Prince of Lies

by James Lowder

  Though he tried to fight the command, Gwydion felt his body do as the god had ordered. Gond watched the shade’s movement with a practiced eye, walking around him to get a better vantage of the armor’s performance. “If he can understand spoken commands, he’ll be ready to go pretty soon,” the Wonderbringer announced. “You can give him his marching orders anytime you want.”

  “You are to destroy all heretics in Zhentil Keep,” Cyric said.

  “Not good enough,” Gond noted distractedly, gathering his tools for the next operation. “That kind of command’ll just confuse him.”

  “You said he’d do anything I wished,” Cyric rumbled. “Are you telling me now he can’t?”

  I believe you need to define your wishes more precisely, Jergal offered. The shade must be told what you mean by heresy.

  Cyric paced to Gwydion’s side. “We’ll start with the obvious traitors, then,” the Prince of Lies said. “You will destroy anyone who speaks out against me or my church within the walls of Zhentil Keep.”

  “Yeah, that’ll do,” Gond said. He tinkered with a sliding rivet at Gwydion’s hip. “I hope he comes up against a mage first, a really powerful one. Any enchantment a mortal could wield will roll off this plate like rainwater off a tin root”

  “And the wizardry of an immortal?” Cyric asked. For the first time he seemed genuinely interested in the Wonderbringer’s explanation.

  “Never been tested, but the same thing should apply.”

  The Lord of the Dead paused and rubbed his pointed chin. “Jergal, I want you to attack the inquisitor. Engulf his arm.”

  But, Your Magnificence. All the work—

  “Don’t worry. If you harm him I won’t be angry with you.” Cyric leveled a warning finger at Gwydion. “You just stand there. Don’t fight back.”

  Jergal swooped up to Gwydion’s outstretched arm, swallowing the limb in the formless darkness that was his body. The seneschal’s cloak seemed to devour the arm completely, then a faint glittering shone from the murk. A voiceless moan filled the hall, and Jergal retreated from the inquisitor. The golden gauntlet and brassard gleamed defiantly, unbreached and untarnished.

  “Impressive,” Cyric murmured. “Any normal shade would have been destroyed by that.”

  He drew Godsbane and brought the blade hard against the inquisitor’s hand. Sparks shot into the air, metal grinding against metal with a terrible keening sound. But when the Lord of the Dead pulled the short sword away, only the slightest scar marred the gauntlet.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Gond bellowed. “I didn’t build this armor just for you to practice your swordsmanship on it.”

  “I needed to see if the armor was immune to all magic,” Cyric murmured. He stared at the inquisitor, discomfort clear on his demonic features.

  “That’s what you asked for,” Gond grumbled, “powered armor that’s nonmagical. That’s what you got. Not even Mystra herself could blast this suit—not unless the helmet’s off. If someone gets the helmet off, all bets are canceled.”

  Gingerly the God of Craft ran his fingers along the scarred gauntlet “Look. If you’re worried about him turning against you, don’t. The helmet was designed to make him follow your commands. No one can change the orders you gave him unless they get the thing off his head—and if they do that, it’ll unbalance the suit.” Gond rapped the breastplate with his grimy knuckles. “Then all you’ve got is a very nice set of plate, but nothing that can withstand a sword like yours.”

  Cyric nodded vaguely. “So how do I send him on his way?”

  “Oh, he’s already gearing up to follow your order,” Gond said. “He should be on his way to the Keep any time now.”

  In a way, Gwydion had already left Bone Castle. His mind was focused entirely on the babel of voices he heard in the streets and houses of Zhentil Keep. When anyone mentioned Cyric or his church, the words rang in the inquisitor’s ears. Hundreds of fervent prayers to the Lord of the Dead hummed continuously, punctuated by oaths sworn in Cyric’s name. Church scholars debated the nature of the City of Strife and the denizens that resided there. In hushed tones, mothers warned their children to do as they were told, else the Prince of Lies would steal them away in the night.

  The urge to find a heretic lay curled around Gwydion’s heart, a coiled spring pressing him into action. He quickly learned to set aside the prayers of the faithful and the endless scholarly sparring. He focused instead on the mutterings of gin-soaked malcontents and greedy minor clerics. He could almost sense the creeping chill of heresy in their minds. Part of Gwydion, the part controlled by the armor, prayed the heretics would voice their treacherous thoughts. The rest of him railed impotently at the bloody deeds he knew he must commit in Cyric’s name.…

  In a litter-strewn back alley in the Keep’s slums, someone ridiculed the Prince of Lies, openly challenged his power.

  Wires thrummed with power and precisely pitched tuning forks hummed in the inquisitor’s gute. The mechanism tore open the curtain between Hades and the mortal realms. Gwydion took a tentative step forward into the swirling chaos, then another. Soon he was thundering across the heavens like a charging dragon, his natural speed heightened beyond belief by the Wonderbringer’s armor.

  The inquisition had begun.

  * * * * *

  As Fzoul and the other three conspirators conversed softly with their mysterious divine patron, Rinda jotted down the last of her notes on Cyric’s years in Zhentil Keep’s thieves’ guild. She scanned the tight, cramped pages and shook her head. The True Life was a tale of helplessness and desperation, hardly the heroic paean to self-reliance the Prince of Lies had woven for the Cyrinishad.

  After being sold to the guild by slavers, Cyric had struggled to earn his freedom through work for the guildmasters; he failed time and again to complete a job flawlessly, dooming himself to a life of servitude. Kindhearted people very much like Rinda herself helped him escape, helped him flee the city that would have ground him beneath its iron-shod heels had he stayed. His pockets bulging with the coins given to him in pity, the young Cyric traveled north on a misguided quest for the Ring of Winter. Had Kelemvor Lyonsbane not rescued him from the frost giants in Thar, the history of Faerun might have been very different indeed.…

  As you leave here today, be wary of your words and your deeds, the melodious, disembodied voice proclaimed. The words seemed to fill Rinda’s ramshackle home, driving away the bitter cold. Cyric has grown suspicious of treachery within the Keep. He will be watching the city carefully. Without magic he may find it difficult to keep an eye focused on all his servants. But never underestimate him.

  “None of us are foolish enough to do that, I trust.”

  Rinda glanced at Fzoul Chembryl. The flame-haired Zhentarim agent stood statuelike in the room’s center, his arms folded across his black-armored chest. His harsh features had twisted into a grimace at the warning; he knew that the death god’s eyes were upon him at all times. Only the powers of their divine patron made it possible for him to attend these subversive meetings with little fear of discovery.

  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.

  XII

  PUPPETS ON PARADE

  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 marketplac
e. 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.