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?'
