Prince of Lies - James Lowder [112]
At some other time, the Zhentish not devoted to the Prince of Lies might have risen up against the tyranny. Now, though, there was more at stake than the ephemeral matter of the Keep's spirituality. Outriders from the city had spotted a vast army of giants and goblins and other wild creatures moving purposefully out of the northern wastes. The mystics knew their visions of doom were coming true as news of the advancing army spread through the city. Others guessed the horde to be the work of some god or goddess intent on turning Cyric's anger with the Keep to his or her advantage. Simple fear silenced the debate in the end; no matter what force drove them on, the giants obviously intended to strike while the city was weak.
The fear blossomed into panic when it became clear that no help from the Keep's outposts was forthcoming. A flight of white dragons had taken up a wide perimeter around the city, slaughtering any caravans or soldiers they encountered. A force of three hundred Zhentilar from the Citadel of the Raven had been wiped out within sight of the Keep's walls. Now, with the giants less than a day away, the wyrms had tightened their ring. From the highest gatehouses you could see them in their patrols, dark specks circling in a cloudless blue sky.
In the twisted alleys and streets of the city, no one could see the wyrms, only the terror they inspired. The frantic haste of the priests as they conducted their bloody rites, the violent skirmishes for what little food remained after the church and the merchant houses had taken their fill, the futile prayers to the Prince of Lies – it all reeked of desperation. To a man, the Zhentish had the look of wild animals, wounded and cornered by a royal hunt.
As she passed the weathered facade of the Serpent's Eye, Rinda noticed three of the Keep's more openly feral denizens: soldiers lurking in the tavern's shadowy doorway. The swaggering arrogance in their movements as they stepped toward her, the predatory glints in their eyes, told Rinda the Zhentilar were on press-gang duty. The straight razors and pitch-soaked ropes in their hands meant they were collecting parts of young women for the Second Service.
"Don't bother," the scribe said coldly. She flipped her cloak back, revealing the black leather armband that marked her as a protected servant of the church.
Two of the Zhentilar turned away. The remaining soldier – a young woman with a jagged scar running from the corner of her mouth to her ear – snarled at Rinda. "One o' Xeno's whores." She spit on the ground then joined her fellows in the shadows of the doorway.
The scribe didn't bother to correct the woman, merely hurried on toward her home. Despite herself, she said a silent thanks to Cyric for giving her the armband; it had saved her life more than once in the past three days.
Rinda was forced to step aside as a horse-drawn cart clattered into the alley. The wagon rumbled to a stop a few doors up from hers, and the driver dropped to the cobbles where a corpse lay in the gutter. It was Johul the fletcher, Rinda realized, a wave of sadness washing over her. The fletcher's clothes had been shredded in some terrible brawl. One of his hands dangled, almost severed at the wrist. The H gouged into his bloated face declared his crime and the reason for his death: heresy.
"Not likely," the scribe muttered. Once, before Cyric's church took total control of the city, she'd heard the fletcher say he wouldn't have been able to tell the gods apart if they all sat down at the Serpent's Eye to dice with him. He would have worshiped whatever deity his customers favored, for all that it mattered to him.
Rinda glanced at the window above the fletcher's workshop, only to find Johul's son watching the corpse