Prince of Lies - James Lowder [125]
Xeno Mirrormane finished his sermon with a prayer to the Lord of the Dead, though no one joined him. Only at the close of Fzoul's reading would the city offer up its worship to Cyric. And with that burst of faith, Zhentil Keep would win back the favor of its god. At least, that was how the patriarch had planned things.
With no prelude, no greeting to the high priest, Fzoul took the steps up to the altar and laid the book on the podium there. The six guards followed in his wake. With military precision, they formed a semicircle behind the speaker's platform. Their pikes gleamed in the light of ten thousand votive candles, which formed the altar's backdrop this bitter morning.
"I bring to you a reading from the Cyrinishad," Fzoul began.
All over the city ofZhentil Keep, a ghostly, flickering image of Fzoul Chembryl came to life. The church hierarchy knew that a reading of Cyric's own words by a man recently converted to faith in the death god would prove inspirational, especially in this time of need. With the help of the few wizards who hadn't fled the city, they set a powerful enchantment upon the speaker's platform. When Fzoul addressed the temple, he would be seen and heard by every worshiper within the Keep's high walls.
Fzoul felt a wave of panic wash over him as he considered just where he was, exactly what he was about to do. Blaspheming Cyric was dangerous enough, but in his holiest temple, at the black altar itself? The priest smiled grimly at the boldness of the challenge.
With hands trembling only slightly, Fzoul opened the tome set before him. He flipped past the blank pages set in the binding to make the volume look more impressive, to the few gatherings that made up The True Life.
"'In this, the Year of the Banner, the people of Zhentil Keep lost their true beliefs, and an army of monsters arose out of the wastes to punish them. Little did they suspect that their god had gathered this army together for the sole purpose of terrifying the Zhentish into slavery.'"
At a nod from Fzoul, the guards rapped their pikes against the stone floor. A wall of force sprang up, its borders marked by the rigid polearms. The crimson radiance from the arcane shield colored Fzoul and his faithful soldiers in bloody hues.
"Heresy!" Xeno Mirrormane shrieked. The patriarch leaped to his feet and pounded his fists raw against the transparent magical wall. But neither the high priest's shouts nor the arrows of the temple guards could penetrate the barrier.
Fzoul went on to detail Cyric's twisted plot, how the death god intended to use the Zhentish as pawns, how he cared little if such minor minions were destroyed. The angry shouts in the temple became gasps of astonishment, then murmurs of dissatisfaction. By the time Fzoul's short reading was over, the only cries of dissent came from a few of the more fanatical priests and the rich converts who feared a loss of social status should the church be disgraced. Even the temple guards had dropped their bows.
"His Magnificence will have your soul for this!" Xeno shouted. He pounded the wall with bruised fists. "I'll send you to him myself!"
"Let him through," Fzoul murmured.
The guards rapped their pikes on the floor again, and the arcane wall lowered. Xeno charged forward. The high priest clawed the air wildly as he barreled toward the heretic.
One kick sent Xeno sprawling across the platform, two broken ribs biting into his lungs.
"Where's your god now?" Fzoul shouted. He turned to the packed nave. "Why hasn't Cyric struck me down?" When no bolt of lightning lanced from the heavens, the red-haired priest