by Troy Denning
Cyric raised the putrid mass to his mouth and took a bite, and this he swallowed. “Rotten!” he announced, again speaking in a thousand voices, all of which seemed quite content “Rotten to the core.”
Having regained control of himself, the One pleased the horse and the dog by returning to my side of the shed. He raised his slimy heart toward my face. “Care for some?”
Of course, I was too stunned to reply. The number of mortals who have ever been invited to take a meal with their god can be counted on a man’s hands, but what man has ever been offered such an honor as this? For a long time, I could only stare at the slurping mass and think of the many benefits a bite of the One’s heart would surely bestow: unflagging strength, or a life free of disease—perhaps even immortality itself!
The organ was so close now that I could see it was threaded with long white strands, and that these were writhing about on their own. These were the spirits of all the gods Cyric had slain in making himself the One, but I did not know this at the time, and I confess they turned my stomach. Nevertheless, I closed my eyes and opened my mouth, and I tried not to think of the stench as I lowered my head to partake of my god’s manna.
But when have I ever been a strong man? As soon as my lips touched the quivering mass, my head began to spin. My vision blackened, and a deafening silence filled my ears and shut out the boom-booming of my own heart in his other hand.
When I opened my eyes, I sat slumped against the wall, with the One cross-legged before me. He was still holding both hearts, moving his hands up and down as though weighing the difference.
He looked at the slurping mass cupped in his left palm. “I thought not.” Cyric shook his head, then raised his gaze. “Malik, what is Oghma warning me about? Is something wrong with me?”
Having been asked similar questions by many powerful friends back in Calimshan, I knew an honest answer was not expected. I dared to lay a comforting hand on the One’s arm, taking care not to disturb the heart.
“Nothing,” I said. I meant to stop there, but the truth welled up and spilled from my horrified lips before I knew what I was saying. “Nothing that can’t be fixed, Mighty One. Your heart is rotten because you have betrayed your worshipers and your duties—that is what Oghma is trying to tell you.”
Cyric’s hand closed around my heart. I knew he meant to crush it, which would certainly be my death when Tyr’s protection was lifted, yet I could not stop talking.
“You shut yourself in the Shattered Keep—”
“Castle of the Supreme Throne!”
“—and delude yourself into believing you play other gods like puppets. When they refuse to do as you command, you claim they are only jealous of your power, but even we mortals know they are laughing behind your—”
“Laughing!”
The force of Cyric’s bellow slammed me against the wall, and I knew that even Tyr’s protection would not save me from the One’s anger. I bowed my head.
“Forgive me, Mighty One.” My voice was as soft and shrill as that of a frightened child. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Mystra’s truth spell,” he hissed. Then, one after the other, his thousand voices began to chuckle, and all at once they broke into a cyclone of wild laughter. “She saved me!”
“Saved you?”
The One dropped our hearts onto the filthy floor and grabbed me by the shoulders. “Mystra’s magic was meant for a god, and you’re just a mortal!” This was the first I had heard about her truth magic, but my runaway mouth made his meaning clear enough. “Even here on Faerûn, you can’t lie!”
I groaned. This was not good news for a merchant.
“You had to tell me the truth!” Cyric guffawed. “And now the truth will save me!”
I looked away, for this was almost my plan.
After a time, the One brought his mirth under control and picked up my heart. As he brushed off the dirt, he asked, “So, what shall I do now?”
“You’re asking me, Mighty One?”
Cyric nodded. “Yes—and give me an honest answer.”
He burst into another bout of mirth, which gave me time to think, and when he stopped laughing, I had a good answer.
“My father once said, ‘The camel fears her driver not because the driver wishes her to, but because she knows him.’ ”
The One looked at me, but there was no flesh over his skull’s face and I could not see his confusion. Finally, he asked, “Malik, what in the Nine Hells are you talking about?”
“The camel does not fear the driver’s switch; a whipping is nothing to a creature with such a thick hide. Rather, she fears the driver because she has watched him eat camel.”
The One continued to stare at me, until I thought it necessary to explain. “You see, Mighty One, you are the driver—”
“I know, Malik. I am a god—or have you forgotten? You mean I must to do something to remind my inferiors of how dangerous I can be.”
“Yes.”
“And I know just the thing.” A red gleam appeared in Cyric’s eyes. “Adon!”
“Mystra’s patriarch?” I knew Adon’s name from the journal, for he had done much to aid Rinda and Gwydion soon after the destruction of Zhentil Keep, and he had even arranged for them to rest a month or so in a tiny village named Tegea. “But surely, Mystra has placed many safeguards over—”
“You let me worry about that You just go back …” Here the One hesitated. Oghma’s enchantment was still doing its work, and already he could not remember where the Cyrinishad was hidden. “Go back to where you killed Rinda and get the Cyrinishad.”
“As you—” I was going to say “command,” but I had forgotten about Mystra’s spell; my tongue twisted itself and told the truth instead: “—must know, I have no intention of returning to Candlekeep. I’m going to Zhentil Keep.”
“What? Zhentil Keep!” The One’s roar set the dog to scratching at the shed walls. “What for?”
I said nothing, for I knew that if I spoke, it would be nothing but the truth.
“Well?”
Still I did not reply.
Cyric studied me a long time. I grew uncomfortable and looked away and watched my heart throbbing in his hand, and I wondered if I would ever get it back. The One followed my gaze and also stared at my heart, and after a moment he clacked his fleshless jaw.
“I see. You cannot tell me.” He looked back to my eyes, which I carefully kept fixed on my heart. “Then what am I to do, Malik—trust you?”
“Whatever I am doing, it is only for your own good,” I said, and Mystra’s spell caused me to add, “and because it is the only way to save myself.”
Cyric raised my heart to his mouth. I grimaced and looked away, for I thought he would take another bite, but he only touched his long tongue to it and sneered with disgust
“I suppose I must trust you. Your heart is true.” He said this last word as a profanity. “That explains your failure in Candlekeep. Perhaps Rinda did not even have the Cyrinishad! What is it you merchants say? ‘A thief steals the locked chest first?’ ”
I nodded, for this was indeed a favorite saying of my father’s. It means a wise man does not hide his gold in an expected place.
“That is it! She was carrying a decoy!” Cyric jumped up and almost stepped into the slurping mass of his own heart, which he had left lying in the dirt. “And she hid the Cyrinishad in Zhentil Keep—is that correct?”
I clenched my jaw and was greatly relieved to note that I felt no compulsion to answer. The Harlot’s magic forced me to be honest and complete when I spoke, but it did not compel me to speak against my own wishes. At least she had left me this much.
When I did not answer, Cyric cackled in delight “Brilliant!” He reached down and plucked me from the floor. “But you will need help to reach Zhentil Keep before my trial.”
“Then you’ll carry me there?”
“You know I cannot, Malik. You would never find the Cyrinishad. Oghma’s magic still keeps me from discoverin
g it.” He thrust my heart into my hand, then turned toward the old mare. She whinnied and raised her head and glared at him with her big round eyes. “But I can make sure you have a good mount.”
“A good mount?” Under no circumstances could that swaybacked nag be called such a thing—though I had intended to steal her all along, as she looked like a beast even I might control. “If you’ll just help me with the bit, Mighty One.”
“Bit? For a spirited beast such as this?” Cyric went to her.
The trembling nag backed against the wall, and the goats fled to my side of the shed, and I snatched the One’s heart up off the floor. Even when they are afraid, goats are voracious beasts that will eat anything.
Cyric grabbed the mare’s mane and pulled her head down to his mouth. The poor beast grew so frightened she kicked a plank out of the wall, and through this hole, morning’s golden light rushed in to mix with the purple glow the One had struck earlier. Our Dark Lord clamped his teeth over the horse’s neck and bit into a vein, and her shriek was as shrill as a hawk’s, save that it was a hundred times as loud. My ears rang, and the dog howled from beneath its manger, and the goats bleated and butted the door in their fury to escape.
Blood rushed from the mare’s throat faster than Cyric could drink it, so that it poured out over his chin and cascaded into the dirt. The nag grew weak and began to sway, and still the One drank, forcing her to kneel in a steaming pool of her own blood. At this sight, my weak stomach threatened to betray me again, so I turned away and pressed my head against the wall. Through a crack in the planks, I saw an old man standing outside; he held a loaded crossbow in his shaking hands, but his mouth was gaping, and his feet seemed rooted to the ground in fear.
“Malik! Quit daydreaming. Get her harness.”
I slipped my heart into the crook of my elbow, then took the bridle off a hook on the wall and carried it over to him. The nag had stopped struggling, and now Cyric was lying atop her, holding his slashed wrist over her throat. A sticky black syrup was flowing from his wound into hers, on which account she seemed to be growing healthier by the moment. Before my eyes, her swayed back straightened, her gaunt frame grew robust and strong, and her dull coat became bright and glistening.
Cyric pulled his wrist from her neck. Both his wound and the mare’s stopped bleeding, and her eyes grew as blue as sapphires. Her lips curled back, revealing teeth as sharp and ugly as a shark’s. She snorted clouds of cold vapor from her nostrils and raised her head to glare at me.
“She is waiting for her name.” As the One said this, he took the bridle from me and tore out the bit, then slipped it over her head. “You are the one who must give it to her.”
“Halah.” I chose this name not because of its meaning, which was “nimble,” but because she reminded me of my wife, whose beauty resembled the mare’s in more ways than one. “I name you Halah.”
Halah whinnied, and the sound was like the cold rattling of a captive’s chains. She rolled onto her knees and rose, tossing the One off her neck as though he were nothing.
“Stand back,” he ordered. “She is hungry.”
I barely had time to leap aside before Halah sprang across the shed, trapping all five goats against the wall. She killed them in a flurry of snapping teeth and striking hooves, then whirled upon the whimpering dog. Seeing what was in her mind, the dog shot from its hiding place and vanished through the hole the horse had kicked in the planks earlier. The mare stopped short of crashing through, though I am sure she had the power to, and returned to the dead goats.
“Never stop her from eating,” Cyric warned. “You can ride her day and night at a full gallop, but when she is hungry, do not even think of interfering.”
I looked away from the goats, which she was devouring hoof, horn, and hide. “I doubt I could.”
The One reached over and took my heart. “Certainly not with this. We shall have to give you something stronger.”
“S-Stronger?”
“I will hold on to this one for you.” Cyric’s hand became translucent, then he slipped my heart into his own chest and shook his head as though he had eaten something sour. “It might even help, if you are right about what Oghma says.”
I looked down at my own chest, which had a hollow inside that felt as large as the stock shed.
“There is no need to worry, Malik. You can use mine until we finish.” Cyric took his own heart from my hand, then plucked the writhing white threads from its slurping mass and dropped them into his mouth. “But it would hardly be wise to leave these with you, would it? No telling what kind of trouble they would cause.”
I watched him pull out the last of the strings and swallow it, then I fell to my knees. “Please, Mighty One, I am not worthy! Let me keep my own heart.”
Cyric grasped me by the shoulder. “Stop whining, Malik.” He thrust his hand into my chest, and with it his fetid heart. “This is for my own good.”
Sixteen
Talos was riding a storm in from the Sea of Swords, and he could see hippogriffs hurrying back to Candlekeep from all directions, their masters eager to reach shelter before a lightning bolt blasted them from the sky. Only a single beast, the big one that carried the Harper witch behind its rider, continued to sweep back and forth over the plain.
Today, the riders need not have worried. The God of Destruction would be hurling no bolts at them. Today, his fury was directed farther inland than they could see, toward a little rider on a fast horse who had already galloped farther than they could imagine. Though the protection of Tyr prevented Talos from causing the rider any harm, the Destroyer was determined to turn the ground into mud beneath the hooves of his swift mount.
As the storm rumbled toward shore, a great baying rolled from the clouds behind Talos. The sound was as deep and deafening as a thunderclap, and it sent a chill down even the Destroyer’s spine. The Chaos Hound was coming.
Talos drew a handful of lightning bolts from the empty air and whirled around, determined to spear the beast the instant he saw it. The Chaos Hound fed on the marrow of the Faithful, and the Raging One had Faithful spread all through this storm, hurling bolts of lightning and pounding thunderheads and pelting the ground with waves of pounding hail. Another howl broke from the black clouds. Then a murky shadow came streaking out of the billowing darkness.
Talos hurled his first bolt, but the shadow saw it coming and dodged aside. The lightning streaked into a roiling cloud and blossomed into a flashing silver heart, and a tremendous crash rumbled through the entire storm front.
“Stay your arm, Destroyer!” Though the voice was wispy, it was as loud as the raging winds. “I mean no harm.”
“No harm?” Despite his roaring, Talos dropped his lightning bolts and let them sizzle into the sea. “Then why do you lead the Chaos Hound through a gale of my Faithful?”
Mask trotted across the cloud top until he reached Talos’s side. “Forgive me, but that was not my intention.” The Shadowlord braced his hands on his knees, and his form shifted to that of a panting gnoll. “Kezef caught my scent as I entered the storm.”
“Then leave.”
Another howl broke from the depth of the tempest, and Mask glanced at the thunderhead behind them. “Soon enough.” The Shadowlord kept the form of the gnoll, for he would need his strength to flee Kezef. “I want to talk with you about this trouble you have gone to.”
“I make my storms where and when I wish.”
“I have no argument with that,” Mask replied. “But it seems a pity to waste so much effort on a mortal you cannot even kill.”
“I have no need to kill him, only to slow him down.”
Mask nodded. “Then we have reached the same conclusion. Malik is still chasing the Cyrinishad.”
“I cannot know for certain.” As Talos spoke, the storm began to roll over Candlekeep. With a thought, he instructed his Faithful to pound the thunderheads and sprinkle lightning bolts upon the shore, and then he looked back to Mask. “But I can think of no other reason
for Cyric to give him such a horse.”
“True, but this is so … obvious.” Mask waved an arm at the length of the storm. “Even if Tyr does not stop you, Cyric is sure to counter with a measure of his own.”
Talos shrugged. “I cannot help that.”
“No, but perhaps something subtle would prove more effective—and also advance your cause against Mystra.”
From deep in the storm came the screech of a soul in agony, followed by long, happy howl. Talos scowled and glared at Mask.
“Say what you have come to say and go. If I lose another of my Faithful, I shall forget you deserve the courtesy of a god.”
“As you like.” Mask pointed toward the Harper witch and her companion, who were still flying their hippogriff over the plain. “You see how determined the witch is to capture Malik. Perhaps she could use a little help.”
“Help one of Lady Magic’s worshipers? Never.”
“You are angered that Mystra has weakened the magic of destruction?”
Talos made no answer, for the question did not deserve one. Magic had all but ceased to serve the forces of destruction, and the situation had grown so bad that the Destroyer often disguised an avatar as a new god and sent it down to spread the magic of wildness and havoc.
When Mask received no reply, he said, “The best way to beat a foe is not always to fight. Sometimes it is to steal.”
Talos glared at the Shadowlord. “What do you care about my troubles with Mystra?”
“Nothing.” A deafening howl sounded inside the thunderhead from which Mask had come. He shuddered, but kept his gaze locked on Talos. “I am after Cyric. Until I take back what he stole, I will never have the strength to chase Kezef off.”
The Destroyer narrowed his eyes. “But the Eyeless One separated the charges. To find against Cyric, we need not find against Mystra and Kelemvor.”
“Too late for me,” Mask replied. “I have already laid a trap for Kelemvor, and I do not want Mystra taking vengeance after the trial. Unless they are both removed along with Cyric, I will be worse off than before.”