Prince of Lies - James Lowder [145]
Yet the giant passed by Renaldo's hiding place without ever looking down. The titan stepped right over two of the other Zhentilar, as well, huddled as they were beneath an overturned cart in the middle of the alley. Whistling a tuneless victory song, he hurried out of the narrow street. His thundering tread shook the ground as he lumbered onto the boulevard beyond.
Sighing with relief, Renaldo crept from the gambling stall and started across the cobbles. The rest of the patrol followed his lead, sliding out from their hiding places and moving toward the shelter of the abandoned row houses. They'd rest there for a while, settle on a definite escape route.
Renaldo was in the middle of the alley, as far from cover as he could possibly be, when the first of the gnolls rounded the corner. At least twenty of them followed the scout, perhaps as many as thirty. Their tall, muscular frames were covered in armor pillaged from the Zhentilar's own barracks. Their canine snouts jutted out from helmets designed for human features.
"Fire!" the gnoll commander barked in surprisingly good Common. The order was wasted, though; the bestial soldiers had already drawn their bows. Howling like wolves, they let loose a volley of black-fletched arrows.
Renaldo felt the arrow pierce his throat, turning the command he'd mustered there into an unintelligible gurgle of pain. His order would have been wasted, too, however. Since the Zhentilar had no bows, the only thing they could do was run for the safety of the row houses and try to sneak away before the beasts called for reinforcements.
As he fell, clutching at the offending shaft, Renaldo noted dimly that none of his troops gave him a second look as they scrambled for cover. The lieutenant wasn't surprised; he'd left two dozen men to die in similar ambushes during the morning. That realization didn't prevent him from bitterly hoping the rest of the company met a truly horrible end.
Renaldo hit the ground hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful burst. As the arrow snapped beneath his weight, icy daggers of pain exploded out from the shaft, almost as if it were probing for some vital lifeline to sever. Renaldo's shoulders spasmed, and his fingers came away from his throat slick with blood.
The street swayed before his eyes, the cobbles rocked beneath him like a hammock, but the soldier found himself clinging to consciousness. Perhaps the wound isn't fatal, he told himself, even though he knew this shouldn't be true.
With trembling arms, Renaldo pushed himself to his knees. He saw then that the gnolls had closed, circled around him like a pack of hungry wolves. One of them raised its bow and fired.
Renaldo watched the arrow fly toward him, moving with preternatural slowness. He felt the steel head pierce his leather breastplate and bite into his chest. The blow knocked him backward, arms clutching helplessly at the air. As he lay there, the blood soaking into the padded doublet he wore beneath his armor, Renaldo could tell that the arrow had broken three ribs, that it had buried itself in his heart. And still he lived, still his soul refused to abandon its pain-wracked mortal shell.
The truth of it was, Renaldo's soul had nowhere to go. The Realm of the Dead had no master. No lord ruled over the City ofStrife. With Cyric's defeat, men and women all across Faerun found themselves beyond death's cold grasp. For some this proved to be a blessing beyond compare. For most, it was a nightmare beyond belief.
In thedesertofAnauroch, a young explorer crawled on hands and knees across the dreaded expanse known as At'ar's Looking Glass. Her camel was dead, her