Prince of Lies - James Lowder [3]
When Gwydion merely bowed his head in shame, Torm continued. "You came to Thar seeking the treasure of the frost giants, but you have discovered the only reward they offer to greedy fools is a quick death. For your allies it is too late. For you, there is still a chance, still a way for you to regain your honor."
"Anything, Your Holiness," Gwydion said. Tears of contrition streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to his feet.
"Then behold the final resting place of Alban Onire, Holy Knight of Duty, known in his day as a foe of all evil giants."
Torm floated to one side, revealing a handsome young man lying in state upon a stone bier. He was clad in armor much like the god's. The plate mail looked newly polished. The smell of fresh oil came from the armor's straps and the leather belt holding the gem-encrusted scabbard.
Gwydion licked his lips nervously. "I've heard stories of Alban Onire, but -" He glanced at the sparkling armor, the peaceful expression on the corpse's features. "But he died centuries ago."
"This place has been made holy in honor of Alban's great deeds," Torm said. He, too, turned to gaze on the fallen knight. "His soul is at rest, but his body will not return to dust until someone worthy comes forward to take his place as bane to giants and dragons." Slowly he held a hand out to Gwydion. "Once you were blessed in my sight. You can be again, but only if you shake off your cowardice and take up the burden of Alban's legacy."
The sell-sword tried futilely to keep his surprise from his face. At first he couldn't imagine why Torm would choose him. His mind raced, searching for some reason for this great honor. He'd fought bravely as a Purple Dragon, facing death a dozen times on the crusade alone. Perhaps that was enough. Stories of other blessed warriors flooded his mind, tales of men and women empowered by the gods to be their agents in Faerun. It didn't take long for those visions of glory to overwhelm his doubts. "Lord, I am not worthy," Gwydion said, though he was now certain he deserved whatever honors Torm might heap upon him. He solemnly fell to one knee in a show of humility.
Torm gestured with his own rose-hued short sword. "Rise, heir to Alban's greatness, and claim your blade. Some bards call it Titanslayer, and with good reason. No giant may harm you so long as you wield this sword. One touch of its enchanted steel will topple the mightiest titan. Use it well."
Gwydion moved to the edge of the bier, lifted the scabbard, and drew the sword. The weapon was weighted perfectly, its grip solid and reassuring in his hand. He slashed the air. The blade moved like an extension of his arm or even his very soul. He smiled and held Titanslayer up so he could watch the light dance up and down the keen edges of the silver-white blade. With this sword, he could carve a wide place for himself – for Torm, he corrected hastily – in the history of Faerun.
"Thank you, O holiest -" He swallowed the remaining words and looked around in shock.
Torm was gone. So was the body of Alban Onire. Gwydion stood alone in a small dark cavern, the only light in the place coming from the chute to the surface. He reached out with chill fingers for the bier, finding a rough outcropping of stone that held a few ancient bones and some rusted pieces of armor. I've allowed Alban to go to his rest at last, the mercenary thought proudly.
He gripped the sword and, feeling reassured by its weight, strode to the chute. A circle of dim light marked the top-sunlight, the sell-sword realized with a start that The God of Duty and the sharp blade of Titanslayer had captivated him far longer than he'd imagined.
Bracing his legs against one wall, his back against the other, Gwydion struggled up the incline. Trickles of water slicked the stone, making the climb perilous. He slipped twice. Both times the accident sent him back a few feet before he managed to stop his descent. Once, Titanslayer