“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.
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 protégée 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.
CHAPTER 3
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.
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