Prince of Lies - James Lowder [110]
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 theChurchofCyric, 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-"
A terrible grating of stone against stone drowned out Xeno's praise.