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"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 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,