Prince of Lies - James Lowder [30]
"O mighty Cyric, judge of the dead, master of the damned, hear me! I have glorious news from your most holy of churches in Zhentil Keep."
When Cyric focused on the prayer, the visage of Xeno Mirrormane appeared before his mind's eye. The high priest's silver hair was wild around his glowing face. His eyes shone with a mad happiness. "Yes, Mirrormane," Cyric replied flatly.
"O great Prince of Lies, the priests of Leira have news," Xeno burbled. He smiled like a drunkard happily lost in his bottle. "Lord Chess himself led their vigil – under my supervision, of course – and they had a most magnificent vision, a most-"
"Get on with it," Cyric snapped.
"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," Xeno said. "The priests have divined that his soul is in the City ofStrifesomewhere."
"Where in the city?"
They cannot tell exactly. Some power still tries to block their magic."
Cyric withdrew his consciousness from his faithful priest and focused once again on his throne room in Hades. His voice tight with excitement, he shouted for his denizens. They would scour every inch of the city, burn down every structure if need be. Kelemvor could not escape; no one left the Realm of the Dead without Cyric's permission. If he was trapped there somehow, all that remained was to flush him out of hiding.
As he formulated his plans for the search, the Lord of the Dead cursed Mystra again for robbing him of magic. But then another thought presented itself fleetingly. Mystra was the one who'd been hiding Kelemvor all along, masking his presence within Cyric's own realm since she had no way to rescue him. The death god had no doubt of that. But now that she was expending so much power to guard the weave, she'd missed the prying magic of Cyric's new followers. The Prince of Lies smiled. That had the ring of truth to it…
Cyric's mind spun away, embellishing the plot he'd just created. He was soon certain there could be no other explanation for Kelemvor's elusiveness. But now Mystra had let her guard slip, and Cyric would have his revenge. He imagined a thousand new tortures to be played out on Kelemvor's soul. The fantasies stretched across his mind like a web shimmering silver in the swirling darkness.
* * * * *
"Stop your whining, Perdix," Af grumbled. "I'm climbing as fast as I can."
The wolf-headed denizen pushed himself past another level in the Wall of the Faithless. He climbed slowly, planting spider legs between the rows of writhing souls that made up the wall then pulling his long, serpentine coils up the steep face. "I don't see why you needed my help, anyway," Af grunted.
Perdix hovered just out of striking range, wings beating furiously against the fetid air. "You've never had to get someone out of the wall before, have you?" he puffed. "Tsk. You should know it'll take at least the two of us. After all, you built the thing single-handed didn't you?"
"I never said that!" Af shouted over the agonized moan emanating from the wall. "Don't be so facetious, or I'll club you one. You need -" With his human hand, Af clamped the mouth of the nearest shade closed. The souls of the Faithless cried out continually; that's why the wall had been built with the souls facing into the City ofStrife, so that, in their torment, the unquiet spirits could serenade the Lord of the Dead. "Damn whiners," Af said bitterly. "Worse than living downstairs from a banshee."
"I knew a banshee once," Perdix said wistfully. "Lovely lass, but you're right, they are a bit hard on the ears." He scanned the wall with his single blue eye. "Almost there, Af. Just two or three more levels – well, possibly ten, but that would be the most."
After passing thirty rows of souls, Af reached the spot where they had left Gwydion the Quick. Like the Faithless stacked around him, the sell-sword twisted and cried out.