast.

Vell heard a strange blast of wind, and a moment later one of his fellows let out an agonized moan, which was echoed by sympathetic cries from the tethered behemoths deeper in the city. Vell craned his long neck, looking back just in time to watch Hengin, only his neck and head visible across a block of old buildings, collapse to his knees as he was blasted by a magical blizzard. Even as it abated, frost clung to his scales, chilling his blood. The cold immobilized him and the Lord’s Men fell on him. Vell could not see the assault, but he could hear the attacks in Hengin’s groans as swords slashed at his exposed underbelly.

There must be a mage in that street, Vell realized. Letting out his own reptilian cry, he spun about, his tail sweeping through the street and smashing through the fragile buildings behind him, bringing walls crashing down. Briefly rising onto his hind legs, he pressed his forelegs into the side of the stone building opposite. It collapsed under his weight, and Vell pressed forward, his legs crushing each floor until his feet were firmly planted amid the rubble. The rest of the building collapsed from the damage, kicking up a terrific storm of dust. Tremors spread throughout the neighboring buildings and they shuddered, some beginning to crack and fall apart.

The opposite street was lost in dust and rubble, the enemy mage surely buried and dead, but it was too late—Hengin’s cries had ceased. The vast behemoth, a cloud of grit settling on it, lay in the middle of the street, his skin sliced open by the many weapons of the Lord’s Men.

Vell’s blood boiled, his gentle behemoth form coming to life, fueled by his rage. Vell felt the rage rising in him but forced himself to hold it back. He needed to keep his senses, if anyone did. He had a mission to accomplish and could not leave self-control behind to stampede off on a haze of seething anger.

The contingents of Lord’s Men guarding the behemoths in the Central Square watched in horror as the new arrivals, larger than the ones already held captive, marched into the heart of Llorkh. They seemed to be unstoppable, ripping the city apart where it stood. But one of the six had fallen. The Lord’s Men hoped beyond hope that the animals would be torn down by spells or force before they could reach the square.

Three groups of soldiers guarded the Central Square, one at each of the streets leading into the city. Each had only about a dozen men, all looking in the direction of the west gate. Behind them, the behemoths moaned a dissonant chorus. They sang in high throaty tones, strange vocalizations that conveyed all of their sadness, grief, and despair.

From one of the streets sauntered a strange sight—a leather-clad woman with the dark skin tones of the southern Sword Coast. A sword hung at her belt. Surely, she must have been part of a merchant caravan.

“Milady,” said one of the Lord’s Men. “We recommend you leave the streets. This place is—” his voice trembled, “—is not safe.”

“I should say not,” she said, and opened her mouth wide. A sharp scream issued from her throat that rang and resounded in the Lord’s Men’s ears, shattering their concentration. Some of them fainted from the sonic assault; others were deafened, dropping their weapons to clap their hands over their ears. Immediately, a wiry young barbarian wielding a massive axe raced into view from the street. The woman drew her sword, and they leaped onto the Lord’s Men.

Together, Kellin and Thluna made short work of the stunned soldiers, he cleaving them with the axe and she sinking her father’s sword wherever she found exposed flesh. From across the Central Square, the other contingents of Lord’s Men charged, roused from their positions by the battle. As they dashed across the square, past the magical post that kept the behemoths in bondage, the behemoths all raised their tethered feet at once, pulling the chains tight.

The sudden tension lifted the magical chains off the ground, catching many of the Lord’s Men across their middles. They were sliced apart wherever the enchanted chains touched them, their gruesomely bisected bodies littering the Central Square. The few who were not snared went bobbing and weaving to avoid the deadly chains, dashing out of the square back to the streets. Then they fled altogether, into the chaotic alleyways of Llorkh.

“Clever beasts,” Kellin said to Thluna. The creatures lowered their feet and the chains once again lay on the ground. “I only hope they know friend from foe.”

Thluna clapped her on the shoulder, excited for their success. Looking up, he watched a lone crow fly a strange pattern far above, its beak pointed toward the Lord’s Keep. “Good luck,” he said to her before dashing into the streets, axe in hand.

Kellin carefully stepped into the square. Gingerly avoiding the chains, she reached the central post. It was a solemn gray marker anchoring a dozen chains which led to the rings on the behemoths’ hind feet. Spreading her hands over the top of the post, she tried to dispel the magic that bound the chains. Geildarr’s spell was strong and fiendish, and it took all of Kellin’s concentration and energy to work at unlocking it. She did not hear the fast-moving feet behind her, or smell the sulfurous stink that filled the air. Not until a fiery blast caught her from behind was her concentration lost and her spell scuttled.

Sungar and Hurd burst out of the dungeons of Llorkh with impassioned fury. The two guards at the entrance were startled to be attacked from behind. Sungar caught one on the shoulder with his sword, and Hurd slashed at the knees of the other, sending him tumbling to the ground. Hurd sank his sword into the guard’s heart.

The two warriors dashed through the elegant hallways of the Lord’s Keep, looking for a staircase to take them upward. They made no secret of their presence—Sungar freely shouted Uthgardt war cries—but wherever Lord’s Men found them, the soldiers were swiftly slaughtered. One of the men, run through by Sungar’s sword, lay dying against the wall. Hurd held his blade to his throat.

“What is happening in Llorkh?” Hurd demanded.

“Behemoths,” he gasped out. “The great lizards. Some have come to attack the city.”

“Friends of yours?” Hurd asked Sungar, sliding the sword home.

“I can only hope so,” said Sungar.

They rushed through the ground floor. Sungar’s rage was in full fervor. Clutching a weapon again, and feeling enemies fall under his blade, made him feel alive once more, reborn from the prison cell. He had feared that all of his Uthgardt instincts had atrophied and vanished, but was thrilled to find his faculties re-ignited.

Before the great iron doors that served as the entrance to the tower, they found a contingent of five Lord’s Men. A massive, sickly painting of Lord Geildarr, clad in purple and surrounded by the adoring people of Llorkh, hung over their heads. The soldiers faced the entrance to the Lord’s Keep, their attention on the large, sealed doors, ready for a threat from that direction. Sungar snatched up a vase that decorated the passage and tossed it across the hall into an opposite room. As it smashed, the guards turned to look.