Son of Thunder (17 page)

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.

“He is weak. This very expedition is a sign of his weakness. The magic we’re looking for—he doesn’t want to keep it for himself, but wants to give it away to his superiors. A great man would not perform such errands at the behest of those he hates. A greater leader would remake the world in his image, not hold onto the inglorious scrap of ground he calls his own.”

“Are you such a man?” asked Gan.

Leng said nothing.

“Your magic remade that grig,” asked Gan. “Why did you do it?”

Leng frowned in puzzlement. A high priest of Cyric did not expect to be questioned for the reasoning behind his actions, so Leng did not have an answer.

“Such creatures disgust me,” Leng finally said. “They lock themselves away from the world to flit about in their pools and glades—what purpose do they serve?”

“Why not simply kill it?” asked Gan.

Shrugging his shoulders, Leng answered, “I wanted to see what would happen. What Cyric’s power could do to a creature of such purity. What such corruption would yield.”

“Were you satisfied?”

Leng almost beamed. “I was.”

“I’ve heard tell of a place not far from here where the fey rule,” Gan said, trying hard to sound guileless.

“The Unicorn Run,” Leng spat out, as if he were speaking a vile oath. “All know that name. It’s the place we’re avoiding.”

“What would your powers do there?” asked Gan.

Leng shook his head slightly. “I don’t know,” Leng said.

There was a quality to Leng’s voice that Gan couldn’t put a name to, but it terrified him more than all of the battlefield atrocities he had witnessed in the Fallen Lands and throughout his life. It was something that went far beyond simple malice to a deep-set desire to corrupt and to destroy.

In that moment, Gan wanted to bring the axe down on Leng, to slice him apart just as he had that Zhentilar fool in the Fallen Lands. Could he act in time? What foul magic warded this priest? To think he could accomplish all that Ardeth wanted, all that Geildarr wanted, with a single swing.

But no—it would not be right. It would upset their plans. It would be beyond his place.

Leng looked down at the hobgoblin’s fingers clutching the axe’s shaft. A dark chuckle rolled out of his throat as he walked past Gan and back to where the others were making camp.

Kellin strolled under the autumn haven of the great tree and the peacefulness put her in a reflective mood. But then, she thought, when was she not in a reflective mood? Members of the Tree Ghost honor guard were stationed at intervals beneath the tree, but she felt alone nevertheless—an island in the deep shade. She thought about everything Thluna had told her—how Sungar had acted to preserve his tribe’s beliefs at such a terrible cost. Now, Thluna feared he was doing the same thing: compromising, cooperating with an outsider—even a spellcaster—and selling off what it meant to be a Thunderbeast.

Here she was, leading them down that path. Threatening to destroy everything that her father was determined to document and help preserve.

She almost jumped when Thanar approached her.

“I didn’t mean to disturb you,” he said.

“It’s all right,” she answered. “I was just doing some deep thinking.”

Thanar cast a glance up at the leafy expanse above them. “This place can have that effect.”

“It must be hard to know you have to leave it so soon.”

Thanar ran a hand over his bearded face. “It’s better we leave soon. The tree has its own magic. There is a danger that we all might wish to linger in its shade and never accomplish our mission.”

“I feel its pull,” admitted Kellin. “It’s not evil, nor good. It just is. That’s its appeal—it doesn’t need to be understood. It exists so far from civilization’s works, apart from even the Tree Ghosts. No matter how much they revere it, it would exist without them. There’s a seductiveness in its simplicity. I could get lost in it if I let myself. Such a pleasant fate, to remain here forever, thinking…”

“Contemplation may turn to sloth,” Thanar said. “And we cannot allow ourselves to lose time.”

“Where is Vell?” asked Kellin, changing the subject.

“I believe the elf maid has taken him into the forest to explore his shapeshifting powers. Does that make you jealous?” She was taken aback at the bluntness of his question. “It is best you acknowledge such feelings…”

Kellin cut him off. “Another matter best explored at a later time. Tell me, Thanar. I sense you don’t despise me the way the others do.” She found it perplexing that he had left Grunwald because he thought his people had become too decadent, yet he was the most tolerant of her—the city-dwelling member of their group.