"You do have quite a library on the next floor," said Ardeth. "Is more research necessary?"
"I've called you here for research," said Geildarr, "but not the kind that uses books. Let me show you what I know. I've sorted the notes into several categories." He indicated a pile of scribblings on the desk before him. "First, my discoveries about the axe's creation. It was forged in Delzoun and given as a gift to somebody who helped rid the dwarves of an enemy. But the rescuer had powerful enemies of his own." Geildarr rubbed his chin. "I'm going to try some other divinations about this figure, but I suspect that he's the one called 'Berun.' There's a Berun's Hill south of Longsaddle, related or otherwise,
"But here's what interests me the most. There are various hints that Berun is some sort of leader of men, guiding his people west from 'fallen skies, dead gods, and rising sands.' Sounds like Netheril to me-some mass migration after Karsus's Folly. This one-" Geildarr scanned his desk and snatched up the appropriate note "-may describe new dweomers being woven into the axe that ties it to something else, some kind of object or artifact that alters the axe's power." Geildarr read his scribbling aloud. "Joined as one the axe and heart by the stout folks' spells, a link forged cannot be undone. Swells the power of both, and both in Berun's hands now leave the underland." Geildarr smirked. "Bad poetry, but intriguing divination."
Ardeth giggled. "A Netherese artifact?" she asked. "Do you know anything more?"
"I'm still attempting some divinations. But beyond the important bits about the axe's creation, most of the legends describe typical adventuring stories-beheading dragons, slaughtering giants, that kind of thing. The clear majority of what I've uncovered is of this sort. Who knows if they're true?"
Geildarr drummed his fingers on the table. "But it scarcely matters. The sheer volume of the tales means the axe has had a very active history. I've even gleaned that it's been in the hands of one of the barbarian tribes from up north," Geildarr said with a smile, and he produced an old book called Tulrun's Totem Tales of the Beast Shamans from amid the piles of notes. "I think I've identified it as the Thunderbeast tribe."
"An Uthgardt tribe," Ardeth said. "But don't they shun magic? Isn't it unlikely that they're hoarding Netherese magic after fourteen hundred years?"
"They had this axe until fairly recently," said Geildarr. "How they lost it and how it ended up in the Fallen Lands is still a mystery to me, but my spells have given me a few references to fairly recent events. And while axes are a fairly standard barbarian weapon, Tulrun's book talks about the chief of the Thunderbeasts-who called himself King Gundar-owning an impressive axe, the symbol of his leadership." Geildarr closed his hand around the axe's shaft. "Perhaps this is the very same."
"So the other artifact that's linked to this axe," Ardeth mused. "What do you know about it?"
"I'll keep trying," said Geildarr. "I don't know much about it yet. Perhaps I'll have more answers once you get back."
"Get back? From where?"
Geildarr smiled. "There's an old friend of mine I haven't thought about in some time. Arthus Tyrrell. He knows plenty about the Uthgardt. That's if you don't mind a trip outside of Llorkh."
"Not at all," said Ardeth.
"You'll need to move quickly." Geildarr stood and walked across the room, snatching from the wall a primitive bone dagger, carved with a sharp point. He tossed it to Ardeth and she caught it by the hilt. "Be sure to give him my best. The skymage Valkin Balducius just came in with a caravan from the Keep-I'll have him escort you." Geildarr hesitated a moment, then said, "There's something else I want to talk to you about, something you can't mention to anyone. It could mean my neck if you do."
"What's that?" asked Ardeth.
"You know who Sememmon is?"
"Of course," said Ardeth.
"A… person loyal to him paid me a visit recently, and not for the first time."
"Gods," said Ardeth. "Did you alert Zhentil Keep?"
"No," said Geildarr. "What good would it do? If they haven't been able to catch him with all their resources, a tip from me isn't going to help."
"Who visited you?" asked Ardeth. "What did he want?"
"His name is Moritz. He's a gnome, and an illusionist."
"Truly?" Ardeth giggled.
"No comic trifle, this gnome," said Geildarr. "He's a slippery creature. He's probably as versatile an illusionist as you'll find. No one has ever known him to engage in violence personally, but there are many deaths on his head nonetheless. He's served Sememmon for years, but I wouldn't be surprised if Fzoul still has no knowledge of his existence.
"Let me tell you a story. Moritz-I like to call him Moritz the Mole, burrowling that he is-comes from the village of Hardbuckler." Ardeth knew of this gnome settlement-somewhat south of Llorkh, it served as a stopover along the caravan route between Llorkh and Darkhold. "Or so I believe … it's possible that it's all just an elaborate deception Moritz has woven. I suspect he does such things for his own amusement. He was trained in the smoke arts of illusion-but he found the way of Baravar, the gnome god of illusion, too modest; not a path to the power he wanted. He learned about Leira, the Lady of the Mists, and pledged himself to her worship.
"So he left his people and met some human illusionists, who ultimately directed him to a place called the Mistkeep-I don't know where it is. He studied with the Leiran mistcallers there, learning spells, improving his power. Of course, by this point, there was no Leira. Cyric had killed her, and since then, he grants spells to her worshipers in her place. Most Leirans don't care, may not even believe it, or they think the entire world is just one big illusion. But Moritz was a gnome, and he thought differently. He stopped praying to Leira and prayed instead to Cyric. And Cyric gave him a vision."
Geildarr settled into a comfortable chair. "The vision bade him home, so Moritz went back to Hardbuckler in disguise. He found that he felt no sympathy for his people, not even his own family, and when he discovered Zhentarim agents working in secret to take over the town, he helped them-essentially handing over his own folk to Darkhold. His actions brought him the notice of Sememmon, who stripped away the illusion he wore and insisted that Moritz tell him the whole story. Pleased, Sememmon decided to make Moritz into the most secret of his agents, using him as an infiltrator, yes, and as a mole."
"Nice story, Geildarr," said Ardeth. She smiled slightly. "Kinda reminds me of something."
"I thought it might," said Geildarr. "Not many people know it, believe me. I repeat that the story may not be true-but I heard it from Sememmon himself one night over too many ales. Anyway, not long after Sememmon fled Darkhold, Moritz popped up here-Sememmon must have given him some sort of teleportation device, or perhaps he's exploiting illusion cleverly. He came to talk me into joining Sememmon's side. To do what, I'm not entirely sure-cower under a table somewhere with his master and Ashemmi, maybe."
"But you wouldn't do it. Would you?"
"I haven't yet, have I?" Geildarr asked. "But I mention it because… the last time he visited, he mentioned you."
"For true?" asked Ardeth. "What about me?"
"Nothing memorable-just a mention. That's what puzzles me. He must have had a reason. Maybe he'll try to get at me through you." Geildarr looked down at his desk a moment. "He probably sees you as a weakness of mine."
"But we're not lovers," said Ardeth.
"You and I know that," Geildarr said with a lukewarm smile, "but not everyone does."
An uncomfortable silence hung over Geildarr's study. Then Ardeth turned to him, gripping the dagger by its carved bone hilt.
"About Arthus Tyrrell, then," she said.
A lone creature, a tangle of roots, vines, and leaves, wandered through the high valley by moonlight. Spawned in the bubbling bogs of the Evermoors, it plodded east through the Silverwood and spread its taint and rot through the valleys at the feet of the Nether Mountains. The grass withered and died where it stepped. Natural creatures-the bears, elk, and red tigers that inhabited these heights-fled at its prese
nce.
But then something arrived to challenge it. A man with thick, hard muscles, armed with nothing but his own strength, stared at the creature, waiting. He stood still and silent in the moonlight, facing down the shambler. A creature of pure instinct, it stepped forward and opened its rotting arms to welcome the barbarian.
The barbarian stood still and accepted the embrace of those putrescent limbs. He let the shambler seize hold of him, feeling its acid sting his flesh. The barbarian gritted his teeth and tried to hold back, but the change came over him nonetheless; his skin changed to scales within the shambler's grasp. The great rotten plant tightened all the more, but strong arms dug into it from within. The barbarian locked his eyes on the twin pools of green that served the shambling mound for vision. He clenched his muscles, and-with a mighty scream-flung his arms apart. The shambler's body was torn asunder.
Vell sat alone in that meadow till the sun rose, the rotting remains of his enemy lying all around him. The scales had left him, but the feeling did not. Eventually, Keirkrad arrived.
"It was not difficult to find you," Keirkrad said. "I needed only to follow the trail of dead ogres and trolls. Sungar may have let you take your leave of the tribe after Grunwald," Keirkrad went on, "but I'm telling you now, your tribe has even greater need of you than before."
"I do not feel like a member of the tribe now," Vell told him.
"You mean you feel better than the rest of us?"
"No!" Vell thundered, rising to his feet. "How could you ask such a thing?"
"You dare raise your voice to a shaman?" Keirkrad snarled. Vell shrank away like a chastised child. "Have you found enlightenment out here, away from your people? Has the beast given you guidance?"
"No," Vell confessed.
"That's because you're not following its instructions. It did not tell you to set yourself apart from our tribe. The beast despises such arrogance, and the more you resist the call, the worse your anguish will become. Uthgar is an accepting deity. Why else would he allow himself to be worshiped through so many different forms-the Thunderbeast, the Sky Pony, the Black Raven, and all the others. Perhaps in Uthgar's halls at Warrior's Rest we shall all be united as brothers, friend and foe alike. But the beast does not accept defiance of its instructions."
"You said the beast had a greater purpose for me. A destiny. That I was set apart."
"That may be so," Keirkrad admitted. "But you seem to believe that the gift of Uthgar was meant for you. This is not so-the gift is for our tribe. You are merely the vessel. I know the burden you bear. Perhaps I alone can help you through it. I have spent my life serving the beast and Uthgar, and I know full well what you're feeling."
Vell shook his head. "You say you know, but how can you?"
"I should have left the world decades ago," Keirkrad admitted. "I feel unnatural, an aberration. Some call me 'Uthgar's freak.' My skin crawls with age. Sometimes," he smiled grimly, "I wish I could just die, but if I live still, I must have some further function. I have not yet fulfilled my role for our tribe, for Uthgar. I must keep living until I do."
Vell looked Keirkrad square in the eye. "It's not the same thing. I don't know who I am any more. I feel the most precious part of myself slipping away."
"You have power, Vell!" Keirkrad shouted. "You've saved our tribe already, and you can save it again. Our tribe faces a crisis that goes far beyond a few Black Ravens with too much ambition. It's what brought us to Morgur's Mound. You carried the message-'find the living.'"
"I don't remember saying that," said Vell. "But I do remember what happened at Grunwald. I remember exactly how it felt as my mind lost control of my body. The scales took my will with them. I don't know who or what brought down the King's Lodge, but it was not Vell the Brown."
"It's a rare gift to have the Thunderbeast act through you. Such an honor to be our totem's vessel!"
Vell turned away. "Then the beast made a mistake. It chose too weak a vessel."
Keirkrad placed his ancient hand on Vell's shoulder. "The beast makes no mistakes. Do not doubt yourself-place your faith in the divine. If it chose you, that must mean you're strong enough to accept the burden. Pray to the beast for strength."
"I pray that it takes this power from me."
Keirkrad snarled. "It is not for you to question this! Sungar makes plans for our expedition into the High Forest. You cannot refuse your destiny any longer."
"Do you hate Sungar?" asked Vell.
The question took Keirkrad aback. "What do you mean?"
"Gundar made him chief instead of you," Vell said, overcome with an inner strength that made him speak words he would never dare to say otherwise. "You scheme to take his place. This is known to all. But you're too old. So you need a champion to become chief and act on your behalf…"
"Insolent child!" Keirkrad shouted so sharply that it echoed off the valley walls. "Your gift is being corrupted by the wickedness in your mind. That is why you cannot bear it; you refuse to turn your will over to your totem. Let the Thunderbeast into your heart and you shall know peace again."
Each word cut Vell like a dagger and sucked away the strength he felt. He fell on his knees before the shaman, supplicant and weeping for forgiveness.
In a way no one had expected, the trip to Grunwald proved worthwhile for the Thunderbeasts. Not only did it provide a taste of the warfare and the prideful thrill of victory that some of them craved-it also helped erase Grunwald from their collective memory. Everyone realized that it was not the place they once knew, and it would never be home again. They made the path back, some to whatever corner of the North they claimed as their hunting ground, most following their chieftain to a pleasant bend of the River Rauvin, east of Everlund. They were free once again to roam and move with the ebb of the seasons and the herds of deer and rothe, but mostly they stayed at the river, in what was inevitably known as Sungar's Camp.
Life slowly returned to normal. Tents were pitched again, children played among the meadows, and the hunting teams brought home elk, deer, and even a ghost rothe-considered a good omen for the upcoming expedition.
Sungar met with Thluna in his tent. "I have chosen the men I need with me in the High Forest. I want you to inform them of the honor. We will need the druid Thanar as a guide in the forest, as well as Hazred the Voice, and the warriors Grallah, Torgrall, Hengin, Ilskar, Stenla, Flagdar, Delark, and Draf the Swift. Tell them to make themselves ready. Once Keirkrad returns with Vell, we shall not delay."
"Very well," Thluna said. "But I ask that you reconsider. I think my place is with you. There are others that might act as chief."
Sungar shook his head. "I cannot deprive my daughter of her husband for such a long time. And I trust no one more than you to lead the Thunderbeasts."
"How long do you think the quest shall last?" asked Thluna.
Sungar shrugged. "Days, months, years. The Thunderbeast has sent us on an epic task, and such glory comes at a cost. This task could claim all our lives."
A Thunderbeast arrived at the tent flap. "Forgive me, chieftain," he said, "but a civilized outlander has arrived at our camp seeking to speak with you. She claims to have an offering for your audience."
"She?" asked Sungar. "A visitor from Everlund?"
"I think not," came the answer. Sungar bade him to bring her, and he and Thluna heard whispers outside. When she stepped forward, they realized why.
Dressed in comfortable traveler's leathers with a slender sword dangling from her waist, the woman was tall and almost as solidly built as Uthgardt women. Long-limbed and agile, there was something pleasantly deerlike about her. Black hair flowed down her shoulders in curls, but the hue of her skin transfixed them most. It was considerably darker than most folk in the North, certainly among the insular Uthgardt. Only a few southern merchants who visited Grunwald over the years had displayed such a dusky skin tone.
"Sungar, son of Moghain, I greet you," she said. Astonishingly, she spoke in the tongue of the Uthgardt! Though her accent slightly favor
ed the Common tongue, her diction was flawless.
"What magic is this?" asked Thluna, having seen translation magic at work before.
"You may wonder that I speak the language of your people. I am not skilled at it, but I hope I have learned enough not to insult. I am Kellin Lyme, daughter of Zale Lyme." Her words and her posture were appropriately respectful for someone seeking an audience with a chief of the Thunderbeasts-even those born to the tribe could have done no better. In her hands she carried a parcel wrapped in wolfskin. She laid it at Sungar's feet and unwrapped it, revealing a large piece of old bone.
"What is this?" asked Sungar, this time in Common. He leaned over to pick it up.
Kellin joined him in Common. "A piece of bone from the Thunderbeast itself, stolen more than a century ago by unknown raiders. It has been away from your tribe too long, and now I return it to you."
Sungar inspected it closely. "This was stolen from Morgur's Mound? How did you come to own it?"
Kellin swallowed. "My father purchased it from an antiquarian in Baldur's Gate. It has spent several decades in the archives of Candlekeep, Faerun's greatest library."
"Library?" asked Thluna. "Those are for books-why should it hold a bone?"
"Candlekeep collects many things. My father spent his life learning about tribes like yours. It was his specialty. He visited your tribe at Grunwald once, met with King Gundar, and even drank in the King's Lodge with victorious warriors who had broken an orc horde near Shining White."
"Yes," said Sungar. "Yes, I remember. I was young then, and I could not understand why one of the civilized folk would want to learn our customs. But I remember him as a good man, nevertheless."
"You honor his memory," said Kellin graciously. "I follow in his footsteps. I am a sage like him, and I, too, study your people. You interest me very much and I've made it my life's work to learn more about you." With some hesitation, she added, "And yet, I have not met an Uthgardt until today."
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