Prince of Lies - James Lowder [2]
"Ha! You think you can fool me with an old trick like this?" Thrym mocked. His voice was as cold as the icicles hanging from his dirty blond beard.
Gwydion looked up at the giant. Thrym's iron boots stood like prison walls to either side of the fissure. Legs clad in motley furs led up to a battered breastplate that had once been the front door of a Vaasan palace. The giant's face, three stories above Gwydion, was mostly hidden by his unkempt beard and huge helmet, but his blue eyes glittered through the tangle. Those eyes narrowed as Thrym lifted the axe high above his head.
Have no fear, the voice purred in Gwydion's mind. I have heard your plea.
The snow beneath the sell-sword fell away. With a shout of surprise, Gwydion slipped into the hole and careened down a worn chute of marble. Above him, the giant's axe struck the ground, sending a shower of snow and dirt clattering down the chute after him.
Gwydion tumbled and slid just long enough to right himself. No sooner had he done that than the chute deposited him into a small, man-made chamber. He sat there for a time, stunned, bloodied, covered with dirt and dripping wet from the snow. He noticed none of those discomforts. Neither did he hear Thrym's shouted promises of horrible tortures, dire rites of pain, and suffering perfected by frost giant shamans over the centuries.
"It is your duty to bow before your god."
It took a moment for the command to seep through the mist of fear and awe floating over Gwydion's thoughts. Then he blinked, mouthed a wordless prayer, and dropped his forehead to the smooth marble floor. The god let Gwydion stay in that uncomfortable position for quite a long time.
"You may look upon me, Gwydion," the god said at last, and the sell-sword meekly raised his head.
It took some time for Gwydion's eyes to adjust to the wonder-bright radiance filling the chamber, but when they did, he saw that the stranger was tall, at least twice the height of a man. Waves of power, of steel-fisted authority, radiated from the armored figure like heat from a raging fire. He held up a gauntleted hand, and Gwydion's wounds were healed. Fear and confusion fled the sell-sword's mind as divine knowledge engulfed him. A cool clarity of thought settled over Gwydion, and this new understanding trumpeted one seemingly undeniable fact until it shook the core of his being: He was in the presence of Torm the True, God of Duty, Patron of Loyalty. Of that Gwydion had no doubt.
Torm's ornate armor, more ancient than any preserved in Faerun, was hued dusky purple, mirroring the customs of the greatest warriors dedicated to his cause. Spikes carved from the bones of the first evil dragon slam in his name jutted from the cops at his elbows and knees. Points of light scintillated like a thousand tiny stars on the twilight canvas of his breastplate. Eyes like twin suns shone from Torm's helmet as he held a rose-red short sword toward Gwydion, point leveled at his chest. The blade pulsed with the rhythm of a beating heart.
"Men call me Torm the True because I value loyalty above all else. They call me Torm the Brave because I will face any danger to prove my respect of duty." The god touched the sell-sword's shoulder with the rosy blade. "Any who would call himself my follower must do the same."
"Of c-course, Your H-H-Holiness," Gwydion stammered. A frisson of fear tingled down his spine. "I understand."
"Once you understood," Torm said flatly. "But you have strayed far from the path of obedience and duty."
The words echoed from the god's helmet like a ghastly warning sent from inside a coffin.
"When you fought under King Azoun's banner, you knew honor. You did me great glory in your battles against the Tuigan barbarians and shone as a true knight of my church. But then you left