Prince of Lies - James Lowder [144]
XX
LORD OF THE DEAD
Wherein the effects of Cyric's absence are felt
throughout the mortal realms, Gwydion the
Quick lives up to his name once more, and
BoneCastlegets a new tenant.
Renaldo led what was left of the company into the alley. For most of the morning, ever since the giants and goblins and gnolls had stormed through the shattered western gates, they'd been avoiding the monsters. Hopes of mounting a counterattack had slipped away quickly, undermined by each slaughtered Zhentilar they found, victims of the treacherous orcs who'd sided with the reavers or the savage mobs of gnolls now stalking the streets. The sewers beneath the city were no safer. The goblins had taken up residence there, along with the darksome things that usually dwelled in the murky depths – giant rats, carrion crawlers, and the floating blobs of flesh called beholders.
All Renaldo and his dozen troops hoped for now was a way to slink out of the city unnoticed. They would have settled for a place to rest, to bandage their wounds and gulp down whatever food they could find. Surprisingly, this narrow street of crippled cobbles showed a little promise.
To one side, a row of cramped houses slouched together like drunken sailors at muster. To the other, marble columns towered overhead. They marked a silent perimeter around the high piles of rubble that had once been the walls of an arena. Wooden skeletons of stalls and tents huddled between the columns. Gamblers had held court here, and moneylenders; the bloody games staged in the arena had given them a livelihood as profitable as any in the Keep.
As he crept past one gutted flashhouse, Renaldo paused a moment to revel in its destruction. He owed the better part of a year's salary to the sharp who ran this place.
"Hsst. Lieutenant."
Renaldo started at the sound, but didn't turn around. With the field promotion only a few hours old, he still thought of himself as a sergeant.
"Something's moving, Lieutenant. In the arena."
The warning got through to him that time, but by then he'd heard the noises, too: low grunting and the slap of leather on stone. Something large was moving in there, struggling for purchase on the steeply angled rows of seats that led up from the sandy arena floor.
Renaldo signaled the soldiers skulking along behind him then slipped into the ruined flashhouse. Through the doorway he watched the rest of the company scatter. A few found dark niches across the alley. Most crouched under convenient piles of debris. They gripped their swords with hands trembling from fear and exhaustion and cold.
A quick survey of his surroundings told the lieutenant he'd chosen his hiding place poorly. The building's walls were sound, but a huge hole gaped in the roof. Worse still, there was nothing in the room big enough to hide beneath. The tables and chairs had been hacked up, the larger pieces hauled away by the gnolls and orcs to build bonfires.
Renaldo considered making a dash for the dilapidated buildings across the alley, but the hiss of shifting rubble pinned him in place. He crouched next to the door, glancing up through the breached roof. Puffs of steam rose over the arena wall, each followed by a grunt of effort.
A giant struggled to the top of the ruined arena. The titan was large, even for his kind, and the blood matting his beard was obviously not his own. Dents marred his horned helmet and breastplate, damage done by siege engines. He'd knotted tents and tapestries together to fashion himself a motley cloak. Trophies of gold and silver-candelabras, mugs, and serving dishes – hung on a chain around one wrist. The trinkets jangled noisily as the giant hefted his real prizes, the limp corpses of two bulls, and balanced them upon his shoulders. The giant twisted his blue-tinged face into a mask of gleeful triumph and galloped down the rubble heap into the alley.
Renaldo held his breath as the giant lumbered closer. The titan had to squeeze sideways to fit between the arena's columns, and he absently kicked