Son of Thunder

CHAPTER 7

The northern edge of the High Forest was just south of the place where the Thunderbeasts made their camp, but the tribe rarely came within sight of it. Even in the short time they had inhabited Rauvin Vale, they had noticed the curious phenomenon of the woods creeping forward, gaining steadily each moon, in their direction and that of Everlund. Now the party under Thluna's command stood at the edge of the wood, but barring their access to the majestic trees stood a wall of brambles and brush. The growth was nothing that could not be overcome with sword and axe, but served as a clear signal that they were not wanted in this place.

"The treants are not our enemies," said Thluna. It was the first word any of them had spoken in the time since they had left the camp.

"But they may not prove our friends, either," Keirkrad retorted. "They guard their forest zealously."

"Turlang's generosity is legendary," said Thanar, the green-robed Uthgardt druid. "He is called Turlang the Thoughtful more frequently than Turlang the Terrible. We are no enemy to his wood. His treants will surely allow us passage if we prove the purity of our motives."

Of all her companions, with the exception of Vell, Thanar intrigued Kellin the most. The majority of the Uthgardt were stoic warriors, silently following the orders of their chief without discussion. Perhaps that was easiest for them. She understood that Thanar lived most of his life away from his tribe and had thrust himself into the elements of the North in an attempt to cleanse the civilizing influence of Grunwald. At the same time, as a druid and a member of one of Silvanus's druid circles, he had doubtlessly dealt with more nonhumans and had a broader understanding of the world. What must it be like for him to have returned to his tribe after such an absence? If only she could speak to these people-such research she could accomplish, and such personal curiosity she could satisfy. Her father had so many advantages over her.

Only Vell seemed comfortable around Kellin, and she was glad for that. He often walked next to her, perhaps symbolically to the others-or perhaps for other reasons. Certainly, Vell knew he was needed by the party, and he knew that perhaps this meant more leeway for him. Kellin was afraid for him, though. The estrangement he felt from his tribe-and from himself-was clearly wearing at him.

Keirkrad had not spoken to Kellin in several days. Certain warriors-Grallah, Hengin, Ilskar, and Draf-were clearly more loyal to Keirkrad than to Thluna and had followed suit. Dressed in brown rothehide robes, the old buzzard occasionally cast Kellin sidelong glances of disapproval, especially as she walked with Vell. She couldn't forget what Vell had pointed out-those born into the tribe with magical ability were put to death, and such rules were enforced by shamans like Keirkrad. She'd learned as a scholar not to judge other cultures by the standards of her own, yet now she found that next to impossible.

Under Thanar's direction, the barbarians drew their weapons and cut away the brambles, slashing through vines and thorns until they had cleared a path to the forest. As if by instinct, each of them paused to gaze at the legendary woodland. The High Forest was dominated by leafy trees, here favoring birches, silverbarks, and the eerie duskwoods whose slate gray trunks pointed straight to the sky without many branches. Most of the Thunderbeasts had been raised among trees in the Lurkwood, but that forest was composed of pines and spruces. Even the smells were different-where the Lurkwood was permeated with the heavy piquant fragrance of pine, what lay ahead smelled of something sweeter and more heady, an aroma teasing to their senses.

The year was well into Marpenoth, the month of leaf fall, and even this magically-charged wood showed the impact of the season. The ground was covered with coppery fallen leaves and many of the limbs above were bare. The autumn would give way to another bitter northern winter, like so many the Thunderbeasts had endured. This time, though, the tribe feared the winter might be different, that the tribe might not last till spring. Winter never failed to cull the weak.

They walked with caution across the forest floor, which lay covered in moss and fallen leaves, scarcely daring to disturb a tree branch lest the wood's masters be offended. Ahead, the solid ground became moist and marshy, and revealed a row of small pools, covered in lily pads and alive with jumping frogs.

"These were put here deliberately," Thanar said.

"Have you been here before?" asked Kellin.

"No. But how could they be otherwise? Look how even they are. The treants have placed them here so they can use the water against fires."

"The treants," repeated Keirkrad. "We're truly to put our faith in such creatures as trees that walk?"

"Perhaps they're listening to you even now," Thanar said. "There's no telling which of these trees might be a silent treant. This is their wood, shaman Seventoes, and they are aware of everything that happens herein." Thanar was not a worshiper of Uthgar and was less intimidated by Keirkrad than his companions.

"Let them watch," said Keirkrad, casting wary glances at the oaks around them. "All we need from them is our passage."

"No," said Thluna quietly. Contradicting his elder and shaman was not in his nature, and it showed in his voice. "We need more than passage. We need the treants' help."

They pressed on, and in time the woods grew darker, damper, and cooler. The only light was that which flickered down from the treetops, now looming so high above. They heard occasional rustlings from the underbrush and saw flashes of movement in the periphery of their vision, and wondered whether they detected animals or some intelligent inhabitant of the woods. The remaining light faded as the foliage grew thicker, and the forest around them gradually turned from green to blue. The color was not that of the trees, but of the light reflecting off strange bloblike forms on the ground and on the bark of trees, so many that they carpeted the forest as far as the eye could see. Thanar kneeled to inspect one of the blobs and marveled that it was slowly moving across the forest's mossy floor.

"What is it?" asked Thluna.

"Some type of fungus," said Thanar. "I've never seen anything like it. It is told that the treant Turlang has made a home in his wood for many animals and plants at risk in other parts of the High Forest-these creatures may be among them."

"In that case," said Vell, "I recommend we avoid stepping on them."

This was the first he had spoken all day, and all eyes turned to him. A few breaths later, everyone broke out laughing. Uthgardt belly laughs shook leaves from the trees. It was a relief to all to hear Vell make a joke.

They walked on through the strange blue-tinted wood, following hills and ravines until they came to a strange clearing where daylight once again greeted them. They found themselves at the foot of a massive oak that dwarfed all the other trees they had seen. Its great gnarly roots twisted high above the ground as if they were ready to rise up and walk. Although they had prepared themselves for the unexpected, the Uthgardt still jumped in shock as they spotted a craggy face staring at them from high up on the tree trunk.

"Who dares test the patience of my kind?" the treant asked. Its voice was deep, low, and rich with age. "Who intrudes on our domain?"

Thluna stepped forward. "We beg your forgiveness, noble Turlang…"

"I am not Turlang!" the treant rumbled, thrashing thick branches, gnarled and ancient, that suggested arms. Roots rose from the ground as if preparing to stride forward. "I am Duthroan, not the Deeproot. I cannot pretend to his age and wisdom. A strange party I see before me. What manner of beings are you?" A great hand swung down and pointed a wooden finger at Vell. "I have seen many things. Many ages have passed since my seed set root. But I have not seen the like of you. What are you?"

"Perhaps you could tell me," said Vell.

"You are a man," the treant said with great deliberation, "yet not a man. There is a sense to you, like something I knew in ages past. Great power is sleeping in you." The bark across its brow furrowed in its contemplation.

"Some of you are channels for energies. Power comes to you from the Weave," Duthroan indicated Kellin with the point of a root, "and to you from the divine." The root swung toward Keirkrad. "And to you from nature itself," Duthroan rumbled, pointing at Thanar. It paused. "But you are not a channel for power, but a repository."

"A repository," repeated Vell.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"One of whom?" demanded Vell.

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

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

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

Grim-faced, Vell nodded.

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

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

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

"Where can we find them?" asked Thluna.

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

"And if we refuse?" asked Thluna.

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

Thluna stood silently, weighing his options.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

They took their swigs in unison and lapsed away together.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Sungar said nothing.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"What do you mean?" asked the hobgoblin.

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

"Was he a human?" asked Gan.

Ardeth nodded.

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

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

"As great as Geildarr?" asked Gan.

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

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

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

"The priest?" asked the hobgoblin.

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

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

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

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

The hobgoblin nodded.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

"Leave my forest and it shall be yours again," the treant threatened.

"Do you believe you can make threats?" asked Leng. "We could make kindling of you. I understand that in Thay, the Red Wizards have devised a way to corrupt your kind into twisted trees in their service. If only I knew how to do that."

The treant let out a low, reverberating war cry. Its roots snaked out toward its foes, who slashed at them with their weapons. Leng surreptitiously slipped backward. Vonelh unleashed a spinning, whirring collection of magical blades that cut into the treant's trunk. Bessick held a root in place with his raw strength, while Ardeth sliced at it with her sword. Nithinial and Royce readied their crossbows and launched their steel quarrels at the treant's face, but then they heard Leng behind them mutter, "If we are not permitted fire…"

Royce spun backward, leaping toward the priest, but he could not stop Leng from what he was doing. A fiery column burst from the air above and rained down onto the treant as if from heaven itself. It enveloped the treant so that every limb was awash with fire that leaped and coursed along its body, incinerating leaves and burning away bark. The roar of the blaze overwhelmed its screams as its body crumbled away.

Ardeth and the Antiquarians could do nothing but try to jump free of the wave of fire that coursed down the treant's trunk and over its writhing roots. The axe fell from its grasp, crashing atop one of the tents and flattening it.

The treant's instinct to protect nature-especially its woods-was overwhelmed by its agony, and it clambered into the open wood, flames leaping from its branches and igniting neighboring trees on the clearing's edge. Before it could escape the clearing, Bessick swung his heavy spiked chain and snagged the treant along its trunk. A swift yank pulled it backward, tumbling to the ground and sending Gan and Ardeth scrambling as it landed in a crackling inferno of leaping flames and blazing heat. The group darted back to the edge of the clearing, though the quick-spreading flames would soon threaten them again.

"Take cover," called Vonelh, before spreading his arms and muttering a few arcane syllables. The sky exploded in huge hailstones that pelted the clearing and the trees surrounding it. They hissed and sizzled as they struck the roaring flames and melted, and soon the clearing was a mess of soggy ash and wet, burnt debris. The remains of the treant were lost among the charred fragments of inanimate trees. Several of the tents and much of the group's equipment was irretrievably lost.

Royce, leader of the Antiquarians, spun to confront Mythkar Leng. His natural deference to the high priest was forgotten on this occasion, and his face was red from the heat and his anger. "We were close to talking our way out of this. That's what we do-that's how we survive. If you hadn't confronted it…"

Leng smiled smugly, unapologetic. "Would you care to finish that sentence, Hundar?" he asked.

Royce checked himself, but his tone was completely insincere. His shoulders hung, and he let his sword fall to the ground at his side.

"You could have killed us all," Royce said. "You may yet."

Leng could have slain Royce where he stood. He needed no weapon. Leng could merely lay a hand on Royce, and take his life. Royce was practically inviting him to do it. Ardeth prayed that he would, and give her an excuse to sink her sword into the priest's back. Likewise, Nithinial, Gunton, and Bessick all had weapons ready. But Leng's smile vanished.

"We still have a mission, do we not?" he said. "A few crushed and waterlogged rations don't change that. I can create food and drink, with my god's grace. We have our weapons and our wits. The Star Mounts await, and soon we'll find out if Geildarr's Sanctuary is a myth or not." With that, as if nothing had happened, he led the way into the forest.

Behind his back, looks passed between the Antiquarians and Ardeth, while Gan stepped through the muck to reclaim the fallen axe. Inside, Ardeth was beaming. What luck! she thought. With all of them on one side, it would be no trick to finish the priest. The only question was, which form of death would be most appropriate?