“It has survived!” a nearby arcanist cried. “I didn’t believe it possible.”
“Yes, believe it,” said the Bey. “Those of you outside the Arcanist’s Guild may not have been aware of the purposes of Shaquintar’s experiments. Cruel-hearted tyrant that he was, in his way he loved Runlatha and all who lived here. He wanted to keep us safe, and sensing all this inevitable turmoil, he looked for ways to hide Runlatha from trouble. Shaquintar was not so different from Lord Shadow, but on a more modest scale, tormenting creatures good and evil to achieve his goals. It is said that the beating heart of an angelic planetar was used to create this artifact.”
A collective gasp came from the audience at this revelation.
“Shaquintar called it the Heart of Runlatha. It was to be one of several artifacts. The others were meant to move the city to some far-off place. Either he did not create them or they were lost in the death of magic. I do not know how to use this artifact. Our surviving arcanists must try to unlock its secrets. Perhaps when we find a scrap of ground to call our own, it will help us conceal it from the world.”
A cry of joy arose from the crowd. The Bey had given them hope. Geildarr admired the Bey’s ambitions, but wondered if he ever really thought that they would find a peaceful home somewhere in the North, hidden by illusion. Little did the Runlathans know that they would be scattered and ruined, falling into barbarity and tribalism. All memories, and very nearly all traces of their civilization, would vanish from them, and they would become the Uthgardt.
Naïve, perhaps. Or maybe not—maybe the Bey knew real success was unlikely, but he kept up this fantasy for the sake of his followers. If nothing else, he would achieve a legacy. Some sixteen hundred years later, his name, or a form of it—whether Berun or Beorunna—would be remembered. He wondered if the name Geildarr, or even Fzoul or Sememmon, would last a fraction of that time.
“Now we must leave Runlatha behind,” the Bey told his followers. “We must renounce all claims on it, so that our own hearts do not remain here in the ruins but travel with us on the Lowroad and beyond, to wherever the wind might carry us. Let the orcs pick its bones. Let the desert rise and swallow it up. It means nothing to us any longer. Cities fall, empires perish. It has happened before, and it will surely happen again. But we shall outlast the death of our empire.”
An inexplicable anxiety rose up in Geildarr’s breast, the way it sometimes did in his dreams. He reached out to grab the Heart of Runlatha away from the Bey of Runlatha, and as his hand made contact with the artifact, he woke.
There, trembling in his own opulent bed, the sheets damp with his sweat, he heard the sound of distant footsteps.
With slow, powerful steps, six behemoths walked toward Llorkh. Long serpentine necks bobbed with each footfall. Their steps were synchronized like those of an army marching in time, so that each heavy step sounded like the beat of a great war drum, sending reverberations across the plains. The walls of Llorkh trembled at their approach.
Clavel and the other watchmen atop the city walls stared in disbelief as the brown-skinned lizards came closer. They seemed larger than those Geildarr kept imprisoned in the Central Square. To shocked onlookers, they appeared like vast hills of scale, juggernauts of destruction.
The behemoths followed the wide road, the Dawn Pass Trail, continuing along the same path many thousands of merchant caravans had followed. They marched directly to the west gate of Llorkh: the largest gap in the walls but also the best-defended section. The Lord’s Men manning the checkpoint outside wisely retreated within the city walls.
“Archers,” Clavel croaked, trying to overcome his own astonishment. He barked to his fellows, “Archers! Fetch the archers!”
“How many archers?” a Lord’s Man asked.
“As many as we have!” Clavel cried. “Quickly—wake the barracks! Wake the city!” In the Year of Wild Magic, Llorkh had withstood an attack from hundreds of foes, but could it survive an assault from only six?
Vell walked ahead of the other five, watching purple-clad soldiers, small as beetles, scramble on the city walls. Before long, several dozen archers amassed around the west gate. In all the chaos and confusion, they failed to notice a giant hawk sailing over the unguarded southern walls.
What was this like for the others? Vell wondered. Did they keep their minds the way he did, or were they now the rampaging beast he had been when he killed that Zhentarim skymage outside the camp? With no way to communicate with them, he could only hope they would follow his lead.
The city gates grew closer, and so did the archers defending them. Some of them lit their arrows ablaze, as if it would make a difference.
I’ve never been in a city before, Vell thought, though he had always been faintly curious about life inside them. Some of the merchants who had visited Grunwald when he was a child told him stories about these faraway places with mysterious names. As near as Silverymoon, or as far as Calimport, they were all the same to him—so far outside of his experience that Vell knew he would never come near them.
A few arrows flew from the top of the wall. The archers were firing too early and the missiles fell short, striking the road in the behemoths’ path.
Vell thought, I never considered entering a city in this way.
The Mayor of Llorkh paced his residence, the Heart of Runlatha still held in his right hand. All of his ancient treasures, hanging on his walls or placed on pedestals, trembled with the vibrations shaking the city.
Ardeth appeared from her door on cue, as she always did. He did not need to summon her. She always seemed to know when to appear.
“I sense Sememmon behind this, Cyric take him,” cursed Geildarr.
“Really?” asked Ardeth. “You think Sememmon sent these behemoths to destroy Llorkh?”
“Perhaps, perhaps,” Geildarr thought aloud as he marched out onto his balcony. He could no longer see the behemoths; they were now close enough to the city walls that the angle hid them. In the town below, excitement spread as people dashed about in the early morning streets. “He probably made a deal with those ancients you discovered in the Star Mounts.”
“But didn’t you say he was determined to preserve Llorkh, so he could take it himself later on?” asked Ardeth.
“Yes! No!” Geildarr slammed his left fist down on his balcony rail. “Those damned Uthgardt are clearly involved somehow. The Thunderbeast tribe. Rouse Klev. He needs to have a little chat with our friend the chieftain.”
The rhythmic footfalls still sounded from outside the city walls, now so loud that Geildarr could feel them in his bones.
Ardeth nodded. “The Lord’s Men will assail the behemoths with all they have. They’ll stop them outside the gates, if they can. Perhaps we should join them … perhaps with our magic …”
“Some mages are down in the Merchant District, staying with a caravan from Darkhold. We’ll see how they fare. If these behemoths should break through the walls, our magic will be needed to fight them here,” said Geildarr. He shook his head in disbelief at the words he was speaking.
Ardeth reached out and clasped her small hand around Geildarr’s right wrist. “What of the Heart of Runlatha?”
Geildarr looked down at it, its shimmering red energies radiating forth. “It is safe here. The Lord’s Keep is warded and defended.”
“This place may not be so safe after all,” said Ardeth. “I can take it out of the city, deliver it to Zhentil Keep if you will it.”
Geildarr peered into the artifact. He felt a hollowness in his breath, and he asked himself, Will all of Llorkh fall over this?
“Netherese magic,” he marveled. “All those cities fell, all that civilization was lost. Yet this remains.”
“Geildarr!” Ardeth protested. “Are you all right?”
The mayor looked down on her pale face, and a tear rolled down his cheek.
“What do we do?” Ardeth asked plaintively.
“We wait,” answered Geildarr.
CHAPTER 20
The behemoths stepped over the ditch as if it were a scratch in the dirt. Each new thunderous step, with its hellish synchrony, kicked up clouds of soil, which the wind caught and blew into a brown haze. Clavel could feel each footfall, vibrating the stone walls all the way to the top where he stood.
Five or six dozen Lord’s Men stood ready above the gate, their bows strung and arrows nocked. Without a bow of his own, Clavel stood behind the line of archers, facing outward, trying to stay out of the way, yet remain close to the action. He looked up and saw a murder of crows circling the wall, wings flapping. The birds settled into glides as they navigated the currents.
“Take aim!” the archers’ commander shouted.
The crows were flying low. They were ready to pick the carrion, Clavel reasoned. Clever birds.
The archers took aim all along the line. Some hands trembled. The repetitive pounding of the behemoths’ steps echoed up their spines, and they did not know if their arrows would even penetrate the behemoths’ scales.
Then Clavel noticed something curious. At least two of the crows were holding objects in their feet. The items flashed as they reflected sunlight—they were made of glass. And they were directly over the archers. Clavel leaned his head back and saw another crow hovering right over him, a small glass flask in its feet.
“Get ready!” shouted the commander. The Lord’s Men drew back their bowstrings.
Fear arising in his throat, Clavel tried to dive for cover, but there was none to be had. He fell on his belly and desperately tried to roll under the bowmen. He upset their feet and a few tumbled backward, landing on top of him. Two archers lost their balance entirely and fell off the wall with a scream of death.
All along the line of archers, Lord’s Men turned their heads to look at the source of the commotion.
The crows released their flasks in unison.
“Fire!” the commander shouted, but not a single bowstring snapped in response. The flasks, which Clavel too late recognized as alchemist’s fire, smashed on the archers and the wall. Leaping, roaring flames burst upward, crawling along the top of the wall and raining fire down each side. The Lord’s Men closest to the impact let out cries of agony as their clothes erupted in fire, their bowstrings incinerating in their hands. Those farther from the blasts released their weapons and went running to help their fellows, slapping them in a vain attempt to put out the fires.
Clavel rose, a plume of orange flame leaping from his purple cloak, his screams unheard among the chorus of pain. He plunged off the wall, landing as a flaming wreck directly in the behemoths’ unchallenged path.
Vell watched as flames decimated the mass of soldiers assembled on the wall. Blazing men tumbled to the ground like a fiery waterfall. He looked upward and saw the crows scattering away from the fires. He silently thanked Lanaal. Her plan had worked perfectly.
The behemoths behind him moved into a line, single file, as they approached the heavy wood gate into Llorkh. Vell stepped onto the flaming ruins of some fallen archers, barely feeling any pain as the blazes were extinguished under his vast feet.
Arrows flew down at them, but the missiles were few, and they bounced off thick behemoth hides or embedded, troubling the creatures little more than pinpricks.
Vell’s mind reached out to his imprisoned fellows. He felt their excitement, felt them straining against their bondage even more strongly now that liberation seemed so close.
Shepherd, they seemed to say, give us our freedom!
Vell raised himself partly onto his hind legs and kicked the massive gates to the city, the last barrier between him and the behemoths, and the ancient wood groaned. He kicked again, and the whole gate shuddered. A crack raced to split the wood from the point of impact. With one more kick, the door splintered and fell apart.
Vell lowered his neck to pass through the gateway into Llorkh, where a whole city was ready to fight him.
Sungar lay on the floor of the cramped cell, its walls marking the edges of his world. With his ear to the ground, he could feel the vibrations of the huge thunderbeast steps. He smiled.
His two dungeon guards arrived at the cell door. He lay limp and clenched a fist under his body.
“Wake with the morning, chief,” said one of the dungeon guards, unlocking the cell door. “Klev requests another audience.” He spoke faster than Sungar had ever heard him, the urgency plain in his voice. Looking up, Sungar could see that both soldiers had swords at their belts, though neither of them had their hands anywhere near the hilts.
The instant the first guard walked into the cell, the keys still in the lock, Sungar burst into action. He unleashed all of the anger he had kept in check till this moment. In his clenched fist, he hid all of the dust and pebbles that had fallen from his cell walls during his imprisonment, and he threw it into the guard’s eyes.
As the guard tumbled back, surprised and blinded by Sungar’s attack, the second guard stepped backward into the passageway and quickly pushed the cell door shut. Sungar grasped his fellow by the hair and slammed him face-first into the stone wall, then pulled him back and let him fall to the ground. With a swift foot, Sungar stamped on the guard’s face, and with the single blow the guard’s skull collapsed, his head smashed open on the cold cell floor.
In the corridor, the surviving guard desperately fumbled with the keys, glancing with fear at Sungar’s raging eyes, gone wild and red with fury. The chieftain made a run for the cell door. The guard jumped backward just as Sungar rammed his foot into the door and sent it flying open, its thick iron hinges trembling as it smashed into the wall.
The guard reached for his sword, but before his hand reached the hilt, Sungar assailed him with both fists. He pushed the guard backward against the far side of the passageway, pummeling him into the stone wall with fast blows. The guard succeeded in drawing his sword, but as soon as it left his scabbard, Sungar snatched it from him and sank it deep into its owner’s chest. The guard spat up blood, and his head lolled in death.
The sound of clapping echoed off the dungeon walls. Sungar turned to see Hurd Hardhalberd at the door of his cell. The prisoners looked upon each other for the first time. The stout dwarf was gray-bearded, with long scars down his cheeks, much as Sungar had imagined.
“Good show, Sungar,” said Hurd. “Now if you’ll be lettin’ me out, we’ll be ready to cause some serious damage.”
Sungar went to his own damaged cell door, where the keys still dangled from the lock. He pulled them out and dashed to Hurd’s cell, trying numerous keys before finding one that would turn.
“Grrruuh …,” came an indecipherable grunt from the dark passageway. Standing in the shadows was Klev himself, his half-orc features lit by flickering torchlight. A sickly grin crossed the torturer’s hideous face, his sharp tusks glistening with saliva. In his hand he clutched a weapon all too familiar to Sungar—his glass-studded lash.
Sungar turned the key and it clicked in the lock. Klev’s long whip uncoiled with a resonant crack and it snaked through the air, wrapping around Sungar’s legs and pulling tight. The barbarian chief collapsed onto the hard ground, losing his sword as he fell.
Hurd burst free of his cell. “I’ve been waitin’ fer this too long!” he shouted as he dashed down the passageway as fast as his legs could move him. He leaped into midair as he reached Klev, colliding with the half-orc and knocking him backward on the dungeon floor in a vicious, reckless attack. Klev released his whip as the dwarf gripped his throat and squeezed.
Klev shoved Hurd’s shoulders with both hands, sending the dwarf tumbling backward. The half-orc regained his footing and pulled out a dagger, holding it out before him, daring Hurd to attack him again. And Hurd, unarmed but undeterred, faced him down.
From down the hallway, the lash cracked again, flying directly over Hurd’s head so that the dwarf felt its motion as it passed. The whip found its mark as it coiled around Klev’s neck, the cruel glass studs digging into his flesh. Klev’s hands went up to his neck, his dagger falling from his grip
. Before the weapon could strike the ground, Hurd caught it and sank it solidly into the torturer’s heart. Klev fell backward with a force that wrested the whip from Sungar’s hands.
Hurd spun to face Sungar. “You some kinda expert with that whip?” he asked.
“Not really,” Sungar answered, collecting the swords from the dead guards and tossing one to Hurd. “But if a half-orc can swing it, how hard could it be?”
“Be careful to mind my head next time,” said Hurd, rubbing the top of his skull. He looked down at Klev, lying on his back in the middle of the dungeon passage. “That felt good,” he said, reaching down to give the dagger a final twist as the last light vanished from the half-orc’s eyes. “But it won’t be half as pleasurable as chopping Geildarr’s head off!” He snapped up the sword and raised it to Sungar. The two warriors clanged their weapons together in a gesture of their camaraderie.
In the bowels of the Dark Sun, where Mythkar Leng conducted his vile experiments, a disciple of Cyric paced through narrow subterranean hallways that reeked of burning fur. An acolyte followed him, a huge ebon key in his hand. They had already freed their captive groundlings, the half-badger assassins which Leng had formed from many of the traitor dwarves. The mutants were commanded to attack all enemies of Llorkh, then were sent racing into the streets. The Cyricists knew they would be little resistance against the behemoths, but this was an excuse to let them go to work.
“Llorkh is under siege,” the disciple said in a smooth, emotionless tone. “Our temple may soon be at risk. We must unleash our stock to help defend it.” To the trembling initiate he added, “It is what Leng would have done.”
“Yes, Dark Master.” They reached a metal door, warm to the touch. The acolyte extended the ebon key and slipped it into the lock. As soon as the lock clicked, the hallways echoed with an unearthly barking.
As the last behemoth passed through the gates of Llorkh, he paused and swung his thick neck backward to rub against the wall above it. A few Lord’s Men still clung to their places atop the wall, and ran in terror to avoid falling off as so many of their fellow archers had.
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