Prince of Lies - James Lowder [4]
Finally he scrambled out of the chute, into the fissure that had first sheltered him from Thrym. Gwydion felt fatigued from the long climb, but anticipation of the fight to come gave him renewed strength. He peered out of the rocky scar and spotted his foe.
Thrym lazed against the cliff, dozing in the early morning sunshine. The few crows left in the clearing hopped along his arms and legs, feeding on the insects in his filthy clothing. A mouse peeked out from under the giant's breastplate, causing a flurry of activity. The crows darted after the rodent, but Thrym started awake at the hungry cawing. He swatted at the birds, and they scattered into the sky. Only when Thrym's rumbling snores once again shook the yew shrubs and drowned out the murmuring river did the crows land and renew their feast.
"In the name of Torm, stand and face me!"
Slowly the giant opened his ice-blue eyes and stared down at the little man standing before him. After a moment, he rubbed his entire face with one beefy hand. When Thrym looked again, much to his surprise, the thief was still there.
"It is my duty as a knight of Torm to allow you the chance to surrender," Gwydion said.
The giant lurched to his feet, and the sell-sword had to fight the urge to flee back to the hole in the ground. Instead, Gwydion tapped the long-unused well of his courage. He felt the cold waters of resolve still his trembling soul, douse the ember of panic burning in his breast
"I should warn you," Gwydion announced grandly, "I wield Titanslayer, bane of all evil giants. You cannot harm me while I have this sword." He held the weapon high, marveling at how the sunlight played off the blade.
Thrym narrowed his eyes in confusion. He reached for his axe, which lay against the cliff like a toppled tree, and hefted it to strike. "Mad as a tarrasque," he muttered and brought the axe down.
Gwydion saw his sword arm hit the ground an instant before he felt the giant's axe cleave his shoulder. The limb convulsed, and the fingers released the long, blackened bone they held so desperately. There was no Titanslayer, no gift from the gods. Then the pain shrieked through the sell-sword's chest, along with the dim realization that he was lying in the snow, covered in his own blood.
"Torm," Gwydion whispered as the giant brought his axe down for the killing blow.
I
LIFE UNDERGROUND
Wherein an unexpected journey leads Gwydion
the Quick to the maker of his doom, and the
mighty Torm dutifully attempts a defense
of the dead man's honor.
Fervent voices filled the air. Cries of joy, hopeful whispers, and murmurs thick with a desperate longing for salvation merged to become a blanket of sound over the Fugue Plain. The tangled weave of voices held a certain weird power, soothing in its constancy, exciting in its boundless optimism. Such were the prayers of the recently dead.
"Silvanus, mighty Oak Father! Gather me into the great circle of trees that is the heart of your home in Concordant!"
"We are the Morninglord's children, born again into his eternal care. Let us rise, Lathander, like the sun in spring dawning, to renew our spirits at your side!"
"O Mystra, divine Lady of Mysteries, this servant of your great church asks humbly to be shown the secrets of magic, to be taken into the weave of sorcerous power that enfolds the world!"
In the clear sky over the endless, chalk-white plain, a burst of light announced the arrival of a god's herald. The hulking, golemlike creature was a marut, carved from a block of onyx as large as any castle in Cormyr, ensorceled to do the bidding of its divine creator. It hovered above the throng and studied the assembled souls with a pair of eyes that burned like sapphires in its round, stony face. Wide plates of armor and intricately carved bands of hammered