Son of Thunder

CHAPTER 2

Geildarr Ithym, Mayor of Llorkh, made his way back from the Ten Bells tavern flanked by a few of the Lord's Men. He cursed that even his own drunken stumble home had to be moderated by troops, but security was always of the essence. No sooner had Hellgate Keep fallen, eliminating one threat, than another-Shade-had appeared in the desert in the form of a floating city. And Shade was hardly the only threat Llorkh faced. Agents from the Silver Marches, Harpers and Moonstars, rival wizards from the Brotherhood of the Arcane in Luskan, and rebellious townsfolk who remembered a time before Llorkh was under Zhentarim rule-all these threatened. Plus there was the present danger of insane dragons sweeping out of the Graypeaks or the High Forest. It wasn't so long ago that the phaerimm sent a force of bugbears against the city, and not long after that a rabble of dwarves thought to retake their old mines and stronghold-though their conspiracy was put down before any damage was done, it served as a grim reminder of how fragile Geildarr's rule really was.

Geildarr took his leave of the guards at the gateway to the towering Lord's Keep: his residence as Mayor of Llorkh, and the city's seat of power. The windowless Lord's Keep was the tallest building in Llorkh, and perhaps the dullest in a town filled with plain, utilitarian structures of stone. Beneath it was an extensive complex of tunnels and dungeons, the residence of many of Llorkh's enemies over the years. He could hear a few muffled screams from the torture chambers even now. Just before the gates, Geildarr lingered a moment at the spot where the previous lord, Phintarn Redblade, was found dead all those years before.

Lord's Men opened the iron doors. In the front foyer, a large painting of Geildarr hung on the wall, depicting him standing before the Lord's Keep and smiling as the happy people of Llorkh crowded around him. Geildarr climbed the staircase several floors to his private residence. He passed his custom-made golem in the anteroom and opened the sturdy iron door into a long hallway dotted with wall hangings and pedestals. Each bore an assortment of arcane and mundane relics, most recovered from the nearby ruins. Geildarr had personally studied each of them, learned something of their history and power, and applied many of their principles in the new magical items and weapons he designed. He relished being wrapped in antiquity. The items here hailed from dwarf kingdoms, elf kingdoms, and human kingdoms-all of them fallen and gone, remembered only by historians.

Lately, Geildarr had been wondering when he'd fall along with them.

A chill draft from his balcony greeted him when he reached the door to his wood-paneled study at the end of the hall. He found a missive waiting for him, likely arrived on the latest caravan from Zhentil Keep. It was marked with the new symbol of the Zhentarim-Fzoul Chembryl's symbol, Geildarr laughed bitterly-featuring Fzoul's own Scepter of the Tyrant's Eye.

This was the greatest threat to Geildarr's leadership in Llorkh: not the shades or any other external force, but his own superiors across Anauroch. He snatched up the letter and broke the seal.

"I can tell you what it says," came a voice from behind him. Geildarr spun to face the corner of the room and a tall man standing there in long, blue and purple robes, clutching a staff with a bat at its top. The wizard wore a smirk that showed just how pleased he was to have caught Geildarr by surprise. But Geildarr held his reaction in check and sized up the intruder with an aloof eye instead.

"I wonder," Geildarr mused, his voice slightly slurred from his earlier drinking, "am I drunker than I think, or is this Sememmon I'm seeing?"

"Is that all you have to say?" the raven-haired wizard asked. "There was a time when you would fall on your knees at my very presence."

"But I am not addressing Sememmon," answered Geildarr, "am I?" He began to gesture a spell of dispel, but Sememmon extended his hand.

"No need," he said. "Let's drop the masks." The form of the imperious wizard melted all around him, leaving a body half its height. A red tricorn hat topped a plump-cheeked gnome face. The figure wore robes of rich crimson-a small parody of nobility. The gnome clutched a thin blackwood cane at his side, and a mad, merry nature twinkled in his green eyes.

"What brings you here, Moritz the Mole? Do you need somewhere to sleep or something?" This wasn't the first time this peculiar emissary of the wizard Sememmon had dropped in on Geildarr unannounced since Sememmon had fled from the Zhentarim's prime western stronghold of Darkhold.

In the intervening years, Sememmon and his elf ladylove Ashemmi had scarcely been seen by anyone. Last he heard they were living in seclusion and traveling Faerun, collecting magic and cementing allies for some endeavor as yet unrevealed.

Geildarr knew them both well from his own trips to Darkhold over the years, but never really came to understand them. Ashemmi was a heart-stopping beauty with flaxen hair and almond-shaped eyes. How had an elf woman ended up in the Zhentarim? He had heard she had been corrupted to evil by magical means. Geildarr couldn't even guess at the truth of this. What was clear to him, though, was that Sememmon and Ashemmi were utterly devoted to each other. Even such dark-hearted creatures as this pair were bound together by love. Geildarr yearned to trust another so completely.

Moritz laughed heartily in typically gnomish fashion. "I always enjoy visiting you because of that tongue of yours. You really ought to welcome my presence, for I come with a warning. Fzoul blames you for your failed incursion into the Fallen Lands."

"My failed incursion," Geildarr snorted. The plan had been Fzoul's order. "Doomed to failure. I minimized the damage. And now he thinks to make me his sacrificial animal."

"Fzoul courts dangerous enemies," Moritz said. "The might of Shade has Elminster shaking in his tower. But then again, you've served Fzoul well. Under your mayoralty, Llorkh has been one of the most trouble-free places under Zhentarim control. Most likely he'll keep you around a bit longer." Moritz took a step closer to Geildarr. "But let me ask. Have you ever considered working for another power?"

"Does Sememmon's customary offer follow? Am I to cast my lot against Fzoul? Hide in the dark like Sememmon?"

"I suspect it's this town you love, Geildarr," said Moritz. "You love being mayor, having that control. Llorkh is an inglorious post, but you love it all the same. I can respect that. You don't care too much for the Zhentarim any longer. That's why you refuse to sponsor that little girl Ardeth for membership. Or do you have other reasons for keeping her close to you?"

Geildarr's head swirled from the drink, and he was tired of playing games.

"Why have you come here, Moritz?" he asked testily.

"I may just be the truest friend you have, Geildarr. I've come here to tell you something. Fzoul wants a few changes in Llorkh. You can work with them, or end up like your predecessor Redblade." He extended his blackwood cane and used it to poke Geildarr in his pendulous belly.

"What kind of changes?" Geildarr asked, taking a step back.

"The same changes that are sweeping the Zhentarim. Bane is back. Would you like to see the Dark Sun replaced by the Black Hand?"

Geildarr shook his head grimly; he understood exactly what Moritz meant. The Dark Sun was both a title for Cyric, and the name of the god's temple in Llorkh. But Cyricists like Geildarr were growing unpopular within the Zhentarim as Fzoul-Bane's Chosen, and his mightiest priest-solidified power. This was a factor in Sememmon's flight from Darkhold.

"All this you know," Moritz went on, "but what you may not know is this: rumor has it that Mythkar Leng has already cut a secret deal with Fzoul to take your place as mayor of Llorkh."

"Leng!" protested Geildarr. The high priest of the Dark Sun had long been Geildarr's conduit to the Zhentarim leadership, charged with keeping him informed of directives from Zhentil Keep. Though Geildarr was officially a member of the Zhentarim, he was largely content to function as mayor of Llorkh, letting Leng handle the Network's day-to-day operations in the region. Leng would keep him advised on the Zhentarim's ever-shifting agenda, and Geildarr would try to react accordingly. "Why would they let Leng be mayor?" Geildarr demanded. "He's a Cyricist too!"

"Is he?" asked Moritz. "Cyric is Lord of Illusion-who would know better than I? — and Prince of Lies as well. Perhaps Leng learned the art of deception so well that he can fool his own god. It has been done before, after all. Leng was a priest of Bane before the Godswar, as you'll remember, and old habits tend to stick. But as I said, I know this only as a rumor. Something for you to investigate. If you wish to keep your job, I suggest taking it up with Leng.

"On the other hand," Moritz chuckled, "if you wish to keep your life, Sememmon offers his protection. Either way, he extends a message to you. I believe it was, 'Try to keep this town of mine in one piece.'"

"Llorkh?" asked Geildarr. "Sememmon's?"

"As much as it is yours, truly," Moritz said. "I'd wager you harbor fantasies of Llorkh passing from the Zhentarim as your private fiefdom. It's good to have dreams. The difference between you and Sememmon is his dreams have a chance of coming true."

"If you believe Sememmon has a prayer of wresting anything from Fzoul and his pet clone," Geildarr said, "then it's clear that all this toying with illusion has finally estranged you from reality. Bound to happen, really."

The gnome frowned. "You have no idea what kind of power Sememmon hoards. But know this-" Moritz aimed his cane upward at Geildarr's face "-Sememmon's patience is finite. His offer will be made only so many times, and you may find his friendship withdrawn just when you need it most."

"Then let your master show up here in person for once," Geildarr said. "Maybe I'll catch him in a bottle and hand him over to Fzoul as a present. I wager that would help preserve my rule in Llorkh."

Moritz cackled, bending over with laughter at this thought.

"And I'm the delusional one? Hear it and know it true, Geildarr-you may have some fun toying around with magical objects, but you are not the wizard Sememmon is."

And at that, he vanished from the spot, leaving Geildarr to his spinning head.

Thluna found Sungar just where he expected-standing on the outer ring of Morgur's Mound at the freshest cairn. The rest of the tribe was encamped just outside the Crags; it was forbidden among the Uthgardt to make camp at any ancestor mound, though the decadent Black Lion tribe had violated that rule by settling near Beorunna's Well. Thluna slowly stepped up to his chief and joined him in reverence of the dead.

In the last two years, young Thluna, son of Hagraavan, had become closer to Sungar than any other Uthgardt. Thluna had wed Sungar's daughter Alaa, and now stood to succeed him as chieftain, though such lines of succession were not always clearly drawn. Sungar and Thluna were among the few who had survived the shame and devastation brought down upon their tribe in the Fallen Lands. But more importantly, Thluna, though little more than a boy, was the sole member of his tribe who always told Sungar the truth.

"Has King Gundar any answers for you today?" asked Thluna.

"Silence only. I asked him how he became so loved by his people," Sungar told him. "Even those who disagreed with him. The songs don't tell that. Hazred and the other skalds tell of how he so impressed the Red Tiger tribe by slaughtering a leucrotta, armed only with one of their ritual claws. And of the time he and his warriors lay siege to the Black Raven aerie near Raven Rock, and smashed fifty raven eggs."

"Weren't you with him that day?" asked Thluna. "Was it truly fifty eggs?"

Sungar smiled. "That legend is for Gundar, not me."

"You must forge your own legends," said Thluna. "The Thunderbeast has told us how."

"No easy directive," Sungar said. "The shamans tell us that the behemoths still live in the depths of the High Forest, but they also say nobody has seen them since before the time of Uthgar."

"A great adventure in the making," Thluna said. "A chance to undo what has been."

"We did nothing wrong!" Sungar's voice echoed across the Crags.

"They don't see it that way," Thluna informed him, pointing toward the camp in the distance.

"They weren't there."

"No," Thluna said, "but they've heard the story. No songs will be sung of it, but the whispers will linger for a long time."

"Then we must find something for them to sing," Sungar declared, "and sing proudly. When we return to Rauvin Vale, I will pick a party and lead it into the High Forest. The Thunderbeast would not assign an impossible task. Now, how fares the chosen vessel?"

"Vell? He has not yet roused, but Keirkrad believes he is himself again."

"Odd that the beast should choose him. What do they say about Vell the Brown?"

"Apart from the color of his eyes, there's little exceptional about him. He is one of the warriors who generally stays behind to guard the camp during expeditions."

"By his own choice?" asked Sungar.

"I don't know," Thluna admitted. "He has few close friends. Though he has already reached the age to claim a mate, he has not. He defers to the warriors with more glory to their names."

"He may find himself with more friends after this, and women besides," Sungar said. "The beast chose him, and when we go into the High Forest, Vell will be with us."

Thluna nodded. "I will let him know when he wakes. For the moment, I have a recommendation." He looked down at the grave of King Gundar. "We are but a day's ride from Grunwald. Some of the men plan to visit it. Most of them were born there."

Grunwald was the abandoned dwarf hold on the edge of the Lurkwood, discovered and settled by the Thunderbeasts. For a few generations they forsook their nomadic ways and thrived at tree felling and lumber cutting. But when Gundar died, the first act of his successor Sungar was to withdraw from Grunwald.

"If orcs have settled in Grunwald," said Thluna, "then the men wish to clear them out."

Sungar stroked his beard. "They may go, if they wish. I will not prevent them."

"You should go, too," advised Thluna. "The men were denied a Runehunt, so let them have this instead."

Sungar cocked his head. "Is a chief to obey his warriors, or the other way around?" he asked, a trace of annoyance in his voice.

"Both, when the cause is right," said Thluna. "But a chief should not put his own considerations above those of his tribe."

"Is that what you think I'm doing?" snarled Sungar.

"No," Thluna said firmly. "But there are those who might."

Sungar paced. He saw the wisdom of Thluna's words.

"Why should I go to Grunwald?" asked Sungar. "To invite more comparisons between me and Gundar; or to let them all plead to move the tribe back there?"

"Neither. Show them you're above those concerns," Thluna said. He paused a moment, gauging Sungar's reaction. "You cannot make them forget Grunwald. Many of our people never had the opportunity to properly leave it behind. You need to give them that now. It is like a fallen comrade. Only when he is buried and grieved for, can we move on."

For a long time Sungar and Thluna stared silently at King Gundar's cairn. Though neither of them spoke, both thought of their dead fellows, buried so far away in the dismal earth of the Fallen Lands. They, too, could never be mourned properly.

"This whole trip is about embracing our history," Sungar said. "Consulting our ancestors to find our present path. Grunwald is part of that history."

"So we're going to Grunwald?" Thluna said. He erupted in a wide smile that betrayed his youth.

"You forget," said Sungar. "I was born there, too."

Images and thoughts swirled through Vell's mind as he floated in heavy unconsciousness. Something was lost when he awoke. When the darkness parted, Vell sensed places, faces, and ideas that he could not quite seize, though they would haunt the edges of his mind in ways he could never speak of with a fellow Uthgardt. He seemed to recall dreams of escape-of widening his horizons beyond his tribe and its way of life. These were not new dreams, but traces of something that was always there, now bursting into light.

When he awoke, he pushed those feelings deep inside himself. The sensation scared him. Something had changed in him-but what?

Vell found himself in a tent full of ceremonial animal horns. The air smelled sweet from wild sage. This was a tent of honor, he realized. He rose and strode from the tent into the Thunderbeast encampment tucked among the rugged Crags. The sun blazed brightly. Vell's muscles felt tight, and a new energy swelled in his limbs. All around him, Uthgardt he had known all his life looked at him in a new way. They greeted him with eagerness, even with reverence, but with fear as well.

Vell had dreamed not of being somewhere else, but of being something else. That image stayed with him even after the dream itself was gone. Now in his waking, he felt as if something of himself was lost; yet he did not feel empty, but overstuffed. His psyche felt as if some new identity had been crammed into him and was preparing to burst out from his muscles. But what was it?

Keirkrad rushed up to him. Despite his astonishing age, the shaman could move with catlike speed.

"Vell!" he said. His old frame could not keep still, he was so excited. "What do you remember?"

"The eyes of the beast staring at me from above," he said. "And then… nothing."

"You have been touched by the Thunderbeast," Keirkrad told him, resting a gnarled hand on Vell's shoulder. "Our totem chose you as his vessel. This is the greatest honor an Uthgardt could receive! How do you feel?"

"Different," said Vell. He ran a hand over a tense muscle. "Like I could fell a giant single-handed."

"You have seen the Battlefather's favor as few ever do. Your destiny is assured," Keirkrad said. Through all his kind words, he was peering deeply at Vell with his watery blue eyes, trying to gauge him and figure him out. Vell had experienced this often in his childhood; his brown eyes were so rare among his people. He sometimes found that Uthgardt who seemed to be looking at him were merely looking at his eyes.

At that moment, Thluna arrived. The young warrior commanded enormous respect within the Thunderbeasts, even among those much older and more experienced-perhaps even more respect than Sungar.

"Vell, you have risen!" he said. "Have you further messages for us?"

"Messages?" Vell asked, puzzled.

"The beast spoke through you," Keirkrad said. "It said 'find the living.'"

"'Find the living'?" repeated Vell. "What does it mean?"

Thluna sighed. "If you do not know, we surely do not."

"It means the Thunderbeast wants us to find the living behemoths that still dwell in the High Forest," Keirkrad supplied, chin held high. "Surely that should be clear."

"It is a matter of some discussion," said Thluna. "We had hoped you might clarify."

"No," said Vell, shaking his head. "I'm afraid not."

"Vell has been touched by the Thunderbeast," Keirkrad said. "He may know more-or be capable of more-than he realizes right now. Sungar should keep him close at hand."

"Yes, he does," Thluna said. He lowered his voice slightly. "He plans an expedition into the High Forest, for a select group from the tribe-he's still debating who, but it includes both of you. Do not share this for now."

Keirkrad's ancient, lined face broke into a wide grin.

"The chieftain is wise. I only wish we could have done this years ago."

"But why should I be included?" asked Vell. "I am honored, but…"

"Surely the Thunderbeast chose you for a reason," Thluna told him. "It may not have been as simple as delivering a message-Uthgar may plan a further role for you. We shall see. But in the meantime, Sungar has planned something else." Thluna turned from the two of them and addressed the tribe at large. "Hear me, Thunderbeasts!" he cried. Soon dozens of warriors were assembled before him. Thluna's voice was not deep, but he spoke clearly and well.

"Spread the word. Our assembly at Morgur's Mound has been successful beyond our dreams-successful thanks to your faith. An additional pilgrimage will be made. We came here to seek our history and our heritage: to learn something about ourselves by knowing where we have been. So we shall take down this camp and make the path to Grunwald."

A deafening roar came up from the tribe. Keirkrad led Vell aside and up a low hill on the edge of the Crags, where they could look down on the camp being disassembled for the journey to their new destination.

"Vell," he said. "You heard Thluna. We shall go into the High Forest seeking to regain the Thunderbeast's favor for our tribe."

"A task for heroes of legend," Vell said. "I can't imagine myself in that company."

"What man can know his own destiny?" asked Keirkrad. "Yesterday you were but a voice in the chorus, and one weaker than most. Now you shall stand close to Sungar, and have his ear. He shall respect your counsel as he respects that of the boy Thluna."

"And as he respects yours," Vell added.

"Less than you may think." Keirkrad shrugged. "I am an old man." A frown crossed his ancient brow. "We are alike, you and I. I felt the calling of the Thunderbeast at a young age. Once, I left my parent's tent at night and went wandering into the Lurkwood in a blood trance. For days I walked in the cold of deepwinter; not for nothing am I called Seventoes. I saw orcs, ettins, and a hunting party of the shapechanging Gray Wolves, but none of them saw me. By Uthgar's grace, I was invisible to them.

"Then, as I lay in an animal's burrow freezing to death, I saw a vision of Morgur's Mound-when I first saw the mound itself years later, it was exactly as I had seen it in my mind. Then in the bitter cold of the burrow, the strange, radiant force of the Thunderbeast reached out and touched me, and I returned to my parents and our tribe, warm and with a calling. I knew I would be shaman.

"The priests who answer to me are capable, but lack that special relationship with the beast. I fear for what will happen once I die, and for what will happen to our spiritual life. Perhaps we will become like the Black Lions, worshiping our totem in name only while truly revering Silvanus or Tyr. At least that would be a better fate than that of the Blue Bears, lost to Malar's depravity. Already many members of our tribe favor the outside gods over Uthgar. I have prayed for a true successor. Could that be you, Vell?"

Vell stuttered. "I don't know…."

"I may be able to clarify for us both," said Keirkrad. "I would like to use my magic to look inside you."

Vell stood a bit straighter and silenced a little cry inside himself. "This is well."

Keirkrad's watery blue eyes latched onto Vell's brown ones, and he placed his hands on Vell's bulging forearms. He chanted a few mystical syllables, and his glare grew all the more intense, his blue eyes growing wider and clouding over with a whitish film. Vell trembled silently as the shaman's frail hands dug into his muscles with surprising strength. He summoned the will not to pull free from the old man's grasp as his sour breath enveloped Vell's face in slow puffs.

Then Keirkrad released him and took a few steps back. The shaman's gaze fell to the ground and he shuddered with fists clenched, making twisted claws of his hands.

"What's wrong?" asked Vell. But Keirkrad said nothing. "Tell me," he insisted.

"You're afraid," rasped Keirkrad. The old man wore a disgusted frown. He spoke through his gasps for breath. "I have seen your soul. Why do you fear the gift you have been given?"

Gan took a deep breath when he arrived at the ditch surrounding Llorkh. Wider than a road, and too deep to climb out of easily, it had been magically dug by Geildarr a few years back. It forced visitors and caravans arriving at Llorkh to visit checkpoints manned by Lord's Men.

The hobgoblin followed the ditch until he reached a checkpoint, a considerable distance outside Llorkh's fortified walls. A black-armored soldier approached him while his two fellows kept watch from a safe distance.

Gan still carried the battle-axe that he and Dray had found. He had spent a dozen days marching through the Fallen Lands and the Graypeaks, and in that time it had scarcely left his hands. He found that he needed it in his grip even when he slept.

Even Gan, with the sentiments of a hobgoblin, felt a wave of disgust as he approached Llorkh. The ditch looked like a cruel gash in the earth, and all around, nature itself seemed to have surrendered to civilization's needs. Bare of trees and grass, the rocky plains were dull and dead. The surrounding mountains bore the ugly scars of mining and forestry. The city walls stood tall, plain, and bare.

"What business have you in Llorkh?" the Lord's Man, called Clavel, demanded of Gan. Though Clavel modeled his speech and manner on the Zhentilar, a certain authority was lacking in his voice as he faced down the huge hobgoblin.

"I wish an audience with Lord Geildarr," Gan said.

"An audience with the mayor?" Clavel said. "For what reason?"

"I fought in his army against the shades."

Clavel placed his hand on the hilt of his sword.

"Geildarr doesn't want you here, hobgoblin. Go back to your tribe. Whatever's left of it."

Before the Lord's Man could react, Gan swung the huge axe. The brunt of it struck Clavel head on, and though he was not badly wounded, the blow was enough to send him flying backward and rolling down to the bottom of the ditch. Two other Lord's Men jumped forward with their weapons at the ready, but Gan lowered his axe.

"I am not here to fight," he said. "I wish to offer this artifact to Geildarr in atonement for my failure, and that of my tribe." He laid it on the ground before the guards.

Nervous glances passed between the Lord's Men. Then, from the shadows behind the checkpoint, an unlikely figure emerged. Small and trim, she moved with the lithe authority of someone thoroughly in control. Her age was difficult to guess, but she appeared to be recently entered into womanhood. Her honey-brown hair hung in a short crop around her smooth oval face. She was dressed in tight black clothing with a sword at her side. The guards' eyes followed her closely. She strode between the Lord's Men and stood in front of the hobgoblin without fear, leaning over to inspect the fallen axe. Her fingers traced its lines.

"Geildarr accepts," she said, and strolled back to the checkpoint with girlish grace. She cast a look over her shoulder at the hobgoblin. "Bring it," she commanded. Gan leaned over and picked up the axe. The woman took a moment to glance down into the ditch as she passed, where Clavel, his robes smudged with dirt, was struggling to claw his way out, bringing more dirt down onto his face with each desperate grasp. She told the other guards, "Leave him down there till tomorrow morning, then demote him two points of rank."

As Gan walked past the guards, he asked, "Who is she?"

One guard wore a lecher's smile as he watched her walk away, admiring the grace and poise in her every step. The other shrank away from the slight woman in nervousness. But they answered together, "Ardeth."

Gan followed Ardeth past the checkpoint and into Llorkh. He had never been in a city before. Most of his life had been spent in the Graypeaks with his tribe: hunting, making war on rival humanoids, and occasionally performing services for the Zhentarim, including this last assault that crushed his tribe's warriors. He didn't doubt that what was left of his people would shortly be destroyed or subsumed by one of their rivals, but he felt only the slightest tinge of remorse. Hobgoblins respected strength, and if strength resided in this Geildarr, it was in Geildarr's service that he belonged.

Llorkh seemed largely unburdened of the decadence his people associated with city living. Whether made of wood or stone, the buildings were spartan and simple, and even the tall one in the center, which he rightly figured was their destination, had little grace in its design. The streets were uncrowded, many of the houses showing decay as if they had been long unoccupied. The people who were visible were largely soldiers-humans or orcs-and downtrodden human workers, their clothes dirty and ragged. This was not a city, he decided, so much as a stronghold, geared for war and defense above anything else.

He respected that.

Bound for the Lord's Keep, they skirted a large square where homes and shops were better maintained. A variety of stock animals brayed in pens here, and many of the caravans that he had sometimes witnessed crossing the Dawn Gap sat under guard.

Soon they came to the Lord's Keep, its guards casting puzzled looks but nevertheless letting Ardeth and Gan through without question. Just before the door, Ardeth pivoted back on the hobgoblin.

"You mean this weapon as a gift for Lord Geildarr?" asked Ardeth.

"This is so," Gan replied.

"And what do you ask in return?"

"Only a place in his army," Gan said, and he looked over the axe he bore. "This is a mighty weapon and it deserves a leader worthy of it. May I not speak to him?" asked Gan.

"He is not here right now," said Ardeth. "But he accepts your gift with great thanks. It is a worthy blade."

"Worthy of a great leader," said Gan, and with great humility, he lay the axe in the dust before the Lord's Keep.

The Dark Sun, together with the Lord's Keep and the barracks, was one of the largest buildings in all of Llorkh: an absurdly oversized cathedral to the Prince of Lies. Its great wooden doors stood several stories high; its nave supported by many thick black pillars of ebon. Geildarr had never seen it more than two-thirds full, not with all the faithful of Llorkh, Loudwater, and Orlbar attendant on important holy days.

When Geildarr strode inside, he felt dwarfed by the immensity of the purple walls, from which the jawless skull-Cyric's symbol-stared at him on every side. A much smaller temple to Bane once stood on this spot, presided over by Mythkar Leng back before the Time of Troubles. But when Cyric took Bane's place after Bane died spectacularly in the city of Tantras, Leng displayed his newfound fealty by ripping down the old temple and building one twice as large on the same spot, mere months afterward.

It amazed Geildarr that Leng could switch allegiances so easily. The transition was easy for Geildarr, of course, for it meant little more than changing the name in his prayers and quaking in fear of a different power. But priests were supposed to have such an intensely personal relationship with their deities. Geildarr had heard about some Banites and Bhaalites who purposely injured themselves after their gods died.

And now Bane was back, bursting from the shell of his son, the puppet, and with Bane's resurgence spreading throughout the Black Network, Cyricist Zhentarim were becoming a rare breed. The Zhentarim, once a secular organization that comprised followers of many deities, seemed increasingly like an arm of the Church of Bane, and the worship of Cyric seemed to be more popular in places like Amn and Thay, where Zhentarim influence was minimal.

Geildarr decided that Leng swapped deities so easily because the god he worshiped was nothing more than a name for the darkness in his soul. What Moritz said made sense: Leng could easily switch to Bane and take the temple with him. He had transitioned so easily to Cyric, and just as easily he could go back. Lord Fzoul did the same, changing his allegiance from Bane to Cyric to Xvim, and he was a favorite servant to each god, blessed with much power.

Geildarr knew what all Zhentarim knew, but none dared say: the bulk of them were interested in power above all else, and worshiped whichever god could best provide it. After Cyric went mad and unleashed a monster army on Zhentil Keep, Xvim the Baneson seemed like a welcome alternative. But Darkhold always remained loyal to Cyric; therefore, Llorkh had too.

Eyeing one of the etched skulls staring down at him from a pillar, Geildarr reflected on his own relationship with Cyric. Certainly he acknowledged that Cyric had touched him in a rare and special way for a wizard, granting him powers to craft and explore magic that few could manage. He owed that much to the Lord of Murder. But did he have such loyalty that he would never contemplate worshiping Bane, or any other god, if circumstances demanded it?

A young acolyte came out to greet Geildarr. "I need to see Leng," Geildarr said. "Fetch him."

"The Master is attending to his studies," the dark disciple told him. Geildarr knew just what that meant. Another dwarf who was part of a conspiracy against Llorkh had been turned over to the temple, and Leng was experimenting with better ways of creating groundlings-the disgusting dwarf-badger hybrids that the Zhentarim used as elite assassins. They were both tinkerers, Geildarr and Leng, though Geildarr liked to experiment with new and better spells and magical items, and Leng devoted his time to finding ways to corrupt good into a dark and degenerate mirror of itself.

Geildarr recalled that the Dark Sun once contained a secret known to few in Llorkh. Rakaxalorth, one of the Zhentarim's loyal beholders, lived in a chamber beneath the temple, covertly operating the Dark Sun alongside Leng. The two functioned together as the Zhentarim's foremost representatives in Llorkh. When a bugbear army-under phaerimm mind control and led by a beholder-assaulted Llorkh, Rakaxalorth came out of his hideaway, flew over the city walls, and joined the fray. Rakaxalorth annihilated the phaerimm's beholder mind slave, and gave his life to do it.

Somehow, Geildarr doubted that Leng would ever do anything remotely comparable in defense of Llorkh.

"He will set his research aside for a moment," Geildarr said to the acolyte. "The mayor of Llorkh wills it." But he was left waiting a long time before Leng arrived.

Leng wore the traditional purple and silver robes of his god, with ornamental handcuffs on the sleeves to signify Cyric's one-time imprisonment in Shadowdale. With jet black hair, pale flesh, and piercing gray eyes, he looked intimidating-enough to inspire the fear and devotion of those weaker than him.

"Mayor," Leng said. "To what do we owe this honor?" His tone was the same as all Zhentarim priests-coldly cordial with a hint of menace.

"I recently received a message from Fzoul," Geildarr said, his voice echoing from the highest rafters of the cavernous church. "He sends his regrets after the failure of our troops in the Fallen Lands."

"Good of him," Leng said. "Has he further instructions for us?"

Geildarr shook his head. "He says that he and Manshoon will review the Shade question before further actions are taken. But I'm concerned."

"Why?" asked Leng.

"You know the workings of the Zhentarim better than I. Fzoul gave us an impossible task-the kind the Zhentarim give to cold initiates. One along the lines of 'assassinate Lady Alustriel' or 'steal Elminster's second-favorite pipe.' Now he wants to punish us for not fulfilling it."

Leng smirked. "Did you give Ardeth Chale such a task? Is that how she earned your devotion to her?"

"Better still, she accomplished a very difficult task of her own volition. Just the kind of initiative I admire." A touch of defensiveness rang in his voice. He went on. "I doubt if all the Lord's Men and the muster of our humanoid allies could have shaken the Shadovar from the Fallen Lands. Even if they had, it would have left us undermanned and vulnerable, even more so than now. This "failure" could be the excuse Fzoul's been looking for to tighten his grip on Llorkh, and that could mean your head and mine." He looked hard into Leng's steel gray eyes as he said this, searching for any reaction that might give him away.

Leng spoke coldly. "If that were Fzoul's plan, he wouldn't need to go to such lengths as the conspiracy you envision. And if he wanted us dead, we wouldn't be here talking about it."

"Perhaps you're right," said Geildarr. "But in any event, I feel the order of the day is appeasement. Start thinking-anything short of bringing the City of Shade crashing to Anauroch."

"As you command, Lord Geildarr," said Leng. But Geildarr knew he would do nothing. Geildarr noted a twitch of Leng's pale lips as he bowed in farewell.

As Geildarr walked back to his keep, he analyzed his information. He didn't trust Moritz, and he knew it was possible the gnome was mixing truths and lies as part of Sememmon's game, or some unknown agenda. For that matter, he had no way of being sure that Moritz was still on Sememmon's side. If Leng were disloyal, Geildarr would need to find out for himself. And if Leng needed to die, the act would need to take place without casting suspicion on Geildarr.

When Geildarr reached the Lord's Keep, he found his promising protegee Ardeth Chale waiting for him in his study, a mysterious smile on her face. She had taken some apprenticeship from him as a wizard, and though her power was progressing steadily, she seemed far more interested in honing her skills of cloak and dagger. So far, she had proved extremely valuable in helping protect Geildarr's rule.

"Something has just arrived," she said, endearing mischief dancing in her eyes, "that should be of great interest to you."

"What is it?" asked Geildarr.

"A hobgoblin arrived in town today. One of the Skalganar tribe and a survivor from the Fallen Lands."

"I wasn't aware there were any survivors."

"He thinks he might be the only one," said Ardeth. "But Gan-that's his name-wants to work for you. On his way back, he found something he decided to bring to you. An axe."

Geildarr sniffed. "Nobody accuses hobgoblins of being much for brains, but an axe? Didn't anyone tell him I'm a wizard?"

"Somebody must have." Ardeth stepped aside, revealing the axe lying on the zalantarwood table behind her. Geildarr walked up to it and leaned over to inspect the axe's design.

"No noticeable markings," he said. "But it looks dwarven to me. And nothing modern."

"I'd wager on Delzounian," said Ardeth. Geildarr perked up at this. Delzoun was once the mightiest dwarf kingdom of the North, on par with the modern Great Rift. A neighbor of Netheril, it fell almost fifteen hundred years earlier.

"How did this hobgoblin get such a thing?" asked Geildarr.

"He said he found it in the Fallen Lands, lying in a field of dirt. An unlikely story, but the weapon is definitely magical. It had some hold over him, that was plain to see, but at the same time he seemed eager to give it to you-to a great leader, he said. I got the sense he felt he was unworthy of it."

Geildarr stroked his chin. "A great leader, eh? A fine judge of character, this hobgoblin."

Ardeth smiled. "I subjected the axe to magical examination-as well as I could manage. I don't sense that it is intelligent in the conventional sense. But I think it might have shaped Gan's attitude, nevertheless."

"What else did you learn?"

"Only a name-Berun's Axe. It would clearly benefit from further examination."

"Both magical and scholarly, yes," said Geildarr, running a finger over the weapon's blade. "And what of our hobgoblin friend?"

"You could still hang him for failure."

"No," said Geildarr. "I don't think I will. If he wants a place in my army, he has it. Find him a spot in the barracks, far enough away that nobody important has to smell him." Picking up the axe, he said, "I'll need some time alone to cast a few spells. Divining the history of an object can be demanding and time consuming. I trust you can handle any important town business in my absence."

Ardeth's face lit up like the sun. "Yes, indeed," she declared, and vacated the study.

Geildarr laid the axe on the desk and retrieved some components for a spell that would reveal its legend. Whether chance or fate had brought the axe to him, he was very pleased. It would give him an enjoyable mystery to mull over while waiting to find out if Fzoul wanted his head.