Prince of Lies - James Lowder [146]
The room revealed little about the old Sembian merchant, save that he was very rich and very ill. The bed was carved from the finest Chultan teak, the gossamer drapes sewn from imported Shou silks. What he'd paid for the blankets alone could feed and clothe a poor family for the winter. Still, all that wealth hadn't kept him healthy – despite the potions and salves and tinctures he'd purchased during his long life. For years he'd fought against the withering disease that corrupted his frail form, grasped for every second of life like a miser reaching for gold. Now, though, the return on the effort of living had become too small.
With shaking hands the merchant raised the poison to his lips and choked it down. The sickly sweet concoction burned down his throat. Warmth spread from his stomach to his chest, dulling the pain for but an instant. Then the poison clamped down on his lungs and squeezed the breath from him. It should be over quickly, he reminded himself, but it wasn't. For hours the poison coursed through his body, killing him over and over…
In a little-visited tower, far to the north of Waterdeep, a man lay strapped to a table. The skin was gone from his right hand, flayed from his fingers so expertly that it retained its shape – a gruesome, bloody glove. Other atrocities had been visited upon the man, as well. The loss of blood alone should have killed him long ago, but for some strange reason, life clung to him.
His torturer – a drow from House Duskryn of Menzoberranzan – thought himself too experienced in the ways of pain to be surprised by anything. Yet as he heated a set of long thin needles, he wondered at the thrill this unusual victim had afforded him.
"A gift from the gods," the drow murmured contentedly.
He never knew how right he was.
* * * * *
Kelemvor Lyonsbane stood atop the diamond wall surroundingBoneCastle, flanked by Jergal and Gwydion. Gathered before him on the banks of the River Slith and the rubble-strewn plain beyond were the assembled hosts of Hades, the denizens and the damned alike. Despair hung upon the backs of Cyric's minions, for they had felt their god's defeat in their black hearts. And though the denizens had surrendered soon after their lord vanished, the victorious shades had bound them like slaves.
"The tyrant is overthrown," Kelemvor shouted. "And with his defeat ends the reign of injustice."
He held aloft both halves of the sundered blade that had been his prison. The red sky gave the cold, lifeless metal just a hint of the rosy hue that had once tinted it. "In this shell I was held captive for ten long years, a pawn of the gods." With the shattered hilt he drew a wide arc over the crowd, gesturing toward the ruined city and the Wall of the Faithless. "In this shell, some of you have been held captive for ten times my decade of suffering. You've been tortured at the whims of lunatics like Cyric and, before him, Myrkul. Your suffering has been the stuff of their entertainment. No more."
A deafening roar went up from the crowd. The damned souls raised their spears and clubs to the sky and shouted out Kelemvor's name.
"Jergal tells me the gods gather at the city gates, awaiting permission to enter," Kel announced once the shouting had died down. "Only you can grant them that privilege, for you are the kings and queens of this place."
"Let 'em wait!" a shade cried. "They left us here to rot. I say we give 'em back some of their own while we got the chance!"
Jergal hovered close to Kelemvor, his bulging eyes devoid of expression. The mortal realms feel the pain of this delay, not the gods, the seneschal murmured. His voice was as cold as a winter lake. The dying cannot be freed from their suffering, since their souls have nowhere