Son of Thunder by Murray J. D. Leeder Page A

considerably.”
    “You mean Valkin Balducius is dead?” asked Geildarr. “How?”
    “A lizard stepped on him.” Moritz smiled widely at Geildarr’s reaction. “Ardeth will explain when she returns. Let me say this—I wouldn’t turn my back on that minx for anything. She’ll kill someone just to show herself she can.”
    “So you were spying on her,” Geildarr said. “Why?”
    “You might say I’m acting as an interested spectator in this whole new endeavor of yours. My attention is being rewarded. It’s just taken an interesting turn. There’s some real power at work here. Magical power. The kind the Zhentarim would like to have their hands on.”
    “And the kind Sememmon would like to have too,” said Geildarr. “Or at least to keep such a thing away from Zhentil Keep. So why not go find it yourself?”
    “It’s not really what I do,” said Moritz. “It’s more what you do. Why should I do it when I can get you to do it instead?”
    Geildarr slammed down the stack of books on the nearest table with as much force as he could muster and turned on the illusionist, waving an accusatory finger.
    “I don’t work for Sememmon! He’s nothing now—a pathetic rat hiding in a dark hole somewhere with his elf whore. If you were smart, you’d give him up and look for a different master.”
    Moritz’s face flushed with rage. “Do you think you can afford to be so arrogant?” The gnome’s nose turned as red as his clothes. “You think yourself secure as mayor of Llorkh—so did Phintarn Redblade before you slit his throat. Traitors surround you. The Dulgenhar Conspiracy could have taken this city from you. It took a little girl to save your rulership. You’ve managed to offend the Zhent leadership at exactly the wrong time. You worship the wrong god. And I haven’t mentioned the Shadovar, who probably aren’t too fond of Llorkh either. I trust you’ve heard what happened to Tilverton. When the axe—the proverbial axe, not the one sitting in your study—comes down, just who do you expect to save your skin if not Sememmon?”
    Geildarr broke himself away and paced the hallway, cursing loudly as he wondered if there was anything Moritz said that he could refute. “What if…” he muttered. “What if…”
    “You won’t be able to sit on the fence much longer, Geildarr,” Moritz said. “It’s your choice, of course.”
    “What if that hobgoblin had never brought that axe to Llorkh?” asked Geildarr, mostly to himself. “What if I hid those clues, forgot all about everything?”
    “Then how will you explain getting a skymage killed while abducting a barbarian chief?” asked Moritz. “You’re past burying it now.”
    “True, but what if…”
    Moritz tapped his cane twice against the floor. “It says something about you that when faced with a difficult choice, you start thinking of ways to avoid making it. Let me say this—you may be on the verge of finding an artifact that makes all of the items your Antiquarians have pulled from old ruins look like the toys they are. I’ll be watching closely to see just what you do with it.”
    “And let me guess,” said Geildarr. “If I give it to you, you’ll reward me richly. Or some other equally vague offer.”
    “I couldn’t have termed it better myself,” Moritz answered. “And while you’re speculating, what do you think will happen to you if you should give it to my enemies instead of me?”
    Geildarr stared at him wordlessly. A bead of sweat trickled down his temple.
    “A silent threat is always the most potent. If I learned anything hanging around with Zhentarim all these years, that would have to be it!” Moritz vanished, but his laughter still echoed off the stone walls.
     

     
    When the sun rose over Sungar’s Camp, it shone down on a shattered people. A quiet haze of disbelief had settled over the camp, now littered with bodies of Uthgardt and wolves, damaged by fire and force, and leaderless. Its bravest blood had been taken