"This is difficult to believe," said Thluna, looking at the newcomer warily.
"You may fetch your shaman or a priest of your tribe and let him test my intentions," she replied, "but let me explain them first. On the night of Highharvestide-your Runemeet-my sleep was disturbed by a rattling sound in the archives. It was this bone, dancing in the box that held it, and when I touched it, I felt a flash in my mind, bidding me to come to your aid. It told me that you were in great danger. I wanted to help."
"Help?" asked Sungar. "Why should you want to help us?"
"Many asked me the same when I left Candlekeep," said Kellin. "But I felt that I had no choice. So vivid was my summons that I felt my mind would never feel right again if I ignored it."
"So you think that the Thunderbeast called you-an outsider-to our aid?" asked Sungar, looking her hard in the eye.
"I don't know if the Thunderbeast did," she admitted. "But someone did."
Sungar probed her eyes for a long while. "She speaks the truth," he finally told Thluna. "I need no priest to tell me that. But you, woman, are still a mystery. Where you're from, these studies of which you speak-I know nothing of these things."
"I can explain it all," said Kellin, "if you will listen."
"Perhaps I do not care to hear your explanations. We do not tolerate the presence of your kind more than necessary. That you know our customs does not change this. I cannot allow you to taint my people and introduce your ways."
"I am not here to proselytize!" Kellin insisted. "I do not want to change your way of life. Far from it. To tell the truth …" Uncertainty spread through her limbs and her posture fell, her shoulders slumping, and she dropped the formal manner of her speech. "I don't entirely know why I'm here. I had hoped you might give me some idea." Her dark eyes shone with warmth.
Glances passed between Sungar and Thluna. Sungar spoke in Common again, speaking her language almost as well as she spoke his.
"You are a new piece in a mystery which vexes our tribe at present. If the Thunderbeast sent you, if you're here to help, there must be a reason. There are many things we'd like to know right now."
"Then let us find them together," Kellin suggested. "I know much of your tribe's history-more than is recorded in your songs. I've come hundreds of miles to see you. I'd hate to think it was a waste."
Sungar leaned closer to her. "Perhaps you're a test of our strength. A temptation sent by the Thunderbeast to see if we would accept your kind of aid. We've accepted outsiders into our company before, and it has ended badly. Maybe the beast wants us to sacrifice you, the way we sacrificed outsiders in centuries past. If you know our history so well, you should know that I'm telling the truth."
Kellin trembled slightly but stood her ground and held her head high. "It's always difficult to know a god's will," she said. "Perhaps as an outsider, it's my role to make up for the failings of the past. Or perhaps it's just to teach the Thunderbeasts a lesson in humility."
"I suppose you've read that our tribe responds to strength, both of arm and of character," said Sungar. "Well, daughter of Zale, you've proven your mettle. Thluna, arrange a tent for her on the edge of camp, away from the others." Sungar looked at the sword at her belt. "I trust your weapon is not for decoration."
She grinned confidently. "I know which end is which."
Sungar had to smile at that. "Good. You may have some use for it soon."
CHAPTER 4
An the shadow of the twin stockades that dominated Newfort, Arthus Tyrrell arrived at his modest home after a hard day of work. His features were weathered and his hands were calloused, but he never wondered for a moment if he had made a mistake in coming to this inhospitable frontier town. Dwarfed by the mountains that surrounded it, Newfort was founded and largely occupied by settlers from Zhentil Keep. Now, they worked hard to carve out a life for themselves in the North.
Tyrrell closed his door behind him. He was alone; his wife and two children were not yet back from their work at Stauvin's Mill. A few steps from the door, he noticed something lying on his table-something resembling a large, white knife. He walked to it, grabbed the dagger, and held it up to the light. He gasped. He had seen it before.
"Is it true," came a voice, "that you dealt the death blow to the Great Wyrm?" Tyrrell spun around to see a pretty face smiling at him from a shadowed corner.
"Who are you?" he asked, taking a step forward. But he was silenced as she raised a crossbow from the darkness and sent a bolt zipping past his head to embed in the wall beyond. He stood very still as he looked at her-a petite woman, dressed all in black.
"My name is Ardeth. No one saw me enter your home," she said with a coy smile, "and no one will see me leave."
"Where did you get this?" he said, holding up the dagger.
"Geildarr Ithym sends his regards," the girl said.
Tyrrell sighed. This was his worst fear realized. His past with the Zhentarim had caught up with him. He had never been a member of the Black Network, but he worked for them on occasion. Years before, at the behest of Llorkh, he and his fellow adventurers had sought the Great Wyrm Cavern high in the Spine of the World. It was the most sacred site of the Great Wyrm tribe of Uthgardt, and they had to slaughter and torture a great many of the barbarians before they learned its location.
When they finally reached the cavern, they slaughtered the benign dragonlike creature Elrem-the Great Wyrm tribe's totem, shaman, and chief in one. They claimed Elrem's considerable hoard for their Zhentarim masters. The bone dagger was a mundane item of considerable antiquity, presented to Geildarr much later. Geildarr believed that it dated back to the earliest human habitation in the North, many thousands of years before even Netheril.
"I have a family," said Tyrrell. "A wife and children. Kill me and you're taking a father and a husband away. Surely even you Zhentarim have some feelings about that."
"The only thing I care about right now is the Uthgardt," Ardeth said. "Geildarr tells me you're something of an authority on the subject. If you want to live, I recommend you answer my questions."
"The Uthgardt," said Tyrrell. "You're threatening me for information on the barbarians?"
"As implausible as it may sound, yes. And unless you're willing to die to protect that information, I'd recommend telling me all you know. For instance, the significance of the name 'Berun.'"
"He's a figure in the mythology of some tribes," Tyrrell stammered, drumming his fingers on the table in his nervousness. "Sometimes he's conflated with Uthgar. There's a Berun's Hill near Neverwinter Wood, and Beorunna's Well was probably named for the same person."
"Is this just mythology?" asked Ardeth. "Is it possible he actually existed?"
"Possible. I don't know much about it, but some sages think he might have been a Netherese warrior who led an exodus to the North after the fall."
"Netherese," Ardeth repeated, savoring the word. "Geildarr will like that. Is there anything special about an axe in these legends?"
Tyrrell shrugged. "They're barbarians. There's always an axe. That or an especially large club. For the cracking of skulls."
"Such a wit you are," Ardeth said through pursed lips. "Now, what can you tell me about the Thunderbeasts?"
"Thunderbeasts?" Tyrrell thought a moment. "Thought to be the most civilized of all the tribes, though I don't recommend saying that to their faces. They hate wolves for some obscure reason-they regard them as a ritual enemy. Orcs, too. Something to do with the Gray Wolf tribe, probably. Their totem animal is something called a behemoth, or 'thunderer'-a big lizard of some sort, possibly one of those dinosaurs that live down in Chult. There may even be one of those creatures still alive closer to home-they say that the lizardmen in the Lizard Marsh …"
"Where can I find them now?" asked Ardeth. Even though his life was under threat, she sensed a general willingness to cooperate. Perhaps the threat was unnecessary-once a Zhentarim supporter, always a Zhentarim supporter. Or perhaps this erstwhile scholar was so in love with the sound of his o
wn voice that he welcomed any opportunity to hear it. She added, "And by 'them' I mean the Thunderbeasts, not the lizards."
"Well, for about a century they lived in a place called Grunwald, up in the Lurkwood, making a living at some sort of trade. No other tribe has ever dealt with the cities of the North so directly, except possibly the Black Lions, who've recently cast their lot with the Silver Marches wholeheartedly. Some of the other tribes hated the Thunderbeasts for settling down and wanted to destroy them, but others respected them for the power they commanded."
"You say they lived in Grunwald," said Ardeth. "You mean they don't now?"
"No. Their chief for many years was named Gundar. He outlived all his sons, and the story goes that as he was dying, he had a choice between two successors-the old priest Keirkrad, who wanted to stay in Grunwald, and a warrior called Sungar, who represented a faction of the tribe who wanted to abandon Grunwald and go back to their nomadic roots. The dying chief chose Sungar, though some thought that he was too senile to make the decision properly. But Sungar is now chief. Because his succession came under odd circumstances, some in the tribe question the validity of his rule.
"If you're trying to find them, don't try Grunwald. I heard recently that they cut a deal with the folk of Everlund. The Thunderbeasts are living somewhat east of there, along the Rauvin, and they've agreed not to raid the town or harm trading interests as long as Everlund does not extend too far in their direction. Basically, they've both agreed to leave each other alone, except in the face of common enemies. That essentially means orcs-barbarians need little justification to fight orcs."
"This … Sungar … how would one recognize him?" asked Ardeth.
"Well, like I said, the tribe hates wolves. Sungar's nickname is 'Wolfkiller.' Many of them wear wolf skins, but when dressed for ceremony, the chief probably gets the fanciest-they favor black. Or alternatively," Tyrrell said through a grimace, "you could just ask every barbarian you see. That way, you're bound to find him sooner or later."
Ardeth smiled coldly. "Is there anything else you'd care to tell me about them?"
"Well," said Tyrrell, "there's one thing. I hesitate to mention this-I don't know if it's anything more than silly rumor."
"I'll be the judge of that," said Ardeth. "Talk."
"Apparently, about two and a half years ago, around the same time the Phaerimm War was happening, some members of the Thunderbeast tribe-Sungar included, and maybe Keirkrad, too-were on an orc hunt down in the Fallen Lands." Tyrrell watched Ardeth's eyes narrow at the mention. "I see you've heard of it. Well, when they came back, most of the tribesmen were dead and those still living were missing a great number of weapons, including a very special axe."
"How did you hear this story?" demanded Ardeth.
"From a logger here in Newfort, but he claimed he heard it from a barbarian named Garstak, a former Thunderbeast who left the tribe not long after this. Sungar and the others refused to discuss what had happened, but word got out anyway, and it led to some internal strife. This Garstak-according to the logger, anyway-refused to say much more, but said that he thought his tribe was too debased and was doomed to weakness and ruin. He said he was going to go up north to try to join the Black Lion tribe, for he thought they had the nobility he founded lacking in his own people. And that's all I know."
"Do you know where I might get more information?" asked Ardeth.
"Oh, I don't know … you might ask the Thunderbeasts themselves."
"I just might," said Ardeth, letting out an odd giggle. "I thank you for your help, and Geildarr thanks you."
"I hope he does. Here's his dagger back." He tossed it, and the weapon landed on the floor at Ardeth's feet with an unceremonious clunk.
"No," she said. "It belongs to you." She picked it up and hurled it at his face. Tyrrell dodged too slowly and it struck him in the neck. He instinctively grasped at his throat as blood flowed down his chest. Ardeth stood watching as he attempted a few steps toward her, but he collapsed from the pain and blood loss before he could reach her. She smiled like a naughty child as his bloodstained hand reached in her direction and grasped only air.
"Thanks for the help," she said as she leaped over Tyrrell. Within heartbeats, she was through his door and gone.
Through the haze of death, and the blood dripping in his eyes, Tyrrell saw a new face. Was it real, or was he dreaming it? he wondered. The image spun-a huge red nose on a shrunken face.
The face spoke. "She's very good, isn't she?"
Without moving to help him, the gnome waited until Tyrrell rattled with death. Then he reached over to extract the bone dagger from Tyrrell's neck, freeing a tide of blood that swelled the puddle on the floor.
What am I doing here? thought Kellin. Children lurked outside her tent to try to get a glimpse of her, so exotic a creature was she in these northern lands. They regarded her little differently than they might a dark-skinned visitor from Zakhara-any place outside the North was the same to them, and any visitor who looked different was an object of curiosity and fear.
Kellin liked and respected Sungar, and Thluna seemed like a man far beyond his years, yet with boyish wonder and enthusiasm. But they were the only Thunderbeasts she'd spoken to in the days since she'd arrived. She'd taken her meals with the tribe, but they seemed scared of her, especially when she spoke to them in their own language. The women particularly looked at her with disdain, as if she were there to steal their men-as laughable a notion as that was.
Kellin could hear the voices of those who had tried to dissuade her from coming here.
"I can understand it perfectly," one of the Candlekeep lorekeepers told her. "Your whole childhood was spent safely locked away here, while your father wandered the world in search of adventures. But such a venture is foolhardy and dangerous." Kellin's denials hardly even convinced herself.
She heard footsteps approaching outside her tent and instinctively reached for the hilt of her father's sword.
"May I speak with you?" came a deep voice, speaking uncertain Common.
Kellin stood and opened the tent flap. She instantly knew who the man was by his brown eyes, but from the stories she'd heard, she hadn't expected him to look quite so gentle and innocent.
"Vell the Blessed," she said, using the Uthgardt tongue. "I've heard a lot about you. I am honored that you've come to see me."
"The honor is mine," Vell said, staring deeply at her face. He stared so long, in fact, that he pulled away in embarrassment. "I'm sorry."
"No," she laughed. "It's fine. I've gotten the same reaction from most of your people."
"Your parents. . where did they come from?" asked Vell.
She admired his directness. "My mother was of Tethyrian blood. I've inherited something of her skin tone, and hopefully some of her good sense as well." She smiled. "My father was born in the Moonsea region, in a place called Melvaunt."
"I see," said Vell, though Kellin suspected she'd named a few places he'd never heard of. "Our chieftain tells me the Thunderbeast sent you here."
"All I know is that when I touched that piece of bone, I heard a message of some kind, and it led me here."
"Will you be coming into the forest with us?" asked Vell.
"I don't know," Kellin confessed. "Sungar says he hasn't decided, and I haven't decided if I should."
"I hope you do. We can protect you."
"I can fight," said Kellin, half-smiling. "So can the women of your tribe-they've proven it many times in your history. But I'm not sure if my place is on this expedition. I don't really belong."
Vell reached over with a clumsy hand to comfort her in her uncertainty.
"Do I belong?" Vell asked. "I'd never have dreamed to be invited on such an expedition as this. Sometimes I wonder why the spirit chose me. The entire tribe was assembled at Morgur's Mound. Why didn't the beast choose Sungar as its vessel, or Keirkrad the Shaman? Did it pick me at random out of all the Uthgardt there? Even an outsider responds to the beast's summons better than I."
"Gods, don't think that," said Kellin. "It hasn't been easy for me. That moment on Highharvestide, I felt a nagging dread wash over my body and settle in my stomach. I haven't been able to get rid of it. That's just a taste of what you must have experienced." Vell nodded. She was the first person to try to excuse his weakness. It felt good, but he instinctively mistrusted it for coming from an outsider. "But what's interesting is, it's starting to fade now that I'm here. It's crazy that I'm here, but somehow it feels right, too. Am I making sense?"
"Yes," Vell said. "And I'm glad you're here." Then Keirkrad appeared behind him, seemingly popping out of nowhere.
"I, too, would like to greet our new arrival," the shaman said.
"Oh," said Vell. To Kellin, he whispered, "We shall talk again," before walking out of the tent.
Keirkrad stared at Kellin. She found his eyes unnerving-they were blue as the sky, and so piercing and unwavering. His body appeared frail and crumpled, and he was hunched over like some gargoyle. A brisk wind disturbed the flaps of the tent, and Keirkrad looked almost as if he'd blow away with it.
"I trust you are shaman Seventoes," Kellin said. "Sungar has told me of you."
"He has told me about you," Keirkrad said. He stood very close to her, and she could see a brown film coating his yellowed teeth. "No matter how much you've heard about our tribe's penchant for hospitality at Grunwald, you should know that those times are passed. We no longer consort with outsiders. You are not welcome here."
"I'm here because your totem spirit guided me here," Kellin retorted. "I should think that I would be treated with the greatest courtesy."
Keirkrad sniffed. "Southern humor translates poorly to our tongue. You may think the Thunderbeast sent you here, but I shall be the judge of that. I remember your father well. For a month he lived as we lived in Grunwald. We tolerated him because we thought him an amusing diversion-an outsider who wanted to know our ways. We did not realize he had made himself our chronicler as well, that he put us in books. What death befell Zale Lyme?"
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