"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.
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.