by James Lowder
Some part of Cyric’s mind shrieked a warning, and he lashed out. The back of his left hand snapped the makeshift weapon from Kel’s grasp as the palm of his right connected with the shade’s chin. Grunting in pain, Kelemvor flew backward. To the Lord of the Dead, the shade seemed to pass right through the devout young priest in Mulmaster, coming to rest at the feet of a dark-cloaked assassin.
“Capture him!” Cyric shouted madly. With twitching fingers, the Prince of Lies gestured at the phantom murderer, directing him toward the bruised and grimy shade rising up before him. When the assassin continued to skulk along the wall, the death god smiled. “Are you a nightmare, then? Has Dendar dispatched you to haunt me like those feeble terrors that attacked my denizens on the walls?”
Kelemvor brushed the dust from his tunic. “You’re going to wish this were a bad dream, you backstabbing cur.” He rushed forward, roaring like a bear.
Cyric called an enchantment to mind, but the undertow of his thoughts sucked the incantation away. Another part of his mind suggested he transform to avoid the blow. The Prince of Lies willed himself into the guise of a poisonous cloud, but he remained in that form for only an instant before a purring voice demanded he take on his rightful shape again, the form described in the Cyrinishad. The Lord of the Dead found himself trapped in his mortal-seeming avatar when Kelemvor struck.
They tumbled together, Cyric flailing wildly to defend himself, Kelemvor landing blow after blow with his hammerlike fists. When they came to a stop, the death god shrugged off his attacker and struggled to his feet. For the first time in a decade, Cyric felt pain. Though the ache came from nothing more profound than a blackened eye and cracked ribs, he found himself trembling.
The pantheon must have given Kel some power, the death god decided. Mystra and the others must be animating him with their might, just like one of the Gearsmith’s mechanical men. The shade couldn’t harm me otherwise.
The voices in Cyric’s head murmured their agreement: Better to flee such a direct battle. Strike from the shadows until your strength returns, until you discover what strange spell Mystra has placed on you to dampen your strength.
Kelemvor gripped the hilt of Godsbane and started toward Cyric again. “This’ll do to cut out your black heart. That’ll be my trophy. The rest I’ll leave for these poor souls.”
With the broken blade, Kel gestured to the Burning Men. The scribes crawled with painful slowness toward the death god. They moaned and clutched the air with sizzling fingers as they dragged their agony-stiffened bodies across the throne room.
Cyric backed away from Kelemvor, toward the center of the room. He kicked one of the Burning Men out of his way and ducked the awkward lunge of another. “I’m a god, Lyonsbane. And if I killed you when I was mortal, think of the agony I can put you through now.”
“So why are you running?” Kelemvor murmured.
Cyric didn’t answer. He attempted to focus his mind on teleporting away from Hades, but too many things were drawing his consciousness away from the enchantment. The voices in his head had become a chorus of discord offering five dozen opinions on even the slightest matter. And there were his faithful all across Faerun, of course, invoking the death god’s name to resolve every petty conflict in their lives. In Bone Castle, Cyric could hear the sound of battle ringing out in the antechamber and the soft tread of Kelemvor’s boots as he stalked closer.
Beware, Your Magnificence, Jergal cried from outside the throne room. The damned have broken into the castle!
The Prince of Lies abandoned the enchantment. Obviously Mystra was denying him access to the weave, or hobbling his ability to concentrate on magic. As he turned toward the door, Cyric silently vowed to gouge out her blue-white eyes when next they met.
A shade blocked the doorway, a mystic blade sparking starlight in his hands.
“I am called the True because I value loyalty above all else.” Gwydion leveled the point of Titanslayer at Cyric’s heart. “I am called the Brave because I will face any danger to prove my respect of duty.”
“Fool,” the Prince of Lies muttered.
He took a step toward Gwydion, but got no farther before a fierce pain shot up his leg. One of the Burning Men had locked his fiery hands around Cyric’s ankle, and no matter how hard the death god kicked him, he would not release his hold. Another of the scribes wrapped searing arms around Cyric’s neck and hung over his back like a cloak.
Screaming, the Prince of Lies spun around. He managed to shake the soul loose from his neck, and, for an instant, it seemed that Cyric might escape the scribes. As the death god stumbled forward, though, Kelemvor drove the sharp-edged stump of Godsbane into his gut and kicked him backward into the arms of the Burning Men.
“Your faithful await,” Kel said as the scribes swarmed over their tormentor.
The flames that tortured each of the Burning Men were unique, created to anguish their souls endlessly without diminishing them; as more and more of the scribes threw themselves onto the pyre, the fires mingled, grew white-hot and wonder-bright. The heat from the inferno drove Kelemvor back and forced Gwydion to shield his eyes. So it was that the Burning Men were freed of their torment, released from suffering by their brethren’s flames.
When the pyre died down, Kelemvor used Godsbane to sift through the ashes. Cyric was gone.
“Destroyed?” Gwydion asked hopefully.
“All the fires in Hades couldn’t burn Cyric from the world. He’s like a sickness, a plague.” Kelemvor shook his head. “He’ll be back.”
XX
LORD OF THE DEAD
Wherein the effects of Cyric’s absence are felt throughout the mortal realms, Gwydion the Quick lives up to his name once more, and Bone Castle gets a new tenant.
Renaldo led what was left of the company into the alley. For most of the morning, ever since the giants and goblins and gnolls had stormed through the shattered western gates, they’d been avoiding the monsters. Hopes of mounting a counterattack had slipped away quickly, undermined by each slaughtered Zhentilar they found, victims of the treacherous orcs who’d sided with the reavers or the savage mobs of gnolls now stalking the streets. The sewers beneath the city were no safer. The goblins had taken up residence there, along with the darksome things that usually dwelled in the murky depths—giant rats, carrion crawlers, and the floating blobs of flesh called beholders.
All Renaldo and his dozen troops hoped for now was a way to slink out of the city unnoticed. They would have settled for a place to rest, to bandage their wounds and gulp down whatever food they could find. Surprisingly, this narrow street of crippled cobbles showed a little promise.
To one side, a row of cramped houses slouched together like drunken sailors at muster. To the other, marble columns towered overhead. They marked a silent perimeter around the high piles of rubble that had once been the walls of an arena. Wooden skeletons of stalls and tents huddled between the columns. Gamblers had held court here, and moneylenders; the bloody games staged in the arena had given them a livelihood as profitable as any in the Keep.
As he crept past one gutted flashhouse, Renaldo paused a moment to revel in its destruction. He owed the better part of a year’s salary to the sharp who ran this place.
“Hsst. Lieutenant.”
Renaldo started at the sound, but didn’t turn around. With the field promotion only a few hours old, he still thought of himself as a sergeant
“Something’s moving, lieutenant. In the arena.”
The warning got through to him that time, but by then he’d heard the noises, too: low grunting and the slap of leather on stone. Something large was moving in there, struggling for purchase on the steeply angled rows of seats that led up from the sandy arena floor.
Renaldo signaled the soldiers skulking along behind him, then slipped into the ruined flashhouse. Through the doorway he watched the rest of the company scatter. A few found dark niches across the alley. Most crouched under convenient piles of debris. They gripped their swords with hand
s trembling from fear and exhaustion and cold.
A quick survey of his surroundings told the lieutenant he’d chosen his hiding place poorly. The building’s walls were sound, but a huge hole gaped in the roof. Worse still, there was nothing in the room big enough to hide beneath. The tables and chairs had been hacked up, the larger pieces hauled away by the gnolls and orcs to build bonfires.
Renaldo considered making a dash for the dilapidated buildings across the alley, but the hiss of shifting rubble pinned him in place. He crouched next to the door, glancing up through the breached roof. Puffs of steam rose over the arena wall, each followed by a grunt of effort.
A giant struggled to the top of the ruined arena. The titan was large, even for his kind, and the blood matting his beard was obviously not his own. Dents marred his horned helmet and breastplate, damage done by siege engines. He’d knotted tents and tapestries together to fashion himself a motley cloak. Trophies of gold and silver—candelabras, mugs, and serving dishes—hung on a chain around one wrist. The trinkets jangled noisily as the giant hefted his real prizes, the limp corpses of two bulls, and balanced them upon his shoulders. The giant twisted his blue-tinged face into a mask of gleeful triumph and galloped down the rubble heap into the alley.
Renaldo held his breath as the giant lumbered closer. The titan had to squeeze sideways to fit between the arena’s columns, and he absently kicked a tent frame out of his way as he stepped over the abandoned flashhouses and moneylenders’ stalls. The clatter of the wooden poles as they rolled across the cobbles sent shivers up the soldier’s spine. Ground to dust beneath the heels of dragons and giants. That’s what the old woman had said. She’d been right about his promotion, though there was little left of the company to command. Perhaps she’d foreseen his doom, too.
Yet the giant passed by Renaldo’s hiding place without ever looking down. The titan stepped right over two of the other Zhentilar, as well, huddled as they were beneath an overturned cart in the middle of the alley. Whistling a tuneless victory song, he hurried out of the narrow street. His thundering tread shook the ground as he lumbered onto the boulevard beyond.
Sighing with relief, Renaldo crept from the gambling stall and started across the cobbles. The rest of the patrol followed his lead, sliding out from their hiding places and moving toward the shelter of the abandoned row houses. They’d rest there for a while, settle on a definite escape route.
Renaldo was in the middle of the alley, as far from cover as he could possibly be, when the first of the gnolls rounded the corner. At least twenty of them followed the scout, perhaps as many as thirty. Their tall, muscular frames were covered in armor pillaged from the Zhentilar’s own barracks. Their canine snouts jutted out from helmets designed for human features.
“Fire!” the gnoll commander barked in surprisingly good Common. The order was wasted, though; the bestial soldiers had already drawn their bows. Howling like wolves, they let loose a volley of black-fletched arrows.
Renaldo felt the arrow pierce his throat, turning the command he’d mustered there into an unintelligible gurgle of pain. His order would have been wasted, too, however. Since the Zhentilar had no bows, the only thing they could do was run for the safety of the row houses and try to sneak away before the beasts called for reinforcements.
As he fell, clutching at the offending shaft, Renaldo noted dimly that none of his troops gave him a second look as they scrambled for cover. The lieutenant wasn’t surprised; he’d left two dozen men to die in similar ambushes during the morning. That realization didn’t prevent him from bitterly hoping the rest of the company met a truly horrible end.
Renaldo hit the ground hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful burst. As the arrow snapped beneath his weight, icy daggers of pain exploded out from the shaft, almost as if it were probing for some vital lifeline to sever. Renaldo’s shoulders spasmed, and his fingers came away from his throat slick with blood.
The street swayed before his eyes, the cobbles rocked beneath him like a hammock, but the soldier found himself clinging to consciousness. Perhaps the wound isn’t fatal, he told himself, even though he knew this shouldn’t be true.
With trembling arms, Renaldo pushed himself to his knees. He saw then that the gnolls had closed, circled around him like a pack of hungry wolves. One of them raised its bow and fired.
Renaldo watched the arrow fly toward him, moving with preternatural slowness. He felt the steel head pierce his leather breastplate and bite into his chest. The blow knocked him backward, arms clutching helplessly at the air. As he lay there, the blood soaking into the padded doublet he wore beneath his armor, Renaldo could tell that the arrow had broken three ribs, that it had buried itself in his heart. And still he lived, still his soul refused to abandon its pain-wracked mortal shell.
The truth of it was, Renaldo’s soul had nowhere to go. The Realm of the Dead had no master. No lord ruled over the City of Strife. With Cyric’s defeat, men and women all across Faerun found themselves beyond death’s cold grasp. For some this proved to be a blessing beyond compare. For most, it was a nightmare beyond belief.
In the desert of Anauroch, a young explorer crawled on hands and knees across the dreaded expanse known as At’ar’s Looking Glass. Her camel was dead, her water exhausted days ago. She collapsed onto the wind-burnished stones, robbed finally of her last shred of resolve. The vultures that had been her only companions for the past day circled lower and lower. The explorer prayed for death to take her before the scavengers began plucking at her parched flesh, but that, of course, was impossible.…
The room revealed little about the old Sembian merchant, save that he was very rich and very ill. The bed was carved from the finest Chultan teak, the gossamer drapes sewn from imported Shou silks. What he’d paid for the blankets alone could feed and clothe a poor family for the winter. Still, all that wealth hadn’t kept him healthy—despite the potions and salves and tinctures he’d purchased during his long life. For years he’d fought against the withering disease that corrupted his frail form, grasped for every second of life like a miser reaching for gold. Now, though, the return on the effort of living had become too small.
With shaking hands the merchant raised the poison to his lips and choked it down. The sickly sweet concoction burned down his throat Warmth spread from his stomach to his chest, dulling the pain for but an instant. Then the poison clamped down on his lungs and squeezed the breath from him. It should be over quickly, he reminded himself, but it wasn’t. For hours the poison coursed through his body, killing him over and over.…
In a little-visited tower, far to the north of Waterdeep, a man lay strapped to a table. The skin was gone from his right hand, flayed from his fingers so expertly that it retained its shape—a gruesome, bloody glove. Other atrocities had been visited upon the man, as well. The loss of blood alone should have killed him long ago, but for some strange reason, life clung to him.
His torturer—a drow from House Duskryn of Menzoberranzan—thought himself too experienced in the ways of pain to be surprised by anything. Yet as he heated a set of long thin needles, he wondered at the thrill this unusual victim had afforded him.
“A gift from the gods,” the drow murmured contentedly.
He never knew how right he was.
* * * * *
Kelemvor Lyonsbane stood atop the diamond wall surrounding Bone Castle, flanked by Jergal and Gwydion. Gathered before him on the banks of the River Slith and the rubble-strewn plain beyond were the assembled hosts of Hades, the denizens and the damned alike. Despair hung upon the backs of Cyric’s minions, for they had felt their god’s defeat in their black hearts. And though the denizens had surrendered soon after their lord vanished, the victorious shades had bound them like slaves.
“The tyrant is overthrown,” Kelemvor shouted. “And with his defeat ends the reign of injustice.”
He held aloft both halves of the sundered blade that had been his prison. The red sky gave the cold, lifeless metal just a hin
t of the rosy hue that had once tinted it. “In this shell I was held captive for ten long years, a pawn of the gods.” With the shattered hilt he drew a wide arc over the crowd, gesturing toward the ruined city and the Wall of the Faithless. “In this shell, some of you have been held captive for ten times my decade of suffering. You’ve been tortured at the whims of lunatics like Cyric and, before him, Myrkul. Your suffering has been the stuff of their entertainment. No more.”
A deafening roar went up from the crowd. The damned souls raised their spears and clubs to the sky and shouted out Kelemvor’s name.
“Jergal tells me the gods gather at the city gates, awaiting permission to enter,” Kel announced once the shouting had died down. “Only you can grant them that privilege, for you are the kings and queens of this place.”
“Let ’em wait!” a shade cried. “They left us here to rot I say we give ’em back some of their own while we got the chance!”
Jergal hovered close to Kelemvor, his bulging eyes devoid of expression. The mortal realms feel the pain of this delay, not the gods, the seneschal murmured. His voice was as cold as a winter lake. The dying cannot be freed from their suffering, since their souls have nowhere to go.
Kel nodded grimly, then faced the crowd once more. “You want justice for yourselves, but first you have to offer it to others. For each instant we waste in debate, men and women on Faerun are trapped between life and death. Their suffering is unjust, and our indecision is the cause.”