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.