Prince of Lies - James Lowder [108]
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 tide, 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 snow-flakes."
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