Prince of Lies - James Lowder [126]
As if in answer to Fzoul's challenge, the first rays of dawn burst through the church windows, the light stained crimson by the services writ large on the glass. At the same moment, golden haloes formed over a few in the crowded temple. The soldiers and merchants and thieves bathed in the warm radiance rose above the throng, suddenly insubstantial. Then, one by one, the ghostly men and women vanished.
Silent explosions of rainbow-hued light marked the passing of the innocents. And from each swirl of color dropped a single, small medallion. Disks of silver and pale redwood, golden medals marked with the scroll of Oghma and the eye-and-gauntlet glyph of Helm. Holy symbols, one for each of the faithful rescued from the doomed city.
On the altar platform, Xeno Mirrormane struggled to his feet. Clutching his side, he staggered forward. "This cannot go… unpunished," he gasped, foam flecking his lips. He drew a dagger from his purple robes.
Laughing, Fzoul swaggered forward. "As Cyric won't answer my challenge, I'll have to send you to Hades with a message for him, old man." In his mind he sent out a call to Mask, promising his devoted worship if the Shadowlord would grant him the power to cast down Cyric's patriarch.
Nothing happened.
"Bastard," Fzoul hissed. He stepped toward Xeno, ready to deal with the high priest without the Shadowlord's aid.
That's when the pillar of flame shattered the temple's roof. The column of writhing fire struck Xeno Mirrormane, and for an instant the patriarch's fleshless bones danced a wild dance of agony in the inferno.
Fzoul fell back, his mustaches and eyebrows singed, his face scorched. He spared the time for one gloating look at the ruined altar, the charred remains of the high priest, before he drew his sword and fell in behind his men. Together they cut a wide, corpse-strewn path to the door and the freedom that lay beyond.
The magical fire spread through Cyric's most holy temple until it engulfed even the stone walls and black marble floor. The priests trampled their brethren as they rushed for the exit, but there were simply too many of them to press through the doors in time. The flames caught the mob before half of the death god's minions had escaped.
The screams from the temple were horrifying, but those who managed to flee the inferno were greeted with far more frightening sounds.
The cold morning air thrummed with the harbingers of Zhentil Keep's doom: the thud of huge, double-bladed axes biting into the city gates and the screech of white dragons tearing the archers from the battlements and toppling the high black stone towers.
XVIII
THE DEAD AND THE QUICK
Wherein the Lord of the Dead tries to shore up
the crumbling ruins of his twin kingdoms,
Gwydion returns to the City of Strife, intent on
winning back his lost honor, and Rinda begins
her new life as Guardian of the Book.
The Prince of Lies sat unmoving at the heart of the void, alone except for his memories of Kelemvor Lyonsbane. Images of the warrior flashed through his consciousness: the young braggart Cyric had rescued from the frost giants in Thar; the boastful sell-sword who'd dragged them both into drunkenness and poverty; the man who'd feigned friendship, only to attempt to steal the Tablets of Fate. The Prince of Lies grew furious at the memories, though they held no more truth than any other corrupted remembrance in the mire that was his mind.
"I'll find you," Cyric whispered. "Then Mystra will pay."
The Lord of the Dead had isolated himself from both his mortal and immortal realms, as the ancient spell had demanded. Now, though, he was finding the seclusion more than a little tedious. Cyric longed to put his dark plans into action, to find Kelemvor's soul and begin his eternity of torture.
The death god fidgeted mentally, and a rush of scattered, unfocused thoughts flashed across his divine intellect. He pushed them away as best he could, irritated suddenly at his worshipers in Zhentil Keep. Wasn't it time yet for their