Son of Thunder (7 page)

Vell looked Keirkrad square in the eye. “It’s not the same thing. I don’t know who I am any more. I feel the most precious part of myself slipping away.”

“You have power, Vell!” Keirkrad shouted. “You’ve saved our tribe already, and you can save it again. Our tribe faces a crisis that goes far beyond a few Black Ravens with too much ambition. It’s what brought us to Morgur’s Mound. You carried the message—’find the living.’”

“I don’t remember saying that,” said Vell. “But I do remember what happened at Grunwald. I remember exactly how it felt as my mind lost control of my body. The scales took my will with them. I don’t know who or what brought down the King’s Lodge, but it was not Vell the Brown.”

“It’s a rare gift to have the Thunderbeast act through you. Such an honor to be our totem’s vessel!”

Vell turned away. “Then the beast made a mistake. It chose too weak a vessel.”

Keirkrad placed his ancient hand on Vell’s shoulder. “The beast makes no mistakes. Do not doubt yourself—place your faith in the divine. If it chose you, that must mean you’re strong enough to accept the burden. Pray to the beast for strength.”

“I pray that it takes this power from me.”

Keirkrad snarled. “It is not for you to question this! Sungar makes plans for our expedition into the High Forest. You cannot refuse your destiny any longer.”

“Do you hate Sungar?” asked Vell.

The question took Keirkrad aback. “What do you mean?”

“Gundar made him chief instead of you,” Vell said, overcome with an inner strength that made him speak words he would never dare to say otherwise. “You scheme to take his place. This is known to all. But you’re too old. So you need a champion to become chief and act on your behalf…”

“Insolent child!” Keirkrad shouted so sharply that it echoed off the valley walls. “Your gift is being corrupted by the wickedness in your mind. That is why you cannot bear it; you refuse to turn your will over to your totem. Let the Thunderbeast into your heart and you shall know peace again.”

Each word cut Vell like a dagger and sucked away the strength he felt. He fell on his knees before the shaman, supplicant and weeping for forgiveness.

In a way no one had expected, the trip to Grunwald proved worthwhile for the Thunderbeasts. Not only did it provide a taste of the warfare and the prideful thrill of victory that some of them craved—it also helped erase Grunwald from their collective memory. Everyone realized that it was not the place they once knew, and it would never be home again. They made the path back, some to whatever corner of the North they claimed as their hunting ground, most following their chieftain to a pleasant bend of the River Rauvin, east of Everlund. They were free once again to roam and move with the ebb of the seasons and the herds of deer and rothe, but mostly they stayed at the river, in what was inevitably known as Sungar’s Camp.

Life slowly returned to normal. Tents were pitched again, children played among the meadows, and the hunting teams brought home elk, deer, and even a ghost rothe—considered a good omen for the upcoming expedition.

Sungar met with Thluna in his tent. “I have chosen the men I need with me in the High Forest. I want you to inform them of the honor. We will need the druid Thanar as a guide in the forest, as well as Hazred the Voice, and the warriors Grallah, Torgrall, Hengin, Ilskar, Stenla, Flagdar, Delark, and Draf the Swift. Tell them to make themselves ready. Once Keirkrad returns with Vell, we shall not delay.”

“Very well,” Thluna said. “But I ask that you reconsider. I think my place is with you. There are others that might act as chief.”

Sungar shook his head. “I cannot deprive my daughter of her husband for such a long time. And I trust no one more than you to lead the Thunderbeasts.”

“How long do you think the quest shall last?” asked Thluna.

Sungar shrugged. “Days, months, years. The Thunderbeast has sent us on an epic task, and such glory comes at a cost. This task could claim all our lives.”

A Thunderbeast arrived at the tent flap. “Forgive me, chieftain,” he said, “but a civilized outlander has arrived at our camp seeking to speak with you. She claims to have an offering for your audience.”

“She?” asked Sungar. “A visitor from Everlund?”

“I think not,” came the answer. Sungar bade him to bring her, and he and Thluna heard whispers outside. When she stepped forward, they realized why.

Dressed in comfortable traveler’s leathers with a slender sword dangling from her waist, the woman was tall and almost as solidly built as Uthgardt women. Long-limbed and agile, there was something pleasantly deerlike about her. Black hair flowed down her shoulders in curls, but the hue of her skin transfixed them most. It was considerably darker than most folk in the North, certainly among the insular Uthgardt. Only a few southern merchants who visited Grunwald over the years had displayed such a dusky skin tone.

“Sungar, son of Moghain, I greet you,” she said. Astonishingly, she spoke in the tongue of the Uthgardt! Though her accent slightly favored the Common tongue, her diction was flawless.

“What magic is this?” asked Thluna, having seen translation magic at work before.

“You may wonder that I speak the language of your people. I am not skilled at it, but I hope I have learned enough not to insult. I am Kellin Lyme, daughter of Zale Lyme.” Her words and her posture were appropriately respectful for someone seeking an audience with a chief of the Thunderbeasts—even those born to the tribe could have done no better. In her hands she carried a parcel wrapped in wolfskin. She laid it at Sungar’s feet and unwrapped it, revealing a large piece of old bone.

“What is this?” asked Sungar, this time in Common. He leaned over to pick it up.

Kellin joined him in Common. “A piece of bone from the Thunderbeast itself, stolen more than a century ago by unknown raiders. It has been away from your tribe too long, and now I return it to you.”

Sungar inspected it closely. “This was stolen from Morgur’s Mound? How did you come to own it?”

Kellin swallowed. “My father purchased it from an antiquarian in Baldur’s Gate. It has spent several decades in the archives of Candlekeep, Faerun’s greatest library.”

“Library?” asked Thluna. “Those are for books—why should it hold a bone?”

“Candlekeep collects many things. My father spent his life learning about tribes like yours. It was his specialty. He visited your tribe at Grunwald once, met with King Gundar, and even drank in the King’s Lodge with victorious warriors who had broken an orc horde near Shining White.”

“Yes,” said Sungar. “Yes, I remember. I was young then, and I could not understand why one of the civilized folk would want to learn our customs. But I remember him as a good man, nevertheless.”

“You honor his memory,” said Kellin graciously. “I follow in his footsteps. I am a sage like him, and I, too, study your people. You interest me very much and I’ve made it my life’s work to learn more about you.” With some hesitation, she added, “And yet, I have not met an Uthgardt until today.”

“This is difficult to believe,” said Thluna, looking at the newcomer warily.

“You may fetch your shaman or a priest of your tribe and let him test my intentions,” she replied, “but let me explain them first. On the night of Highharvestide—your Runemeet—my sleep was disturbed by a rattling sound in the archives. It was this bone, dancing in the box that held it, and when I touched it, I felt a flash in my mind, bidding me to come to your aid. It told me that you were in great danger. I wanted to help.”

“Help?” asked Sungar. “Why should you want to help us?”

“Many asked me the same when I left Candlekeep,” said Kellin. “But I felt that I had no choice. So vivid was my summons that I felt my mind would never feel right again if I ignored it.”

“So you think that the Thunderbeast called you—an outsider—to our aid?” asked Sungar, looking her hard in the eye.

“I don’t know if the Thunderbeast did,” she admitted. “But someone did.”

Sungar probed her eyes for a long while. “She speaks the truth,” he finally told Thluna. “I need no priest to tell me that. But you, woman, are still a mystery. Where you’re from, these studies of which you speak—I know nothing of these things.”

“I can explain it all,” said Kellin, “if you will listen.”

“Perhaps I do not care to hear your explanations. We do not tolerate the presence of your kind more than necessary. That you know our customs does not change this. I cannot allow you to taint my people and introduce your ways.”

“I am not here to proselytize!” Kellin insisted. “I do not want to change your way of life. Far from it. To tell the truth …” Uncertainty spread through her limbs and her posture fell, her shoulders slumping, and she dropped the formal manner of her speech. “I don’t entirely know why I’m here. I had hoped you might give me some idea.” Her dark eyes shone with warmth.

Glances passed between Sungar and Thluna. Sungar spoke in Common again, speaking her language almost as well as she spoke his.

“You are a new piece in a mystery which vexes our tribe at present. If the Thunderbeast sent you, if you’re here to help, there must be a reason. There are many things we’d like to know right now.”

“Then let us find them together,” Kellin suggested. “I know much of your tribe’s history—more than is recorded in your songs. I’ve come hundreds of miles to see you. I’d hate to think it was a waste.”

Sungar leaned closer to her. “Perhaps you’re a test of our strength. A temptation sent by the Thunderbeast to see if we would accept your kind of aid. We’ve accepted outsiders into our company before, and it has ended badly. Maybe the beast wants us to sacrifice you, the way we sacrificed outsiders in centuries past. If you know our history so well, you should know that I’m telling the truth.”

Kellin trembled slightly but stood her ground and held her head high. “It’s always difficult to know a god’s will,” she said. “Perhaps as an outsider, it’s my role to make up for the failings of the past. Or perhaps it’s just to teach the Thunderbeasts a lesson in humility.”

“I suppose you’ve read that our tribe responds to strength, both of arm and of character,” said Sungar. “Well, daughter of Zale, you’ve proven your mettle. Thluna, arrange a tent for her on the edge of camp, away from the others.” Sungar looked at the sword at her belt. “I trust your weapon is not for decoration.”

She grinned confidently. “I know which end is which.”

Sungar had to smile at that. “Good. You may have some use for it soon.”

An the shadow of the twin stockades that dominated Newfort, Arthus Tyrrell arrived at his modest home after a hard day of work. His features were weathered and his hands were calloused, but he never wondered for a moment if he had made a mistake in coming to this inhospitable frontier town. Dwarfed by the mountains that surrounded it, Newfort was founded and largely occupied by settlers from Zhentil Keep. Now, they worked hard to carve out a life for themselves in the North.

Tyrrell closed his door behind him. He was alone; his wife and two children were not yet back from their work at Stauvin’s Mill. A few steps from the door, he noticed something lying on his table—something resembling a large, white knife. He walked to it, grabbed the dagger, and held it up to the light. He gasped. He had seen it before.

“Is it true,” came a voice, “that you dealt the death blow to the Great Wyrm?” Tyrrell spun around to see a pretty face smiling at him from a shadowed corner.

“Who are you?” he asked, taking a step forward. But he was silenced as she raised a crossbow from the darkness and sent a bolt zipping past his head to embed in the wall beyond. He stood very still as he looked at her—a petite woman, dressed all in black.

“My name is Ardeth. No one saw me enter your home,” she said with a coy smile, “and no one will see me leave.”

“Where did you get this?” he said, holding up the dagger.

“Geildarr Ithym sends his regards,” the girl said.

Tyrrell sighed. This was his worst fear realized. His past with the Zhentarim had caught up with him. He had never been a member of the Black Network, but he worked for them on occasion. Years before, at the behest of Llorkh, he and his fellow adventurers had sought the Great Wyrm Cavern high in the Spine of the World. It was the most sacred site of the Great Wyrm tribe of Uthgardt, and they had to slaughter and torture a great many of the barbarians before they learned its location.

When they finally reached the cavern, they slaughtered the benign dragonlike creature Elrem—the Great Wyrm tribe’s totem, shaman, and chief in one. They claimed Elrem’s considerable hoard for their Zhentarim masters. The bone dagger was a mundane item of considerable antiquity, presented to Geildarr much later. Geildarr believed that it dated back to the earliest human habitation in the North, many thousands of years before even Netheril.

“I have a family,” said Tyrrell. “A wife and children. Kill me and you’re taking a father and a husband away. Surely even you Zhentarim have some feelings about that.”

“The only thing I care about right now is the Uthgardt,” Ardeth said. “Geildarr tells me you’re something of an authority on the subject. If you want to live, I recommend you answer my questions.”

“The Uthgardt,” said Tyrrell. “You’re threatening me for information on the barbarians?”

“As implausible as it may sound, yes. And unless you’re willing to die to protect that information, I’d recommend telling me all you know. For instance, the significance of the name ‘Berun.’”

“He’s a figure in the mythology of some tribes,” Tyrrell stammered, drumming his fingers on the table in his nervousness. “Sometimes he’s conflated with Uthgar. There’s a Berun’s Hill near Neverwinter Wood, and Beorunna’s Well was probably named for the same person.”

“Is this just mythology?” asked Ardeth. “Is it possible he actually existed?”

“Possible. I don’t know much about it, but some sages think he might have been a Netherese warrior who led an exodus to the North after the fall.”

“Netherese,” Ardeth repeated, savoring the word. “Geildarr will like that. Is there anything special about an axe in these legends?”