"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?"
"You dare raise your voice to a shaman?" Keirkrad snarled. Vell shrank away like a chastised child. "Have you found enlightenment out here, away from your people? Has the beast given you guidance?"
"No," Vell confessed.
"That's because you're not following its instructions. It did not tell you to set yourself apart from our tribe. The beast despises such arrogance, and the more you resist the call, the worse your anguish will become. Uthgar is an accepting deity. Why else would he allow himself to be worshiped through so many different forms—the Thunderbeast, the Sky Pony, the Black Raven, and all the others. Perhaps in Uthgar's halls at Warrior's Rest we shall all be united as brothers, friend and foe alike. But the beast does not accept defiance of its instructions."
"You said the beast had a greater purpose for me. A destiny. That I was set apart."
"That may be so," Keirkrad admitted. "But you seem to believe that the gift of Uthgar was meant for you. This is not so—the gift is for our tribe. You are merely the vessel. I know the burden you bear. Perhaps I alone can help you through it. I have spent my life serving the beast and Uthgar, and I know full well what you're feeling."
Vell shook his head. "You say you know, but how can you?"
"I should have left the world decades ago," Keirkrad admitted. "I feel unnatural, an aberration. Some call me 'Uthgar's freak.' My skin crawls with age. Sometimes," he smiled grimly, "I wish I could just die, but if I live still, I must have some further function. I have not yet fulfilled my role for our tribe, for Uthgar. I must keep living until I do."
Vell looked Keirkrad square in the eye. "It's not the same thing. I don't know who I am any more. I feel the most precious part of myself slipping away."
"You have power, Vell!" Keirkrad shouted. "You've saved our tribe already, and you can save it again. Our tribe faces a crisis that goes far beyond a few Black Ravens with too much ambition. It's what brought us to Morgur's Mound. You carried the message—'find the living.'"
"I don't remember saying that," said Vell. "But I do remember what happened at Grunwald. I remember exactly how it felt as my mind lost control of my body. The scales took my will with them. I don't know who or what brought down the King's Lodge, but it was not Vell the Brown."
"It's a rare gift to have the Thunderbeast act through you. Such an honor to be our totem's vessel!"
Vell turned away. "Then the beast made a mistake. It chose too weak a vessel."
Keirkrad placed his ancient hand on Vell's shoulder. "The beast makes no mistakes. Do not doubt yourself—place your faith in the divine. If it chose you, that must mean you're strong enough to accept the burden. Pray to the beast for strength."