Son of Thunder (4 page)

“The priests who answer to me are capable, but lack that special relationship with the beast. I fear for what will happen once I die, and for what will happen to our spiritual life. Perhaps we will become like the Black Lions, worshiping our totem in name only while truly revering Silvanus or Tyr. At least that would be a better fate than that of the Blue Bears, lost to Malar’s depravity. Already many members of our tribe favor the outside gods over Uthgar. I have prayed for a true successor. Could that be you, Vell?”

Vell stuttered. “I don’t know….”

“I may be able to clarify for us both,” said Keirkrad. “I would like to use my magic to look inside you.”

Vell stood a bit straighter and silenced a little cry inside himself. “This is well.”

Keirkrad’s watery blue eyes latched onto Vell’s brown ones, and he placed his hands on Vell’s bulging forearms. He chanted a few mystical syllables, and his glare grew all the more intense, his blue eyes growing wider and clouding over with a whitish film. Vell trembled silently as the shaman’s frail hands dug into his muscles with surprising strength. He summoned the will not to pull free from the old man’s grasp as his sour breath enveloped Vell’s face in slow puffs.

Then Keirkrad released him and took a few steps back. The shaman’s gaze fell to the ground and he shuddered with fists clenched, making twisted claws of his hands.

“What’s wrong?” asked Vell. But Keirkrad said nothing. “Tell me,” he insisted.

“You’re afraid,” rasped Keirkrad. The old man wore a disgusted frown. He spoke through his gasps for breath. “I have seen your soul. Why do you fear the gift you have been given?”

Gan took a deep breath when he arrived at the ditch surrounding Llorkh. Wider than a road, and too deep to climb out of easily, it had been magically dug by Geildarr a few years back. It forced visitors and caravans arriving at Llorkh to visit checkpoints manned by Lord’s Men.

The hobgoblin followed the ditch until he reached a checkpoint, a considerable distance outside Llorkh’s fortified walls. A black-armored soldier approached him while his two fellows kept watch from a safe distance.

Gan still carried the battle-axe that he and Dray had found. He had spent a dozen days marching through the Fallen Lands and the Graypeaks, and in that time it had scarcely left his hands. He found that he needed it in his grip even when he slept.

Even Gan, with the sentiments of a hobgoblin, felt a wave of disgust as he approached Llorkh. The ditch looked like a cruel gash in the earth, and all around, nature itself seemed to have surrendered to civilization’s needs. Bare of trees and grass, the rocky plains were dull and dead. The surrounding mountains bore the ugly scars of mining and forestry. The city walls stood tall, plain, and bare.

“What business have you in Llorkh?” the Lord’s Man, called Clavel, demanded of Gan. Though Clavel modeled his speech and manner on the Zhentilar, a certain authority was lacking in his voice as he faced down the huge hobgoblin.

“I wish an audience with Lord Geildarr,” Gan said.

“An audience with the mayor?” Clavel said. “For what reason?”

“I fought in his army against the shades.”

Clavel placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

“Geildarr doesn’t want you here, hobgoblin. Go back to your tribe. Whatever’s left of it.”

Before the Lord’s Man could react, Gan swung the huge axe. The brunt of it struck Clavel head on, and though he was not badly wounded, the blow was enough to send him flying backward and rolling down to the bottom of the ditch. Two other Lord’s Men jumped forward with their weapons at the ready, but Gan lowered his axe.

“I am not here to fight,” he said. “I wish to offer this artifact to Geildarr in atonement for my failure, and that of my tribe.” He laid it on the ground before the guards.

Nervous glances passed between the Lord’s Men. Then, from the shadows behind the checkpoint, an unlikely figure emerged. Small and trim, she moved with the lithe authority of someone thoroughly in control. Her age was difficult to guess, but she appeared to be recently entered into womanhood. Her honey-brown hair hung in a short crop around her smooth oval face. She was dressed in tight black clothing with a sword at her side. The guards’ eyes followed her closely. She strode between the Lord’s Men and stood in front of the hobgoblin without fear, leaning over to inspect the fallen axe. Her fingers traced its lines.

“Geildarr accepts,” she said, and strolled back to the checkpoint with girlish grace. She cast a look over her shoulder at the hobgoblin. “Bring it,” she commanded. Gan leaned over and picked up the axe. The woman took a moment to glance down into the ditch as she passed, where Clavel, his robes smudged with dirt, was struggling to claw his way out, bringing more dirt down onto his face with each desperate grasp. She told the other guards, “Leave him down there till tomorrow morning, then demote him two points of rank.”

As Gan walked past the guards, he asked, “Who is she?”

One guard wore a lecher’s smile as he watched her walk away, admiring the grace and poise in her every step. The other shrank away from the slight woman in nervousness. But they answered together, “Ardeth.”

Gan followed Ardeth past the checkpoint and into Llorkh. He had never been in a city before. Most of his life had been spent in the Graypeaks with his tribe: hunting, making war on rival humanoids, and occasionally performing services for the Zhentarim, including this last assault that crushed his tribe’s warriors. He didn’t doubt that what was left of his people would shortly be destroyed or subsumed by one of their rivals, but he felt only the slightest tinge of remorse. Hobgoblins respected strength, and if strength resided in this Geildarr, it was in Geildarr’s service that he belonged.

Llorkh seemed largely unburdened of the decadence his people associated with city living. Whether made of wood or stone, the buildings were spartan and simple, and even the tall one in the center, which he rightly figured was their destination, had little grace in its design. The streets were uncrowded, many of the houses showing decay as if they had been long unoccupied. The people who were visible were largely soldiers—humans or orcs—and downtrodden human workers, their clothes dirty and ragged. This was not a city, he decided, so much as a stronghold, geared for war and defense above anything else.

He respected that.

Bound for the Lord’s Keep, they skirted a large square where homes and shops were better maintained. A variety of stock animals brayed in pens here, and many of the caravans that he had sometimes witnessed crossing the Dawn Gap sat under guard.

Soon they came to the Lord’s Keep, its guards casting puzzled looks but nevertheless letting Ardeth and Gan through without question. Just before the door, Ardeth pivoted back on the hobgoblin.

“You mean this weapon as a gift for Lord Geildarr?” asked Ardeth.

“This is so,” Gan replied.

“And what do you ask in return?”

“Only a place in his army,” Gan said, and he looked over the axe he bore. “This is a mighty weapon and it deserves a leader worthy of it. May I not speak to him?” asked Gan.

“He is not here right now,” said Ardeth. “But he accepts your gift with great thanks. It is a worthy blade.”

“Worthy of a great leader,” said Gan, and with great humility, he lay the axe in the dust before the Lord’s Keep.

The Dark Sun, together with the Lord’s Keep and the barracks, was one of the largest buildings in all of Llorkh: an absurdly oversized cathedral to the Prince of Lies. Its great wooden doors stood several stories high; its nave supported by many thick black pillars of ebon. Geildarr had never seen it more than two-thirds full, not with all the faithful of Llorkh, Loudwater, and Orlbar attendant on important holy days.

When Geildarr strode inside, he felt dwarfed by the immensity of the purple walls, from which the jawless skull—Cyric’s symbol—stared at him on every side. A much smaller temple to Bane once stood on this spot, presided over by Mythkar Leng back before the Time of Troubles. But when Cyric took Bane’s place after Bane died spectacularly in the city of Tantras, Leng displayed his newfound fealty by ripping down the old temple and building one twice as large on the same spot, mere months afterward.

It amazed Geildarr that Leng could switch allegiances so easily. The transition was easy for Geildarr, of course, for it meant little more than changing the name in his prayers and quaking in fear of a different power. But priests were supposed to have such an intensely personal relationship with their deities. Geildarr had heard about some Banites and Bhaalites who purposely injured themselves after their gods died.

And now Bane was back, bursting from the shell of his son, the puppet, and with Bane’s resurgence spreading throughout the Black Network, Cyricist Zhentarim were becoming a rare breed. The Zhentarim, once a secular organization that comprised followers of many deities, seemed increasingly like an arm of the Church of Bane, and the worship of Cyric seemed to be more popular in places like Amn and Thay, where Zhentarim influence was minimal.

Geildarr decided that Leng swapped deities so easily because the god he worshiped was nothing more than a name for the darkness in his soul. What Moritz said made sense: Leng could easily switch to Bane and take the temple with him. He had transitioned so easily to Cyric, and just as easily he could go back. Lord Fzoul did the same, changing his allegiance from Bane to Cyric to Xvim, and he was a favorite servant to each god, blessed with much power.

Geildarr knew what all Zhentarim knew, but none dared say: the bulk of them were interested in power above all else, and worshiped whichever god could best provide it. After Cyric went mad and unleashed a monster army on Zhentil Keep, Xvim the Baneson seemed like a welcome alternative. But Darkhold always remained loyal to Cyric; therefore, Llorkh had too.

Eyeing one of the etched skulls staring down at him from a pillar, Geildarr reflected on his own relationship with Cyric. Certainly he acknowledged that Cyric had touched him in a rare and special way for a wizard, granting him powers to craft and explore magic that few could manage. He owed that much to the Lord of Murder. But did he have such loyalty that he would never contemplate worshiping Bane, or any other god, if circumstances demanded it?

A young acolyte came out to greet Geildarr. “I need to see Leng,” Geildarr said. “Fetch him.”

“The Master is attending to his studies,” the dark disciple told him. Geildarr knew just what that meant. Another dwarf who was part of a conspiracy against Llorkh had been turned over to the temple, and Leng was experimenting with better ways of creating groundlings—the disgusting dwarf-badger hybrids that the Zhentarim used as elite assassins. They were both tinkerers, Geildarr and Leng, though Geildarr liked to experiment with new and better spells and magical items, and Leng devoted his time to finding ways to corrupt good into a dark and degenerate mirror of itself.

Geildarr recalled that the Dark Sun once contained a secret known to few in Llorkh. Rakaxalorth, one of the Zhentarim’s loyal beholders, lived in a chamber beneath the temple, covertly operating the Dark Sun alongside Leng. The two functioned together as the Zhentarim’s foremost representatives in Llorkh. When a bugbear army—under phaerimm mind control and led by a beholder—assaulted Llorkh, Rakaxalorth came out of his hideaway, flew over the city walls, and joined the fray. Rakaxalorth annihilated the phaerimm’s beholder mind slave, and gave his life to do it.

Somehow, Geildarr doubted that Leng would ever do anything remotely comparable in defense of Llorkh.

“He will set his research aside for a moment,” Geildarr said to the acolyte. “The mayor of Llorkh wills it.” But he was left waiting a long time before Leng arrived.

Leng wore the traditional purple and silver robes of his god, with ornamental handcuffs on the sleeves to signify Cyric’s one-time imprisonment in Shadowdale. With jet black hair, pale flesh, and piercing gray eyes, he looked intimidating—enough to inspire the fear and devotion of those weaker than him.

“Mayor,” Leng said. “To what do we owe this honor?” His tone was the same as all Zhentarim priests—coldly cordial with a hint of menace.

“I recently received a message from Fzoul,” Geildarr said, his voice echoing from the highest rafters of the cavernous church. “He sends his regrets after the failure of our troops in the Fallen Lands.”

“Good of him,” Leng said. “Has he further instructions for us?”

Geildarr shook his head. “He says that he and Manshoon will review the Shade question before further actions are taken. But I’m concerned.”

“Why?” asked Leng.

“You know the workings of the Zhentarim better than I. Fzoul gave us an impossible task—the kind the Zhentarim give to cold initiates. One along the lines of ‘assassinate Lady Alustriel’ or ‘steal Elminster’s second-favorite pipe.’ Now he wants to punish us for not fulfilling it.”

Leng smirked. “Did you give Ardeth Chale such a task? Is that how she earned your devotion to her?”

“Better still, she accomplished a very difficult task of her own volition. Just the kind of initiative I admire.” A touch of defensiveness rang in his voice. He went on. “I doubt if all the Lord’s Men and the muster of our humanoid allies could have shaken the Shadovar from the Fallen Lands. Even if they had, it would have left us undermanned and vulnerable, even more so than now. This “failure” could be the excuse Fzoul’s been looking for to tighten his grip on Llorkh, and that could mean your head and mine.” He looked hard into Leng’s steel gray eyes as he said this, searching for any reaction that might give him away.

Leng spoke coldly. “If that were Fzoul’s plan, he wouldn’t need to go to such lengths as the conspiracy you envision. And if he wanted us dead, we wouldn’t be here talking about it.”

“Perhaps you’re right,” said Geildarr. “But in any event, I feel the order of the day is appeasement. Start thinking—anything short of bringing the City of Shade crashing to Anauroch.”

“As you command, Lord Geildarr,” said Leng. But Geildarr knew he would do nothing. Geildarr noted a twitch of Leng’s pale lips as he bowed in farewell.