Prince of Lies - James Lowder [11]
"Wait a minute," Gwydion sputtered. "What about Cardea or Eri? I loved-"
You believed in the gods of Faerun, but worshiped them only in times of danger. You named the Fool your patron, but displayed neither great courage nor any loyalty to his causes throughout the last years of your lifetime.
Cyric yawned. "Your deeds have branded you one of the False," the Lord of the Dead said without thought. "No god will accept you into his paradise, so you are my ward. As such-"
Gwydion leaped to his feet. "I died fighting for Torm! He must-"
The name of the God of Duty had barely left the shade's lips when a short sword pierced his throat. Gwydion hung, impaled on Cyric's blade, twitching and coughing. A chill unlike any the shade had felt in life or death spread from the wound, leaching his very essence. The short sword pulsed, and its blade darkened slowly from pale red to deep crimson.
The Lord of the Dead turned cold eyes on Af and Perdix. "Someone should have informed him I alone may repeat the name of another god in the City ofStrife."
"We – we did, Your Magnificence," Perdix said. "But he thinks there's been some sort of mistake. He claims someone tricked him and-"
"Everyone thinks there's been a mistake when they end up here," Cyric noted. "You two will share this one's punishment for a time, just so you'll be more diligent in preparing the shades to meet me in the future." He slipped his sword from Gwydion's throat and let the shade drop to the floor.
"Thank you, Your Magnificence," Af said. Both the denizens prostrated themselves before their master.
"As for a fate… We haven't sent Dendar any souls recently, right, Jergal?"
The Night Serpent would be glad for your generosity, the seneschal agreed. She has not tasted the marrow of a fresh soul in quite a long time.
Cyric slouched back into his chair. "Then it's decided. Take the shade to Dendar."
As Jergal scratched notes with careful, precise strokes of the pen, the denizens grabbed Gwydion. The shade, though weakened by the abuse, fought them. He gasped something at Cyric, but the words wheezed from his punctured throat like steam from a hot kettle.
The untempered astonishment in Gwydion's eyes caught Cyric's attention. The Lord of the Dead gestured, and the shade's wounds healed instantly. "You recognize me?" he asked, idly striking the chair's leg with his sword.
Gwydion pointed to the blood-red blade. "It was you," he gasped. "You came to me in… than you pretended to be-"
The Fool, Jergal prompted. Each god has a name more appropriate to his or her stature in our realm. The God of Duty is known here as the Fool.
"You pretended to be… the Fool," Gwydion said. Speaking the blasphemous name made him wince. "Why? Just to trick me into throwing myself at the giant like a lunatic?"
"Exactly so," came a deep, booming voice from the doorway to the library. "That is just the sort of petty amusement Cyric makes for himself."
Jergal, Gwydion, and the denizens spun around to find a massive figure standing before them. His ancient armor was stained dusky purple, with elbow and knee cops wrought of dragon bones. Light glinted like stars on his breastplate, even in the badly lit library. He radiated power, stern and unforgiving.
"Oh no," Perdix whispered. "Not him. Not now."
Torm the True strode toward Cyric. His armor clanked as he walked, the sharp sounds echoing off the walls like distant cannonades. At Gwydion's side Torm stopped and removed his helmet. The shade had never seen such a perfectly handsome young warrior. The light of righteousness flashed in his blue eyes. Unwavering courage set his square jaw.
"Release this soul," Torm ordered. "You drew him into your realm through illusions and perfidy. You cut short his life through deception."
The Lord of the Dead sat back in his chair and scowled. "Oh, come now, Torm. You didn't journey all the way to Hades for this worm. You have bigger giants to slay – isn't that how the expression goes amongst your Tormites?"
"Tormish," the God of Duty corrected stiffly. "And Gwydion's fate