The Fighters: Son of Thunder Read online

  "There is danger where you walk. Danger even to this forest while you are here, if your power should wake and grow beyond your control. Why have you come?"

  Thluna spoke "I am Thluna, chieftain of the Thunderbeast tribe. We are here..." But before he could finish, Duthroan raised up his roots and slapped them against the ground.

  "Thunderbeast!" Leaves showered from Duthroan's branches as he shook them in anger. "The scourge of the Lurkwood? We treants know that name! The only Uthgardt ever known to fell living trees, even to sell them for profit? Not even the demon-tainted Blue Bears dared such a thing." In that heartbeat, all feared that their quest was over, that Duthroan would expel them from the forest—if not kill them outright.

  "That is the past!" Thanar shouted. "I am a tender of nature as well, and I was appalled at my tribe's actions. I left them to wander the wilds of the North. I bathed in freez­ing rivers to purify my soul, to burn off what I considered a decadent, destructive way of life. Now the tribe has gone back to the true path, and I have rejoined them. Grunwald is rubble, life in the Lurkwood is far behind, and no more trees shall be cut down by the Thunderbeasts."

  "Scant seasons have passed since this withdrawal," said Duthroan. "We who have lived ages recognize that such changes are not always permanent."

  "Then the few generations they spent logging the Grun­wald must seem like an eyeblink to you," said Kellin. "And is it not true that the Thunderbeasts once lived in the High Forest?"

  "That is so," said Duthroan. This was a surprise to most of the Uthgardt present, though they had heard tales of life in the High Forest in their legends. "Before yellow-bearded Uther came to the North and tempted you out."

  "You knew our ancestors as they lived and breathed?" asked Thluna, awestruck at the thought.

  "They seldom dared enter our part of the wood," the treant said, "for they feared us. They made their home in the south."

  "What of the behemoths?" asked Keirkrad. "The great lizards. Our totem has sent us in search of them."

  A new expression crossed the treant's craggy features and he roared in excitement.

  "You are one of them!" he shouted at Vell.

  "One of whom?" demanded Vell.

  "The behemoths! They roamed our woods once, great gentle beasts with necks that reached the highest tree-tops. But I have not known their like in a millennium, until today."

  "I don't understand," Vell said. "How am I like them? I am a man, not a lizard."

  "Some things cannot be explained easily," Duthroan said. "You cannot tell me you have no sense of what I mean."

  Grim-faced, Vell nodded.

  "Perhaps your kinsmen of the forest know of this," Duth­roan said. "Perhaps I should take you to them, and let them decide what to do with you."

  "The Tree Ghosts," said Keirkrad. They were the youngest of the Uthgardt tribes, an offshoot of the hated Blue Bear tribe. When the Blue Bears fell into savagery, evil, and the worship of Malar, the Tree Ghosts took their own strange path, devoting their lives to searching for a tree. They believed that the original ancestor mound of the Blue Bears, called Grandfather Tree, was lost some­where in the High Forest. Most Thunderbeasts believed that Grandfather Tree was nothing more than a myth, and that the Tree Ghosts chased a shadow. But in their rare encounters with the Tree Ghosts, the Thunderbeasts found them to be friendly, if strange. They admired the Tree Ghosts' singular purpose and drive, something the Thunderbeast tribe often seemed to lack.

  "They've spent many decades collecting the lost lore of the High Forest," said Kellin. "They may have the infor­mation we seek."

  "Where can we find them?" asked Thluna.

  "The way cannot be shown," said Duthroan. "The way is secret. But there is another possibility." His great wooden hands reached for a knot on his side and drew forth a number of small leather flasks. "Quaff the dew these con­tain. It will take your senses and your wits for a time, so we trees can deliver you to their company. Then the choice will be theirs to decide your fate."

  "And if we refuse?" asked Thluna.

  "Then I will ask you to leave Turlang's Wood and never return." Duthroan's tone carried the unspoken threat of what might happen if they defied his instructions.

  Thluna stood silently, weighing his options.

  "The Tree Ghosts are noble," said Thanar. "We would not be wise to offend our only likely allies in the whole of the forest."

  "And our time may be short," Vell said. "If we must leave Turlang's Wood and seek another route into the deep forest, we could lose months."

  "I agree," said Thluna with some reluctance. He turned to Duthroan. "We accept your offer."

  Keirkrad moved close to Thluna and spoke directly into his ear. "You cannot listen to this. This creature cannot be trusted—this is a tree that walks. The Tree Ghosts associate with elves and—gods know what else. Dealing with such beings will be at the cost of our souls."

  Something cracked in Thluna. Although young and accustomed to deferring to his elders, he turned on Keirkrad.

  "Who is chief here?" he demanded. Keirkrad sniffed and shrank away, making claws of his ancient hands.

  The treant passed the flasks to the Uthgardt. "One gulp," he said. "No more." One by one, they lapsed into a trance and stood like brainless undead, eyes wide open, until only Vell and Kellin waited to drink. She could scarcely imagine what he was feeling at that moment. Perhaps he felt that his will had been wrested from him already, and he saw this as another incident of the same. Or perhaps he welcomed this oblivion as a rest.

  They took their swigs in unison and lapsed away together.

  * * * *

  The true chief of the Thunderbeast tribe lay on the floor of his cell, barely conscious from torture. His own rage had been used against him. His torturers had known of the barbarians' anger, capable of making them powerful, reckless, and all but unstoppable. That state stripped emotion and doubt, and replaced it with the purity of thoughtless rage. Clearly, his torturers knew of this and used it to their advantage. Bound to a cold metal table in their dimly lit chamber, Sungar had been allowed to rage and was left untouched. Only when it was over, when the purity of the fight was gone, when Sungar was susceptible to all the doubts and insecurities of his world, would they go to work. No resistance was possible. Unbidden, his mouth would open, and all the secrets of his tribe would flow forth.

  Only the occasional comforting words of the dwarf in the next cell kept Sungar tied to reality as his mind threatened to float away on a sea of wrath and shame. Hurd would laugh even though he had been imprisoned for so long, subject to tortures equal to Sungar's. At times Sungar wondered if Hurd was real, for he never saw his face. Was he just another trick of his torturers to keep him from suicide, or—worse yet—a trick of his own mind?

  Two guards, swords at their belts, entered Sungar's cell and propped him up. Weak as a kitten, Sungar could do nothing to resist. He expected they were taking him for another session under the cruel glass-studded whip of tusk-faced Kiev, but instead they washed him and put him in clean clothes. Sungar was far too weak to complain, but he croaked, "Why are you doing this?"

  "We can't have you smelling like a dumb animal, even if that is what you are," one of them explained through a grin. "You're meeting the mayor."

  Now, dressed in silk breeches and a starched white shirt, the finest fashions of Waterdeep, he was marched up a flight of stairs that wound back on itself at each landing. He was delivered into a narrow dining hall. Great decadent paint­ings decorated the walls, a white cloth covered the table, and cold iron chains bound him to his chair. A strap around his forehead held his head in place against the chains. He felt his feet on a plush carpet. Above his head, a magical light cast unflickering shadows over the walls.

  He was left there a long time—he heard a bell sound outside, and later, another. Finally a man entered and took a place opposite him at the table. Somewhat rotund and red-faced, middle-aged with a receding hairline, he was dressed in sleek purple robes. Even if Hurd had
n't mentioned it, Sungar would have known this man was a wizard. Something about him was sluglike; his features were so soft, as if weather had never touched him. This was a man who never used his body for anything. He would be ill-equipped for physical combat, Sungar knew; he could snap the man's neck in an instant, were it not for his deceitful magic.

  "Chieftain Sungar," he said with an over-wide smile. "I am pleased to meet you at last. I'm Geildarr Ithym. I'm the mayor here in Llorkh, and you are my guest.

  "I regret the necessity of your restraints. I hope that in time I will be able to host you unencumbered. Perhaps you'd like to sample our civilized cuisine—it goes far beyond the berries and roasted joints you're probably accustomed to."

  Sungar said nothing.

  "You might come to enjoy the pleasures of civilization in time," said Geildarr. "You scowl at the word." Geildarr repeated it, savoring every syllable. "Civilization. The name for everything your people despise. But do you even know what it means?"

  Sungar spat onto the table before him. He heard rustling behind him and knew that guards were ready to abuse him if he misbehaved. But Geildarr silenced them with a casual wave of his hand.

  "Kiev told me you've been very cooperative in his interrogations," Geildarr went on. "But there's one thing I still don't understand. It concerns the axe you left in the Fallen Lands. The exact reason you thought to get rid of it is of great interest to me." Geildarr's gaze became intense. "The wizard named, according to you, Arklow of Ashaben­ford, demonstrated the axe was magical, so you threw it away. This seems to me—but admittedly, I'm no expert on Uthgardt honor—like an act so petulant as to befit a three-year-old child, not a mighty barbarian warrior.

  "I realize you shun magic in all of its forms. I respect that—even a seasoned wizard like myself starts to hate the stuff every now and again. It grows boring when I use it too much. It loses its wonder. However, using a weapon infused with magic isn't quite the same as commanding magic.

  "It was your choice to toss it away, to leave it there in the dust. It might have gone for the rest of eternity with­out anybody finding it. But through a happy accident, or perhaps divine will, somebody did. Sungar, do you know the name Berun?"

  Sungar said nothing, but he knew his reaction gave him away.

  "Of course you do. He's an important figure in your legends. Well, one of the tales of him was more than legend. That axe you wielded belonged to him."

  Sungar scanned the mayor's face. Clearly he was enjoy­ing himself; he was a torturer of another kind. Was that the whole reason for this show? If so, it told much about Geildarr. A true leader, one secure in his power, would not feel the need to taunt the helpless.

  But, Sungar wondered, could Geildarr's words possibly be true? Could the weapon of the chiefs have come from the most ancient figure of their history?

  Geildarr smiled. "Better still, it's possible—I can't be entirely sure about this, admittedly—that it was also once wielded by Uthgar himself. If this magical axe was an unholy, corruptive influence, as you seem to think, it certainly must have drawn some of the great ones into its web.

  "Perhaps you should re-evaluate your relationship with magic. It seems to have been with your tribe from the very beginning. What do you say to that?"

  Sungar kept his lips tight. In different words, this was the same argument put to him by the mage Arklow. Worse, Geildarr had a rather dramatic way of showing him up. Limp from weakness and chained to a chair, the only defi­ance he could manage was silence. Geildarr didn't seem disappointed.

  "Mull it over some," he said. "We will speak again. There's no reason we can't be friends. We have much in common, as we are both leaders of men. Your stay in Llorkh needn't be unpleasant. You could have women, food, wine, and all the comforts available even to me. You could be a resident on this keep's highest floors instead of its lowest."

  "You will die," said Sungar, though he simultaneously berated himself for playing Geildarr's game.

  "Oh?" said Geildarr. "Who will kill me? You? Your people? You should stop thinking that way now—no good holding on to false hope. But you should know this: that axe of yours now resides in the hands of a hobgoblin—a dirty, smelly hobgoblin whose dim mind somehow recognized it as a weapon of legend better than you ever did. But it's far more than a weapon. If only you had realized, you could have kept it safe. Now my people carry it to the depths of the High Forest, where they will use it to rape the history of your tribe."

  Geildarr leaned a trifle closer across the table. "And when they do," he said, "it will all be your fault."

  * * * *

  In the dark woods of the High Forest's southern reaches, a series of low-slung tents stood pitched in a small clearing. The remnants of a small campfire smoldered in the dark, lighting the twisted trees that surrounded the camp. The Antiquarians felt uncomfortably close to the stands of white-barked trees that marked the edge of the Dire Wood like albino sentinels. That day they had seen an example of the "wizard weather" that sometimes roared out of Karse Butte—a fireball arching over the treetops before exploding into a rain of bloody snow. This part of the forest had obviously been scarred by such phenomena. The trees were tortured, screaming shapes, warped and ugly, and the fact that some of these trees might be sen­tient and keeping a close eye on them did nothing to help the group sleep better.

  Late in the night, Gan stood watch at the camp's edge, clutching the greataxe tightly. He was so happy when Geildarr told him he could wield it again that he almost wept. "But I'm not worthy of it," said Gan. Geildarr told him that he was to wield it as an agent of Llorkh's mayor, and so when Gan held it, it was as if Geildarr carried it.

  "Do you know what the axe is?" asked Ardeth. Gan was surprised; he hadn't known she was awake and now she was standing next to him.

  "What do you mean?" asked the hobgoblin.

  "Did no one tell you?" she asked. "It was once the weapon of a great leader and warrior who lived thousands of years ago. He died in a battle against a demon, giving his own life to save his people."

  "Was he a human?" asked Gan.

  Ardeth nodded.

  "My kind have no such great leaders," Gan lamented. "Word came to us that a hobgoblin named Glargulnir wants to make himself a king of all our people, as Obould united the orcs of the Wall. But humans make the best rulers."

  "Why do you have so little faith in your own people?" asked Ardeth. "This Glargulnir could prove a great ruler."

  "As great as Geildarr?" asked Gan.

  "Let me tell you about Geildarr," said Ardeth. "He may be a great man, but he is mayor of Llorkh only because more powerful men across the desert allow him to be. If they changed their minds, he would be gone in an instant."

  Gan frowned. He had allowed himself to build Geildarr up into an authority beyond question. This he could not believe.

  Ardeth pointed at the largest tent, from which they could hear Mythkar Leng's snores. "In a way, Geildarr even answers to him."

  "The priest?" asked the hobgoblin.

  "As you saw for yourself, Geildarr couldn't order him on this mission. It's not always so clear as that. In some ways, Leng is Geildarr's superior, but in other ways, Leng answers to Geildarr."

  "But what if the priest were gone?" asked Gan.

  Ardeth looked over the camp to make sure all was silent.

  "Let me tell you something," she whispered to Gan. "But you can't let anyone else know."

  The hobgoblin nodded.

  "We know that Leng has been scheming to overthrow Geildarr," said Ardeth. "He wants to become mayor of Llorkh, and he's willing to kill Geildarr to achieve this."

  Gan's face showed almost no reaction. With as much calm as he could muster, Gan said, "We must kill him."

  "It's not as easy as that," said Ardeth. "This isn't a hob­goblin tribe—we can't openly murder our enemies. But if we give our enemies enough time and a little help, they may just take care of the job on their own. I have a plan, and I could use your help."

  * * * *<
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  Before she could say more, a loud crashing came from the woods. The trees parted like waves, drawing away as a great treant stepped into the clearing. Propelled by its long roots, it reached the tents with frightening speed. Its heavy, gnarled arm reached out and released water that drizzled onto the campfire embers, eliminating all its heat and light with a hiss.

  The Antiquarians crawled free of their tents, and Myth­kar Leng, dressed in simple brown robes that concealed his identity and power, did the same.

  "You dare make fire in our wood!" the walking tree declared.

  Royce took the lead. "Grant us your pardon, woodlord," he said. "The night was chill and we burned only dead wood we collected as we passed through your forest."

  Huge green eyes studied him intensely. "Fire cannot be permitted," the treant said. "What business do you have among these trees?"

  "We seek the Star Mounts," said Royce. "We want nothing but safe passage to them."

  "A dangerous destination. I've seen many outsiders pass this way bound for those peaks, but they seldom return." He stared down each member of the group. "I've never seen a party as this. A hobgoblin in your midst, and clutching such an axe—what am I to think?"

  "You can think whatever you will, treant," Leng hissed. "So long as you let us pass."

  A wave of dismay passed through the Antiquarians. They had hoped to talk their way past the forest giant without incident. Leng spoke without fear or respect to a creature so much larger than they, and so imposing. He destroyed the image that he was an ordinary traveler.

  The treant thought for a long time. An eternity seemed to pass as its oaken features remained still. Any onlooker would have mistaken it for an ordinary tree. Then it said, "You may pass, so long as you give that axe over to me."

  Gan clutched the battle-axe tightly and brandished it over his head in challenge. But a clever root crept around and yanked it from his hands. The Antiquarians drew their weapons, and Ardeth pulled her slender sword from her belt.

  The axe swiftly vanished among the treant's higher branches.

  "That was not an axe for cutting wood," Royce protested. "We need it returned."