Prince of Lies - James Lowder [1]
"Torm's heart!" Gwydion gasped, sprinting away at top speed.
The falling goliath seemed to fill the sky, and his shadow engulfed the fleeing man. With surprising agility, the giant bounded once, twice, and finally a third time as he ran down the steep rock face. His iron-shod boots sent boulders cascading around the petrified sell-sword. Billows of powdery snow swirled into the air as the rocks hit the clearing. The carrion crows flapped to a safer vantage, black spots moving in the glittering mist of snow.
As the giant landed, the ground trembled for miles around, and many darksome creatures in theGreatGrayLandsof Thar were shaken from their unquiet slumbers. "You cannot run from Thrym!" the titan bellowed, brandishing a battle-axe adorned with the feathers of griffons and giant eagles.
Gwydion charged across the open ground, heading for the fast-flowing river a few hundred yards away. If he could make the boat they'd secreted there, he might be able to lose Thrym. If not…
Gwydion gritted his teeth and ran.
The clearing sloped away from the cliff, its blanket of new-fallen snow broken only by scattered boulders, clusters of gnarled yew shrubs, and the churned tracks left hours ago by Gwydion and his two fellow treasure-hunters. He stayed in those tracks as much as possible, hoping to avoid the deep drifts and sinkholes hidden beneath the snow. On her way to the giant's lair, Cardea had stumbled into one such hole – a particularly deep fissure. She'd have blamed the sprained ankle for her poor showing against Thrym, Gwydion thought grimly, if she weren't lying in two halves up on the plateau.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Thrym lumbered after him, surrounded by a haze of snow. For every five of Gwydion's steps, the giant took only one. And he was still gaining ground.
By the time Gwydion spotted the fissure that had done Cardea so much harm, he could smell the stench of the uncured hides Thrym wore beneath his breastplate. The sell-sword let his knees buckle beneath him, and he tumbled painfully into the fissure. Then, clutching his bruised ribs, he tried his best to shrink into the hole.
Running too fast to stop quickly, Thrym leaped over the scar. He swung his axe as he passed, but the awkward slash did little more than fan another thin cloud of snow into the air – that and frighten all thoughts of the river and the boat from Gwydion's mind.
As the blade hissed close to the mercenary's face, he saw only the blood coloring the chipped head. The gore's from Cardea and probablyAram, too, Gwydion thought, though he hadn't stayed long enough to witness the old mage's grisly end. The next blow will probably end this sorry adventure and my career as a sword-for-hire.
"Anything, Torm," Gwydion shrieked. "I'll do anything if you let me live to see Cormyr again." The sell-sword's plea to the God of Duty was utterly insincere, as were all the oaths he'd sworn in times of desperation, but it did not go unheard.
Come to me, Gwydion.
No more than a whisper, the words echoed insistently inside his head. Then a warm, flickering light appeared before the man's tearing eyes. It beckoned the sell-sword, wordlessly ordering him to tunnel into the snow that filled the fissure. Gwydion did so without hesitation, without doubting for an instant that some greater power had taken pity on him. Such things weren't uncommon in Faerun, a land where the gods took on mortal avatars from time to time, and miracles were limited only by faith and imagination.
After scraping forward a dwarf's height, Gwydion felt the packed snow beneath him shift.
Go deeper, the voice instructed. The words banished the chill from his trembling limbs and masked the pain in his raw and bleeding hands.
Through the cold blanket overhead came Thrym's bellowed curses. The footsteps were getting close