Prince of Lies - James Lowder [123]
"See," the Shadowlord purred. "Quite impressive."
The second blade left the slightest of cuts on its way across Gwydion's throat. The shade grabbed at Mask's other hand, but was far too slow.
The Shadowlord slithered out of Gwydion's grasp. "But don't be overconfident. You're no good to us with your head rolling around on the ground."
"Enough games," Mystra said. "It's almost dawn at Zhentil Keep."
"Ah yes," Mask said brightly. He gestured to the other armored shades. "Hades awaits."
Gwydion and his fellows formed a ragged line. Together they resembled the figures from some children's storybook romance, shining knights ready to embark upon a heroic quest. Gond had scoured away Cyric's foul holy symbols, removed the hooks and razors from the armor. That didn't make the knights less intimidating, though. They still stood as tall as ogres, even without their great horned helmets.
"Remember," Mystra said, coming to stand before the gathered knights. "Your task is to stir up the False and free the Faithless from the wall."
"Pardon, milady," Gwydion ventured, "but it'd be best to leave the Faithless where they are until the battle's over. They'll be too weak to fight right after they get free."
"The voice of experience?" Mask asked snidely. "Or were you a general in your mortal days?"
Gwydion frowned. "I was only a grunt in the Purple Dragons – but yes, I spent time in the wall."
Mystra cut in before Mask could reply. "Then we shall heed your advice, Gwydion. Focus your attentions on rallying the False. Strike against their jailors, and they'll rise up to support you."
When Mask spoke next, all the shades were startled to find the Patron of Thieves standing right in front of them. It was as if he'd stepped out of their own shadows. "We have a spy within Cyric's house, and she's been priming the mob with thoughts of revolt. You only need strike the spark. The oil has already been poured upon the tinder." He glanced at the Goddess of Magic. "It's time we gird them for battle, don't you think?"
The Lady of Mysteries spread her hands wide, and a sword appeared in the air before each of the knights. Blue fire limned the blades. "These weapons will serve you well, even against the beasts that call Cyric master."
As one, the knights reached out to take the swords, but Gwydion's vanished before he could grasp the hilt.
"I was hoping you would accept a blade from me," said a deep, booming voice.
Torm the True strode forward, a bejeweled scabbard in his hands. "This is the blade of Alban Onire, a weapon called Titanslayer by some. I have taken it from the holy knight's final resting place. Once you were deceived with visions of this blade. It would be just for you to wield it against the deceiver." Slowly the God of Duty held the scabbarded sword out to Gwydion.
The shade paused. "No," he said. "If you couldn't rescue me from the City ofStrife, the weapon is not for me."
"A fine choice, Gwydion," Mask whispered. "Never trust a man who says he can be trusted. Cyric taught me that. The Prince of Lies has a fine understanding of many things, and the truth behind Truth is one of them."
Torm frowned. "Praising Cyric, Mask? If you didn't lust after his kingdom, I'd wonder whose side you were on."
The Shadowlord slid behind Mystra and hissed in her ear, "You left your gates open to the other gods when we're mustering a rebel army?"
"I've told you before, my kingdom is always open to Cyric's foes," Mystra said.
"Especially in times of war," Torm added. He smiled at the Lady of Mysteries, the twinkle in his blue eyes almost mischievous. "But you look surprised to see me. Come, come. You're sending one who would be my knight off to battle my enemy's minions. You can't expect me to just stand aside and watch."
"How did you know?" Mystra asked.
"I am called Torm the True for a reason, Lady. What