Prince of Lies - James Lowder [122]
Not everyone in the courtyard shared the shade's wonder at his surroundings.
"Go pester someone else, blast you!" Gond shouted.
The God of Craft waved a greasy spanner around his head, but the sprites swarming there easily avoided the clumsy swipes. As soon as the Wonderbringer turned back to his work on Gwydion's armor, they moved close again. The sprites tugged at Gond's hair and fluttered around the clockwork golems assisting him, dropping daisy chains around their blocky heads. They danced in a circle around the other eight shades whom Cyric had imprisoned in the inquisitor armor.
"Good thing I'm almost done," the Wonderbringer muttered into his barbed wire beard. "Otherwise I'd set up a swatter to keep you pests away."
A sprite hovered just over Gond's pate, silently mocking the burly god. Gwydion couldn't help but laugh as the tiny spirit screwed a scowl onto its sweet face and curled its gossamer wings into a particularly good imitation of the Wonderbringer's hunched shoulders.
"What's so damned funny?" Gond snapped, his iron-gray eyes sparking like steel on flint.
"Laughter is not as unusual in my realm as it is in some others," Mystra interrupted, shooing away the sprites with one subtle gesture. "I thank you again for your assistance, Wonderbringer. You prove there are things better left to the hammers of your smiths than the spells of my faithful."
Gond grunted. "If you didn't realize that, I wouldn't be here," he muttered. He never looked up from his task, his eyes focused on the rivets holding Gwydion's knee cops in place. "Glad you didn't try to dismantle these suits yourself, though. You would've damaged 'em for sure. Like you said, the workmanship's too good to be wasted…"
"And we will put it to good use," Mask said, appearing suddenly at Gwydion's side.
"I didn't care what Cyric used 'em for," Gond said as he stood. "I don't care what you use 'em for." He tossed the spanner over his shoulder to one of his golems. "Pack it up, boys. We're done."
The Wonderbringer turned abruptly for the gate, pausing to acknowledge neither Mystra's polite thanks nor Mask's snide remarks about the mechanical lover Gond had created, if certain myths were to be believed. Gwydion watched the God of Craft trudge away. A half-dozen clockwork servants clanked along in his wake, boxes of tools and stray pieces of armor in their viselike hands. Just why the Wonderbringer bothered walking to the gate at all puzzled the shade, and the confusion showed on his face.
"It's his way of slighting magic," Mystra said in reply to the unasked question. "By walking out rather than plane shifting, he's proving he values physical labor over sorcery."
Mask chuckled. "He'll shift quick as he's out of sight, though. Some time you ought to follow him. The old crank would walk all the way back to Concordant just to spite you."
"And where would that leave the two of us?" Mystra replied coldly. "Gond would be home, and I'd have walked all that way for nothing."
The Lord of Shadows shook his head. "I thought you'd have learned something from me by now," he said, the words slithering from his lips. "Ah well. I suppose it's time we sent the troops off on their merry way."
Gwydion suppressed a shudder at the thought of returning to the Realm of the Dead. He could almost hear the screaming, taste the bitter smoke that filled the air.
"No one will force you to go," Mystra said.
"I'll be all right," Gwydion said thickly. His teeth and tongue had healed quite a bit since Gond had removed the bit from his mouth, but he still found it difficult to form some words.
Mask sidled up to the shade. "You've got nothing to be afraid of, you know. This armor makes you a match for just about anybody."
Long and silver and tipped with venom, a knife appeared