Son of Thunder - Murray J. D. Leeder [20]
"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