Prince of Lies - James Lowder [55]
Mystra called forth a sphere of prismatic energy to shield her from the next attack. No sooner had the globe formed than Godsbane slammed against it. The force of the blow alone sent cracks snaking along the twinkling, spinning globe.
Cyric kicked the shield. "One for you," Mystra heard him mutter just before he disappeared again.
The Goddess of Magic took quick stock of her wounds. They were serious, but she could heal them given a moment to concentrate. And then she would-
Cyric loomed over the sphere, gigantic and menacing. He lifted the magical globe in one hand and brought it up to his red-rimmed eyes. "What will happen if I eat this, I wonder?"
Glittering energy leaking from a half-dozen wounds, Mystra looked up at the Prince of Lies. He was right: in Pandemonium, he had the advantage. The chaos made him strong, but Cyric's real weapon was his unpredictability. "The other gods will stand with me," Mystra said bitterly, then disappeared, fleeing to her palace in Nirvana.
"So what?" Cyric said. He watched the prismatic sphere drip through his fingers like water then let the chaos winds wear away his gigantic facade until he stood no taller than he had when but a mortal.
The Circle fears the Chaos Hound almost as much as it fears you, my love, Godsbane offered. Her purring voice was thick, drunk on the goddess's lifeforce. We must be cautious.
"Caution is for those who cannot see the future," Cyric noted as he walked casually to the curtain. "And my future contains only what I will it to hold."
Two fist-sized gaps marred the glowing prison wall where Mystra had torn away the mystic energy. They were small wounds, but large enough for Cyric to exploit. "You see," the Lord of the Dead said mockingly. "Just as I had planned. The Whore opened wide the gates for me."
He lashed out with Godsbane, tearing the rents wider. The shriek of the blade as it split the damaged curtain filled the tunnel and echoed throughout the dark realm of Pandemonium. The babel made its way through the endless, windswept tunnels, and creatures more malefic than any in the nightmares of men or elves or dwarves cowered in terror. They knew that, after millennia untold, a madman had come to free the Chaos Hound.
VIII
HOUNDS AND HARES
Wherein Cyric makes a perilous bargain with
the Chaos Hound, Mystra discovers a strange
visitor in the House of Knowledge, and a
long-dead, but much-discussed hero
finally makes his entrance.
As he stepped through the ragged hole in the wall, Cyric entered a place both silent and dark. The howling winds and the baleful moaning, so deafening in the caverns beyond, did not reach into the dank chamber. The sorcerous curtain cast no radiance here. Even the light that should have crept in through the hole was damped somehow.
There is still time to reconsider this, Godsbane hissed in Cyric's mind. The blade now shone dim and sickly in the darkness, though Mystra's lifeforce had made her burn like a blood-red sun in the tunnels.
The Prince of Lies ignored the simpering sword and called into the fetid murk: "I am Cyric, Lord of the Dead and God of Strife. I am here to bind you to my service, Kezef."
A low, rumbling growl was the only reply.
"Come, come," Cyric chided, taking a bold step forward. "I mean to release you."
"No god of Faerun would loose the Chaos Hound of his own free will." The inhuman voice was low and full of malevolence. "So you must be no god."
"If you lavish godhood on the pretenders who chained you here, then you're right. I'm no god," Cyric countered snidely. "I'm very much more than that."
The growl rolled through the darkness again, carrying the stale, nauseating smell of putrefaction. "Lord of the Dead, you say? What of Myrkul?"
Cyric laughed. "The old Lord of Bones is no more. I killed him, and many of his brethren, too." He took another step. "Bane and Bhaal and Leira are all destroyed