Prince of Lies - James Lowder [17]
The crypts had once held the honored dead of Bane – priests and warriors and accomplished statesmen who had dedicated their lives to the former God of Strife. After the Time of Troubles, when Cyric had taken Bane's mantle, he directed his minions to plunder the places sacred to the Black Lord. They defaced the beautiful marble statues and tombs before they smashed them to rubble. The remains of Bane's faithful they dumped unceremoniously into the River Tesh.
TheChurchofCyrichad yet to create enough of their own martyrs to fill the now-desolate crypts, so the space was used for other purposes. A group of church assassins had taken to meditating amidst the rats and spiders and more chilling creatures that stalked the dark catacombs. Apart from them, and the few church wizards who conducted secret experiments in the crypts, the expanse of vaults and chambers remained empty. They wound unused beneath the vast complex of temples and monasteries dedicated to the Prince of Lies.
Cyric paced uneasily across the ragged indentation where a marker had once graced the floor. Perhaps I should let Xeno enshrine the scribes who labored on the early versions of the Cyrinishad, he mused. That would fill this place up soon enough. I might even give the scribes' bodies back, if the clerics wish to bury what's left of them.
The Prince of Lies closed his eyes and listened. The unending shrieks of the men and women who had penned the failed tomes filled his ears, even from their place of fiery imprisonment in the throne room ofBoneCastle…
A jarring clatter chased the wails of the damned from Cyric's consciousness. He glanced back at the others; Xeno had dropped the iron into a brazier for reheating. The thought of entombing the patriarch with his murdered brother flashed through the death god's mind – pleasant repayment for this incessant shrieking and fidgeting – but amusement quickly drowned Cyric's annoyance.
Cyric had taken on a physical avatar for this visit to Zhentil Keep, something he'd seldom done since becoming a god. He preferred instead to haunt the dreams of his worshipers as a bloody wraith or manifest as a cloud of poisonous smoke before his enemies. He'd forgotten what it was like to perceive the world through senses easily plagued by distractions. The strange feeling was pleasant, in a nostalgic way, and it softened his dark mood just a little.
The echoes of Fzoul's footfalls preceded him into the crypts. When he appeared at the base of the stairs, he showed no signs of having hurried to answer Cyric's call. In fact, from the ceremonial dress he wore, it seemed as if the priest had taken the time to array himself for the meeting. The weird radiance lighting the catacombs made Fzoul's black armor appear slick, like a snake's scales just after it molts. Once the holy symbol of Bane had graced the breastplate. Now it was blank, amidnightsky devoid of stars. Bands of silver plundered from the centaurs ofLethyrForestbound his long red hair in a braid and ringed his drooping mustaches.
Fzoul slid the gloves from his hands one long finger at a time, then folded the dragon-leather gauntlets and slipped them into his belt. "Your Magnificence," he said without reverence or enthusiasm. The priest dropped to one knee and bowed his head, more to hide the look of disdain on his harsh features than to show his submission.
Cyric's cruel laughter filled the crypts. "Your reluctance only makes your worship that much sweeter to savor, Fzoul. I know you hate me. You've hated me ever since I put that arrow in you at the Battle of Shadowdale." He smirked. "Tell me, do the war wounds hurt on Bane's old high holy days?"
Fury flashed like lightning in the priest's eyes. He gritted his teeth to hold back a bitter reply.
That's right, Fzoul. Send silent prayers to every dark power in the universe," Cyric said. The other gods can't bring Bane back, and they'll do nothing against me." The mirth