Prince of Lies - James Lowder [138]
"Release the night-terrors that belong to the denizens defendingBoneCastle," Gwydion said. "That will be the quickest way to end this war."
"A quick way to seed the realm for a different sort of madness, too," the Night Serpent hissed. "The denizens do not share your valor, spiritling. They will surely lose their minds if they're confronted with the nightmares from their mortal lives."
"And if the terrors aren't their own?"
"Then the denizens will be ridden by fear until they drop," Dendar said, a sick glee in her voice.
Gwydion sheathed Titanslayer. "That will be weapon enough," he said. "But for Cyric, the nightmare must be his and his alone."
"No," Dendar replied, shrinking back into the gloom of the cavern. "It's rare I get such morsels, and I'll not give up Cyric's nightmare without a fight. Even if I can't harm you, Gwydion, your allies may not prove to be as invincible." She sniggered. "Besides, the revolt is so close to the prince's nightmare that he'll never know the difference. All you need is Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and he's – well, that's something you'll find out soon enough."
The Night Serpent opened her mouth wide, dislocating her hinged jaw, and a horde of night-terrors swarmed out. The haunts swirled silently around Gwydion as he bowed to Dendar. "You have my word, the gods will be fair to you hereafter, no matter who reigns in this hellish place."
"Your promise carries more weight than you might suspect," Dendar said, her eyes pale yellow in the murk. "I will hold you to it nonetheless."
As he turned away, it occurred to Gwydion that this next battle might be his last – facing the death god and his most powerful servants, without even the god-forged armor to protect him. The notion was fleeting, quickly driven back by his powerful sense of duty. Gwydion was afraid – only fools and lunatics entered a fight completely without fear – but that emotion no longer controlled him.
Surrounded by silent, phantasmal nightmares, Gwydion ran – but this time he headed toward the battle.
* * * * *
Kelemvor Lyonsbane struggled through a waist-deep mire of black ooze. The foul-smelling stuff reminded him of Arabel's garbage heaps on a hot summer's day. He shook his head at that notion. There's your reward for years of work as a sell-sword, he noted with more than a little bitterness. You can identify at least a half-dozen cities in Faerun by the stink of their garbage.
"Godsbane!" he shouted, then staggered to a stop. He cupped both hands around his mouth. "Godsbane! No more games, damn it. Show yourself!"
The rose-hued mist continued to swirl overhead, lowering in patches to the mire, but the spirit of the sword remained hidden.
The creeping muck had filled the sword for hours now. At first Kelemvor had thought it just another torment visited on him by Godsbane, but that thought vanished when the mire reached his chest and showed no signs of leveling off. Soon after, Kel abandoned the confines of his meticulously constructed cell in search of higher ground; if the sword had been toying with him, that concession alone would have brought a declaration of victory from her. But the mire deepened, swallowing even the few dry spots Kel discovered on the endless plains. Now the ooze covered everything, deeper in some places, but sticky and rancid throughout.
A horrible moan filled the sky. The sudden noise startled Kelemvor, and he dropped into a familiar battle crouch. The stance was purely reflexive, like the flick of his wrist as he reached for a sword that wasn't there. It annoyed the shade a little, being controlled by his training as a soldier-for-hire, but he shrugged the thought aside when the ragged, screaming souls began to appear overhead.
"Another battle," Kel murmured.
He gritted his teeth at the pain he saw in their ravaged faces, heard in their tormented cries. There were no denizens in this