Son of Thunder (5 page)

As Geildarr walked back to his keep, he analyzed his information. He didn’t trust Moritz, and he knew it was possible the gnome was mixing truths and lies as part of Sememmon’s game, or some unknown agenda. For that matter, he had no way of being sure that Moritz was still on Sememmon’s side. If Leng were disloyal, Geildarr would need to find out for himself. And if Leng needed to die, the act would need to take place without casting suspicion on Geildarr.

When Geildarr reached the Lord’s Keep, he found his promising protegee Ardeth Chale waiting for him in his study, a mysterious smile on her face. She had taken some apprenticeship from him as a wizard, and though her power was progressing steadily, she seemed far more interested in honing her skills of cloak and dagger. So far, she had proved extremely valuable in helping protect Geildarr’s rule.

“Something has just arrived,” she said, endearing mischief dancing in her eyes, “that should be of great interest to you.”

“What is it?” asked Geildarr.

“A hobgoblin arrived in town today. One of the Skalganar tribe and a survivor from the Fallen Lands.”

“I wasn’t aware there were any survivors.”

“He thinks he might be the only one,” said Ardeth. “But Gan—that’s his name—wants to work for you. On his way back, he found something he decided to bring to you. An axe.”

Geildarr sniffed. “Nobody accuses hobgoblins of being much for brains, but an axe? Didn’t anyone tell him I’m a wizard?”

“Somebody must have.” Ardeth stepped aside, revealing the axe lying on the zalantarwood table behind her. Geildarr walked up to it and leaned over to inspect the axe’s design.

“No noticeable markings,” he said. “But it looks dwarven to me. And nothing modern.”

“I’d wager on Delzounian,” said Ardeth. Geildarr perked up at this. Delzoun was once the mightiest dwarf kingdom of the North, on par with the modern Great Rift. A neighbor of Netheril, it fell almost fifteen hundred years earlier.

“How did this hobgoblin get such a thing?” asked Geildarr.

“He said he found it in the Fallen Lands, lying in a field of dirt. An unlikely story, but the weapon is definitely magical. It had some hold over him, that was plain to see, but at the same time he seemed eager to give it to you—to a great leader, he said. I got the sense he felt he was unworthy of it.”

Geildarr stroked his chin. “A great leader, eh? A fine judge of character, this hobgoblin.”

Ardeth smiled. “I subjected the axe to magical examination—as well as I could manage. I don’t sense that it is intelligent in the conventional sense. But I think it might have shaped Gan’s attitude, nevertheless.”

“What else did you learn?”

“Only a name—Berun’s Axe. It would clearly benefit from further examination.”

“Both magical and scholarly, yes,” said Geildarr, running a finger over the weapon’s blade. “And what of our hobgoblin friend?”

“You could still hang him for failure.”

“No,” said Geildarr. “I don’t think I will. If he wants a place in my army, he has it. Find him a spot in the barracks, far enough away that nobody important has to smell him.” Picking up the axe, he said, “I’ll need some time alone to cast a few spells. Divining the history of an object can be demanding and time consuming. I trust you can handle any important town business in my absence.”

Ardeth’s face lit up like the sun. “Yes, indeed,” she declared, and vacated the study.

Geildarr laid the axe on the desk and retrieved some components for a spell that would reveal its legend. Whether chance or fate had brought the axe to him, he was very pleased. It would give him an enjoyable mystery to mull over while waiting to find out if Fzoul wanted his head.

Four generations before Vell’s birth, a Thunderbeast hunting party had discovered one of the secrets of the North—a crumbling dwarven hold in a clearing in the Lurkwood’s south. According to the songs faithfully repeated by the tribe’s skald, Hazred the Voice, it was named Grunwald after a warrior who single-handedly slew a frost giant in this place, echoing Uthgar’s final defeat of King Gurt. The Thunderbeasts saw this as an omen.

The tribe spent many happy and productive years in those stone ruins, though some said that they gave away their souls. They cultivated a strong business in lumber, established relationships with cities such as Mirabar and Nesme, and even began worshiping gods other than Uthgar.

On this day, fog covered Grunwald like a white shroud. Silently, Thunderbeast warriors walked among oval stone buildings that had been their homes, their turf roofs now overgrown with grass and moss. The warriors were alert and on guard. This place, once home, might conceal unknown dangers.

The rest of the tribe waited in relative safety not far away, under the watchful eye of some of the tribe’s warriors. Vell reflected that scant days ago, that group would have included him, but now he was at the chieftain’s left hand, and the most revered shaman of the tribe seemed to dog his every step. Vell wondered what kept Keirkrad so close to him. Was it respect, or fear?

Vell knew Grunwald as well as any of them, though he had not seen it in four years. Over there was the place where he played as a child. In that direction lay a shaft to the mysterious tunnels beneath Grunwald, where strange monsters were said to lurk, though nobody ever really saw one. That structure was the Stone Bow, where outsiders could find lodgings for themselves and their horses—often in the same stall. The Hand of the Justice lay near, and more.

Vell felt a twinge of melancholy. He felt as if he were seeing a reflection of the Grunwald he knew. It had always been a ruin, but it had never felt dead before. Once it bustled and sang with the lives of the Thunderbeasts, but now Grunwald was bare: a discarded rock pile, a sickening parody of civilization, counting house and all. And when Vell looked at the pallid faces of his fellow Thunderbeasts, he knew they felt the same way.

They envied those who had stayed behind for safety. This place would never elicit the same sentiment again.

Sungar pointed upward at the most prominent building in Grunwald, the stone keep called the King’s Lodge. It had probably been several stories higher at one time, but three serviceable levels were still intact. The structure served as feast hall and dungeon for the tribe, and throne room for its chief. Its main entrance lay at the top of a stone stair, over which steel hooks still hung with the skulls of their enemies: orcs, goblins, and some dishonest merchants who had come to Grunwald.

“Come,” said Sungar. “Let us pay our respects to the chiefs of times past.”

But as he took a step toward the King’s Lodge, Sungar’s eyes caught sight of something falling from high above the lodge. It was a coal-black feather, fluttering in the light breeze, but it was no normal feather. It was much larger—nearly as long as a short sword. Sungar let out a hoarse war cry, and the tribe jumped to alertness, readying their weapons and fanning out to face potential foes from all sides. The war cry was echoed by the sharp shriek of a great bird, and answered by other cries from the surrounding Lurkwood.

From the top of the King’s Lodge, a giant raven took wing. Astride its back was a lean barbarian woman, ritual war paint streaked across her cheeks and arms. She directed her mount to fly a graceful circle around the assembled Thunderbeasts below, as if daring them to let fly their arrows and spears. As the sky filled with more giant ravens and their riders, cries of “For Ostagar!” and “Death to weaklings!” filled the air. Arrows burst from the narrow windows of the King’s Lodge.

The Black Ravens despised outsiders more than any Uthgardt tribe. They had special hatred for any tribe that bore the taint of civilization, and that meant the Thunderbeasts. This was the Ravens’ Runehunt—they had challenged themselves to achieve the utter ruin of another tribe. They never could have laid siege to Grunwald when the tribe was strong, no matter how many times the Thunderbeasts besieged their strongholds and destroyed their aeries. But times had changed, and the Ravens now believed that the Thunderbeasts were weak and ripe for destruction. Such was the natural order. Just as the weaker members of a wolf pack were removed by violence or winter, so too were tribes eliminated. The Black Ravens considered it a sacred duty to cull the weak.

In a flash Grunwald became a battlefield. The huge ravens dodged the arrows and hammers of the Thunderbeasts while swooping in to snap and slash at their faces. Massive beaks claimed a number of eyes as the beating of great wings disturbed the fog that hung over the dead settlement. War cries blended with the birds’ incessant squawking and mixed with screams of pain as arrows arced down from the King’s Lodge, embedding in warrior flesh.

Brandishing a mighty warhammer, Sungar charged forward up the stone stairs to the entrance of the King’s Lodge, its thick stone door firmly shut. Other warriors surged forward to join him in banging and slashing at the door.

Keirkrad chanted a few syllables and raised his hands. A wind boiled up that tore through the fog and disturbed the air above. Though not strong enough to blow the ravens from their places, it was enough to surprise and slow them so that a well-placed spear and a hail of arrows brought two ravens plummeting from the sky. When they hit the ground, Thunderbeast warriors were ready to finish off bird and rider.

The raven riders were not so many that the Thunderbeasts could not defeat them, but the arrows raining from the King’s Lodge were a serious threat. What had been the Thunderbeast’s strongest defense was now potentially their destruction.

“Train your weapons to the Lodge!” Thluna shouted, hurling one of his hammers at the upper window. It sailed neatly through, though whether or not it met its mark on the other side, he could not tell.

Vell focused on one detail amid the confusion—a single blue eye staring out from an arrow slit in the fortress. He concentrated and threw his spear at it, but it missed, striking just to the left of its mark and bouncing off the wall. Below the eye, he saw thin lips twist into a smile, and an arrow flew from the window directly at Vell. He didn’t have time to blink before it struck him between the eyes.

But Vell barely felt it. The arrow bounced off his skin as if it had struck iron. Vell gulped in confusion and whirled to face Keirkrad. The shaman’s skin was covered with brownish, gnarly scales, for he had invoked a power the Thunderbeast bestowed on its priests. Keirkrad gasped and mouthed Vell’s name through the noise. When Vell looked down at his hands, he realized that they too were covered with brown scales. His heart jumped at the shock, but he felt something else flowing from his core, overwhelming his fear. His senses began to cloud, and the confusion of war faded, replaced by the perfect clarity of rage.

Keirkrad made slow steps toward Vell, and with each step, the ground around him shook—an effect of his shamanic power. The walls of the King’s Lodge vibrated and trembled, dust rising from the ancient dwarven blocks.

A giant raven swooped down and snapped the neck of a Thunderbeast warrior in its thick beak. Sungar’s hammer blows began to crack the stone door of the Lodge. Another Thunderbeast cried out as an arrow sank into his skin. The Black Ravens above cursed the name of Gundar and called for the tribe’s destruction.

Vell stared intently at his hand and the inhuman skin that coated him like a suit of armor. But he was not wearing it—it was him. Vell turned his back on Keirkrad and faced the King’s Lodge. He knew what he had to do.

Vell marched up the stone stairs. One of the orc skulls above him slipped from its hook and shattered on the ground.

“Get clear of the Lodge,” Vell said, pushing men aside. He locked eyes with Sungar and said, “Trust me.” Vell walked up to the stone door. Unflinching, he walked through the damaged portal, which crumbled and fell all around him.

Inside, four Black Raven warriors gasped at the approaching figure covered with dust and scales. Before they could react, Vell grasped two of them by the necks and slammed their heads against the wall with a hard crack. The other two drew their swords, but Vell fended them off barehanded, grasping a sword arm in each hand and squeezing with inhuman strength. The Black Ravens fell to the floor squealing in pain.

Vell ignored them and walked through the vacant stone hall that was once the tribal feast hall. The structure now trembled and crumbled with each of Vell’s thunderous steps. As he passed huge depictions of the Thunderbeast adorning the walls, the totem seemed to look on as Vell moved. A few Black Ravens slipped into his wake, but he paid no attention to them or their arrows, which simply zipped past him. Vell made his way into the next room, which he remembered as Gundar’s throne room. A simple stone seat, long unoccupied, was the only furniture in the chamber.

Vell picked up the throne, held it high over his head, and threw it at the wall. It broke through, dislodging stone blocks and sending streams of dust from the floor above. Vell didn’t even blink as the ceiling caved in on him.

The assembled Thunderbeast warriors watched in awe as the whole face of the King’s Lodge crumbled and collapsed in a deafening waterfall of stone. A few screams from the Black Ravens punctuated the noise, but were silenced quickly. Stray pieces of debris bounced toward the Thunderbeasts, but the bulk of the building fell inward and away from the onlookers. A huge cloud of dust billowed up and coated all of Grunwald in a white cloud, thick and oppressive.

The shock felt by the Thunderbeasts was nothing compared to that of the raven riders above them, who watched so many of their tribesmen disappear in the rain of debris. Their birds spooked as the terrain beneath them vanished. The creatures circled uneasily, leaving them unprepared for the hail of arrows that emerged from the dust, and letting missiles plunge into their wings and underbellies. Some threw their riders and flew off into the Lurkwood. Finally, the rest of the Black Ravens retreated, demoralized.

One of the raven riders fell through the dust and landed hard on the ground. A Thunderbeast readied an axe, but Sungar cried, “Halt!” The chieftain ran to study the enemy, whose blood gurgled at his lips. Sungar held a warhammer at the ready.