Son of Thunder

CHAPTER 3

Four generations before Vell's birth, a Thunderbeast hunting party had discovered one of the secrets of the North-a crumbling dwarven hold in a clearing in the Lurkwood's south. According to the songs faithfully repeated by the tribe's skald, Hazred the Voice, it was named Grunwald after a warrior who single-handedly slew a frost giant in this place, echoing Uthgar's final defeat of King Gurt. The Thunderbeasts saw this as an omen.

The tribe spent many happy and productive years in those stone ruins, though some said that they gave away their souls. They cultivated a strong business in lumber, established relationships with cities such as Mirabar and Nesme, and even began worshiping gods other than Uthgar.

On this day, fog covered Grunwald like a white shroud. Silently, Thunderbeast warriors walked among oval stone buildings that had been their homes, their turf roofs now overgrown with grass and moss. The warriors were alert and on guard. This place, once home, might conceal unknown dangers.

The rest of the tribe waited in relative safety not far away, under the watchful eye of some of the tribe's warriors. Vell reflected that scant days ago, that group would have included him, but now he was at the chieftain's left hand, and the most revered shaman of the tribe seemed to dog his every step. Vell wondered what kept Keirkrad so close to him. Was it respect, or fear?

Vell knew Grunwald as well as any of them, though he had not seen it in four years. Over there was the place where he played as a child. In that direction lay a shaft to the mysterious tunnels beneath Grunwald, where strange monsters were said to lurk, though nobody ever really saw one. That structure was the Stone Bow, where outsiders could find lodgings for themselves and their horses-often in the same stall. The Hand of the Justice lay near, and more.

Vell felt a twinge of melancholy. He felt as if he were seeing a reflection of the Grunwald he knew. It had always been a ruin, but it had never felt dead before. Once it bustled and sang with the lives of the Thunderbeasts, but now Grunwald was bare: a discarded rock pile, a sickening parody of civilization, counting house and all. And when Vell looked at the pallid faces of his fellow Thunderbeasts, he knew they felt the same way.

They envied those who had stayed behind for safety. This place would never elicit the same sentiment again.

Sungar pointed upward at the most prominent building in Grunwald, the stone keep called the King's Lodge. It had probably been several stories higher at one time, but three serviceable levels were still intact. The structure served as feast hall and dungeon for the tribe, and throne room for its chief. Its main entrance lay at the top of a stone stair, over which steel hooks still hung with the skulls of their enemies: orcs, goblins, and some dishonest merchants who had come to Grunwald.

"Come," said Sungar. "Let us pay our respects to the chiefs of times past."

But as he took a step toward the King's Lodge, Sungar's eyes caught sight of something falling from high above the lodge. It was a coal-black feather, fluttering in the light breeze, but it was no normal feather. It was much larger-nearly as long as a short sword. Sungar let out a hoarse war cry, and the tribe jumped to alertness, readying their weapons and fanning out to face potential foes from all sides. The war cry was echoed by the sharp shriek of a great bird, and answered by other cries from the surrounding Lurkwood.

From the top of the King's Lodge, a giant raven took wing. Astride its back was a lean barbarian woman, ritual war paint streaked across her cheeks and arms. She directed her mount to fly a graceful circle around the assembled Thunderbeasts below, as if daring them to let fly their arrows and spears. As the sky filled with more giant ravens and their riders, cries of "For Ostagar!" and "Death to weaklings!" filled the air. Arrows burst from the narrow windows of the King's Lodge.

The Black Ravens despised outsiders more than any Uthgardt tribe. They had special hatred for any tribe that bore the taint of civilization, and that meant the Thunderbeasts. This was the Ravens' Runehunt-they had challenged themselves to achieve the utter ruin of another tribe. They never could have laid siege to Grunwald when the tribe was strong, no matter how many times the Thunderbeasts besieged their strongholds and destroyed their aeries. But times had changed, and the Ravens now believed that the Thunderbeasts were weak and ripe for destruction. Such was the natural order. Just as the weaker members of a wolf pack were removed by violence or winter, so too were tribes eliminated. The Black Ravens considered it a sacred duty to cull the weak.

In a flash Grunwald became a battlefield. The huge ravens dodged the arrows and hammers of the Thunderbeasts while swooping in to snap and slash at their faces. Massive beaks claimed a number of eyes as the beating of great wings disturbed the fog that hung over the dead settlement. War cries blended with the birds' incessant squawking and mixed with screams of pain as arrows arced down from the King's Lodge, embedding in warrior flesh.

Brandishing a mighty warhammer, Sungar charged forward up the stone stairs to the entrance of the King's Lodge, its thick stone door firmly shut. Other warriors surged forward to join him in banging and slashing at the door.

Keirkrad chanted a few syllables and raised his hands. A wind boiled up that tore through the fog and disturbed the air above. Though not strong enough to blow the ravens from their places, it was enough to surprise and slow them so that a well-placed spear and a hail of arrows brought two ravens plummeting from the sky. When they hit the ground, Thunderbeast warriors were ready to finish off bird and rider.

The raven riders were not so many that the Thunderbeasts could not defeat them, but the arrows raining from the King's Lodge were a serious threat. What had been the Thunderbeast's strongest defense was now potentially their destruction.

"Train your weapons to the Lodge!" Thluna shouted, hurling one of his hammers at the upper window. It sailed neatly through, though whether or not it met its mark on the other side, he could not tell.

Vell focused on one detail amid the confusion-a single blue eye staring out from an arrow slit in the fortress. He concentrated and threw his spear at it, but it missed, striking just to the left of its mark and bouncing off the wall. Below the eye, he saw thin lips twist into a smile, and an arrow flew from the window directly at Vell. He didn't have time to blink before it struck him between the eyes.

But Vell barely felt it. The arrow bounced off his skin as if it had struck iron. Vell gulped in confusion and whirled to face Keirkrad. The shaman's skin was covered with brownish, gnarly scales, for he had invoked a power the Thunderbeast bestowed on its priests. Keirkrad gasped and mouthed Vell's name through the noise. When Vell looked down at his hands, he realized that they too were covered with brown scales. His heart jumped at the shock, but he felt something else flowing from his core, overwhelming his fear. His senses began to cloud, and the confusion of war faded, replaced by the perfect clarity of rage.

Keirkrad made slow steps toward Vell, and with each step, the ground around him shook-an effect of his shamanic power. The walls of the King's Lodge vibrated and trembled, dust rising from the ancient dwarven blocks.

A giant raven swooped down and snapped the neck of a Thunderbeast warrior in its thick beak. Sungar's hammer blows began to crack the stone door of the Lodge. Another Thunderbeast cried out as an arrow sank into his skin. The Black Ravens above cursed the name of Gundar and called for the tribe's destruction.

Vell stared intently at his hand and the inhuman skin that coated him like a suit of armor. But he was not wearing it-it was him. Vell turned his back on Keirkrad and faced the King's Lodge. He knew what he had to do.

Vell marched up the stone stairs. One of the orc skulls above him slipped from its hook and shattered on the ground.

"Get clear of the Lodge," Vell said, pushing men aside. He locked eyes with Sungar and said, "Trust me." Vell walked up to the stone door. Unflinching, he walked through the damaged portal, which crumbled and fell all around him.

Inside, four Black Raven warriors gasped at the approaching figure covered with dust and scales. Before they could react, Vell grasped two of them by the necks and slammed their heads against the wall with a hard crack. The other two drew their swords, but Vell fended them off barehanded, grasping a sword arm in each hand and squeezing with inhuman strength. The Black Ravens fell to the floor squealing in pain.

Vell ignored them and walked through the vacant stone hall that was once the tribal feast hall. The structure now trembled and crumbled with each of Vell's thunderous steps. As he passed huge depictions of the Thunderbeast adorning the walls, the totem seemed to look on as Vell moved. A few Black Ravens slipped into his wake, but he paid no attention to them or their arrows, which simply zipped past him. Vell made his way into the next room, which he remembered as Gundar's throne room. A simple stone seat, long unoccupied, was the only furniture in the chamber.

Vell picked up the throne, held it high over his head, and threw it at the wall. It broke through, dislodging stone blocks and sending streams of dust from the floor above. Vell didn't even blink as the ceiling caved in on him.

The assembled Thunderbeast warriors watched in awe as the whole face of the King's Lodge crumbled and collapsed in a deafening waterfall of stone. A few screams from the Black Ravens punctuated the noise, but were silenced quickly. Stray pieces of debris bounced toward the Thunderbeasts, but the bulk of the building fell inward and away from the onlookers. A huge cloud of dust billowed up and coated all of Grunwald in a white cloud, thick and oppressive.

The shock felt by the Thunderbeasts was nothing compared to that of the raven riders above them, who watched so many of their tribesmen disappear in the rain of debris. Their birds spooked as the terrain beneath them vanished. The creatures circled uneasily, leaving them unprepared for the hail of arrows that emerged from the dust, and letting missiles plunge into their wings and underbellies. Some threw their riders and flew off into the Lurkwood. Finally, the rest of the Black Ravens retreated, demoralized.

One of the raven riders fell through the dust and landed hard on the ground. A Thunderbeast readied an axe, but Sungar cried, "Halt!" The chieftain ran to study the enemy, whose blood gurgled at his lips. Sungar held a warhammer at the ready.

"You are impure," the Black Raven rasped through his failing breath. "You are weak."

"Not so weak as you think, it seems," said Sungar. He sank his hammer into the Black Raven's brain.

As the dust settled in Grunwald, and the skies cleared of Black Ravens, a mighty cheer rose up from the tribe. Soon after, all eyes turned toward the rubble of the King's Lodge.

"Is this why the Thunderbeast gave Vell its power?" asked Thluna. "So that he might save us on this occasion?"

"Truly, songs will be sung of his sacrifice," Sungar said.

"He might still live," said Keirkrad. He rubbed his skin, now restored and supple.

The tribe set upon the rubble, digging through it for any trace of Vell. They detected a quiet weeping, like the mewing of a kitten. The strongest of the tribe's warriors were needed to lift the rocks that pinned the youth. Although Vell showed no visible injuries, tears stained his cheeks. The tribe stood staring at him, not knowing what to say.

Sungar and Keirkrad stepped in. "Arise, my son," the chieftain said. "You are our salvation this day, and there shall be mead and flesh to celebrate." But Vell lay still and silent, his brown eyes darting. Not a scratch marked his body, but he was wounded, as if he had witnessed all the pain in the world.

"A thousand lines of doggerel and I'm no closer to understanding this axe," Geildarr complained. His study was littered with handwritten notes scattered on tables and pinned to the walls, and the subject of it all-the battle-axe-still lay across his desk. Ardeth lingered on a few notees.

"Black feathers fall at the open blade," Ardeth read. "With the name of Uthgar on the lips of both friend and foe, eggshells shatter under the kingly might. A revenge is repaid near the sacred site." Then another: "Tharkane's hands on the shaft as the nations clash under tree the eldest. Blue Haloan's blood spoils the foliage. The people of the forest look on but do not present themselves."

"Interesting spell, this one," Ardeth said. "I thought you'd simply cast it and it would tell you what you need to know about the item. Naive of me."

"Divinations, my dear," said Geildarr, "are like Alaundo's Prophecies. They always make perfect sense in the clear light of hindsight. Understanding them beforehand is more difficult. The problem here is that this axe obviously has a very long history. I think it goes back as far as Delzoun, and it hasn't been lying in the dust for all those years, by any means. It's had a very active life. Many stories." He rested his hand on the axe head, curling his fingers over the blade enough to feel its sharpness.

"Learning the stories is just the beginning," he went on. "The legending spell doesn't always tell the truth-just the legends people tell, or used to tell."

"And those can be untrue," said Ardeth.

"Right. And sometimes the legends leave out the most important parts of a story. Each new casting gives me a fuller understanding and allows me to ask more probing questions, but the problem in this case is that there's so much story to cover."

"You do have quite a library on the next floor," said Ardeth. "Is more research necessary?"

"I've called you here for research," said Geildarr, "but not the kind that uses books. Let me show you what I know. I've sorted the notes into several categories." He indicated a pile of scribblings on the desk before him. "First, my discoveries about the axe's creation. It was forged in Delzoun and given as a gift to somebody who helped rid the dwarves of an enemy. But the rescuer had powerful enemies of his own." Geildarr rubbed his chin. "I'm going to try some other divinations about this figure, but I suspect that he's the one called 'Berun.' There's a Berun's Hill south of Longsaddle, related or otherwise,

"But here's what interests me the most. There are various hints that Berun is some sort of leader of men, guiding his people west from 'fallen skies, dead gods, and rising sands.' Sounds like Netheril to me-some mass migration after Karsus's Folly. This one-" Geildarr scanned his desk and snatched up the appropriate note "-may describe new dweomers being woven into the axe that ties it to something else, some kind of object or artifact that alters the axe's power." Geildarr read his scribbling aloud. "Joined as one the axe and heart by the stout folks' spells, a link forged cannot be undone. Swells the power of both, and both in Berun's hands now leave the underland." Geildarr smirked. "Bad poetry, but intriguing divination."

Ardeth giggled. "A Netherese artifact?" she asked. "Do you know anything more?"

"I'm still attempting some divinations. But beyond the important bits about the axe's creation, most of the legends describe typical adventuring stories-beheading dragons, slaughtering giants, that kind of thing. The clear majority of what I've uncovered is of this sort. Who knows if they're true?"

Geildarr drummed his fingers on the table. "But it scarcely matters. The sheer volume of the tales means the axe has had a very active history. I've even gleaned that it's been in the hands of one of the barbarian tribes from up north," Geildarr said with a smile, and he produced an old book called Tulrun's Totem Tales of the Beast Shamans from amid the piles of notes. "I think I've identified it as the Thunderbeast tribe."

"An Uthgardt tribe," Ardeth said. "But don't they shun magic? Isn't it unlikely that they're hoarding Netherese magic after fourteen hundred years?"

"They had this axe until fairly recently," said Geildarr. "How they lost it and how it ended up in the Fallen Lands is still a mystery to me, but my spells have given me a few references to fairly recent events. And while axes are a fairly standard barbarian weapon, Tulrun's book talks about the chief of the Thunderbeasts-who called himself King Gundar-owning an impressive axe, the symbol of his leadership." Geildarr closed his hand around the axe's shaft. "Perhaps this is the very same."

"So the other artifact that's linked to this axe," Ardeth mused. "What do you know about it?"

"I'll keep trying," said Geildarr. "I don't know much about it yet. Perhaps I'll have more answers once you get back."

"Get back? From where?"

Geildarr smiled. "There's an old friend of mine I haven't thought about in some time. Arthus Tyrrell. He knows plenty about the Uthgardt. That's if you don't mind a trip outside of Llorkh."

"Not at all," said Ardeth.

"You'll need to move quickly." Geildarr stood and walked across the room, snatching from the wall a primitive bone dagger, carved with a sharp point. He tossed it to Ardeth and she caught it by the hilt. "Be sure to give him my best. The skymage Valkin Balducius just came in with a caravan from the Keep-I'll have him escort you." Geildarr hesitated a moment, then said, "There's something else I want to talk to you about, something you can't mention to anyone. It could mean my neck if you do."

"What's that?" asked Ardeth.

"You know who Sememmon is?"

"Of course," said Ardeth.

"A… person loyal to him paid me a visit recently, and not for the first time."

"Gods," said Ardeth. "Did you alert Zhentil Keep?"

"No," said Geildarr. "What good would it do? If they haven't been able to catch him with all their resources, a tip from me isn't going to help."

"Who visited you?" asked Ardeth. "What did he want?"

"His name is Moritz. He's a gnome, and an illusionist."

"Truly?" Ardeth giggled.

"No comic trifle, this gnome," said Geildarr. "He's a slippery creature. He's probably as versatile an illusionist as you'll find. No one has ever known him to engage in violence personally, but there are many deaths on his head nonetheless. He's served Sememmon for years, but I wouldn't be surprised if Fzoul still has no knowledge of his existence.

"Let me tell you a story. Moritz-I like to call him Moritz the Mole, burrowling that he is-comes from the village of Hardbuckler." Ardeth knew of this gnome settlement-somewhat south of Llorkh, it served as a stopover along the caravan route between Llorkh and Darkhold. "Or so I believe … it's possible that it's all just an elaborate deception Moritz has woven. I suspect he does such things for his own amusement. He was trained in the smoke arts of illusion-but he found the way of Baravar, the gnome god of illusion, too modest; not a path to the power he wanted. He learned about Leira, the Lady of the Mists, and pledged himself to her worship.

"So he left his people and met some human illusionists, who ultimately directed him to a place called the Mistkeep-I don't know where it is. He studied with the Leiran mistcallers there, learning spells, improving his power. Of course, by this point, there was no Leira. Cyric had killed her, and since then, he grants spells to her worshipers in her place. Most Leirans don't care, may not even believe it, or they think the entire world is just one big illusion. But Moritz was a gnome, and he thought differently. He stopped praying to Leira and prayed instead to Cyric. And Cyric gave him a vision."

Geildarr settled into a comfortable chair. "The vision bade him home, so Moritz went back to Hardbuckler in disguise. He found that he felt no sympathy for his people, not even his own family, and when he discovered Zhentarim agents working in secret to take over the town, he helped them-essentially handing over his own folk to Darkhold. His actions brought him the notice of Sememmon, who stripped away the illusion he wore and insisted that Moritz tell him the whole story. Pleased, Sememmon decided to make Moritz into the most secret of his agents, using him as an infiltrator, yes, and as a mole."

"Nice story, Geildarr," said Ardeth. She smiled slightly. "Kinda reminds me of something."

"I thought it might," said Geildarr. "Not many people know it, believe me. I repeat that the story may not be true-but I heard it from Sememmon himself one night over too many ales. Anyway, not long after Sememmon fled Darkhold, Moritz popped up here-Sememmon must have given him some sort of teleportation device, or perhaps he's exploiting illusion cleverly. He came to talk me into joining Sememmon's side. To do what, I'm not entirely sure-cower under a table somewhere with his master and Ashemmi, maybe."

"But you wouldn't do it. Would you?"

"I haven't yet, have I?" Geildarr asked. "But I mention it because… the last time he visited, he mentioned you."

"For true?" asked Ardeth. "What about me?"

"Nothing memorable-just a mention. That's what puzzles me. He must have had a reason. Maybe he'll try to get at me through you." Geildarr looked down at his desk a moment. "He probably sees you as a weakness of mine."

"But we're not lovers," said Ardeth.

"You and I know that," Geildarr said with a lukewarm smile, "but not everyone does."

An uncomfortable silence hung over Geildarr's study. Then Ardeth turned to him, gripping the dagger by its carved bone hilt.

"About Arthus Tyrrell, then," she said.

A lone creature, a tangle of roots, vines, and leaves, wandered through the high valley by moonlight. Spawned in the bubbling bogs of the Evermoors, it plodded east through the Silverwood and spread its taint and rot through the valleys at the feet of the Nether Mountains. The grass withered and died where it stepped. Natural creatures-the bears, elk, and red tigers that inhabited these heights-fled at its presence.

But then something arrived to challenge it. A man with thick, hard muscles, armed with nothing but his own strength, stared at the creature, waiting. He stood still and silent in the moonlight, facing down the shambler. A creature of pure instinct, it stepped forward and opened its rotting arms to welcome the barbarian.

The barbarian stood still and accepted the embrace of those putrescent limbs. He let the shambler seize hold of him, feeling its acid sting his flesh. The barbarian gritted his teeth and tried to hold back, but the change came over him nonetheless; his skin changed to scales within the shambler's grasp. The great rotten plant tightened all the more, but strong arms dug into it from within. The barbarian locked his eyes on the twin pools of green that served the shambling mound for vision. He clenched his muscles, and-with a mighty scream-flung his arms apart. The shambler's body was torn asunder.

Vell sat alone in that meadow till the sun rose, the rotting remains of his enemy lying all around him. The scales had left him, but the feeling did not. Eventually, Keirkrad arrived.

"It was not difficult to find you," Keirkrad said. "I needed only to follow the trail of dead ogres and trolls. Sungar may have let you take your leave of the tribe after Grunwald," Keirkrad went on, "but I'm telling you now, your tribe has even greater need of you than before."

"I do not feel like a member of the tribe now," Vell told him.

"You mean you feel better than the rest of us?"

"No!" Vell thundered, rising to his feet. "How could you ask such a thing?"

"You dare raise your voice to a shaman?" Keirkrad snarled. Vell shrank away like a chastised child. "Have you found enlightenment out here, away from your people? Has the beast given you guidance?"

"No," Vell confessed.

"That's because you're not following its instructions. It did not tell you to set yourself apart from our tribe. The beast despises such arrogance, and the more you resist the call, the worse your anguish will become. Uthgar is an accepting deity. Why else would he allow himself to be worshiped through so many different forms-the Thunderbeast, the Sky Pony, the Black Raven, and all the others. Perhaps in Uthgar's halls at Warrior's Rest we shall all be united as brothers, friend and foe alike. But the beast does not accept defiance of its instructions."

"You said the beast had a greater purpose for me. A destiny. That I was set apart."

"That may be so," Keirkrad admitted. "But you seem to believe that the gift of Uthgar was meant for you. This is not so-the gift is for our tribe. You are merely the vessel. I know the burden you bear. Perhaps I alone can help you through it. I have spent my life serving the beast and Uthgar, and I know full well what you're feeling."

Vell shook his head. "You say you know, but how can you?"

"I should have left the world decades ago," Keirkrad admitted. "I feel unnatural, an aberration. Some call me 'Uthgar's freak.' My skin crawls with age. Sometimes," he smiled grimly, "I wish I could just die, but if I live still, I must have some further function. I have not yet fulfilled my role for our tribe, for Uthgar. I must keep living until I do."

Vell looked Keirkrad square in the eye. "It's not the same thing. I don't know who I am any more. I feel the most precious part of myself slipping away."

"You have power, Vell!" Keirkrad shouted. "You've saved our tribe already, and you can save it again. Our tribe faces a crisis that goes far beyond a few Black Ravens with too much ambition. It's what brought us to Morgur's Mound. You carried the message-'find the living.'"

"I don't remember saying that," said Vell. "But I do remember what happened at Grunwald. I remember exactly how it felt as my mind lost control of my body. The scales took my will with them. I don't know who or what brought down the King's Lodge, but it was not Vell the Brown."

"It's a rare gift to have the Thunderbeast act through you. Such an honor to be our totem's vessel!"

Vell turned away. "Then the beast made a mistake. It chose too weak a vessel."

Keirkrad placed his ancient hand on Vell's shoulder. "The beast makes no mistakes. Do not doubt yourself-place your faith in the divine. If it chose you, that must mean you're strong enough to accept the burden. Pray to the beast for strength."

"I pray that it takes this power from me."

Keirkrad snarled. "It is not for you to question this! Sungar makes plans for our expedition into the High Forest. You cannot refuse your destiny any longer."

"Do you hate Sungar?" asked Vell.

The question took Keirkrad aback. "What do you mean?"

"Gundar made him chief instead of you," Vell said, overcome with an inner strength that made him speak words he would never dare to say otherwise. "You scheme to take his place. This is known to all. But you're too old. So you need a champion to become chief and act on your behalf…"

"Insolent child!" Keirkrad shouted so sharply that it echoed off the valley walls. "Your gift is being corrupted by the wickedness in your mind. That is why you cannot bear it; you refuse to turn your will over to your totem. Let the Thunderbeast into your heart and you shall know peace again."

Each word cut Vell like a dagger and sucked away the strength he felt. He fell on his knees before the shaman, supplicant and weeping for forgiveness.

In a way no one had expected, the trip to Grunwald proved worthwhile for the Thunderbeasts. Not only did it provide a taste of the warfare and the prideful thrill of victory that some of them craved-it also helped erase Grunwald from their collective memory. Everyone realized that it was not the place they once knew, and it would never be home again. They made the path back, some to whatever corner of the North they claimed as their hunting ground, most following their chieftain to a pleasant bend of the River Rauvin, east of Everlund. They were free once again to roam and move with the ebb of the seasons and the herds of deer and rothe, but mostly they stayed at the river, in what was inevitably known as Sungar's Camp.

Life slowly returned to normal. Tents were pitched again, children played among the meadows, and the hunting teams brought home elk, deer, and even a ghost rothe-considered a good omen for the upcoming expedition.

Sungar met with Thluna in his tent. "I have chosen the men I need with me in the High Forest. I want you to inform them of the honor. We will need the druid Thanar as a guide in the forest, as well as Hazred the Voice, and the warriors Grallah, Torgrall, Hengin, Ilskar, Stenla, Flagdar, Delark, and Draf the Swift. Tell them to make themselves ready. Once Keirkrad returns with Vell, we shall not delay."

"Very well," Thluna said. "But I ask that you reconsider. I think my place is with you. There are others that might act as chief."

Sungar shook his head. "I cannot deprive my daughter of her husband for such a long time. And I trust no one more than you to lead the Thunderbeasts."

"How long do you think the quest shall last?" asked Thluna.

Sungar shrugged. "Days, months, years. The Thunderbeast has sent us on an epic task, and such glory comes at a cost. This task could claim all our lives."

A Thunderbeast arrived at the tent flap. "Forgive me, chieftain," he said, "but a civilized outlander has arrived at our camp seeking to speak with you. She claims to have an offering for your audience."

"She?" asked Sungar. "A visitor from Everlund?"

"I think not," came the answer. Sungar bade him to bring her, and he and Thluna heard whispers outside. When she stepped forward, they realized why.

Dressed in comfortable traveler's leathers with a slender sword dangling from her waist, the woman was tall and almost as solidly built as Uthgardt women. Long-limbed and agile, there was something pleasantly deerlike about her. Black hair flowed down her shoulders in curls, but the hue of her skin transfixed them most. It was considerably darker than most folk in the North, certainly among the insular Uthgardt. Only a few southern merchants who visited Grunwald over the years had displayed such a dusky skin tone.

"Sungar, son of Moghain, I greet you," she said. Astonishingly, she spoke in the tongue of the Uthgardt! Though her accent slightly favored the Common tongue, her diction was flawless.

"What magic is this?" asked Thluna, having seen translation magic at work before.

"You may wonder that I speak the language of your people. I am not skilled at it, but I hope I have learned enough not to insult. I am Kellin Lyme, daughter of Zale Lyme." Her words and her posture were appropriately respectful for someone seeking an audience with a chief of the Thunderbeasts-even those born to the tribe could have done no better. In her hands she carried a parcel wrapped in wolfskin. She laid it at Sungar's feet and unwrapped it, revealing a large piece of old bone.

"What is this?" asked Sungar, this time in Common. He leaned over to pick it up.

Kellin joined him in Common. "A piece of bone from the Thunderbeast itself, stolen more than a century ago by unknown raiders. It has been away from your tribe too long, and now I return it to you."

Sungar inspected it closely. "This was stolen from Morgur's Mound? How did you come to own it?"

Kellin swallowed. "My father purchased it from an antiquarian in Baldur's Gate. It has spent several decades in the archives of Candlekeep, Faerun's greatest library."

"Library?" asked Thluna. "Those are for books-why should it hold a bone?"

"Candlekeep collects many things. My father spent his life learning about tribes like yours. It was his specialty. He visited your tribe at Grunwald once, met with King Gundar, and even drank in the King's Lodge with victorious warriors who had broken an orc horde near Shining White."

"Yes," said Sungar. "Yes, I remember. I was young then, and I could not understand why one of the civilized folk would want to learn our customs. But I remember him as a good man, nevertheless."

"You honor his memory," said Kellin graciously. "I follow in his footsteps. I am a sage like him, and I, too, study your people. You interest me very much and I've made it my life's work to learn more about you." With some hesitation, she added, "And yet, I have not met an Uthgardt until today."

"This is difficult to believe," said Thluna, looking at the newcomer warily.

"You may fetch your shaman or a priest of your tribe and let him test my intentions," she replied, "but let me explain them first. On the night of Highharvestide-your Runemeet-my sleep was disturbed by a rattling sound in the archives. It was this bone, dancing in the box that held it, and when I touched it, I felt a flash in my mind, bidding me to come to your aid. It told me that you were in great danger. I wanted to help."

"Help?" asked Sungar. "Why should you want to help us?"

"Many asked me the same when I left Candlekeep," said Kellin. "But I felt that I had no choice. So vivid was my summons that I felt my mind would never feel right again if I ignored it."

"So you think that the Thunderbeast called you-an outsider-to our aid?" asked Sungar, looking her hard in the eye.

"I don't know if the Thunderbeast did," she admitted. "But someone did."

Sungar probed her eyes for a long while. "She speaks the truth," he finally told Thluna. "I need no priest to tell me that. But you, woman, are still a mystery. Where you're from, these studies of which you speak-I know nothing of these things."

"I can explain it all," said Kellin, "if you will listen."

"Perhaps I do not care to hear your explanations. We do not tolerate the presence of your kind more than necessary. That you know our customs does not change this. I cannot allow you to taint my people and introduce your ways."

"I am not here to proselytize!" Kellin insisted. "I do not want to change your way of life. Far from it. To tell the truth …" Uncertainty spread through her limbs and her posture fell, her shoulders slumping, and she dropped the formal manner of her speech. "I don't entirely know why I'm here. I had hoped you might give me some idea." Her dark eyes shone with warmth.

Glances passed between Sungar and Thluna. Sungar spoke in Common again, speaking her language almost as well as she spoke his.

"You are a new piece in a mystery which vexes our tribe at present. If the Thunderbeast sent you, if you're here to help, there must be a reason. There are many things we'd like to know right now."

"Then let us find them together," Kellin suggested. "I know much of your tribe's history-more than is recorded in your songs. I've come hundreds of miles to see you. I'd hate to think it was a waste."

Sungar leaned closer to her. "Perhaps you're a test of our strength. A temptation sent by the Thunderbeast to see if we would accept your kind of aid. We've accepted outsiders into our company before, and it has ended badly. Maybe the beast wants us to sacrifice you, the way we sacrificed outsiders in centuries past. If you know our history so well, you should know that I'm telling the truth."

Kellin trembled slightly but stood her ground and held her head high. "It's always difficult to know a god's will," she said. "Perhaps as an outsider, it's my role to make up for the failings of the past. Or perhaps it's just to teach the Thunderbeasts a lesson in humility."

"I suppose you've read that our tribe responds to strength, both of arm and of character," said Sungar. "Well, daughter of Zale, you've proven your mettle. Thluna, arrange a tent for her on the edge of camp, away from the others." Sungar looked at the sword at her belt. "I trust your weapon is not for decoration."

She grinned confidently. "I know which end is which."

Sungar had to smile at that. "Good. You may have some use for it soon."