Prince of Lies - James Lowder [124]
"And you're helping us?" Mask said. His voice was shrill, his glowing red eyes wide with amazement. "No offense, but I always had you figured for the charge-the-front-gates-in-broad-daylight sort of strategist."
Torm ignored the Shadowlord, turning once more to Gwydion. "There are laws I am sworn to uphold, and one of them made it clear you could not be welcomed into my domain. I am offering you the sword now so you can prove yourself worthy."
Anger welled up in Gwydion, a blinding fury that overwhelmed his mind. After all he'd been through, all he'd suffered at Cyric's hands, Torm's self-righteousness and his casual dismissal of the pain he'd caused struck some long-dead part of the shade's soul. He snatched the scabbard from Torm, drew the long sword, and lashed out at the God of Duty.
Gwydion didn't see Torm move, didn't hear the sharp retort as the god's gauntlets clapped over the blade. All he saw was the aftermath of his foiled strike. The God of Duty stood before him, Titanslayer trapped between his palms. The sword tip hovered a hairsbreadth from thebridgeofTorm's nose.
"Your honor had been questioned, and you have tried to repay that slight," Torm said calmly. "It is as any true knight would do." He released the blade and pushed it away from his face. "But your real enemy is in Hades. Bring the sword against his minions, Gwydion, and your honor will be restored."
Gwydion stood for a moment, transfixed by Torm's gaze, by the unwavering light of loyalty and truth that radiated from the God of Duty. "I'll try," he said.
Torm nodded. "That's all I can ask."
"The shadows of morning are on their way to Zhentil Keep," Mask crowed, slithering up behind Torm. "Time for our knights to go to war."
The God of Intrigue reached down and pinned two corners of his own shadow to the ground with daggers. He backed up a few steps, stretching the darkness into a wide black pool. "One at a time, please. No pushing in line."
The knights gathered up their helmets, stepped into the shadow, and disappeared one by one. Gwydion was last, and as he entered the darkness, he found Mask at his side.
"A present for you, just to show there's no hard feelings for our little scuffle."
The Shadowlord handed a fat tallow candle to Gwydion. As the knight took the gift, a feral growl rumbled from deep within the wax.
"Don't mind the noises," Mask said. "They're just a side effect of an enchantment Mystra put on the wick. Light the candle as soon as you get the signal to begin the revolt, and it'll release a little creature that should help you deal with Cyric's faithful."
Mask merged with the blackness around him, leaving the shade to fall through the void.
Gwydion considered dropping the candle; he'd been tricked enough times since that day at the giant's cave to instantly mistrust someone like Mask. Still, he was certain the fight for the City ofStrifewould be hard.
As he emerged from the portal, deep within the necropolis, Gwydion slipped the candle into his sword belt. He still doubted the Shadowlord's motives, but he knew that to bring Cyric low they'd need all the weapons they could muster.
* * * * *
Fzoul Chembryl entered the nave of Cyric's main temple, a huge leatherbound tome clutched reverentially to his chest, his features screwed into his best imitation of divine bliss. As always, the temple stank of sour incense and sweaty, unwashed priests. The awful smoke from the pyre of heretics in the courtyard only added to the miasma. Fzoul's mustaches bristled at the smell, but he fought down the urge to wrinkle his nose. To be utterly enamored with Cyric would place him above such mundane concerns. With Xeno and all the other fanatical clerics watching him carefully, he'd need to keep up the show, at least until he got to the altar.
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