* * * * *
Sungar ran up a staircase to a landing, then up to a higher floor in the Lord's Keep. No guards waited for him here, and the entire complex was eerily silent. Only the cacophony outside bled through, faint and distant as a dream. A long room unfurled before him, lined by mirrors on each side. A narrow table spanned the length of the room, and the whole place was lit by candles that faintly wobbled as the keep trembled with the vibrations of the city.
The barbarian walked slowly forward. Soon his reflection caught his eye, doubled and redoubled into an infinity of Sungars walking beside him. He startled and turned to stare into the mirror, watching his own blue eyes gaze at himself. He studied his face closely. Sungar's beard and hair were streaked with white, a token of his time in the dungeon. With his fingers, he traced the scars and the wounds, still red and tender, that Kiev's cruel lash had inflicted on him.
Sungar's rage left him; his fury-fueled energy dissipated. He felt every ache again, every stinging wound along his back and sides. His shoulders drooped, his sword arm fell to his side, and he felt as weak as he had when he was sprawled on the floor of his cell so far below.
He stared deeper into the mirror. Sungar had heard of such things, but he had never seen one before. Other than his reflection in water, he had never seen himself. There was something beautiful about the mirror, as smooth, cool, and polished as an icy mountain lake. Things seemed more perfect in the mirror, even his own face and form.
Civilized vanity, he thought. The shamans of Uthgar often described mirrors as the symbol of civilization's flaws. They represented the tendency to become distracted with oneself, and to become useless and nonproductive. An Uthgardt warrior was trained not to be drawn into excessive contemplation, but Sungar knew that was happening to him now.
His sword fell from his hand, landing on the floor with a thud. Those blue eyes in the mirror—his eyes, but somehow not his eyes—drew him in deeper and deeper.
Suddenly, the mirror smashed in front of him, a thousand shards falling to the carpet. It shook Sungar from his reverie, his moment of weakness shattering. A familiar axe head was embedded in the mirror's frame. Sungar turned to face its wielder, and his heart soared with joy.
"Thluna!" His cry echoed off the walls. He embraced the boy, pulling him close. "My son! Can it be you?"
"Sungar," Thluna wept. "Thank Uthgar you're alive. Thank Uthgar."
Breaking their embrace, Sungar's eyes went to the axe. "Is this..."
"Yes," said Thluna. "It is what you think."
Sungar gripped the axe handle, the head still stuck in the wall.
"We now know that it was once the weapon of Berun himself, in an age past," said Thluna, "and also that Uthgar himself wielded it."
"I know," said Sungar. "How?" asked Thluna.
"King Gundar came to me in a vision. He showed me that you'd be coming to rescue me."
"And we feared the Battlefather had abandoned us!" Thluna declared. "He never forsook us. He was on our side all along."
Sungar pulled the axe from the wall. It felt comfortable in his hands—better than any weapon he had ever wielded. He offered it to Thluna. "This is for the chief of the Thunderbeasts," he said.
Thluna shook his head. "I am not the chief of the Thunderbeasts. I played that role in your absence, wielding this axe with pride, but only because I knew it was in your stead. This axe belongs to you. Besides, I have my own weapon now." He reached to his belt and drew up the heavy oaken club. "This was a gift from Chief Gunther Longtooth of the Tree Ghosts." He paused a moment before adding, "It, too, is a magical weapon."
Sungar breathed heavily, looking at the axe in his hands. It seemed so long ago since he threw it away on that desolate plain in the Fallen Lands. It felt so good to have it in his hands again. It felt like a part of himself long missing, now restored.
Sungar's strength rose in him again. "To war!" he cried, and together once again, the two Uthgardt dashed through the halls.
CHAPTER 22
Sungar and Thluna raced up two flights of stairs to a small anteroom. Another stairway led up to a heavy iron door, guarded by a massive metal statue—the top of its head almost scraped the ceiling. The figure was depicted in a suit of night-black armor, with a skull within a sunburst—the emblem of Cyric—etched into its chest.
"This is where we'll find Geildarr," said Sungar.
"How do you know?" asked Thluna.
Sungar pointed up at the statue's face, chiseled, youthful, and as beautiful as a god, but recognizable as Geildarr all the same.
Thluna allowed himself a slight chuckle. But when he reached for the door, the statue lurched into life. Purple fire lit up within its eyes, and it turned to face Thluna. Thluna ducked fast. The statue's arm swung about and slammed against the door behind him with a loud clang. He rolled backward, barely avoiding the golem as it brought its foot down hard, setting the walls trembling.
Sungar swung the axe, striking its left shoulder with a metallic ring and digging a dent in the iron body. The golem swept out with its iron arms, but Sungar jumped beyond their reach. Thluna struck the automaton with his club, denting the metal, but the golem showed no reaction to the blow.
"Strong and physical," said Sungar, dodging another blow from the golem. "No wonder Geildarr gave it his face. It's everything Geildarr himself is not."
* * * * *
The sounds of battle rang through Geildarr's private floor, reaching his study. "Fighting on our threshold, Geildarr," said Ardeth. "It's time you made a decision."
"Very well." Geildarr tossed down his wand and turned his back on his balcony. Much of the city was lost in a haze of dust from so many destroyed buildings. "The secret passageway, then," he said, looking toward one of his bookcases. "We can slip out of the keep, then..."
"Then what, Geildarr?" Ardeth demanded. Her white face was flushed with anger. "Explain to Fzoul that you were chased from the Lord's Keep by an enraged barbarian?"
"The Heart of Runlatha may hold power worth a dozen Llorkhs. I will not turn it over to Sungar, even to save the city." He looked at the artifact, resting on a table. It glowed so serenely and peacefully, even as the world shattered around it. It had survived the fall of Netheril, and it would survive the fall of Llorkh, too. Geildarr extended his hand.
Ardeth reached out to stop him from touching it. "It's not yours, Geildarr," Ardeth said. "I stole it from the Sanctuary, but that didn't make it mine. It's not yours now—it never was."
Geildarr reached out and placed his hand over the Heart, not to clutch it, but to touch it, one last time.
* * * * *
The golem wearing Geildarr's face struck Thluna with the back of its hand, sending the young barbarian sailing. Thluna hit the wall hard, and the wind was knocked from him, but he held on to his club.
Sungar drove the axe into the golem's shoulder, widening the crevice he was carving into its neck. Its stony face pivoted on its shoulders toward Sungar, and its mouth opened wide. A thick greenish haze flowed out that quickly settled over the anteroom. Sungar raised the axe, but the gas crept into his nostrils and turned his stomach. His eyes watered, and he felt his throat burn as the acid from his stomach climbed into his mouth. The poisonous green smoke filled Sungar's lungs, and he stumbled backward before collapsing at the foot of the stairs. The axe clattered to the floor. His eyes swam with the poisonous taint.
Thluna choked back vomit as the stinking vapors reached him. He buried his face in his sleeve. This was worse than anything he had ever smelled in the forests—worse than a skunk, and far worse than a decaying carcass. Soon the room was lost in the haze, and Thluna heard only silence, broken by the golem's steps as it marched across the room.