Prince of Lies (24 page)

Like Fzoul, General Vrakk took the news seriously. The orc dropped his warty forehead into his hand and grunted his dismay. “What, we got to sneak around even more now?”

There are rumors in the heavens that Cyric has purchased a cache of weapons from Gond, the voice said. It may be some mechanical device that will allow him to compensate for his loss of sorcerous power.

Rinda felt the walls close in just a little. “So what are you saying? Aren’t we safe here anymore?” She dropped her pen, leaving a smudge of ink in the corner of the rough parchment page spread before her.

The shield I have in place over this home still blocks Cyric’s sight, still makes it appear as if you are going about your normal business, Rinda. As long as any of you are in this place, I can guarantee your safety.

“What about the cover you provide for me?” Fzoul asked angrily. “If you don’t create some sort of illusion to let Cyric think I’m still at my keep, he’ll get suspicious. I can’t just happen to disappear each time we have a meeting.”

“And me!” Vrakk growled. “Me supposed to be in barracks now.”

Hodur paused in his dice game with Ivlisar just long enough to chuckle at the others’ discomfort. “Maybe we’ll just have to do without your company, orc,” the dwarf noted.

“Hmmm. That would be too bad,” the body snatcher added, munching on his everpresent bowl of beetles. “I was finally getting used to your smell - rather like an overturned cart of rotten gourds, as my nose tells it. What do you think, Hodur?”

Vrakk leaped to his feet, his sword in his gray-green paws. “You not so important no more,” the orc hissed. “We get others to rally merchants.”

The elf looked to Fzoul, but the red-haired Zhentarim shrugged. “He’s right.”

“The general has mistaken my jest for an insult,” Ivlisar said unctuously. He pushed the sword tip away from his chest “I apologize most completely.”

At Vrakk’s angry glare, Hodur added, “Yeah. Both of us.”

This is no time to fight amongst ourselves, the voice said. The chords humming in each word soothed the tension gripping the room. You must pool your talents if we are to stop Cyric’s mad plans.

“So what about the illusions?” Fzoul prompted.

I will maintain them for as long as I’m able, but do not count on meeting here again, Fzoul Chembryl. It requires a great deal of power for me to shield you and Vrakk from Cyric’s eyes, the voice replied smoothly. Fooling a god, especially a greater power like the Prince of Lies, is no easy matter - even for me.

Rinda looked up from scraping the ink stain from the parchment. “And who exactly are you?”

Come, Rinda. I’ve said before, it will be better for us all if you don’t know.

“Better for you,” the scribe muttered. “I can’t see how it helps me one little bit.”

I abhor this trickery, the voice said, suddenly full of righteous fury. Illusions and deception are loathsome to me. But there’s no other way to counter Cyric’s book, to let the world know the true tale of his life.

“Anything for a good story, eh?” Hodur added. “I wish the unpleasant little sot had been more exciting as a mortal. Ain’t it possible to spice up the story a bit - let him win just a couple of fights against the thieves’ guild or the critters he chased after in Thar?”

Cyric’s life was like most others, for much of his mortal span, the voice said coldly. But surely he has proven since the Time of Troubles that his early failures were deceptive.

“Deceptive,” Hodur scoffed. “I just call it dull.”

In the uncomfortable silence that followed, the dwarf gestured to the elven graverobber then lumbered to the door. “We’re off,” Hodur blurted. “Down to the Serpent for some cheerier company. We’ll be back, though.” He grinned antagonistically at Fzoul. “Some of us aren’t important enough for the gods to watch from highsun to highsun.”

No one is beyond Cyric’s attention, Hodur, especially in this city. You would do well to remember that.

Hodur rolled his eyes. “It’s just like I said before - back when Rin used to talk to me. I just ain’t impressed with you human gods. You want to see an evil bugger in action some time, take a look at Abbathor, the dwarven God of Greed.”

“Or Everan Ilesere, our God of Mischief,” the body snatcher added, a weird pride in his voice. “What a rotten item he is.”

Hodur nodded enthusiastically, swung the door wide, and took a step into the street. “They know what they want, and they just come right out and take it. None of this sneaking around stuff or toying with mortals.” He chuckled into his beard. “All this creeping about makes me think Cyric’s just afraid of getting caught with his hand in the collection box. He’s just a cowardly-“

The dwarf walked right into a wall of gold plate mail. The giant who stood before him was at least ten feet tall, not counting the horns jutting from his helmet.

“What the hell are you supposed to be?”

The inquisitor clamped palms the size of skillets down on either side of Hodur’s head and lifted him from the ground. The barbed hooks in the strange knight’s gauntlets dug deep into the dwarf’s face. Two dozen rivulets of blood began to stream down Hodur’s cheeks, staining his beard dark.

The dwarf managed a scream, though whether it was a cry of anger or terror was never quite clear to Rinda. He brought both his heavy boots into the knight’s stomach in a savage kick. The blow didn’t so much as scuff the breastplate. With thick, fumbling fingers, he reached toward the inquisitor’s eyes, ready to gouge them out, but the razored edges around the eyeholes sliced away the tips of all his digits. Hodur’s vision had begun to fog with pain, but he could still see the thousands of tiny skulls engraved into the armor laughing at him with malefic glee.

“Die, heretic,” Gwydion said, managing the words as best he could around the bit in his mouth. He pressed his palms together. The dwarf’s head buckled like a melon under a giant’s heel.

His reaction numbed by gin and fear, Ivlisar only then reached out for his friend, hoping to pull him back into the scribe’s house. It was far too late. Hodur’s gory, lifeless body slipped from the inquisitor’s gauntlets and dropped to the cobbles. The elf fell to his knees beside the corpse and cradled it in his arms.

Rinda started forward, but Fzoul grabbed her by the arm. “Stay still,” the priest hissed.

The scribe struggled against Fzoul’s grip, but their godly patron said, “Do as he says.” The words were full of discord, the pitch broken by a clarion note of fear.

Rinda turned tearing eyes on the thing towering over Hodur’s body. The gold-armored knight stared back through the doorway, confusion clear in his eyes. It seemed as if he could feel their presence somehow. Yet his senses told him that the room was empty, save for the elf in the doorway.

The five of them stood frozen in that tableau for a moment - Ivlisar huddled on the ground; Vrakk crouched and waiting, his sword at the ready; Fzoul holding Rinda, both trembling more than a little at the sight of the inquisitor; and Gwydion, blood dripping from his gauntlets, lost in a sea of prayers and curses. Finally the knight turned and stepped through a portal that appeared in the air before him.

The image of the inquisitor burned itself into Rinda’s thoughts, remaining clear and vital long after Ivlisar had dragged Hodur’s corpse away - no doubt to sell it on the black market. The knight’s eyes remained the sharpest part of that memory. They’d held no malice, no anger, just an overwhelming pall of helplessness. The look was a familiar one to the scribe; many of the slum’s most desperate inhabitants watched her with eyes like those when they explained why they’d sold their bodies in the brothels or betrayed their families to the city watch for a few coppers’ reward.

But that wasn’t the reason the image plagued her thoughts. In looking into those bleak eyes, so devoid of hope, Rinda had seen herself.

Wherein Xeno Mirrormane and the Church of

Cyric put on a parade for the citizens of

Zhentil Keep, and General Vrakk attends

a puppet show much lauded by the

crowned heads of Faerun.

To Vrakk, the gaudy procession moving through the crowded marketplace seemed more appropriate to a circus than a religious festival, though in Zhentil Keep, the two had become one and the same.

A small army of priests wrapped in dark purple robes led the way. They chanted a prayer to Cyric, their voices rising and falling with their steps. Four across and twenty-five deep, the lines passed with military precision. Vrakk grunted at that. A city where the priesthood attracted better soldiers than the regular army was no place for him.

And if the clerics’ show of marching skill weren’t enough to bring his blood to a boil, Vrakk had merely to remind himself what had brought him to the market this day - crowd patrol duty. A decorated general, veteran of Azoun’s crusade, and he’d been assigned to watch for pickpockets and flashmen in the marketplace. Just thinking about it made him snort in anger.

The prayer at an end, the priest-horde held their hands up to the clear winter sky in one final burst of devoted worship. Silver bracelets, symbols of their enslavement to the Prince of Lies, glinted brightly in the morning sunlight. “O Master of the Heavens and the Earth, we are yours to wield against heretics, living swords to smite unbelievers!”

Vrakk suppressed the urge to spit.

Behind the chanting priests came a long line of creatures, both rare and common. The people in the marketplace perked up at the sight of the beasts. They’d given the clerics a respectful sort of attention, conducting their transactions at somewhat less than a shout, but even the merchants paused in hawking their overpriced foodstuffs, cheap gin, and threadbare linens to watch the procession of animals.

“These creatures and many like them have been captured in the name of Cyric to make the world more secure for his faithful,” a barker cried stridently. His clean white clothes and scrubbed face made him stand out amongst the grubby commoners and travel-stained merchants. “Even the most dread beasts in the wild lands hereabouts quake before Cyric’s devoted warriors…”

Five bears led the way. They’d been roused from their winter hibernation by some overzealous hunter. Now they lumbered along, their mouths muzzled shut, a canvas sack fastened around each paw. Like most of the creatures in the parade, the bears were kept away from the crowd by bored-looking soldiers, who held either short leashes or thick oak switches. From the sad state of the beasts, Vrakk guessed they’d already been beaten nearly to death. The job would probably be finished once the procession was over.

A huge carnivorous ape followed, along with a tiger, a motley collection of wolves, and a man-sized lizard dredged up from some subterranean lair. Its eyes were sightless, pale white and squinting against the morning. Next came a pair of lions and a gigantic wild boar, neither of which had been captured anywhere near Zhentil Keep.

A trio of spear-toting soldiers prodded a minotaur along. Children taunted the great bull-headed guardian of lost tombs and labyrinths, waving bits of red cloth to catch its attention. The minotaur nearly got away from its handlers when a drunken man got too close. He’d been trying to tantalize the starving beast with a chunk of stale bread, but the minotaur would have taken the man’s arm right up to the elbow, if it had been given half a chance.

“You’ve nothing to fear,” the barker shouted, noting the disquiet in the faces of the people nearest the minotaur. “So long as you’re faithful to Cyric, no harm will come your way.”

On a cart drawn by an elephant, a merman shivered in a huge tank of water. The scales on his fish’s tail were dark with some disease, the muscles on his human torso flabby from long captivity. He stared out at the crowd with pleading eyes - a pointless gesture in the Keep, where slave auctions were as common as drunken brawls.

The prize attraction came next: a very young white dragon. The wyrm was festooned with chains and surrounded by a dozen brawny warriors. It couldn’t have been more than ten feet long from its blunted snout to the tip of its tail, with wings that had been clipped to prevent the beast from flying away. As it moved along, the dragon pulled and tugged against the chains, dragging first one, then another of its captors closer to its steel-muzzled jaws. Each time the wyrm balked, a Zhentilar carrying a torch scalded its tail until the beast shrieked in protest and lurched forward a few more steps.

Vrakk stared in amazement as the dragon approached; the Zhentilar had branded its flank with Cyric’s holy symbol and the gauntlet-and-gem crest of Zhentil Keep. Though white dragons were, on the whole, less intelligent than other wyrms, they were prone to exacting violent retribution for wrongs against their kin. The other dragons in this hatchling’s flight would devote themselves to wiping out the caravans traveling to and from the Keep, should they ever learn of the brands.

If the priests ain’t afraid of the wyrms,” Vrakk heard one rather dimwitted merchant proclaim, “then the church has got to be as powerful as they say.”

The tense silence that answered the man might as well have been a roaring shout of disagreement. Few in the Keep were foolish enough to openly question any claim made about the church’s authority or its might, not when an inquisitor could appear at any moment to quell any spoken dissent. Thus silence had become the favored way to show dissatisfaction with Cyric or his minions. But if Xeno Mirrormane and his fanatics had their choice, even this mute revolt would soon be punishable by death.

Still, the Zhentish recognized the patriarch’s power; when his carriage rolled into the marketplace, a dull cheer went up. Even the merchants, who resented the parade for taking up valuable trading time, showed their grudging support. A few particularly unctuous hawkers offered free food and wine to the contingent of Zhentilar surrounding the high priest’s opulent carriage. As the merchants expected, the stern-faced soldiers silently refused the gifts, but the hawkers knew the appearance of support for Xeno and his troop might later buy valuable favors.

“An announcement by His Holiness!” a herald shouted, perched stiffly at the back of the patriarch’s carriage. “All true citizens of Zhentil Keep, all true worshipers of the great god Cyric, gather close and hear the words of his most blessed servant!”