The Fighters: Son of Thunder

by Murray J. D. Leeder

  Desperately, Kellin kneed the beast in its underbelly, and as it yelped from the blow, she grasped it around the middle, her hands clawing into its matted fur. With all her strength she flung the dog sideways, hurling it onto one of the chains tethering the behemoths. The hell hound bayed in agony as the magic of the chain melted its flesh. The air filled with the acrid scent of burning fur. The hell hound bounded upward, almost regaining its footing before Kellin drew her sword and slashed through the air. It caught the hound through its muzzle, cleaving its skull apart.

  Brazen barks sounded across the square as three more hell hounds entered, running toward Kellin. She extended a finger and conjured four cold blue pellets of magic. They coursed across the square and struck one of the hell hounds, but it kept running. Kellin looked toward the other streets leading out of the square, but hell hounds burst from them as well. She pressed her back to the post, held her sword ready, and awaited the assault.

  * * * *

  Not far from the Lord's Keep, Thluna ducked into an alley as a trio of hell hounds rushed by. He hated hiding from an enemy, but knew it was only prudent. Lanaal was fetching another flask of alchemist's fire that she had stolen from a local shop and hidden on the rooftops of Llorkh. Her destination was the guard contingent in front of the Lord's Keep. The fire, they hoped, would occupy the guards, and allow Thluna entrance.

  Hell hounds seemed to have the full run of the city, tearing through anything that stood in their way. Thluna slaughtered two with the axe, but the beasts were ripping away at the behemoths wherever they found them. He feared for Kellin, for he could see that the behemoths in the square were not yet free of their bonds.

  Thluna heard a strange sound in the dirt beneath him. He looked down just in time to see a hole open at his feet. Thick-clawed hands reached out and grasped him by his legs. He caught a glimpse of a creature like a giant badger—its black-furred snout covered with dirt—just before it pulled and yanked him off his feet.

  Thluna fell, grasping the axe tightly in his hands. He kicked his feet hard but it was no help; he was being dragged down into a burrow. The creature dragged him farther and farther until his head was pulled into the hole, his mouth filling with dirt. Thluna kicked and struggled madly. He punched and scraped at the dirt, widening the burrow's entrance to give himself enough room to swing his weapon.

  Choking on dirt, Thluna gripped the axe by the end of its handle, managing an unwieldy swing downward. The axe head sank into the dirt, and as the groundling tried to pull him farther, Thluna swung again and again, with as much strength as he could manage. The groundling gripped his legs tighter, its badger-claws digging into flesh, just as the axe broke through the earth, sinking into the creature's head.

  Feeling the claws yield their grip on his legs, Thluna released the axe. His muscles strained as he dragged himself free of the burrow. Gasping heavily, he brushed clumps of dirt from his face. Down the street, he heard a small explosion and the crackle of fire, followed by the screams of men.

  Thank you Lanaal, he thought, as he spat dirt from his mouth.

  * * * *

  Rask Urgek blinked his huge behemoth eyes, trying desperately to hang on to the threads of his mind. As a rare half-orc born to half-orc parents, he had never felt torn between two worlds. Throughout his tangled history and variety of identities—Zhent caravan guard, thug in the employ of the Xanathar's Thieves Guild, mercenary for hire, Tree Ghost adoptee—he had always had at least some idea of who he was. Now, in this animal body, he felt his identity slipping away like dew in the sunlight. This beast form was seductive in its immensity and power. He felt a strong temptation to cast off the troubles of the civi­lized world, where Rask had lived on the margins most of his life, and even shrug off his duties and responsibilities with his adopted tribe. O, to be a beast!

  As he clung to his consciousness, he wondered whether being in this city again played a part in his mental crisis. Every corner of Llorkh reeked with unpleasant memories for Rask, and walking the streets again brought them all flooding back. They fueled his rage but impaired his reason. The smell of the streets was the same, except now it was tinged with the foul stink of sulfur.

  A dozen or more hell hounds pursued him, close enough to snap at his tail. They must have come from the under­levels of the Dark Sun, Rask knew, where Mythkar Leng bred them for dark purposes. Leng still stalked Rask's darkest dreams, his gray eyes peering from the front of the temple, seeing through his feigned faith in Cyric.

  The Dark Sun. Did he have the power to destroy it?

  Rask could make out its single spire from where he stood, and he turned a corner and galloped toward it, his skin crawling with anger. The street trembled as he ran, stampeding through the Merchant District and crushing caravans as if they were egg shells. As the dark cathe­dral grew closer, the hell hounds on his trail increased in number.

  * * * *

  The Central Square was alive with hell hounds, growl­ing, leaping, and barking. They avoided the deadly chains crisscrossing the square, even when the behemoths lifted their feet and pulled the chains higher. The dogs sur­rounded Kellin as she fended them off with her father's sword and her spells. The fiery blasts from their mouths were unrelenting, and she was wounded and exhausted. Backed against the post, with hounds snarling at her on all sides and bounding over her head to attack from above, Kellin knew she had little hope of defeating them.

  The ground shook as a behemoth stormed into the square. Its vast bulk traveled with remarkable speed and care, and it reared back and slammed its front feet down on the hell hounds that harried Kellin, crushing them beneath its great weight. Those massive feet landed mere inches from Kellin, and the vibrations rattled her brain. The remaining hell hounds jumped at the impact, many onto the deadly chains.

  Kellin watched as the behemoth transformed, its vast size melting. Soon, standing before her was the green-robed druid Thanar.

  "I've never been more grateful to see you," she said.

  "Nor I you," he answered. He smiled in wonder, looking around at the chained behemoths crowding the square.

  Kellin asked, "How are the others?"

  "Hengin fell, and so did Draf." He lowered his head. "The soldiers tore Draf down as we were toppling the city barracks."

  "And Vell? What of Vell?"

  "I do not know," said Thanar. "Can we free the captives?" he asked, looking up at the trapped behemoths.

  Kellin nodded at the post. "Its enchantment is strong, but perhaps we can overcome it together."

  Both of them placed their hands over the stone post and began to concentrate, pouring all their energy into dissolving Geildarr's magic.

  * * * *

  Rask's feet burned as he raced through the streets of Llorkh, the infernal dogs at his heels. With his gargantuan strides, he quickly reached his destination. The Dark Sun stood before him—the huge, purple-walled church raised after the Time of Troubles to the glory of Cyric.

  In Rask's mind he was a small child again, flogged by Leng as Cyricists looked on and smiled. He felt each lash again, ripping his flesh.

  The huge doors to the Dark Sun were closed. Rask pounded them with his huge forelegs until they flew off their hinges. As a behemoth, he shouldered his way inside, dozens of hell hounds following him.

  The church trembled at his entry. Pillars shook, and shocked Cyricists darted and dived for cover as the behe­moth rushed in. The temple could barely contain Rask, even with its enormous size. His head bumped the ebon ceiling, and he thrashed his tail at the jawless skulls staring at him from every wall. The hell hounds raced into the temple and dashed around Rask, howling and yipping, breathing flames, snapping at him, ripping away flesh in their fiery jaws. The priests of Cyric unleashed their cruel magic upon him.

  Rask looked for Leng among the Cyricists, but was dis­appointed not to find him. He could think of many reasons for the priest's absence, but somehow Rask suspected he was dead. He sighed, wishing he could crush him under his heel, smash his bo
dy, grind him into nothingness.

  He would settle for Leng's creation instead—the foul temple to the Prince of Lies.

  Some Cyricists ran toward the doors to flee, but Rask shifted the bulk of his weight against the doors to block them. All would die together. Rask's vision blurred, and the walls seemed to close in on him. The skulls leered at him, pressing closer. The Dark Sun had always seemed like a giant tomb to him, but as a child, he never anticipated that it would be his tomb.

  Magical chains tore at him, huge claws raked him. The hell hounds bit through Rask, exposing white bone. The priests stole his vision and tormented him with diabolical spells. Flames lashed over his body. He was dying. Every part of Rask's vast body rang with pain, but he was happy. He was laughing inside as he swung his great tail and threw his body about, upsetting ebon pillars and smashing through walls. Chunks of the ceiling collapsed. Acolytes ran for the exit but found their way blocked by falling debris. Their wailing prayers were not answered by their cruel god.

  As the world fell around him, Rask lost all sense of body and place. Amid this destruction, he was at peace. He had a sudden vision of himself in his own half-orc body, resting for all eternity in the shade of Grandfather Tree. The boughs swayed, and the leaves danced. Eternity waited.

  When the roof finally let go, bringing down the Dark Sun in a final, glorious ruin, Rask Urgek had never felt more satisfied.

  * * * *

  Thluna swung the axe, cleaving the skulls of the last survivors among the Lord's Men who guarded Geildarr's Keep. Forcing open the great doors, he was surprised to find bodies lying within, slashed by swords. The dead had been dispatched ferociously but efficiently—a hallmark of a raging barbarian.

  "Sungar!" he exclaimed. The chief must have escaped, saving Thluna the need to rescue him. On the wall nearby he noticed a painting of a man who could only be Geildarr, standing before a crowd of adoring citizens. Thluna smiled as he noted the blood smeared across his face.

  He saw bloody footprints going up the staircase and followed them.

  * * * *

  Netheril falling. This was not the same, but it felt just like it. Geildarr watched from his balcony as the Dark Sun collapsed in on itself, the final reservoir of magical strength in Llorkh destroyed. Buildings were falling all over Llorkh, and whole portions of the city were lost to his eyes in the haze kicked up by the debris. Rampaging behe­moths went wherever they cared to, destroying whatever offended them.

  A small stone cougar in the hall fell from its pedestal and smashed on the floor. It had come from Ammarindar and was almost a thousand years old. It had survived so much, only to break apart now.

  His city. They were destroying his city.

  The citizens of Llorkh, those who were smart, quit their lodgings and ran for the city gates. Geildarr could see them moving through the streets by the hundreds. He looked toward the Merchant District, where caravans were crushed and devastated by a behemoth's destructive passing. Their goods were surely beyond rescue. Perhaps this assault would finally convince Zhentil Keep that Llorkh required a larger garrison.

  In all likelihood, however, it would convince them that it needed a new mayor.

  Geildarr looked down at the Heart of Runlatha, still clutched in his right hand, and wondered if it gave him that dream to taunt him.

  Ardeth appeared to report bad news. "The barracks are gone. At least fifty of the Lord's Men were killed there alone, and just as many in the disaster at the gate. Battles are going on all over the city. The soldiers and Leng's hell hounds are the only ones fighting against the dino­saurs. This was a well-coordinated, intricately planned assault."

  "The Dark Sun has fallen," said Geildarr. "Cyric must be mightily displeased with us for letting his temple be destroyed. No rabble of barbarians could be so calculated in a siege. What force can be behind this?"

  "I don't know, but Chief Sungar has escaped from his prison. He is racing through the Lord's Keep, killing any­thing that moves. I only barely escaped from him with my life. No doubt," Ardeth added, "he's looking for you."

  "I can handle one rabid Uthgardt," said Geildarr.

  Ardeth frowned. "We have far more to deal with than one Uthgardt! Llorkh is being demolished building by building! Have you considered what will happen when Fzoul hears about this? He'll ask questions. He'll ask 'Who brought this on?' 'Why did this happen?' and 'Who do I blame?' You said he was angry that our incursion into the Fallen Lands failed—how do you suppose he'll feel about all of this?"

  Each statement drove a nail into Geildarr's troubled mind. "Do you think you need to tell me this? I know!" he howled, banging his left fist against his thigh. "I know!" he repeated, stamping his feet on his red carpet. He let out a scream of frustration that echoed throughout the Lord's Keep. If Sungar did not know where to find him, he did now.

  Geildarr's posture collapsed, and he wandered across his study, placing the Heart of Runlatha on a table—the very same zalantarwood table on which the axe had rested when all of this began.

  "If only I had more time," he whispered. "If only I could have learned how to use it. It could have kept us secret, kept us safe from Fzoul, Manshoon, and the world. We could have lived together, you and I, hidden away from the world." He looked up at Ardeth, tears streaming from his eyes. "If Sememmon and Ashemmi can hide from the Zhentarim's eyes, surely we could too?"

  "This is not a time for dreams," Ardeth spat. "It is a time for decisions."

  "Yes," Geildarr said. "Decisions." He walked over to a case on his wall and pulled out a wand of duskwood. Walk­ing back to his balcony, he looked down at the behemoths bound in the Central Square. "There's a good chance our foes are here for my pets, that they want to liberate them. We may want to relieve them of that task."

  "Or you could enrage them further," said Ardeth.

  "If we are to fall this day," said Geildarr, "let it be a glorious fall."

  He pointed the wand at the behemoths, and the wand's magic crackled forth.

  * * * *

  Like a key turning in a lock, Thanar and Kellin's blended spells succeeded in undoing the magic in the post that bound the behemoths in place. The sorceress and druid clapped hands in their victory as they watched the chains vanish. The great lizards were free, the rings on their legs now only mundane anklets.

  Across the city, Vell felt their freedom and shared it. We are free, we are saved! their minds shouted, and they trumpeted in joy. You have freed us, Shepherd! Vell knew their pleasure.

  No sooner had they raised their necks to salute their liberation than a lightning bolt flashed down from above.

  The thunderous impact sent Kellin and Thanar diving to the ground.

  The energy arced down a line of behemoths—the half of the herd that only moments before had strained at the limits of their chains along the west side of the square. Vell felt every stab of their pain as if it were happening to him, doubled and redoubled in his psyche until it became unbearable. The force of it brought him to his knees.

  Another lightning blast tore down from the Lord's Keep, striking the same six behemoths. They shuddered and col­lapsed, their huge bulks sending the city trembling as they fell to the ground.

  A blast of agony struck Vell's brain as if it carried the force of thousands of tons. Then he felt nothing. The absence was worse than the pain. Six minds fell silent.

  The emptiness was deafening.

  All of Lanaal's teachings fell to a forgotten corner of Vell's mind. All of his careful control of his behemoth body vanished in an instant. A rage beyond all rage overtook him and he was no longer Vell, but the mindless, rampaging monster that had killed the Zhentarim skymage in Rauvin Vale. No recollection of human consciousness, no sympathy for the blameless folk of Llorkh remained in him. Vell had no way to focus his anger on a single source. The whole city stood around him for one purpose—to be destroyed, a mere plaything to sate his bottomless fury.

  * * * *

  Lying on the ground, Thanar and Kellin rolled to av
oid the bodies of the dead behemoths that fell across the square. The living behemoths were no less of a hazard; consumed by the same anger that had seized Vell, they rampaged through the square, smashing walls with their huge fore-limbs in search of an exit. Thanar and Kellin lay right in the path of a mad behemoth, its eyes inflamed with fury, and unable to recognize friend from enemy. Numb with fear, they scrambled to their feet and dashed toward the street.

  Outside of the Central Square, they discovered Lanaal, again in the form of the huge brown-feathered hawk that had lifted Kellin and Thluna over Llorkh's walls. Thanar and Kellin desperately climbed onto her back and she took wing, just ahead of a rampaging behemoth. Lanaal kept low to avoid Geildarr and his lightning bolts, and circled around to the back side of the Lord's Keep.

  From their vantage point, they saw the city being demolished from within. They easily identified Vell, larger than the rest, smashing his way through build­ings with an unfettered appetite for destruction. Ilskar, also in his behemoth form—but apparently retaining his wits—patrolled the inner side of the walls, appearing uncertain of what to do. The liberated behemoths joined Vell in his rage, bursting free of the Central Square and damaging anything that stood in their path.

  Lone hell hounds still roamed the city, but the bulk of them had been killed in the collapse of the Dark Sun. The behemoths stormed streets and alleys, unchallenged. Many of the Lord's Men withdrew and fled the city alongside terrified townsfolk. Crowds poured out of the gates and into the countryside. But Llorkh was far from deserted, and innocent citizens remained in the path of the behe­moths' rampage.

  "This is wrong," said Kellin. "We have to stop Vell."