The Fighters: Son of Thunder Read online

  "Ardeth said that we're waiting for somebody who'll come with us on this mission," said Nithinial. "We're honored if that's you." He was a half-elf, lean and small-boned, though most folk he met learned quickly never to bring up his elf heritage. His companions still told the story of a man who hurled an ethnic slur at Nithinial from across the Ten Bells tavern and found his hand nailed to the wall by Nithinial's expertly-thrown dagger.

  "What?" Leng hissed. "Geildarr summoned me to a meeting. He said it was a matter of critical importance to the Zhentarim. He wouldn't dare send me on one of his fool's errands!"

  "Indeed I wouldn't," said Geildarr, walking through the door with Ardeth beside him. Behind them came an armor-clad hobgoblin, so tall he had to duck to pass through the doorway. In his hands he held a massive axe and he walked deliberately, as if he invested each step with momentous reverence. The effect was hilarious, and the Antiquarians had to hold back laughter.

  "You'd better have a good explanation, Geildarr," said Leng.

  "Trust me, I do," the mayor answered. "Gan, if you'd like to put that down." The hobgoblin laid the axe on a table in the audience chamber's center and backed off to a corner where he stood as still as a statue. "Welcome back, men. Gunton, perhaps you'd like to look at this."

  Heavily-bearded Gunton walked forward to look over the axe. "Dwarven," he said, and looked up at Geildarr. "That much is obvious. Could it be Delzounian?"

  Geildarr patted his shoulder. "Your instincts do not dis­appoint, my friend." Geildarr was clearly excited about the news he had to share, but wanted to delay the pleasure of revealing it. "Here's a brief history lesson." At the priest's sneer, he said, "You'll have to bear with me, Mythkar. You'll understand why in a moment.

  "We all know about Netheril, the Empire of Magic from so long ago. Anyone who hadn't heard of it before should be acquainted with it now, ever since the Plane of Shadows spat up its last survivors. Netherese magic was so great that it could make cities fly, transform lands, and accom­plish other feats that the Weave simply doesn't support any longer. When magic failed during Karsus's Folly, most of the artifacts made by the Netherese mages were lost. As you can imagine, any exception to this catastrophe is of great interest to me, and to the Zhentarim. This axe, with a tangled history behind it, is as old as Netheril, and I believe—" he slowed for dramatic effect "—it will point the way to the lost magic of the greatest archwizards Faerun has ever known."

  Geildarr ignored the derisive laughter coming from Leng's direction and continued. "One of the cities of fallen Netheril was called Runlatha. A man whom history recalls only as 'the Bey of Runlatha' led an exodus to the west, taking the wealth of their fallen home with them. Along the way, they were hounded by a tanar'ri named Zukothoth ... a nalfeshnee, I believe. For a time they took refuge in the dwarven realm of Delzoun, where the Bey acquired an axe—this axe, so graciously brought to our door by our hobgoblin friend Gan, who sensed the power in it and brought it to the right place."

  Geildarr swelled with self-importance. "The Bey and his group wove dweomers into the axe that linked it to a powerful artifact from Runlatha. The axe is a key that will reveal the artifact's hiding place when brought into its proximity—a place simply called 'the Sanctuary,' which I have divined as lying just outside of the Star Mounts."

  The Antiquarians exchanged glances in their excite­ment. They'd never set foot in the High Forest and knew the legends about it—the Star Mounts, especially—better than anyone.

  "I see that catches your attention," said Geildarr with a smile. "But this power has been lost to the people who possessed it in the centuries since. The Bey used this axe to defeat Zukothoth and died in the process. In time, his followers became the Uthgardt, and this axe became a cer­emonial weapon of the Thunderbeast tribe. Even the god Uthgar is said to have wielded it at one time, perhaps when he was a mortal Northlander. But two years ago, the tribe's chief, Sungar, decided to leave this ancient object of power, this priceless piece of their heritage, in the Fallen Lands. Barbarians have never been the best reasoners."

  "What kind of artifact is it?" asked Royce. "The one that is linked to the axe?"

  "I don't know exactly," Geildarr admitted. "But because the Runlathans to go to such lengths to hide it, it must be important. Its own innate magic capably kept it hidden all these centuries, after all. It's something the Zhentarim will be pleased to possess, I'm quite sure."

  "How do you know all this?" Leng asked.

  "Divination magic has uncovered much, along with research in my library. The rest we owe to Ardeth." He placed a hand on her shoulder. "She consulted one of the few experts on the Uthgardt living in the North, and she kidnapped the chieftain Sungar, who's currently a resident of the lower floors of the Lord's Keep."

  "So that was the mysterious mission on which the skymage died?" asked Leng. "By Cyric, Geildarr, you can't imagine that they will..."

  "Skymages are plentiful, at least compared to powerful Netherese artifacts," Geildarr shot back. "I don't doubt that Fzoul will forgive all, if you succeed."

  "You honestly mean to order me along with these mer­cenaries?" Leng demanded.

  "No. I wouldn't presume to order about a high priest of Cyric. But I hope you might choose to go, once you hear this." At that, Ardeth stood and told the story of the attack on Sungar's Camp, or at least her version of it. When she finished, expressions of new interest were on the faces of all assembled, except for Gan, who looked puzzled.

  "From what we've learned from Sungar," said Geildarr, "the creature that attacked Ardeth and Valkin was probably a member of their tribe who was recently given extraordi­nary powers by their giant lizard totem animal."

  "You mean from Uthgar," said Leng. "These totems they worship are just different faces of Uthgar."

  "Was I right?" Geildarr asked him. "Does the knowledge that another god was taking notice draw your interest?"

  Leng shrugged. "Uthgar is a minor power. Cyric pays little attention to his activities. But if Uthgar has truly invested enough power to turn a man into a behemoth." He trailed off, leaving his awed expression to convey the rest.

  "What's more, the Thunderbeast gave his tribe a mes­sage to find the living behemoths," said Geildarr. "It could be that this Sanctuary of which I spoke was designed to hide the last dinosaurs of the North, and that the magic of Runlatha is sustaining it. Unfortunately, Kiev tells me that Sungar knows absolutely nothing about the Sanctuary."

  "Living dinosaurs," said Royce, looking to his fellow Antiquarians and gauging their reactions. "It takes a lot to find something we haven't seen."

  "I'm amused by the prospect of dinosaurs in the High Forest," said Geildarr, "but I suspect Leng could find a more interesting use for them than I." He could already see dark thoughts breeding in the priest's eyes. "I'm already working on a way to contain them in the Central Square."

  "You don't expect us to herd them back here, do you?" asked Bessick.

  "No," said Geildarr. "I'll leave that to Ardeth."

  All eyes turned to Ardeth, who smiled. "I told you you'd have more interesting companions." The Antiquarians nodded their surprised approval.

  "I've almost completed crafting some crossbow bolts that will tag the beasts and teleport them back here to Llorkh, where they'll be magically contained," Geildarr explained. "As the unfortunate skymage Valkin found out, the behe­moths are very dangerous, and I don't recommend engaging them directly once you reach the Sanctuary."

  "But how do we get there?" asked Gunton. "I don't want to seem the naysayer, but the dangers of the High Forest are legendary. We definitely couldn't approach the Star Mounts by air, even if mounts were offered. Only the aara­kocra who live there are said to know how to navigate the winds properly. Dragons lair in the Star Mounts and with the way the dragons have been behaving lately, we daren't take that approach. We'll want to avoid the Dire Wood too, and I'm guessing we wouldn't be very welcome along the Unicorn Run."

  At Gunton's mention of the Unicorn Run, Geildarr
studied Leng intently. The priest started at the mention of this famous stronghold of the fey world, said to be jointly blessed by the Seelie Court and all the nature deities of Faerun. The Run, some said, was the wellspring of all life on Faerun. A twitch ran through Leng's upper lip and it curled into a snarl. Leng's eyes glossed in thought. Though Geildarr was himself touched by Cyric in a special way, it disturbed him to wonder what Leng had in mind for that most beautiful of places.

  "I think the safest route is parallel to the Run, starting somewhat north of Zelbross," Geildarr said. He reached into his robes and produced a silver coin that he tossed directly to Vonelh, his fellow wizard. "This detects powerful... well, powerful good magic. It should help you stay an appropriate distance from the Run. Keep a careful eye on it."

  "That I will," said Vonelh with a smile, as he pocketed the coin.

  "This could be the most epic quest we've been on," said Royce. "It won't be easy." But he was beaming, and the rest of the Antiquarians were as well. This was the sort of thing they lived for.

  "I'm working to find you more allies," said Geildarr. "The Zhentarim have some contacts with groups inside the forest, and I may be able to recall an old favor from Heskret, Bloodmaster of a werebat tribe."

  Ardeth walked over to the big hobgoblin and tugged on his arm. "How about it, Gan?" she asked. "How'd you like to go to the Star Mounts?"

  "Does it mean I get to keep the axe?" he asked.

  "Well, it means you get it for a while, anyway," said Geildarr. To the Antiquarians, he added, "Someone has to carry it, after all."

  Gan stepped forward to the table where the axe rested, gripped it, and lifted it so quickly that it hit the ceiling, leaving a notch where it struck. Ignoring that, Gan asked, "When do we leave?"

  Chapter 7

  The northern edge of the High Forest was just south of the place where the Thunderbeasts made their camp, but the tribe rarely came within sight of it. Even in the short time they had inhabited Rauvin Vale, they had noticed the curious phe­nomenon of the woods creeping forward, gaining steadily each moon, in their direction and that of Everlund. Now the party under Thluna's com­mand stood at the edge of the wood, but barring their access to the majestic trees stood a wall of brambles and brush. The growth was nothing that could not be overcome with sword and axe, but served as a clear signal that they were not wanted in this place.

  "The treants are not our enemies," said Thluna. It was the first word any of them had spoken in the time since they had left the camp.

  "But they may not prove our friends, either," Keirkrad retorted. "They guard their forest zealously."

  "Turlang's generosity is legendary," said Thanar, the green-robed Uthgardt druid. "He is called Turlang the Thoughtful more frequently than Turlang the Terrible. We are no enemy to his wood. His treants will surely allow us passage if we prove the purity of our motives."

  Of all her companions, with the exception of Vell, Thanar intrigued Kellin the most. The majority of the Uthgardt were stoic warriors, silently following the orders of their chief without discussion. Perhaps that was easiest for them. She understood that Thanar lived most of his life away from his tribe and had thrust himself into the elements of the North in an attempt to cleanse the civiliz­ing influence of Grunwald. At the same time, as a druid and a member of one of Silvanus's druid circles, he had doubtlessly dealt with more nonhumans and had a broader understanding of the world. What must it be like for him to have returned to his tribe after such an absence? If only she could speak to these people—such research she could accomplish, and such personal curiosity she could satisfy. Her father had so many advantages over her.

  Only Vell seemed comfortable around Kellin, and she was glad for that. He often walked next to her, perhaps symbolically to the others—or perhaps for other reasons. Certainly, Vell knew he was needed by the party, and he knew that perhaps this meant more leeway for him. Kellin was afraid for him, though. The estrangement he felt from his tribe—and from himself—was clearly wear­ing at him.

  Keirkrad had not spoken to Kellin in several days. Certain warriors—Grallah, Hengin, Ilskar, and Draf—were clearly more loyal to Keirkrad than to Thluna and had followed suit. Dressed in brown rothehide robes, the old buzzard occasionally cast Kellin sidelong glances of disapproval, especially as she walked with Vell. She couldn't forget what Vell had pointed out—those born into the tribe with magical ability were put to death, and such rules were enforced by shamans like Keirkrad. She'd learned as a scholar not to judge other cultures by the standards of her own, yet now she found that next to impossible.

  Under Thanar's direction, the barbarians drew their weapons and cut away the brambles, slashing through vines and thorns until they had cleared a path to the forest. As if by instinct, each of them paused to gaze at the legendary woodland. The High Forest was dominated by leafy trees, here favoring birches, silverbarks, and the eerie duskwoods whose slate gray trunks pointed straight to the sky without many branches. Most of the Thunderbeasts had been raised among trees in the Lurkwood, but that forest was composed of pines and spruces. Even the smells were different—where the Lurkwood was permeated with the heavy piquant fragrance of pine, what lay ahead smelled of something sweeter and more heady, an aroma teasing to their senses.

  The year was well into Marpenoth, the month of leaf fall, and even this magically-charged wood showed the impact of the season. The ground was covered with coppery fallen leaves and many of the limbs above were bare. The autumn would give way to another bitter northern winter, like so many the Thunderbeasts had endured. This time, though, the tribe feared the winter might be different, that the tribe might not last till spring. Winter never failed to cull the weak.

  They walked with caution across the forest floor, which lay covered in moss and fallen leaves, scarcely daring to disturb a tree branch lest the wood's masters be offended. Ahead, the solid ground became moist and marshy, and revealed a row of small pools, covered in lily pads and alive with jumping frogs.

  "These were put here deliberately," Thanar said.

  "Have you been here before?" asked Kellin.

  "No. But how could they be otherwise? Look how even they are. The treants have placed them here so they can use the water against fires."

  "The treants," repeated Keirkrad. "We're truly to put our faith in such creatures as trees that walk?"

  "Perhaps they're listening to you even now," Thanar said. "There's no telling which of these trees might be a silent treant. This is their wood, shaman Seventoes, and they are aware of everything that happens herein." Thanar was not a worshiper of Uthgar and was less intimidated by Keirkrad than his companions.

  "Let them watch," said Keirkrad, casting wary glances at the oaks around them. "All we need from them is our passage."

  "No," said Thluna quietly. Contradicting his elder and shaman was not in his nature, and it showed in his voice. "We need more than passage. We need the treants' help."

  They pressed on, and in time the woods grew darker, damper, and cooler. The only light was that which flickered down from the treetops, now looming so high above. They heard occasional rustlings from the underbrush and saw flashes of movement in the periphery of their vision, and wondered whether they detected animals or some intelli­gent inhabitant of the woods. The remaining light faded as the foliage grew thicker, and the forest around them gradually turned from green to blue. The color was not that of the trees, but of the light reflecting off strange bloblike forms on the ground and on the bark of trees, so many that they carpeted the forest as far as the eye could see. Thanar kneeled to inspect one of the blobs and marveled that it was slowly moving across the forest's mossy floor.

  "What is it?" asked Thluna.

  "Some type of fungus," said Thanar. "I've never seen anything like it. It is told that the treant Turlang has made a home in his wood for many animals and plants at risk in other parts of the High Forest—these creatures may be among them."

  "In that case," said Vell, "I recommend we avoid ste
p­ping on them."

  This was the first he had spoken all day, and all eyes turned to him. A few breaths later, everyone broke out laughing. Uthgardt belly laughs shook leaves from the trees. It was a relief to all to hear Vell make a joke.

  They walked on through the strange blue-tinted wood, following hills and ravines until they came to a strange clearing where daylight once again greeted them. They found themselves at the foot of a massive oak that dwarfed all the other trees they had seen. Its great gnarly roots twisted high above the ground as if they were ready to rise up and walk. Although they had prepared themselves for the unexpected, the Uthgardt still jumped in shock as they spotted a craggy face staring at them from high up on the tree trunk.

  "Who dares test the patience of my kind?" the treant asked. Its voice was deep, low, and rich with age. "Who intrudes on our domain?"

  Thluna stepped forward. "We beg your forgiveness, noble Turlang..."

  "I am not Turlang!" the treant rumbled, thrashing thick branches, gnarled and ancient, that suggested arms. Roots rose from the ground as if preparing to stride forward. "I am Duthroan, not the Deeproot. I cannot pretend to his age and wisdom. A strange party I see before me. What manner of beings are you?" A great hand swung down and pointed a wooden finger at Vell. "I have seen many things. Many ages have passed since my seed set root. But I have not seen the like of you. What are you?"

  "Perhaps you could tell me," said Vell.

  "You are a man," the treant said with great deliberation, "yet not a man. There is a sense to you, like something I knew in ages past. Great power is sleeping in you." The bark across its brow furrowed in its contemplation.

  "Some of you are channels for energies. Power comes to you from the Weave," Duthroan indicated Kellin with the point of a root, "and to you from the divine." The root swung toward Keirkrad. "And to you from nature itself," Duthroan rumbled, pointing at Thanar. It paused. "But you are not a channel for power, but a repository."

  "A repository," repeated Vell.