Son of Thunder (8 page)

Tyrrell shrugged. “They’re barbarians. There’s always an axe. That or an especially large club. For the cracking of skulls.”

“Such a wit you are,” Ardeth said through pursed lips. “Now, what can you tell me about the Thunderbeasts?”

“Thunderbeasts?” Tyrrell thought a moment. “Thought to be the most civilized of all the tribes, though I don’t recommend saying that to their faces. They hate wolves for some obscure reason—they regard them as a ritual enemy. Orcs, too. Something to do with the Gray Wolf tribe, probably. Their totem animal is something called a behemoth, or ‘thunderer’—a big lizard of some sort, possibly one of those dinosaurs that live down in Chult. There may even be one of those creatures still alive closer to home—they say that the lizardmen in the Lizard Marsh …”

“Where can I find them now?” asked Ardeth. Even though his life was under threat, she sensed a general willingness to cooperate. Perhaps the threat was unnecessary—once a Zhentarim supporter, always a Zhentarim supporter. Or perhaps this erstwhile scholar was so in love with the sound of his own voice that he welcomed any opportunity to hear it. She added, “And by ‘them’ I mean the Thunderbeasts, not the lizards.”

“Well, for about a century they lived in a place called Grunwald, up in the Lurkwood, making a living at some sort of trade. No other tribe has ever dealt with the cities of the North so directly, except possibly the Black Lions, who’ve recently cast their lot with the Silver Marches wholeheartedly. Some of the other tribes hated the Thunderbeasts for settling down and wanted to destroy them, but others respected them for the power they commanded.”

“You say they lived in Grunwald,” said Ardeth. “You mean they don’t now?”

“No. Their chief for many years was named Gundar. He outlived all his sons, and the story goes that as he was dying, he had a choice between two successors—the old priest Keirkrad, who wanted to stay in Grunwald, and a warrior called Sungar, who represented a faction of the tribe who wanted to abandon Grunwald and go back to their nomadic roots. The dying chief chose Sungar, though some thought that he was too senile to make the decision properly. But Sungar is now chief. Because his succession came under odd circumstances, some in the tribe question the validity of his rule.

“If you’re trying to find them, don’t try Grunwald. I heard recently that they cut a deal with the folk of Everlund. The Thunderbeasts are living somewhat east of there, along the Rauvin, and they’ve agreed not to raid the town or harm trading interests as long as Everlund does not extend too far in their direction. Basically, they’ve both agreed to leave each other alone, except in the face of common enemies. That essentially means orcs—barbarians need little justification to fight orcs.”

“This … Sungar … how would one recognize him?” asked Ardeth.

“Well, like I said, the tribe hates wolves. Sungar’s nickname is ‘Wolfkiller.’ Many of them wear wolf skins, but when dressed for ceremony, the chief probably gets the fanciest—they favor black. Or alternatively,” Tyrrell said through a grimace, “you could just ask every barbarian you see. That way, you’re bound to find him sooner or later.”

Ardeth smiled coldly. “Is there anything else you’d care to tell me about them?”

“Well,” said Tyrrell, “there’s one thing. I hesitate to mention this—I don’t know if it’s anything more than silly rumor.”

“I’ll be the judge of that,” said Ardeth. “Talk.”

“Apparently, about two and a half years ago, around the same time the Phaerimm War was happening, some members of the Thunderbeast tribe—Sungar included, and maybe Keirkrad, too—were on an orc hunt down in the Fallen Lands.” Tyrrell watched Ardeth’s eyes narrow at the mention. “I see you’ve heard of it. Well, when they came back, most of the tribesmen were dead and those still living were missing a great number of weapons, including a very special axe.”

“How did you hear this story?” demanded Ardeth.

“From a logger here in Newfort, but he claimed he heard it from a barbarian named Garstak, a former Thunderbeast who left the tribe not long after this. Sungar and the others refused to discuss what had happened, but word got out anyway, and it led to some internal strife. This Garstak—according to the logger, anyway—refused to say much more, but said that he thought his tribe was too debased and was doomed to weakness and ruin. He said he was going to go up north to try to join the Black Lion tribe, for he thought they had the nobility he founded lacking in his own people. And that’s all I know.”

“Do you know where I might get more information?” asked Ardeth.

“Oh, I don’t know … you might ask the Thunderbeasts themselves.”

“I just might,” said Ardeth, letting out an odd giggle. “I thank you for your help, and Geildarr thanks you.”

“I hope he does. Here’s his dagger back.” He tossed it, and the weapon landed on the floor at Ardeth’s feet with an unceremonious clunk.

“No,” she said. “It belongs to you.” She picked it up and hurled it at his face. Tyrrell dodged too slowly and it struck him in the neck. He instinctively grasped at his throat as blood flowed down his chest. Ardeth stood watching as he attempted a few steps toward her, but he collapsed from the pain and blood loss before he could reach her. She smiled like a naughty child as his bloodstained hand reached in her direction and grasped only air.

“Thanks for the help,” she said as she leaped over Tyrrell. Within heartbeats, she was through his door and gone.

Through the haze of death, and the blood dripping in his eyes, Tyrrell saw a new face. Was it real, or was he dreaming it? he wondered. The image spun—a huge red nose on a shrunken face.

The face spoke. “She’s very good, isn’t she?”

Without moving to help him, the gnome waited until Tyrrell rattled with death. Then he reached over to extract the bone dagger from Tyrrell’s neck, freeing a tide of blood that swelled the puddle on the floor.

What am I doing here? thought Kellin. Children lurked outside her tent to try to get a glimpse of her, so exotic a creature was she in these northern lands. They regarded her little differently than they might a dark-skinned visitor from Zakhara—any place outside the North was the same to them, and any visitor who looked different was an object of curiosity and fear.

Kellin liked and respected Sungar, and Thluna seemed like a man far beyond his years, yet with boyish wonder and enthusiasm. But they were the only Thunderbeasts she’d spoken to in the days since she’d arrived. She’d taken her meals with the tribe, but they seemed scared of her, especially when she spoke to them in their own language. The women particularly looked at her with disdain, as if she were there to steal their men—as laughable a notion as that was.

Kellin could hear the voices of those who had tried to dissuade her from coming here.

“I can understand it perfectly,” one of the Candlekeep lorekeepers told her. “Your whole childhood was spent safely locked away here, while your father wandered the world in search of adventures. But such a venture is foolhardy and dangerous.” Kellin’s denials hardly even convinced herself.

She heard footsteps approaching outside her tent and instinctively reached for the hilt of her father’s sword.

“May I speak with you?” came a deep voice, speaking uncertain Common.

Kellin stood and opened the tent flap. She instantly knew who the man was by his brown eyes, but from the stories she’d heard, she hadn’t expected him to look quite so gentle and innocent.

“Vell the Blessed,” she said, using the Uthgardt tongue. “I’ve heard a lot about you. I am honored that you’ve come to see me.”

“The honor is mine,” Vell said, staring deeply at her face. He stared so long, in fact, that he pulled away in embarrassment. “I’m sorry.”

“No,” she laughed. “It’s fine. I’ve gotten the same reaction from most of your people.”

“Your parents … where did they come from?” asked Vell.

She admired his directness. “My mother was of Tethyrian blood. I’ve inherited something of her skin tone, and hopefully some of her good sense as well.” She smiled. “My father was born in the Moonsea region, in a place called Melvaunt.”

“I see,” said Vell, though Kellin suspected she’d named a few places he’d never heard of. “Our chieftain tells me the Thunderbeast sent you here.”

“All I know is that when I touched that piece of bone, I heard a message of some kind, and it led me here.”

“Will you be coming into the forest with us?” asked Vell.

“I don’t know,” Kellin confessed. “Sungar says he hasn’t decided, and I haven’t decided if I should.”

“I hope you do. We can protect you.”

“I can fight,” said Kellin, half-smiling. “So can the women of your tribe—they’ve proven it many times in your history. But I’m not sure if my place is on this expedition. I don’t really belong.”

Vell reached over with a clumsy hand to comfort her in her uncertainty.

“Do I belong?” Vell asked. “I’d never have dreamed to be invited on such an expedition as this. Sometimes I wonder why the spirit chose me. The entire tribe was assembled at Morgur’s Mound. Why didn’t the beast choose Sungar as its vessel, or Keirkrad the Shaman? Did it pick me at random out of all the Uthgardt there? Even an outsider responds to the beast’s summons better than I.”

“Gods, don’t think that,” said Kellin. “It hasn’t been easy for me. That moment on Highharvestide, I felt a nagging dread wash over my body and settle in my stomach. I haven’t been able to get rid of it. That’s just a taste of what you must have experienced.” Vell nodded. She was the first person to try to excuse his weakness. It felt good, but he instinctively mistrusted it for coming from an outsider. “But what’s interesting is, it’s starting to fade now that I’m here. It’s crazy that I’m here, but somehow it feels right, too. Am I making sense?”

“Yes,” Vell said. “And I’m glad you’re here.” Then Keirkrad appeared behind him, seemingly popping out of nowhere.

“I, too, would like to greet our new arrival,” the shaman said.

“Oh,” said Vell. To Kellin, he whispered, “We shall talk again,” before walking out of the tent.

Keirkrad stared at Kellin. She found his eyes unnerving—they were blue as the sky, and so piercing and unwavering. His body appeared frail and crumpled, and he was hunched over like some gargoyle. A brisk wind disturbed the flaps of the tent, and Keirkrad looked almost as if he’d blow away with it.

“I trust you are shaman Seventoes,” Kellin said. “Sungar has told me of you.”

“He has told me about you,” Keirkrad said. He stood very close to her, and she could see a brown film coating his yellowed teeth. “No matter how much you’ve heard about our tribe’s penchant for hospitality at Grunwald, you should know that those times are passed. We no longer consort with outsiders. You are not welcome here.”

“I’m here because your totem spirit guided me here,” Kellin retorted. “I should think that I would be treated with the greatest courtesy.”

Keirkrad sniffed. “Southern humor translates poorly to our tongue. You may think the Thunderbeast sent you here, but I shall be the judge of that. I remember your father well. For a month he lived as we lived in Grunwald. We tolerated him because we thought him an amusing diversion—an outsider who wanted to know our ways. We did not realize he had made himself our chronicler as well, that he put us in books. What death befell Zale Lyme?”

“He died in his sickbed,” said Kellin.

“A suitable death,” Keirkrad said. “Unheroic.”

“Your King Gundar died the same way, as I understand.”

Keirkrad ignored her comment. “I just got back from retrieving Vell, who thought to abandon his people in their time of need. I hope his moment of weakness is over. Sungar says you will come with us into the wood. He is my chief and I will not question his wisdom. But I will not let you taint the mind of Vell or any other Thunderbeast with your ways.”

“I’ve spent my life studying the Uthgardt, as my father did,” Kellin told him. “The last thing I’d want to do is to change you.”

“Have you brought books with you?” asked Keirkrad.

“Yes,” she said. “Various reference works that might help me understand what’s happening to your tribe.”

“Let me see one of these books,” said Keirkrad.

Warily, Kellin went to the corner of her tent and picked up a thick volume from her collection. Keirkrad snatched it and flipped through it, idly running his fingers over the lines of dense text. There were occasional illustrations—line drawings of costumes and tribal emblems. He found one sketch of King Gundar himself. At that he snapped the book shut.

Keirkrad looked at the leather-bound cover.

“What does this say?” asked Keirkrad, tracing the embossed title.

“It says, Customs of the Northern Barbarians.” She hesitated before adding, “By Zale Lyme.”

“Oh.” Keirkrad looked up at her. “Your father wrote this?”

“Yes,” she said.

Keirkrad tore the book to shreds. The binding snapped under his bony hands, and he ripped the pages free, tossing them to be caught by the breeze and scattered all over the camp.

“You may come with us if you want,” Keirkrad concluded with a bitter sneer. “But leave your so-called civilization behind. The Thunderbeast doesn’t want it.”

That evening, before a roaring fire at the clan hearth, the skald Hazred sang a song of Uthgar. It went on for a long time, like most longer epics, but Hazred’s voice never faltered and his memory never failed. When he concluded, Kellin stepped forward to take the skald’s place before the assembled warriors, their grim faces lit by the orange flicker of the fire.

“I, too, have a story to tell,” she said. “I know it is a tradition of your people for newcomers to tell a story. It does not have a song, but I would never try to usurp the place of your magnificent skald. I’m not practiced in your language, but I shall do my best.

“I’m rarely called upon as a storyteller,” she said, smiling. She scanned the crowd and her eyes connected with Sungar, Thluna, Vell, and finally Keirkrad, who stared at her impassively from across the fire. Kellin had first wondered if she might tell them a story from their own history, about the figure known variously as Berun, Beorunna, and the Bey of Runlatha. But Kellin had thought of something that she hoped would work better.