Son of Thunder - Murray J. D. Leeder [19]
"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