Prince of Lies - James Lowder [143]
The pantheon must have given Kel some power, the death god decided. Mystra and the others must be animating him with their might, just like one of the Gearsmith's mechanical men. The shade couldn't harm me otherwise.
The voices in Cyric's head murmured their agreement: Better to flee such a direct battle. Strike from the shadows until your strength returns, until you discover what strange spell Mystra has placed on you to dampen your strength.
Kelemvor gripped the hilt of Godsbane and started toward Cyric again. "This'll do to cut out your black heart. That'll be my trophy. The rest I'll leave for these poor souls."
With the broken blade, Kel gestured to the Burning Men. The scribes crawled with painful slowness toward the death god. They moaned and clutched the air with sizzling fingers as they dragged their agony-stiffened bodies across the throne room.
Cyric backed away from Kelemvor, toward the center of the room. He kicked one of the Burning Men out of his way and ducked the awkward lunge of another. "I'm a god, Lyonsbane. And if I killed you when I was mortal, think of the agony I can put you through now."
"So why are you running?" Kelemvor murmured.
Cyric didn't answer. He attempted to focus his mind on teleporting away from Hades, but too many things were drawing his consciousness away from the enchantment. The voices in his head had become a chorus of discord offering five dozen opinions on even the slightest matter. And there were his faithful all across Faerun, of course, invoking the death god's name to resolve every petty conflict in their lives. InBoneCastle, Cyric could hear the sound of battle ringing out in the antechamber and the soft tread of Kelemvor's boots as he stalked closer.
Beware, Your Magnificence, Jergal cried from outside the throne room. The damned have broken into the castle!
The Prince of Lies abandoned the enchantment. Obviously Mystra was denying him access to the weave, or hobbling his ability to concentrate on magic. As he turned toward the door, Cyric silently vowed to gouge out her blue-white eyes when next they met.
A shade blocked the doorway, a mystic blade sparking starlight in his hands.
"I am called the True because I value loyalty above all else." Gwydion leveled the point of Titanslayer at Cyric's heart. "I am called the Brave because I will face any danger to prove my respect of duty."
"Fool," the Prince of Lies muttered.
He took a step toward Gwydion, but got no farther before a fierce pain shot up his leg. One of the Burning Men had locked his fiery hands around Cyric's ankle, and no matter how hard the death god kicked him, he would not release his hold. Another of the scribes wrapped searing arms around Cyric's neck and hung over his back like a cloak.
Screaming, the Prince of Lies spun around. He managed to shake the soul loose from his neck, and, for an instant, it seemed that Cyric might escape the scribes. As the death god stumbled forward, though, Kelemvor drove the sharp-edged stump of Godsbane into his gut and kicked him backward into the arms of the Burning Men.
"Your faithful await," Kel said as the scribes swarmed over their tormentor.
The flames that tortured each of the Burning Men were unique, created to anguish their souls endlessly without diminishing them; as more and more of the scribes threw themselves onto the pyre, the fires mingled, grew white-hot and wonder-bright. The heat from the inferno drove Kelemvor back and forced Gwydion to shield his eyes. So it was that the Burning Men were freed of their torment, released from suffering by their brethren's flames.
When the pyre died down, Kelemvor used Godsbane to sift through the ashes. Cyric was gone.
"Destroyed?" Gwydion asked hopefully.
"All the fires in Hades couldn't burn Cyric from the world. He's like a