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

away, but why, by whom, and to what place they did not know. The healers attended the many wounded, but much more would be needed to heal the Thunderbeast soul.
    Battle was a way of life for the Uthgardt. It was their primary drive and purpose for being. But usually the enemy was known—an orc horde, a rival tribe—something they could understand. They had no way of knowing who their new enemy was. A bead of light had dropped from the sky and blinded most of them, knocking some into unconsciousness. They couldn’t fight such dishonorable tactics.
    Their chief was gone—not dead, but taken. Leadership of the tribe fell to his son-in-law, but Thluna was so inexperienced and so young—perhaps even subject to the temptations of the outside world. Already there were whispers that an older Thunderbeast—possibly even Keirkrad, still unconscious from the magical attack—would be a more appropriate choice.
    Kellin awoke with rain drizzling onto her face. Barbarian women tended to the wounded all around her. No one would speak to her or accept her offers of help. She walked the camp as an observer, searching for a friendly face but finding none. She bound her own shoulder wound where that foul girl had slashed her, hoping that one of the healers might tend to it properly later on. She asked nearly everyone about Vell, but eventually put pieces together from overheard conversations. No one had seen him, and the thunderous steps had not been heard in the valley since dawn.
    She found Thluna in the center of the camp, clutching his young wife Alaa, her eyes flowing with tears. Thluna stroked her glossy black hair. Kellin placed a hand on Thluna’s shoulder and to her surprise, he did not cast her off. Thluna spoke to her in Common, which Kellin guessed Alaa did not know.
    “Her father has been taken,” he said. “And I cannot do anything about it. I cannot live up to my responsibilities as a husband, or as a chief’s heir.” Kellin now saw him not as a strong barbarian warrior and chief to his tribe, but as a scared, confused boy, grappling with things far beyond him. “Who would do this to us?” he asked.
    “Do you know of the Zhentarim?” asked Kellin.
    Thluna raised his head and nodded. “Was this their work?”
    “Perhaps. They’re known for their wizards on winged mounts,” Kellin said. “And for stirring up local monsters to dislodge or weaken their enemies. They’re not often active in the Silver Marches, but they have a stronghold south of the High Forest, in the town of Llorkh.”
    “Why are we their enemy,” asked Thluna, “when we have scarcely heard of them? What could they want with Sungar?”
    Thluna summoned his strength. “We must do what Sungar was preparing to do,” he told Kellin, stroking Alaa’s hair. “She won’t like it, but I must. Very soon. The Thunderbeast gave us our mission, and we must achieve it.”
    “Will you take my aid?” asked Kellin.
    Thluna looked away.
    “Shaman Seventoes lies unconscious across the camp,” Kellin said. “And even if he were whole, you are chief and not he.”
    “You do not understand,” Thluna said softly. “We do not tolerate civilized people. And we do not cooperate with those who shape magic. We know where that path leads.”
    Kellin’s brow furrowed. She was missing something—something they weren’t telling her, something not founded in ancient doctrine but in recent experience.
    “I assure you, there is nothing corrupt about my magic. It does not come from a book—my magic is as innate to me as my ability to breathe.”
    Thluna looked at her.
    “You will have my answer soon,” he said at length. “We will not be leaving for several days. Our warriors must heal, and we await Vell’s return. He is our hope and our prayer. I believe our tribe’s survival rests on his shoulders now.”
    “That’s an awful lot to place on him,” said Kellin.
    Thluna closed his arms tighter around his weeping wife. “If he will not save us,” he said,