Only Vell seemed comfortable around Kellin, and she was glad for that. He often walked next to her, perhaps symbolically to the others—or perhaps for other reasons. Certainly, Vell knew he was needed by the party, and he knew that perhaps this meant more leeway for him. Kellin was afraid for him, though. The estrangement he felt from his tribe—and from himself—was clearly wearing at him.
Keirkrad had not spoken to Kellin in several days. Certain warriors—Grallah, Hengin, Ilskar, and Draf—were clearly more loyal to Keirkrad than to Thluna and had followed suit. Dressed in brown rothéhide robes, the old buzzard occasionally cast Kellin sidelong glances of disapproval, especially as she walked with Vell. She couldn’t forget what Vell had pointed out—those born into the tribe with magical ability were put to death, and such rules were enforced by shamans like Keirkrad. She’d learned as a scholar not to judge other cultures by the standards of her own, yet now she found that next to impossible.
Under Thanar’s direction, the barbarians drew their weapons and cut away the brambles, slashing through vines and thorns until they had cleared a path to the forest. As if by instinct, each of them paused to gaze at the legendary woodland. The High Forest was dominated by leafy trees, here favoring birches, silverbarks, and the eerie duskwoods whose slate gray trunks pointed straight to the sky without many branches. Most of the Thunderbeasts had been raised among trees in the Lurkwood, but that forest was composed of pines and spruces. Even the smells were different—where the Lurkwood was permeated with the heavy piquant fragrance of pine, what lay ahead smelled of something sweeter and more heady, an aroma teasing to their senses.
The year was well into Marpenoth, the month of leaf fall, and even this magically-charged wood showed the impact of the season. The ground was covered with coppery fallen leaves and many of the limbs above were bare. The autumn would give way to another bitter northern winter, like so many the Thunderbeasts had endured. This time, though, the tribe feared the winter might be different, that the tribe might not last till spring. Winter never failed to cull the weak.
They walked with caution across the forest floor, which lay covered in moss and fallen leaves, scarcely daring to disturb a tree branch lest the wood’s masters be offended. Ahead, the solid ground became moist and marshy, and revealed a row of small pools, covered in lily pads and alive with jumping frogs.
“These were put here deliberately,” Thanar said.
“Have you been here before?” asked Kellin.
“No. But how could they be otherwise? Look how even they are. The treants have placed them here so they can use the water against fires.”
“The treants,” repeated Keirkrad. “We’re truly to put our faith in such creatures as trees that walk?”
“Perhaps they’re listening to you even now,” Thanar said. “There’s no telling which of these trees might be a silent treant. This is their wood, shaman Seventoes, and they are aware of everything that happens herein.” Thanar was not a worshiper of Uthgar and was less intimidated by Keirkrad than his companions.
“Let them watch,” said Keirkrad, casting wary glances at the oaks around them. “All we need from them is our passage.”
“No,” said Thluna quietly. Contradicting his elder and shaman was not in his nature, and it showed in his voice. “We need more than passage. We need the treants’ help.”
They pressed on, and in time the woods grew darker, damper, and cooler. The only light was that which flickered down from the treetops, now looming so high above. They heard occasional rustlings from the underbrush and saw flashes of movement in the periphery of their vision, and wondered whether they detected animals or some intelligent inhabitant of the woods. The remaining light faded as the foliage grew thicker, and the forest around them gradually turned from green to blue. The color was not that of the trees, but of the light reflecting off strange bloblike forms on the ground and on the bark of trees, so many that they carpeted the forest as far as the eye could see. Thanar kneeled to inspect one of the blobs and marveled that it was slowly moving across the forest’s mossy floor.
“What is it?” asked Thluna.
“Some type of fungus,” said Thanar. “I’ve never seen anything like it. It is told that the treant Turlang has made a home in his wood for many animals and plants at risk in other parts of the High Forest—these creatures may be among them.”
“In that case,” said Vell, “I recommend we avoid stepping on them.”
This was the first he had spoken all day, and all eyes turned to him. A few breaths later, everyone broke out laughing. Uthgardt belly laughs shook leaves from the trees. It was a relief to all to hear Vell make a joke.
They walked on through the strange blue-tinted wood, following hills and ravines until they came to a strange clearing where daylight once again greeted them. They found themselves at the foot of a massive oak that dwarfed all the other trees they had seen. Its great gnarly roots twisted high above the ground as if they were ready to rise up and walk. Although they had prepared themselves for the unexpected, the Uthgardt still jumped in shock as they spotted a craggy face staring at them from high up on the tree trunk.
“Who dares test the patience of my kind?” the treant asked. Its voice was deep, low, and rich with age. “Who intrudes on our domain?”
Thluna stepped forward. “We beg your forgiveness, noble Turlang …”
“I am not Turlang!” the treant rumbled, thrashing thick branches, gnarled and ancient, that suggested arms. Roots rose from the ground as if preparing to stride forward. “I am Duthroan, not the Deeproot. I cannot pretend to his age and wisdom. A strange party I see before me. What manner of beings are you?” A great hand swung down and pointed a wooden finger at Vell. “I have seen many things. Many ages have passed since my seed set root. But I have not seen the like of you. What are you?”
“Perhaps you could tell me,” said Vell.
“You are a man,” the treant said with great deliberation, “yet not a man. There is a sense to you, like something I knew in ages past. Great power is sleeping in you.” The bark across its brow furrowed in its contemplation.
“Some of you are channels for energies. Power comes to you from the Weave,” Duthroan indicated Kellin with the point of a root, “and to you from the divine.” The root swung toward Keirkrad. “And to you from nature itself,” Duthroan rumbled, pointing at Thanar. It paused. “But you are not a channel for power, but a repository.”
“A repository,” repeated Vell.
“There is danger where you walk. Danger even to this forest while you are here, if your power should wake and grow beyond your control. Why have you come?”
Thluna spoke. “I am Thluna, chieftain of the Thunderbeast tribe. We are here …” But before he could finish, Duthroan raised up his roots and slapped them against the ground.
“Thunderbeast!” Leaves showered from Duthroan’s branches as he shook them in anger. “The scourge of the Lurkwood? We treants know that name! The only Uthgardt ever known to fell living trees, even to sell them for profit? Not even the demon-tainted Blue Bears dared such a thing.” In that heartbeat, all feared that their quest was over, that Duthroan would expel them from the forest—if not kill them outright.
“That is the past!” Thanar shouted. “I am a tender of nature as well, and I was appalled at my tribe’s actions. I left them to wander the wilds of the North. I bathed in freezing rivers to purify my soul, to burn off what I considered a decadent, destructive way of life. Now the tribe has gone back to the true path, and I have rejoined them. Grunwald is rubble, life in the Lurkwood is far behind, and no more trees shall be cut down by the Thunderbeasts.”
“Scant seasons have passed since this withdrawal,” said Duthroan. “We who have lived ages recognize that such changes are not always permanent.”
“Then the few generations they spent logging the Grunwald must seem like an eyeblink to you,” said Kellin. “And is it not true that the Thunderbeasts once lived in the High Forest?”
; “That is so,” said Duthroan. This was a surprise to most of the Uthgardt present, though they had heard tales of life in the High Forest in their legends. “Before yellow-bearded Uther came to the North and tempted you out.”
“You knew our ancestors as they lived and breathed?” asked Thluna, awestruck at the thought.
“They seldom dared enter our part of the wood,” the treant said, “for they feared us. They made their home in the south.”
“What of the behemoths?” asked Keirkrad. “The great lizards. Our totem has sent us in search of them.”
A new expression crossed the treant’s craggy features and he roared in excitement.
“You are one of them!” he shouted at Vell.
“One of whom?” demanded Vell.
“The behemoths! They roamed our woods once, great gentle beasts with necks that reached the highest treetops. But I have not known their like in a millennium, until today.”
“I don’t understand,” Vell said. “How am I like them? I am a man, not a lizard.”
“Some things cannot be explained easily,” Duthroan said. “You cannot tell me you have no sense of what I mean.”
Grim-faced, Vell nodded.
“Perhaps your kinsmen of the forest know of this,” Duthroan said. “Perhaps I should take you to them, and let them decide what to do with you.”
“The Tree Ghosts,” said Keirkrad. They were the youngest of the Uthgardt tribes, an offshoot of the hated Blue Bear tribe. When the Blue Bears fell into savagery, evil, and the worship of Malar, the Tree Ghosts took their own strange path, devoting their lives to searching for a tree. They believed that the original ancestor mound of the Blue Bears, called Grandfather Tree, was lost somewhere in the High Forest. Most Thunderbeasts believed that Grandfather Tree was nothing more than a myth, and that the Tree Ghosts chased a shadow. But in their rare encounters with the Tree Ghosts, the Thunderbeasts found them to be friendly, if strange. They admired the Tree Ghosts’ singular purpose and drive, something the Thunderbeast tribe often seemed to lack.
“They’ve spent many decades collecting the lost lore of the High Forest,” said Kellin. “They may have the information we seek.”
“Where can we find them?” asked Thluna.
“The way cannot be shown,” said Duthroan. “The way is secret. But there is another possibility.” His great wooden hands reached for a knot on his side and drew forth a number of small leather flasks. “Quaff the dew these contain. It will take your senses and your wits for a time, so we trees can deliver you to their company. Then the choice will be theirs to decide your fate.”
“And if we refuse?” asked Thluna.
“Then I will ask you to leave Turlang’s Wood and never return.” Duthroan’s tone carried the unspoken threat of what might happen if they defied his instructions.
Thluna stood silently, weighing his options.
“The Tree Ghosts are noble,” said Thanar. “We would not be wise to offend our only likely allies in the whole of the forest.”
“And our time may be short,” Vell said. “If we must leave Turlang’s Wood and seek another route into the deep forest, we could lose months.”
“I agree,” said Thluna with some reluctance. He turned to Duthroan. “We accept your offer.”
Keirkrad moved close to Thluna and spoke directly into his ear. “You cannot listen to this. This creature cannot be trusted—this is a tree that walks. The Tree Ghosts associate with elves and—gods know what else. Dealing with such beings will be at the cost of our souls.”
Something cracked in Thluna. Although young and accustomed to deferring to his elders, he turned on Keirkrad.
“Who is chief here?” he demanded. Keirkrad sniffed and shrank away, making claws of his ancient hands.
The treant passed the flasks to the Uthgardt. “One gulp,” he said. “No more.” One by one, they lapsed into a trance and stood like brainless undead, eyes wide open, until only Vell and Kellin waited to drink. She could scarcely imagine what he was feeling at that moment. Perhaps he felt that his will had been wrested from him already, and he saw this as another incident of the same. Or perhaps he welcomed this oblivion as a rest.
They took their swigs in unison and lapsed away together.
The true chief of the Thunderbeast tribe lay on the floor of his cell, barely conscious from torture. His own rage had been used against him. His torturers had known of the barbarians’ anger, capable of making them powerful, reckless, and all but unstoppable. That state stripped emotion and doubt, and replaced it with the purity of thoughtless rage. Clearly, his torturers knew of this and used it to their advantage. Bound to a cold metal table in their dimly lit chamber, Sungar had been allowed to rage and was left untouched. Only when it was over, when the purity of the fight was gone, when Sungar was susceptible to all the doubts and insecurities of his world, would they go to work. No resistance was possible. Unbidden, his mouth would open, and all the secrets of his tribe would flow forth.
Only the occasional comforting words of the dwarf in the next cell kept Sungar tied to reality as his mind threatened to float away on a sea of wrath and shame. Hurd would laugh even though he had been imprisoned for so long, subject to tortures equal to Sungar’s. At times Sungar wondered if Hurd was real, for he never saw his face. Was he just another trick of his torturers to keep him from suicide, or—worse yet—a trick of his own mind?
Two guards, swords at their belts, entered Sungar’s cell and propped him up. Weak as a kitten, Sungar could do nothing to resist. He expected they were taking him for another session under the cruel glass-studded whip of tusk-faced Klev, but instead they washed him and put him in clean clothes. Sungar was far too weak to complain, but he croaked, “Why are you doing this?”
“We can’t have you smelling like a dumb animal, even if that is what you are,” one of them explained through a grin. “You’re meeting the mayor.”
Now, dressed in silk breeches and a starched white shirt, the finest fashions of Waterdeep, he was marched up a flight of stairs that wound back on itself at each landing. He was delivered into a narrow dining hall. Great decadent paintings decorated the walls, a white cloth covered the table, and cold iron chains bound him to his chair. A strap around his forehead held his head in place against the chains. He felt his feet on a plush carpet. Above his head, a magical light cast unflickering shadows over the walls.
He was left there a long time—he heard a bell sound outside, and later, another. Finally a man entered and took a place opposite him at the table. Somewhat rotund and red-faced, middle-aged with a receding hairline, he was dressed in sleek purple robes. Even if Hurd hadn’t mentioned it, Sungar would have known this man was a wizard. Something about him was sluglike; his features were so soft, as if weather had never touched him. This was a man who never used his body for anything. He would be ill-equipped for physical combat, Sungar knew; he could snap the man’s neck in an instant, were it not for his deceitful magic.
“Chieftain Sungar,” he said with an over-wide smile. “I am pleased to meet you at last. I’m Geildarr Ithym. I’m the mayor here in Llorkh, and you are my guest.
“I regret the necessity of your restraints. I hope that in time I will be able to host you unencumbered. Perhaps you’d like to sample our civilized cuisine—it goes far beyond the berries and roasted joints you’re probably accustomed to.”
Sungar said nothing.
“You might come to enjoy the pleasures of civilization in time,” said Geildarr. “You scowl at the word.” Geildarr repeated it, savoring every syllable. “Civilization. The name for everything your people despise. But do you even know what it means?”
Sungar spat onto the table before him. He heard rustling behind him and knew that guards were ready to abuse him if he misbehaved. But Geildarr silenced them with a casual wave of his hand.
“Klev told me you’ve been very cooperative in his interrogations,” Geildarr went on. “But there’s one thing I still don’t understand. It concerns the ax
e you left in the Fallen Lands. The exact reason you thought to get rid of it is of great interest to me.” Geildarr’s gaze became intense. “The wizard named, according to you, Arklow of Ashabenford, demonstrated the axe was magical, so you threw it away. This seems to me—but admittedly, I’m no expert on Uthgardt honor—like an act so petulant as to befit a three-year-old child, not a mighty barbarian warrior.
“I realize you shun magic in all of its forms. I respect that—even a seasoned wizard like myself starts to hate the stuff every now and again. It grows boring when I use it too much. It loses its wonder. However, using a weapon infused with magic isn’t quite the same as commanding magic.
“It was your choice to toss it away, to leave it there in the dust. It might have gone for the rest of eternity without anybody finding it. But through a happy accident, or perhaps divine will, somebody did. Sungar, do you know the name Berun?”
Sungar said nothing, but he knew his reaction gave him away.
“Of course you do. He’s an important figure in your legends. Well, one of the tales of him was more than legend. That axe you wielded belonged to him.”
Sungar scanned the mayor’s face. Clearly he was enjoying himself; he was a torturer of another kind. Was that the whole reason for this show? If so, it told much about Geildarr. A true leader, one secure in his power, would not feel the need to taunt the helpless.
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