Prince of Lies - James Lowder [128]
"If Cyric's run away from the fight, at least let one of us use the blasted sword," a goat-headed denizen bleated. He bowed his horned head low, threatening to charge the seneschal.
Jergal held his ground. He hovered defiantly between the mob and Cyric's throne, his cloak billowing around him like a dark angel's wings. When any of the denizens got too close, he swirled his cape over their grasping hands. The darkness that was his body swallowed the creatures' limbs, devoured the hands and arms greedily, leaving only seared stumps behind.
Furious at the violent confusion before him, Cyric lashed out. At a wave of his hand, a black globe appeared at the room's center. Inky tentacles slipped from the orb, curled around the rioting creatures, and drew them screaming into the Abyss. Their shouts echoed from the globe as it shrank to a pinpoint of darkness then vanished. For a moment, only the soft moans of the Burning Men could be heard in the hall.
Cyric reached for Godsbane, but a momentary wave of dizziness overcame him. He dropped the sword and fell back against his gruesome throne. "Explain yourself, Godsbane," the death god hissed as he pushed himself back to his feet. "Why wasn't I told about the attack on the Keep?"
The spirit of the sword may not be able to answer, Your Magnificence, Jergal murmured, his cold voice ringing through the death god's mind. Someone has struck a killing blow against her. Perhaps the Whore used her sorcery to-
"The pantheon planned this," Cyric rumbled. "They crippled Godsbane so she couldn't tell me the Keep was under siege." Gently he lifted the blade from the floor and cradled it in his palms. The sword pulsed with a faint pink glow.
My love, Godsbane whispered. I failed you…
"They've not beaten us yet," the Prince of Lies said. "Jergal, muster the denizens, unleash the hell hounds. We'll drive the dragons and the giants from Zhentil Keep. I'll lead the charge myself."
This realm needs your valor first, my liege, the seneschal replied. The denizens you just banished-
"Yes, yes. Part of another petty uprising, no doubt," Cyric scoffed. "I'll deal with them after I've slaughtered the creatures storming my holy city. Now be quick about gathering up a suitable force, Jergal, or I'll use your yellow blood to give Godsbane back a little life."
The denizens had no part in a revolt. They came here seeking your protection. Jergal bowed his head. This time the souls of the False and the Faithless rise up against you, Magnificence – and they are led by the dead men you imprisoned in the Gearsmith's unholy armor.
* * * * *
The City ofStrifewas burning. Blankets of flame wrapped themselves around the weird, ten-story structures that dominated the city's skyline. Thick clouds of soot wafted over the fields of rubble, blinding everything that came in contact with them. The River Slith bubbled and steamed in the furnace-hot air.
Atop a huge pile of debris, Gwydion the Quick faced a dozen skeletons wielding razor-bladed pikes. The skulls of fifty of their kind, the broken shafts and twisted blades of an equal number of weapons, lay heaped before the undead soldiers, urging caution. Though he appeared too heavily armored to move quickly, the knight had proved time and again that his plate mail was far less encumbering than it might seem. And so the skeletons advanced slowly up the slanted mound of bricks and riven metal. Their prudence didn't help them in the least.
One skeleton, braver or more foolhardy than the rest, stabbed at Gwydion with its pike. The armored shade sheared the blade off the pole with a single stroke of Titanslayer then lunged forward to shatter the soldier's rib cage. The shattered bones tumbled back down the hill, clattering like stones rolling off a tin roof.
The other warriors took their fellow's sacrifice as a signal to strike. Yet the Gond-forged armor turned aside the pikes as if they were blunted wooden toys. Gwydion whirled around, bringing the enchanted blade