Prince of Lies Read online

  No matter how hard she tried, the seeress couldn’t banish the image from her mind. The cold clarity of it, the immutable certainty of the city’s destruction clung to Elusina’s thoughts and smothered her spirits like ancient cerements. And with that certainty came the realization that even now, as she huddled in her small, dirty room, grim events were unfolding that would speed the present toward that terrifying, unavoidable future.

  * * * * *

  The dragon’s corpse hung upside down in the catacombs beneath the Church of Cyric. As General Vrakk had guessed that day in the marketplace, the young wyrm hadn’t survived long after the procession. Beatings had left welts and scars along its snow-white hide, while days without food had drawn the dragon’s stomach into a hollow curve beneath its ribs. Grief struck the blow that finally killed the beast, an overwhelming sorrow at being separated from its brethren in the icy wastes to the north.

  Ever eager to fill the church coffers, Xeno Mirrormane had sent word through the black market that pieces of the corpse could be had for magical endeavors, but only for a sizable donation to Cyric’s temple. The dragon’s eyes had gone the first day, sold to the wizard Shanalar as fodder for some dark experiment. Claws and tongue went next, along with most of the armorlike scales from its stomach. Now, less than a tenday after its demise, the wyrm looked much like a warrior’s corpse left for the carrion crows after a battle.

  Still, enough remained of the dragon for Xeno Mirrormane to post a guard in the catacombs. Every bone, every sinew from the wyrm would be sold eventually. No need to leave the thing unprotected and tempt the wizards who couldn’t afford the high prices.

  “And I thought guarding the merman in the damned parade was boring,” Bryn mumbled, prodding the coals in the brazier squatting at her side. “This’ll teach me to salute Ulgrym faster next time, though, won’t it?”

  She unsheathed her sword and scratched a crude drawing onto the dirt-strewn floor before her camp chair. She’d sketched the same scene—a nasty little imbroglio involving her Zhentilar commander and various farm animals—six times since beginning her watch, though she completed less and less with each attempt. Even now she lost interest and found herself wiping away the sketch with a worn boot heel.

  A sudden creak of bones brought Bryn to her feet, sword held defensively before her. In the wavering light from the brazier, she could see the dragon’s corpse shudder. One of its wings slipped from the bindings and unfolded slowly, stiffly.

  Icy fingers of fear danced up Bryn’s back. The shivers gathered at her neck, tensing her shoulders and choking off the scream that had begun to well in her throat.

  The bindings dropped away from the wyrm’s other wing, and it, too, unfurled languidly. Bryn’s years of training in the Zhentilar helped her throw off the fear-born paralysis holding her in place. Yet this was no dalesman, no renegade goblin she faced. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn’t still the trembling in her hands or swallow the lump in her throat. The best she could do was force a tentative step forward.

  The corpse remained still, wings spread to its side like some monstrous bat awakening with the nightfall.

  The soldier and the corpse remained motionless for a time, locked in that weird tableau. Finally Bryn gathered the courage to prod the dragon; the blow simply made the wyrm swing back and forth on its rope.

  “Damn civilians,” she muttered, sliding her sword tip over the loose ropes. “Can’t even tie knots right.”

  As Bryn leaned forward to bind the corpse’s wings again, its head shot up. Eyeless sockets regarded the Zhentilar for an instant. Then the undead dragon snapped its jaws closed on her neck. It enfolded the woman in its wings like a vampire in a melodrama sliding his cloak around the swooning heroine. The leathery embrace muffled Bryn’s gasp of surprise and the single shriek she managed before the dragon tore out her throat.

  The soldier’s bloody corpse slipped to the floor with the dull sound of leather armor striking stone, and the wyrm turned its attention to the rope wound around its tail. It tried in vain to struggle free from the sturdy hemp, but Xeno’s thugs had done a much better job on the knots there than the ones that had held the dragon’s wings. After a few moments, it grew impatient. Three savage bites severed the bonds—and the end of the wyrm’s tail, as well.

  The dragon, long past feeling any mortal pain, dropped to the ground and padded into the darkness of the catacombs. Its slithering trek led to the Keep’s sewers, down to the befouled water of the River Tesh. From that murky swell the dragon rose, phoenixlike, to deliver a message of vengeance to its clan.

  On broken, ice-rimed wings the wyrm took to the midnight sky over Zhentil Keep. In only a few days it would be home. There, the challenge would be delivered to the dozen fully grown white dragons of the clan. The plea for revenge had no words, could have no words, since the young wyrm’s tongue even now bubbled in a mage’s elixir.

  No, when the other dragons found the corpse laid out at the mouth of their cave, the brands scorched into its side would direct their fury and give their rage a target. “Death to Zhentil Keep! Death to the minions of Cyric!”

  * * * * *

  Thrym bellowed out a prayer to Zzutam, thanking him for a particularly cold winter and a continuing supply of errant sell-swords looking for gold and glory. The frost giants of Thrym’s clan had fed well over the years, much better than many of their kind in other parts of Thar. Rumors that the near-mythical Ring of Winter could be found inside their cave, as well as old bardic tales that placed the priceless crown of King Beldoran somewhere close at hand, had led hundreds of treasure hunters to the giants’ doorstep and, eventually, the cookfires beyond. Thrym and his kin knew nothing of these fortuitous—and utterly groundless—stories; they ascribed the bounty to their monstrous patron, and offered prayers to him once a day, twice when it snowed enough to cover the toes of Thrym’s boots.

  “We thank you lots, O mighty ice god,” the chieftain cried. He crushed a handful of bones between his palms and let the fragments fall upon the crystalline altar dominating the back of the cave. “We grind our enemies to dust in your name.”

  The bone chips burst into flame as they touched the cold stone. Crimson gouts of fire rose above the altar, swirling and dancing like will-o’-the-wisps, then melted into a single blaze. The soft-edged flames became the figure of a man clutching a rose-hued short sword.

  “Pagans,” Cyric hissed, disgust written all over his gaunt features. “How long’s it been since I was here—fifteen years? Twenty? And you still haven’t given up this foolishness.…”

  Thrym snatched the intruder from the sacred altar, but fell backward, howling in pain, as the death god turned to flame in his grasp. The chieftain plunged his charred hand into a pile of snow and stared at Cyric.

  The Prince of Lies stood atop the crystalline block once more, one hand planted on his hip. “Who’s the leader of this—”

  Idly Cyric gestured at a dark-haired giant. The brute was reaching with exaggerated care for his axe, but his hand closed not on wood, but a huge, writhing snake. The serpent slithered up the giant’s arm, crushing his iron-corded muscles to paste.

  As the two thrashed about on the ground, Cyric sheathed Godsbane. “As I was saying, who’s the leader of this sorry band?”

  “Me. Chief Thrym.” The giant wrapped his wounded hand in the hem of his grimy cloak and got ponderously to his feet. At a gesture from him, the dozen or so giants standing in shocked silence around the altar scrambled to help their beleaguered comrade. It took all of them to pry the snake loose and dash its brains on the cavern wall.

  “Better get off Zzutam’s table,” Thrym warned, turning ice-blue eyes on Cyric. “He not like wizards, ’specially ones who breaked up our prayers.”

  “And how many wizards have successfully ‘breaked up your prayers’ in the past?” the Prince of Lies asked. “Has Zzutam had to deal with lots of people tramping across the altar?” At the blank look from the chieftain, Cyric dismissed the questions with
a shake of his head. “You and your clansmen are going to do me a valuable service, Thrym. You should be honored.”

  “We don’t work for ’venturers,” the chieftain said warily.

  “Yeah. Who do you think you are?” one of the other giants snarled. The question asked, he tugged at his lower lip, as if another might come tumbling out It didn’t

  “I don’t suppose any of you remember me,” Cyric sighed. He pointed to the pile of human bones scattered around the cold fire pit. “That might have been my resting place, many years ago. I was—well, what I was last time we crossed paths hardly matters. Now I am Cyric, Lord of the Dead, slayer of four gods.”

  “So what?” a giant chimed. “We already got a god.”

  “Zzutam is hardly worthy of that title, let alone the worship you give him,” Cyric said. “He’s a frost elemental, not a true deity.” Again, the blank looks from his audience made the Prince of Lies pause. “You’re Zzutam’s high priest, right, Thrym? Does he grant you any magic for your devotion?”

  “He makes snow,” Thrym rumbled. “He send us chow.”

  “I wish my minions were so undemanding.” Sniggering, the Prince of Lies spat upon the sacred stone. “All right, Zzutam. I’m calling you out, you great mound of snowflakes.”

  The giants wavered in their tracks, caught between the urge to kill the blasphemer and the sudden fear that they faced something far beyond their limited understanding. They knew nothing of humanity’s gods, apart from the occasional pleas their captives shouted to Torm or Ilmater or Tymora, just before they went into the fire. For Thrym and his clan, Zzutam was the only power in the universe. He’d been the patron of their forefathers; he’d be the protector of their children—once the clan found a female who could tolerate any of them for more than a day.

  So when Zzutam arrived in a burst of sleet and a gust of bitterly cold wind, a momentary hope stole over the giants’ dull minds. Now this Cyric fellow would learn how mighty their god was.…

  The monstrous frost elemental towered over even the giants, standing almost twice their twenty feet. His body was flat and wide, as if he’d been sliced away from a glacier’s edge. Jagged spikes topped his head. They scraped along the ceiling as he turned to look first at Thrym and his fellows, then at the Prince of Lies. A strange expression crossed his inhuman features, tugging his dark gash of a mouth down at the corners in something like a frown.

  “Lord Cyric,” he whispered fearfully. His voice creaked like ice beneath a heavy sledge.

  The giants leaned forward expectantly, waiting for Zzutam to smite the blasphemer with a mighty fist or skewer him upon a bolt of ice. Instead, the elemental bowed his head. “Great lord of Hades,” Zzutam murmured. “How may I serve you?”

  Cyric smirked. “You could start by teaching your unwashed lap dogs some proper respect,” he chided.

  His slitted eyes flashing as white as the sky in a blizzard, Zzutam turned to his worshipers. One by one, they heeded his silent command and dropped to the dirty floor to kowtow. Thrym was the last to obey, bending only one knee in supplication—more to show his disappointment in the elemental than as a slight against Cyric.

  “Much better,” the Prince of Lies noted. “Now, Zzutam, you are going to order these leviathans to attack the human city known as Zhentil Keep. I honored the place by declaring it my holy city, but they insult me with silly revolts and heresies. I want them punished.”

  “But these twelve can do little against the mages and soldiers of such a great city,” Zzutam objected.

  “Other troops will be joining them,” Cyric said. He sat cross-legged on the altar. “I will be recruiting all their fellow brutes in this area, as well as whatever gnolls and goblins I can gather. Even as we speak, an agent of mine is riling up a flight of white dragons. The wyrms will be attacking the Keep, too, though they don’t know they’re working for me just yet.”

  Zzutam looked genuinely puzzled, which wasn’t surprising since his intellect barely surpassed that of the giants who worshiped him. “What’s this army supposed to do?”

  “Destroy the Keep, of course.” Cyric scowled in consternation. “They will be a manifestation of my unholy wrath. You know—a force meant to teach the yokels not to slack off in their devotions and sacrifices again.”

  “We not fight beside goblins or gnolls,” Thrym said flatly. “They scum. ’Sides, you kill us if we break down the black walls.”

  “I said nothing of the kind,” Cyric rumbled. He leaped to his feet and stepped off the altar. Instantly he was as tall as Thrym. “Well, how did you come to that conclusion, you oaf?”

  The chieftain met Cyric’s flame-red eyes with a level, unwavering gaze. “I had dreams. There were dogs that breathed fire, and they killed us for attacking your city.”

  The Prince of Lies paused, stunned by both the giant’s temerity and the accuracy of his vision. Cyric planned to set the monstrous army against the Keep, but only to galvanize the city’s worship, force them to reach out to him as their savior. The enhanced worship would give him enough power to activate the spell needed to locate Kelemvor Lyonsbane. Then he would destroy the giants and dragons before they scratched a single stone in the Keep’s night-black walls.

  “You’re interpreting the dream wrong,” Cyric lied. “I will lead my hell hounds here if you don’t destroy the city.” He looked meaningfully to Zzutam.

  Enthusiastically the frost creature nodded its great, spiky head. “You will do as the death god asks,” he wheezed. “His word is my word.”

  “Very dramatic,” Cyric said snidely. “Have you been taking lessons from Torm or Tyr? That’s the sort of pompous drivel I’d expect from them.…”

  The death god gestured to Thrym. “I want you under way tonight. The trip will take you a few days, and I want this over with as soon as possible. The rest of the army will fall in with you as you travel.” He drew Godsbane and tapped the kneeling giant on both shoulders. “I dub you General Thrym. Keeping order will be your responsibility—and that means no fighting amongst yourselves, do you understand? For every soldier killed before you reach the city I’ll cut off a part of your flabby, lice-infested body, starting with your fingers and working up in size from there.”

  Thrym did the only thing he could, burdened with a command from Zzutam and the threats of an even more powerful being: he dropped to the floor in an awkward bow, then hurried to gather his meager gear. In less time than it had taken him to kill Gwydion and his companions, the frost giant had packed his belongings and started on the long march south to Zhentil Keep, the rest of his newly formed army in tow.

  After the giants had gone, Zzutam bowed his spiky head subserviently. “Great lord, I fear for my worshipers.”

  “No need to worry,” the death god said. “The fate of the army is already sealed.” He walked to the mouth of the cave and watched the giants trudge through the snow to the plateau’s edge. Their battered helmets and grimy axe heads reflected the pale moon in soft flares of light. “I’ve already begun to send oracles to the diviners in the Keep—even the fakers. As we speak, frantic rumors tell of a monstrous army on the move.”

  “But then the city’s defenders—” The frost elemental exhaled with a sound like wind whistling through a high mountain pass.

  “You can always bully another bunch of stupid beasts into worshiping you,” Cyric offered blandly. “Though why you bother is beyond me. You’re not even a true deity. You don’t get power from their devotion.” He turned back to Zzutam. “I trust you will be wise enough to let events unfold without sticking your icy nose into the matter. I will take any interference from you as a personal affront.”

  The Prince of Lies didn’t need to see the elemental’s weird eyes or hear his murmured acquiescence to know that fear would keep him from saving Thrym and the others. Certain of his victory, the death god withdrew his consciousness from the cave and sent it off to his holy city. The night was young, and thousands upon thousands of sleeping minds awaited the dire news that doom was
stalking Zhentil Keep with the thunderous tread of giants’ boots and the leathery hiss of dragons’ wings.

  * * * * *

  Nightmares plagued everyone within the raven-black walls of Zhentil Keep that evening, though the Night Serpent got no sustenance from them. The following morning, the horrible dreams remained vivid in the minds of every priest, every soldier and beggar and merchant in the city. And those brave enough to describe the terrors that had chilled their sleeping hearts found their neighbors had been visited by the same apocalyptic visions.

  Some diviners and dabblers in the magical arts tried their best to attach a meaning to the dreams; others, like Elusina the Gray, closed off their newly gained magical sight and refused to look into the bleak future at all. In the end, the sages and wizards could only agree that something strange was happening, that some power was sending the city a message from beyond the mortal realms.

  At highsun, in a speech before the gathered hierarchy of the Church of Cyric, Patriarch Xeno Mirrormane translated that message for the people of Zhentil Keep.

  “Our lord and protector is displeased with us,” the high priest shouted at the congregation kneeling before him in the black-floored nave. “We have failed to purge the heretics from our city, even with the help of the master’s inquisitors. The dreams that have haunted us, the revelations uncovered by our mages all tell us that a great army is coming. They are the agents of Cyric’s wrath.”

  Xeno pounded the wooden lectern so hard it cracked beneath the blows. “If we do not accept Cyric into our hearts, if each and every citizen of this holy city does not put his will aside and take on the role Cyric has forged for him, this army will tear down the walls and raze the Keep to the ground.”

  A shout went up in the temple, angry cries demanding the death of all heretics. The patriarch stared out over the crowd with wild eyes, huge with panic and righteous fervor. “Cyric does not doubt that we have served him faithfully. We, his priests—”