Prince of Lies (4 page)

Af repeated the gesture. “Hail, Cyric, Prince of Lies, slayer of three gods.”

The Lord of the Dead fidgeted, as if he were anxious to be elsewhere. Whether the impatience was purely for show or merely the echo of some habit of Cyric’s from his mortal life was unclear, but like all the greater powers, the Prince of Lies wasn’t limited to a single physical incarnation. Even as he held court in Bone Castle, his divine consciousness manifested in dozens of avatars across the universe, answering the prayers of his faithful, sowing strife and discord wherever it would take root.

“Let’s get this over with, Jergal,” the Lord of the Dead murmured.

The seneschal leveled his gaze at Gwydion, and the shade felt something cold and inhuman slither across his mind. It burrowed into his memories, rooting through his life like a rat in so much refuse. Gwydion tried to look away from Jergal’s lifeless eyes, but he found himself paralyzed. Then, as quickly as it had begun, the interrogation was over.

You are Gwydion, son of Gareth the blacksmith. The disembodied voice was as chilling as Jergal’s mental probe. Born in Suzail thirty winters ago, as time is reckoned there. In your life you have been a soldier and a sell-sword, though your only true gift was your fleetness of foot. This you used mostly to win petty wagers. No great happiness touched your life, nor any great pain.

“Wait a minute,” Gwydion sputtered. “What about Cardea or Eri? I loved-“

You believed in the gods of Faerun, but worshiped them only in times of danger. You named the Fool your patron, but displayed neither great courage nor any loyalty to his causes throughout the last years of your lifetime.

Cyric yawned. “Your deeds have branded you one of the False,” the Lord of the Dead said without thought. “No god will accept you into his paradise, so you are my ward. As such-“

Gwydion leaped to his feet. “I died fighting for Torm! He must-“

The name of the God of Duty had barely left the shade’s lips when a short sword pierced his throat. Gwydion hung, impaled on Cyric’s blade, twitching and coughing. A chill unlike any the shade had felt in life or death spread from the wound, leaching his very essence. The short sword pulsed, and its blade darkened slowly from pale red to deep crimson.

The Lord of the Dead turned cold eyes on Af and Perdix. “Someone should have informed him I alone may repeat the name of another god in the City of Strife.”

“We - we did, Your Magnificence,” Perdix said. “But he thinks there’s been some sort of mistake. He claims someone tricked him and-“

“Everyone thinks there’s been a mistake when they end up here,” Cyric noted. “You two will share this one’s punishment for a time, just so you’ll be more diligent in preparing the shades to meet me in the future.” He slipped his sword from Gwydion’s throat and let the shade drop to the floor.

“Thank you, Your Magnificence,” Af said. Both the denizens prostrated themselves before their master.

“As for a fate… We haven’t sent Dendar any souls recently, right, Jergal?”

The Night Serpent would be glad for your generosity, the seneschal agreed. She has not tasted the marrow of a fresh soul in quite a long time.

Cyric slouched back into his chair. “Then it’s decided. Take the shade to Dendar.”

As Jergal scratched notes with careful, precise strokes of the pen, the denizens grabbed Gwydion. The shade, though weakened by the abuse, fought them. He gasped something at Cyric, but the words wheezed from his punctured throat like steam from a hot kettle.

The untempered astonishment in Gwydion’s eyes caught Cyric’s attention. The Lord of the Dead gestured, and the shade’s wounds healed instantly. “You recognize me?” he asked, idly striking the chair’s leg with his sword.

Gwydion pointed to the blood-red blade. “It was you,” he gasped. “You came to me in

than you pretended to be-“

The Fool, Jergal prompted. Each god has a name more appropriate to his or her stature in our realm. The God of Duty is known here as the Fool.

“You pretended to be… the Fool,” Gwydion said. Speaking the blasphemous name made him wince. “Why? Just to trick me into throwing myself at the giant like a lunatic?”

“Exactly so,” came a deep, booming voice from the doorway to the library. “That is just the sort of petty amusement Cyric makes for himself.”

Jergal, Gwydion, and the denizens spun around to find a massive figure standing before them. His ancient armor was stained dusky purple, with elbow and knee cops wrought of dragon bones. Light glinted like stars on his breastplate, even in the badly lit library. He radiated power, stern and unforgiving.

“Oh no,” Perdix whispered. “Not him. Not now.”

Torm the True strode toward Cyric. His armor clanked as he walked, the sharp sounds echoing off the walls like distant cannonades. At Gwydion’s side Torm stopped and removed his helmet. The shade had never seen such a perfectly handsome young warrior. The light of righteousness flashed in his blue eyes. Unwavering courage set his square jaw.

“Release this soul,” Torm ordered. “You drew him into your realm through illusions and perfidy. You cut short his life through deception.”

The Lord of the Dead sat back in his chair and scowled. “Oh, come now, Torm. You didn’t journey all the way to Hades for this worm. You have bigger giants to slay - isn’t that how the expression goes amongst your Tormites?”

“Tormish,” the God of Duty corrected stiffly. “And Gwydion’s fate alone is enough to bring me to your loathsome court. He called upon me. I am answering his prayer.”

A cry of relief escaped Gwydion’s lips. “Thank you, Your Holiness. I knew you wouldn’t let a faithful…”

“Don’t shower him with praise just yet,” Cyric interrupted slyly. “Torm cares nothing for your soul. He has enough power to enter my city uninvited only because you spoke his name aloud. You’ve provided a convenient way for him to make himself unwelcome in my home.”

The anger Torm had been fighting to suppress boiled over. He raised a mailed fist and shook it at the Prince of Lies. “I have a duty to my worshipers. Men call me Torm the True because I value loyalty above all else. They call me-“

“They call you Torm the Brave because you are too stupid to cut your losses and abandon a failed fight,” Cyric hissed. “I know the litany quite well. I repeated it rather dramatically to Gwydion in Thar not too long ago.”

Torm took a menacing step toward Cyric, who still had not risen from his chair. “We get to the meat of the matter quickly. That’s unlike you.”

“Ah, you came here to inform me you are unflattered by my impersonation.” The Prince of Lies laughed. “It was quite good, I assure you. Apart from the sword, I had you to a T.” He stood and stretched. “Still, I’ll give you a chance to save this poor, abused soul.”

“You admit your sins?” Torm asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. “Gwydion is free to leave?”

“I admit nothing,” Cyric said, “but I’ll give you the chance to rescue this would-be Tormite.” He kicked Af out of the way and raised Gwydion by the shackles. “Before you take him under your armored wing, though, you must convince me he will have a home with your faithful. I cannot release a soul from my realm without such a guarantee.”

“If not with me,” Torm began, “then with-“

“You cannot speak for the other gods, Torm. I’m surprised you would be bold enough to try.”

The God of Duty flushed. He turned his steady gaze on Gwydion and said, “I can offer you sanctuary, but only if you are truly one of my faithful. Will you prove your devotion to me?”

The shade stepped forward, away from the cringing denizens and the weird, silent seneschal. “Of course,” he said.

Torm straightened his fingers and held his hands out, palms to the floor. The sickly glow from the windows revealed myriad tiny runes carved into his gauntlets: on the right hand, the word for duty in every language ever known; on the left, the same for loyalty.

It was whispered that Torm could be destroyed if all those words were lost. To prevent this disaster, some Tormish novices spent their first year of servitude sequestered in tiny cells, where they repeated one of the words for duty or loyalty, mantralike, throughout their waking hours. The most devoted of them even kept up their assigned chant in their sleep.

“Read any word from either gauntlet,” Torm said solemnly.

Gwydion squinted at the armor then looked up at the God of Duty. “I… I see no writing, Your Holiness.”

A genuine sadness filled Torm’s eyes. “The pact I have with my church is clear, Gwydion the Quick. I cannot accept your soul if you cannot pass this simple test.” The anger returned then, flaring hotly. He faced Cyric. “You will pay for this. I’ll make certain of that.”

The Prince of Lies turned his back on the armored god and walked slowly to his chair. “Af, Perdix, take Gwydion and stick him in the wall. Watch over him until I summon you again.”

Silently Gwydion looked to Torm for aid, but the God of Duty shook his head. All the shade’s hopes died. Head down, he let the denizens lead him away without a struggle.

As soon as the prisoner had left the room, Cyric waved a hand, idly dismissing Torm. “Go on, report his punishment to the Circle. I know perfectly well the wall is reserved for the Faithless. I put the worm there for one reason: I want you to know for the rest of eternity you made things worse for him by sticking your square jaw where it didn’t belong.”

“The law that governs-“

“My whim is law in the City of Strife,” Cyric snapped. “You’d be well-served to remember that, especially since you are trespassing. If I happen to summon a few hundred pit fiends to escort you out…”

“You threaten me!” The God of Duty transformed, his handsome features becoming leonine. “I could slay every pit fiend in your hellish home,” he roared.

“But they would keep you occupied for quite some time,” Cyric cooed. “Long enough for me to visit your churches in your guise and start a holy war. You wouldn’t have the might to stop me, either. After all, Torm, you are only a demipower.”

Torm stalked to the edge of the library. His lion’s face was locked in an angry snarl. His golden mane bristled around his head like a halo. “You are unfit to be called a greater power.” With a flash of blue light, he was gone.

The Fool is lucky he cannot know how dangerous you truly are, Your Magnificence, Jergal noted.

Cyric drew his short sword again and stared intently at the crimson blade. “If he did, I would simply deal with him as I did Bhaal and Myrkul and Leira. In fact, I might kill him anyway. My sword has gained a taste for the blood of gods.” He ran his hand gently along the blade. “Haven’t you, my love?”

Only if it is blood spilled for you, a seductive, feminine voice purred. The spirit of the sword curled contentedly in the mire of Cyric’s consciousness, as dark and vicious as any of the corrupt thoughts lurking in the death god’s mind.

Wherein the three hundred ninety-seventh

version of a book detailing Cyric’s life receives a

very harsh review indeed, much to the dismay

of the scribes and illuminators

in Zhentil Keep.

Bevis had been an illuminator for fifteen years, and he couldn’t think of an instant when he’d enjoyed his job. He hated the perpetual ink stains blotting his fingers. The sour-smelling paints made his eyes run, and he never finished a day’s work when his hand wasn’t cramped to the wrist. The problem was, Bevis had no other skills he might put to legal use and even less bravado with which to cut himself a niche in Zhentil Keep’s sizable and thriving underworld.

And so he plodded through the days, providing artistic embellishments for dull collections of sermons, tedious accounts of local battles, and pompous autobiographies by guildmasters hoping to buy a place in Zhentish history. Bevis found the work he did on penitentials a bit less tiresome. Such books detailed the penance demanded for various sins and usually contained vivid scenes of denizens torturing souls in the City of Strife - just in case the faithful needed to be reminded of the penalties for shirking. Like all the other miniatures Bevis drew, the horrific images originated in a pattern book. Still, copying denizens was more interesting than repeatedly scribbling the holy symbol of Mask on cheap paper intended for thieves’ guild ransom notes.

The volume in Bevis’s uninspired care at the moment had snared his attention more completely than even the most gruesome penitential. He’d been hired by the Church of Cyric to clean up the gatherings of finished pages before they went to the stationer for binding; even with the mysterious shortage of scribes and illuminators in Zhentil Keep, the clerics had rudely informed Bevis that his skill wasn’t up to standards to provide any borders or miniatures for this important work. After scanning the first few pages, he was inclined to agree.

The parchment was the finest he’d ever seen, thin and flexible and textured perfectly to hold ink and paint. Ornate display scripts written in bold red ink called out the intention of each new section. Weird borders of bestial denizens lurked around the text, apparently warning the squeamish reader away from the knowledge they guarded. Large squares of rubbed gold foil served as backdrop for the miniatures. The most elaborate of these depicted cities under siege by unnatural monsters and the gods themselves being cast from the heavens.

“Ah, the Time of Troubles,” the illuminator whispered then nervously scanned the cavernous room surrounding him.

The priests had gone back to the warmth of the temple long ago, leaving Bevis alone in the crypts. A ring of braziers drew a wide circle of light around him, but he still had the uneasy feeling someone hovered just out of sight. After a staring into the darkness for a time, though, the illuminator decided he was being foolish. He was alone. The priests would never know he’d disobeyed their strict orders and read just a small part of the book.

The Wrath of Ao, the page before him declared in grand, noble letters. The section described how the overlord of the gods, angry at the theft of the Tablets of Fate, had banished the deities of Faerun from their eternal palaces in the heavens. The gods-made-mortal were forced to walk the world in mortal avatars until the tablets were returned. In their wakes, chaos and strife erupted. Magic became unstable, clerics could no longer call on their heavenly patrons to heal the sick, murder and violence seized even the West’s most civilized nations and city-states.