“You won’t be able to stop me, I’m afraid. Consider your lives my gift to you, and only because you’ve caught me in a generous mood. You’ve accomplished nearly everything you set out to do. I’m sure your god is adequately pleased.”
Geildarr turned to them from his position kneeling in front of Moritz. “Join me and fight him,” he said. “He’s not a wizard … not the wizard he appears to be. He’s just a gnome … a gnome named Moritz wearing Sememmon’s face. He’s an illusion—a weakling gnome! We can defeat him! A gnome!”
Sungar, Kellin, Lanaal, and Thluna frowned, exchanging puzzled looks. Was this true?
This brought a chuckle to Moritz, a perfect replication of Sememmon. “You see the desperate scheming I was talking about?” He looked down at the mayor of Llorkh. “Geildarr, did I ever tell you what happened when one of Manshoon’s clones attacked me during the Manshoon Wars? I plucked his beating heart from his chest!”
“Sememmon did that, Moritz,” said Geildarr. “Not you.”
“Good-bye, Geildarr. Give my best to Fzoul. For that matter, give my best to Cyric.” He finished with a smug look and a slight wave.
A moment later, confusion crossed his face. Moritz’s illusionary brow furrowed as he found himself unable to teleport out of the Lord’s Keep.
“Sememmon isn’t the only one who can toy with magic,” spat Geildarr. He thrust the dagger at the image of Sememmon, driving it into his abdomen. The illusion flickered and fell, and the stately wizard was replaced by a red-garbed gnome, a blackwood cane in one hand and the Heart of Runlatha in the other. He howled at the dagger, embedded in his shoulder and now sending a cascade of blood down his crimson clothing.
“Attack!” shouted Geildarr.
All looked to Sungar. The chief took one step forward and swung his battle-axe down on Moritz. Moritz lifted his cane to deflect the blow. The blackwood repelled the assault, but snapped in two under the impact.
Sungar felt a strange new energy flowing from the axe. The ancient weapon was closer to the Heart of Runlatha than it had been in many centuries.
With Sungar charging at him, Moritz hopped backward through the doorway and ducked. Muttering an arcane syllable, he vanished on the spot, along with the Heart. His red tricorn hat fluttered to the ground. Sungar stopped, puzzled.
“He cannot teleport from inside the Lord’s Keep,” shouted Geildarr. “He’s invisible.”
Faint footfalls were audible from down the hallway as small, unseen feet jumped over the fallen pedestals. Thluna and Sungar bolted after their quarry.
“Where will he go?” asked Kellin.
“He’ll try to get outside, especially since he’s hurt,” said Geildarr, pulling himself to his feet. “He’ll try for my balcony or a secret door behind the bookcase down the hall.”
“Look after him, Lanaal,” said Kellin, running down the hallway after them.
Lanaal raised her sword and rested the curve of its blade against Geildarr’s neck. “Not a word, not an incantation, or I take your head,” Lanaal promised.
“Fair enough,” said Geildarr. He asked her, “How did an elf maid like yourself come to be fighting alongside barbarians?”
“Strange times,” Lanaal answered.
“You remind me of another elf woman I met once,” he said. “Her name was Ashemmi. Have you heard of her?”
Lanaal said nothing, but raked her short sword against Geildarr’s throat, drawing a line of blood.
Geildarr’s eyes turned down toward the dark spot on the carpet, stained by the disintegrating shadowstuff of Ardeth’s body. If he were truly brave, he thought, why shouldn’t he let the elf kill him here and now?
Shaquintar, wizard tyrant of Runlatha, died in the fall of Netheril.
Lucky fool.
Something drove Sungar on as he raced down the hallway, hopping over debris. It was the axe, pushing him forward with its will and giving him a wild new strength. Sungar had wielded the axe hundreds of times before and had never known anything like this. It invigorated him, inspired him. His will and that of the axe were merged, fighting as one. He fancied that he could feel Berun, and Uthgar, and the imprints of all who had ever touched the axe, and that they were wielding it alongside him.
As he reached the end of the hallway, he slammed into a table—an invisible table that had been placed in his way. It dug into his belly and stole the wind from his gut. The axe flew from his grip, landing on the floor in the middle of Geildarr’s study.
A faint wind blew in this room, from the wide-open doors to the balcony. Bookshelves lined the walls—Sungar had never seen so many books, had scarcely seen them at all. A passageway built into a bookcase hung open.
On the floor, the axe trembled.
Regaining his footing, Sungar hopped over the invisible table and into the study. He snapped up the axe and prepared to dive after the gnome down the hidden staircase. Kellin and Thluna arrived behind him, shoving the table aside.
But as Sungar leaped toward the passageway, he felt the axe tremble in his hands. A strange red glow enveloped its head.
It pulled him the other way.
Sungar didn’t resist, but let the axe guide him, turning with its coaxing until it pointed to a corner of the study next to the balcony.
Suddenly, a burst of red radiance pulsed on the head of the axe. The new energy flowed across the room, and the artifact to which the axe was magically tied, the Heart of Runlatha, pulsed in return. As it had done at the Sanctuary, it dissolved all illusions, all invisibility, slicing through anything that kept the Heart hidden. Moritz the Illusionist was revealed before Geildarr’s bookshelf. The gnome staggered from his bleeding wound, and he clutched the Heart of Runlatha in one hand.
Moritz frowned at the barbarian chief and slowly shook his head.
“Sememmon’s not going to like this,” he said. And with the last of his strength, he ran for the balcony.
Sungar bolted after him, axe raised. The gnome reached the balcony’s rail and took a flying leap just as Sungar brought the mighty axe down, burying it deep into the floor. Moritz vanished over the side.
Thluna and Kellin rushed to join him. Sungar smiled, holding up the axe. Blood clung to the blade.
At his feet lay the Heart of Runlatha, clutched within a diminutive hand.
Kellin looked over the balcony just in time to see a falling body vanish into the dusty haze that encircled the Lord’s Keep. A trickle of falling blood traced its path downward.
Sungar plucked up the gnome’s arm and pried the Heart from its grip. He felt its warmth and held it up to his eye to inspect it closely, as one might a jewel. He turned to face Thluna and Kellin.
“Now,” he said. “Is someone going to tell me what this damned thing is?”
CHAPTER 23
Was Moritz killed?” asked Geildarr when they returned to him in the anteroom. Lanaal lifted the blade from his neck and stepped back to join Sungar, Kellin, and Thluna, who held the Heart of Runlatha.
“Perhaps not killed,” said Kellin.
Sungar held up the severed arm and threw it down at Geildarr’s feet.
“His own flesh.” Geildarr nudged the hand with his boot. “No illusion. So he escaped?”
“He went over your balcony,” explained Kellin. “I saw him vanish into the dust, but I couldn’t tell if he teleported or not before he hit the ground.”
“You had best hope he didn’t escape,” said Geildarr. “You will find Sememmon to be an unforgiving enemy. My advice to you is to get rid of it fast. Wait—what am I saying?” He chuckled darkly. “Why am I giving you advice? If you keep it, Sememmon will do things to your tribe that’ll make you wish you never busted out of my dungeon.”
Sungar punched Geildarr in the face. The mayor’s head rocked back and struck the wall behind him.
“Was that blow in place of killing me?” said Geildarr, blood dribbling down his chin and onto his robe. “I wish you would kill me. Moritz wasn’t lying. There is little chance that the Zhentarim
will let me live, and if they do, it will be to endure a terrible punishment, far beyond anything your barbarian justice could comprehend.” His words carried a perverse pride.
Thluna looked at Thanar’s ruined body lying on the stairway. “Many of our men have died, thanks to him,” Thluna reminded Sungar.
“And how many of my people did you kill?” asked Geildarr. “How many of my people are still dying out there, while your behemoths continue to wreck my city?”
Sungar brandished his axe before the mayor. “We will let you live,” he declared.
“Somehow,” Geildarr gulped, “I’m still glad for that.”
The chief of the Thunderbeasts tilted the axe sideways and slammed its broad side into Geildarr’s head, throwing his world into blackness.
When Geildarr awoke, he wondered if it had all been a bad dream.
His head spun from the blows he had taken, and his vision was clouded with spots of light and dark. A bright light shone in his eyes from above him. He was sitting in a chair. He recognized the second floor dining hall, damaged from fighting. The paintings on the walls hung askew.
A dead dwarf lay on the table in front of him, covered by the white table cloth.
Geildarr screamed. As he did so, he realized that he could not move his arms or legs, and he screamed louder, panicked. He grasped at the shreds of his wits and looked about to discover the reason for his paralysis.
He was bound to the chair, just as he had bound Sungar.
Through the tablecloth, Geildarr could see that the dwarf’s head faced him, one lifeless eye open, the other crushed in its socket. The undamaged eye stared at him through the shroud as if mocking him, blaming him.
He screamed again. It echoed off the walls of the room. He yelled for help, but no one was in the Lord’s Keep to hear him.
Geildarr screamed some more.
Finally, he laughed.
Vell saw himself staring at the surface of a pool of water, as if he were submerged and looking up. In the stillness he could see his reflection, but when he reached out to touch it, his image was lost in the ripples.
Who am I? A Thunderbeast, but what does that mean? Vell the Brown, but what does that mean?
A mystery. A mystery worth contemplating.
He stayed submerged in this restful state, thinking about it, until a word sounded in his ears that drew him back to himself.
By the time the behemoths were quieted, a full third of the buildings in Llorkh had been destroyed by the rampaging animals. The number of dead was uncountable. With the Heart of Runlatha in hand, Sungar, Thluna, and Kellin easily calmed the massive creatures. Only four of the twelve that had been stolen from the Sanctuary remained, the rest killed by Geildarr’s lightning bolts or lost in the confusion and battle afterward. Ilskar survived the calamity and when he laid eyes on Sungar, joyfully shed his animal body and took the shape of a barbarian again.
But Vell was lost in his behemoth shape. There was no flicker of human intelligence in his eyes. He seemed to have entirely forgotten that he was ever human. Lanaal tried to reach him in the depths of his animal mind.
“I have experienced something like this myself,” she said. “Especially after emotional strain—as he must have experienced when the behemoths were killed. Being an animal is seductively simple. He’ll return in time.” She sounded less than certain about her prediction.
Kellin wondered about the Endless March that sages sometimes spoke of, that she had discussed with Thanar under Grandfather Tree. The March was the eternal progress of life, growing and changing in all its myriad forms, all stemming from a central point that connected all life with a common origin, like the leaves and branches of a tree. But it held a darker implication as well. If humans had once been beasts, was there not something of the beasts in them still? She thought of what Lanaal said, of the seductive quality of being an animal. Part of that must be toxic, as well—how else to explain the Shepherds? They had worn scales too long, their humanity atrophying in their breasts. But if all people were born of animals, and had wisps of animal in them as surely as Vell did, who could say when such spirits might climb out?
As the strange procession—behemoths, barbarians, a human woman, and a gigantic white swan—filed toward the west gate of Llorkh, the survivors of the city gave them a wide berth. The Lord’s Men stood warily, weapons at their sides but enclosed in scabbards and sheaths. Sungar and his slow group began the long trek west following the Trade Way, letting the behemoths drink from the River Grayflow and graze from the trees that still bore leaves. The season was turning, and the weather would soon carry winter’s chill. To everyone’s surprise, the behemoths proved to be sturdy at the march. They even permitted riders, to let all move at a steady pace.
Lanaal, Kellin, and the barbarians all took turns talking to Vell, hoping to ignite his human spark, but Vell remained silent. By the time they reached the High Forest’s edge, Kellin decided the time had come for a new tactic. Clinging to Vell’s long neck, she spoke to him.
“Vell, remember when I told you about my True Name?” Kellin said. “The name that’s supposed to explain everything about me? The priests of Oghma said that I should never tell it to another person—to do so would give that person power over me. I’m going to tell it to you. I’m sure Oghma won’t mind.”
She spoke it, and clung to Vell’s neck, waiting. Vell plodded slowly after his fellows and Kellin began to wonder if he had even heard her. Then he paused in his step and reared on his hind legs, enough to tilt Kellin from her place on his back. As she slid down his great mass, his scales vanished beneath her and she landed in a mound of golden leaves. Something crashed lightly in the leaves beside her, and Kellin turned to look into familiar brown eyes. Everyone rushed over to greet Vell.
“Welcome back, Vell the Brown,” said Sungar, clasping Vell’s hands. “You saved all of our lives. Your name will be remembered in the skalds’ songs for many generations.”
Exactly how will they remember me? wondered Vell.
Kellin smiled at Vell and offered her hand to him. Vell took it and they rose to continue their journey. For a long time, they walked together in silence.
Vell said very little the rest of the way to the Sanctuary, but the difference in him was plainly visible. He walked tall, proud, and confident, with a purpose that he had never shown before. Whatever dark issues swam in his mind, they could not outshadow his new courage and strength.
Their travels through the High Forest were blissfully quiet. Nothing in the woods dared to challenge the mighty behemoths. When they reached the foot of the Star Mounts and found the Sanctuary, they discovered that the place had been all but destroyed by the elements. Cold water had rushed into the swamp from the Heartblood River. The behemoths waded in, heedless of the cold, knowing they were home.
Bony frowns were frozen onto the Shepherds’ faces. They showed no sign of welcome or gratitude.
“Shepherds,” yelled Sungar as the ancient people appeared to receive him. Thluna held up the Heart of Runlatha. “You have made a pact with my tribe, and I expect you to keep it.”
“Sungar Wolfkiller,” said one of the Shepherds. “We meet you finally—the man responsible for all of our woes. Why? Why did you throw away the axe on that dismal plain?”
“I do not have to justify myself to you,” said Sungar. “Perhaps I must justify myself to my tribe, but not to you. Will you keep your end of the bargain? For a return of your hideaway and your immortality, it seems like a small price.”
“Yes,” another Shepherd said, full of resentment. “We give up all claims on the totem spirit, the Thunderbeast, and to Uthgar. We shall never again interfere in your affairs.”
“Uthgar will hold you to this promise,” said Thluna, turning the Heart of Runlatha over to them.
“I’m sure he will,” said one of them, before carrying it over to the menhir.
“There is still the question of Vell.” One of the Shepherds stepped toward him. “You are one of us. The be
hemoths have told us of your heroism and your nobility. Even if you are of Uther’s mongrel race, we accept you. You may stay with us if you choose.”
“No,” Vell said. “I will not stay with you or keep any part of what you have given me. Take the powers away from me.”
The Shepherds gasped. They had not considered this possibility. “You would renounce your heritage? But surely you love the beasts as we do.”
“I do,” said Vell. “Maybe more than you can know. But they are safe now. I know they will be left in your care.”
“Those few whom you saved,” one Shepherd spat.
“And you wonder why he doesn’t want to stay with you,” said Kellin.
“But the behemoths are part of you, Vell,” said a Shepherd. “Will you give away a piece of who you are?”
Sadness weighed in Vell’s voice. “It was never mine. I carried it, but it was never me.”
The Heart of Runlatha was restored to its place atop the menhir at the center of the Sanctuary. Its glow brightened, and its red light spread across the swamp.
“In time, its magic will restore all of the damage that has been done,” one of the Shepherds explained.
“Can you take these powers away from me now?” asked Vell.
“Come with us.”
The Shepherds led him to the center of the Sanctuary. The ancient men and women surrounded the menhir, whose runes now glowed faintly. They linked hands and bid Vell to join them. He reached out and clutched two shriveled, bony hands.
They chanted in Netherese, the runes on the menhir pulsed with magic, and the Heart glowed brighter. Vell cried out as he felt part of his soul begin to rip away. His connection to the behemoths in the Sanctuary—something he had experienced for so long that it felt like second nature to him, like one of his five senses—faded and extinguished.
“It is not too late,” said one of the Shepherds. “We can give it back to you.”
“No,” said Vell, though tears filled his eyes. “Finish it.”
The unnatural strength Vell had felt in his muscles for so long was ripped away, and he felt weak as a child. All of the skills and senses that had imbued him on Runemeet at Morgur’s Mound were gone. He was the plain, ordinary, and unremarkable Uthgardt warrior known as Vell the Brown again.
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