The Fighters: Son of Thunder Read online

  Suddenly self-conscious, Vell turned away. "Not all Uth­gardt have blue eyes, though most do."

  "I was not speaking of your eyes." Lanaal reached out and touched his face, turning it back toward her. "But tell me about them."

  "My mother had brown eyes, and so do I. My tribe has called me Vell the Brown for as long as I can remember. They were rarely cruel, but they never let me forget it either."

  Lanaal nodded in understanding. "As a child I climbed to the highest window of my parents' mansion and jumped out, without fear, to the shock of all watching from the street below," said Lanaal with a mysterious smile. "Imagine how shocked they were when an eagle swooped down to stop my fall!

  "For me, the body of an elf is an accident of birth. I belong up there, in the open sky. So many decades I spent strug­gling to cope with this encumbering form. No amount of education could purge the avian spirit inside me. I hated my body, and for many years shunned the company of elves and humans. Only among birds did I feel real peace. I can tell when they're present, and talk with them. Sometimes I think I can even sense their thoughts and feelings. I came here hoping I might find something that would help me keep my sanity. And I did."

  "The tree," said Vell.

  "A beacon of peace for all who see it." Lanaal smiled. "In its shadow, I have learned that I can take the form of a bird—any bird I know of—from a titmouse to a giant falcon. And when I wear this, my elf form, I feel better about it, for it's my choice. The freedom of transformation saved me. My mind stays the same, regardless of the body it's in, and bird or elf, that body is Lanaal. It took me a long time to realize that."

  Vell stayed silent for a time, choosing his words with care. "You say you felt this way from childhood. Do you know why you are this way? Why you?"

  Lanaal shrugged. "Perhaps a gift from Aerdrie Faenya, goddess of air. Some have speculated so. Others suspect a kind of throwback to an ancestral elf, something like the avariel, our winged brethren. For me, it matters not."

  Vell frowned. "You do not care why you are this way?"

  "I don't think a search for meaning would be fruitful," said Lanaal. "I live my life as it is. You will be happier if you do the same."

  "But you have always been this way," said Vell. "For me, a change came when the Thunderbeast entered me at Morgur's Mound. It was thrust upon me."

  "I did not choose this either," said Lanaal, "but I've learned to live with it, to embrace it. I suspect you're similar to me. I know there are others—rare individuals born with the souls of horses, snakes, or even fish."

  "So is that it?" asked Vell, a touch of bitterness entering his voice. "I have the soul of a lizard? A lizard none of my people have ever seen—is that not strange to you?"

  "Let me ask this," said Lanaal. "Do you feel lonely, even among your companions? A dull ache, an emptiness in your soul that you don't know how to fill?" Vell didn't have to nod. "Perhaps that's because you are not with your true kind—the behemoths."

  "Behemoths are not my kind!" Vell shouted.

  "But you can transform into one."

  "Only once," Vell said. "I don't know if I could do it again."

  "How did it happen?" asked Lanaal. "Tell me about it."

  "Our village was under siege," he said. "Our chief was captured by the enemy. He is still missing. I knew of the power in me and I thought there was something deeper, and this time I reached in and drew upon it. Then, I lost all control of myself. Forgot myself."

  "That can happen," said Lanaal. "I remember one time early on, when I became a lark and spent days as one before I even remembered that I was an elf. For you, I would guess it is tied to your nature as an Uthgardt. Your famous rages involve a clouding of the senses, correct? Perhaps you should attempt a transformation at a moment that's less critical."

  "I'd be happy never to have that happen again," said Vell. "When you turn into a bird, I'm certain that you do not kill your companions."

  "Is that what happened?"

  Vell nodded sadly. "Several of them, crushed under my feet."

  "The only way you can prevent that is to learn control." Lanaal frowned. "For all I know, it will leave you soon. But if it doesn't, you'll have to accept it as your own. You'll be better for it. I used to feel like there were two souls in my breast, an elf and a bird. But then I realized there was just one—mine, which is both elf and bird."

  "No, Lanaal." Vell's eyes were dampening. "It's different for me. I'm cursed. It tears me apart from inside. I could lose myself for good. When I changed back, I spent the night wandering the dark fields alone, trying to pull together every scrap of my identity. You don't understand."

  "Yes," she said, her eyes warm with compassion. "I do."

  * * * *

  The night wore on and the merriment with it, fading to the mild but persistent happiness of inebriation. Thluna spent much of the evening speaking with elves, drawing out any rumors or legends they knew about behemoths, or about the Thunderbeasts' tribal history. From Faeniele Eshele, a wood elf in the camp, he heard a strange story alleging that a behemoth had been spotted many centuries before, grazing in a swamp alongside the Heartblood River. But when an elf party arrived to investigate, it was gone—not only the behemoth, but the swamp as well.

  Those elves were uncomfortably close to the Dire Wood and were not inclined to probe deeply, but one elf wizard grew intrigued and cast a spell to search for magical illusion. He found skillfully hidden magical emanations that implied a large concealed space, but was unable to reveal it. They suspected that it may have been some relic of a lost civilization, one of a great many strewn about the High Forest—possibly the elves' own Eaerlann.

  "This is only a rumor, you understand," said Faeniele. "But I will contact Reitheillaethor and ask if anyone knows more. It may be within the memory of some of our elders." Thluna thanked her profusely.

  Later, as Thluna relaxed beneath a great oak, having consumed some of the Tree Ghosts' hearty ale, Kellin came and slumped down next to him.

  "Have you learned anything interesting?" he asked.

  "Yes," she said, her speech slightly slurred. "Very interesting indeed. How about you?"

  "I think I might have learned where we're going."

  "Wonderful," said Kellin. "And Thluna?"

  "Yes?"

  "Isn't it time somebody told me what happened in the Fallen Lands?"

  The question hung in the air, unaddressed. Thluna felt a kind of shame as he thought about it. But it was only right that she should know. "Yes," he said, and told the story as honestly as he knew how.

  Chapter 9

  It was midnight at the Wet Wizard tavern. Fueled by a new shipment of Tanagyr's Stout from Zhentil Keep, discussion turned, as it so often did in Llorkh, to Ardeth Chale. Lord's Men, locals, and visiting merchants and their caravan guards all had their say.

  "My younger brother played with her as a child. She's a local girl. Taken an odd turn, that's for sure..."

  "She does everything Geildarr says, but really she has more power over him than the other way around."

  "Word is that she and Royce's band have taken off on one of Geildarr's crazy missions. What's weirdest of all is that Mythkar Leng's gone along with 'em..."

  "Word about her has even reached Zhentil Keep. Geildarr thinks of her as his Ashemmi."

  "Ardeth is the loveliest thing I've ever seen. What I wouldn't do for a chance to..."

  "What annoys me most is the way she exerts her authority over the Lord's Men, without rank or position to justify it."

  "Geildarr thinks he owes her everything. Some ren­egade dwarves would have taken over Llorkh if it weren't for her..."

  "A Zhent skymage went off on a mission with her. She came back alone, riding his mount. What does that tell you?"

  But all turned to hushed silence when Clavel Foxgray came into the tavern, his cheeks already rosy with drink. The Lord's Men shut up immediately, and the rest followed suit, wondering why.

  "Let me guess," said Clavel, snee
ring. "You were talking about Ardeth."

  A half-orc caravan guard snickered and asked, "What's yer beef with her?" Clavel provided the answer.

  "A hobgoblin knocked me into the ditch with an axe," Clavel said, leaning against the doorframe to keep his bal­ance. "I can live with that. Somebody would have gotten a rope and let me climb out. Oh, I'd have been laughed at a bit, but I would have laughed, too. Except Ardeth came along and told them to leave me there all night, then demote me. She's no place in the chain of command, but her word is law. So I'm back on the night watch, two years of seniority stripped away by Ardeth's whim. So—" he smirked at the half-orc "—so that's the reason conversations about Ardeth tend to go sour when I walk in."

  The assembly in the Wet Wizard was silent as Clavel strode over to the half-orc's table. "That's too bad," Clavel continued. "I have quite a lot to say about her. The big question is this—does anybody know exactly what goes on between her and Geildarr? She lives in the Lord's Keep, does she not? On his floor or somewhere else? Because the image of that fat old slug of a mayor and that lithe demoness turns my stomach like nothing else. Or maybe they deserve each other."

  "Clavel," said one of the other Lord's Men. "Perhaps you've had a bit much to drink..."

  "Not nearly enough," Clavel slurred. "Like the rest of you—well, any of you who've seen her—I'd very much like to spend a little time in the dark with her. But the differ­ence is, at the end of it, I'd want to sink a dagger into that sweet breast of hers!"

  "That's quite enough, Clavel," shouted a Lord's Man, jumping to his feet. He and a companion grasped Clavel by the neck and hauled him out into the street. Sounds of struggling and fighting drifted into the tavern.

  Nobody wanted to talk about Ardeth any longer.

  * * * *

  Sungar reached around, his hands weak, and rubbed the lash marks along his back. "Kiev never speaks, does he?" he asked, on the off-chance that his neighbor was awake and listening. "He laughs sometimes. Snarls. But I don't think I've ever heard him say a word."

  "Maybe he's embarrassed by his voice," said Hurd. "Could be it's high-pitched and squeaky or somethin'."

  Sungar laughed. His lungs hurt as he did so, but he was happy; it may have been the first time he laughed since he found himself in this cesspit.

  "Or maybe, more likely, he lets his whip speak for him," the dwarf added grimly.

  "Are there other inmates of this dungeon?" asked Sungar. "Or is it just the two of us?"

  "Probably some in the other wings. Petty criminals, cut-purses, dishonest merchants—people who commit crimes in Llorkh. But they don't last long. They're all executed pretty quickly, or maybe even released if they kiss Geildarr's hindquarters enough. Not so with us—Geildarr likes to keep his important prisoners alive forever. Makes him feel more powerful, I reckon."

  "Why you?" asked Sungar. "If all the rest of your people are gone, why are you still here?"

  "Don't really know," said Hurd. "I'm guessin' the answer is in Geildarr's mind. As I said, he likes to feel powerful—there's no power in presiding over an empty dungeon. I was one of Trice Dulgenhar's top men. I'm a plum prize, but not one that's dangerous to keep alive. Simple as that.

  "Not long ago, the dungeon was full to the gills with dwarves. One by one they just seemed to disappear. Could be Geildarr released them, but not likely. There were rumors that they were given over to a priest of Cyric, who was trying to corrupt them into groundlings."

  Sungar could hear the disgust in his voice. "What are groundlings?"

  "Something like a dwarf, but mixed with a giant badger. The Zhentarim breeds them as assassins. It took a nefarious mind to conceive of such a thing. A Zhentarim mind."

  "How did you end up in here, then?" asked Sungar. "You've been waiting for me to ask, haven't you?"

  Hurd snorted. "At one time, a lot of dwarves lived in Llorkh, and humans alongside. I lived here in those days. We mined the nearby mountains, but after they started to run dry, a lot of us left. Those who stayed behind were eventually captured by the Zhentarim.

  "Those black-hearted Zhentarim murdered the old mayor, Phintarn, and put in Geildarr instead. Truth is, they weren't interested in mining but wanted this town as a caravan stop on the Black Road 'cross the Anauroch Desert. What dwarf miners were still here mostly left, especially since Mithral Hall was open for business again.

  "But some of us clung to the dream of liberating Llorkh from its captors—the damned Zhentarim. We formed a circle dedicated to it, set up spies in Llorkh, and made allies among the humans living here. Our leader was Trice Dulgenhar, as great a dwarf as I've ever known.

  "Then we thought we saw our chance. When the phaerimm burst out of Evereska, Llorkh was under siege from a whole army of bugbears. Even the beholder they kept in the Dark Sun died in the fighting. And better yet, since the Zhentarim was still reeling from Shade's return, they weren't rebuilding Llorkh as fast as they could. We thought that if we moved quickly we could seize Llorkh, and with help from Secomber—and maybe even the Harpers or the Lord's Alliance—we could keep it out of Zhentarim hands for good. Make it a beacon of light and good in Delimbiyr Vale, rather than the dung heap it is now."

  "So you invaded the city?" asked Sungar.

  "No," said Hurd, his voice trembling. "One of our human allies sold us out. A mere slip of a girl called Ardeth, the dark-hearted bitch. She brought Trice's head to Geildarr and revealed our entire plan, on the eve of us carrying it out. The Lord's Men stormed our hideaways and rooted out our allies. It was a massacre. Those of us who survived found ourselves down here, subject to Geildarr's whims."

  "Why did she do it?" asked Sungar.

  "Who knows?" Hurd said. "For power, coin, or Geildarr's confidence, maybe. What's for certain is that she fooled us all. We knew she was no real help to our movement, but we tolerated her for her enthusiasm. She was very pretty, very young ..." He trailed off, leaving no doubt that he considered himself personally responsible for letting all this happen.

  There was no anger in his voice, which puzzled Sungar. Perhaps it had all been shorn from him by Kiev's torments. Perhaps this was why he stayed alive—not out of cowardice, but as a penance.

  "You are not to blame," Sungar said. "She is."

  Hurd snorted. "But what revenge is possible now? Oh, I thirst for it, perhaps with all the rage your heart could muster. But who can I blame but myself?"

  Sungar made a fist and banged it weakly against the stone wall. Fragments of the wall dislodged. Who else can any of us blame? he thought.

  * * * *

  The Star Mounts were dimly visible, hints of their fog-shrouded majesty hiding in the distance. Gan could tell that even the Antiquarians, for all they had experienced and all the places they had visited, held them in particular regard.

  "Perhaps the mystery of all mysteries in the North," Royce called them, adding, "and we're in the business of seeking out mysteries." But Gan also noticed the fear they showed as they pressed ever closer to the legendary peaks.

  A mystery unto herself was Ardeth, who showed no fear, little wonder, and none of the relish for cruelty that Leng displayed. Gan, unfamiliar with the conventions of human beauty, thought her ugly with her pale flesh, slight form, and her narrow hips that were grossly unsuitable for childbearing. Still, he recognized the effect she had on the human men.

  Gan had some sense of the politics in the group, even without being told. He knew that they wanted Leng dead—Ardeth primarily, and now the Antiquarians seemed to be wordlessly supporting her. He could see it in their eyes and detect it in their manner. But they couldn't kill him openly. Leng and Geildarr had masters, and they would be displeased. The particulars of their plan were lost on Gan's brain, but he resolved to play his part nevertheless, and he took pride in what he was about to do on Ardeth's behalf—a most delicate task.

  Mythkar Leng had disappeared into the woods quite some time earlier to attend to nature's call, and eventually the group dispatched Gan to check on him. He did so, axe
in hand. When Gan found him, the priest's back was to Gan and he was bathed in a sepulchral green light.

  "What are you doing?" the hobgoblin asked.

  Leng spun about, only mildly perturbed by the interrup­tion. Dangling from his finger was a skeletal green cage. Within, a small creature with blue flesh and cricket wings silently screamed as it cowered in the center. Leng smiled a sadist's smile as he brought it closer to the hobgoblin.

  "What is this?" asked Gan.

  "A grig," Leng explained. "One of the many varieties of fey that clog this part of the forest. Or rather, it was a grig not long ago."

  Within the cage, a change overtook the fairy. Its wings turned to those of a bat and its flesh churned and boiled, sprouting coarse fur. Leng lifted his finger and the magical cage vanished. The creature sprinted off into the woods, a foul parody of what it once was. Moss withered and died where it passed.

  "Your power must be very great," said Gan.

  "I serve a most powerful god," Leng told him. "Far beyond whatever monstrous deity you venerate."

  "Maglubiyet," Gan said quickly. "Maybe a human god would be more powerful."

  Leng chuckled. "It's odd that your kind are so inherently servile. You need to be led, and you look for the most power­ful leader available. This is commendable, but shortsighted. Tell me, Gan, does it bother you that your function on this mission is simply to carry something?" He poked a finger against the axe head. "You're the most hideous butler I've ever laid eyes on."

  Not understanding the insult, Gan said, "I offered my service to Geildarr, and this is the task he assigned me. He is a great leader, and I shall not question."

  This provoked a roar of laughter from Leng. "Such loyalty! My advice to you, hobgoblin, is to forget about Geildarr. He is a mediocre man of earthbound ambitions. Many years ago he confessed to me a desire to become part of the Zhentarim's Inner Circle. And he never did anything to make that happen. He is more an administrator than a true leader."

  "What do you mean?" asked Gan.