Prince of Lies - James Lowder [67]
As dawn spread warm and rosy across the horizon, events were taking place upon the tower's flat, circular roof that would lead to new tales and wild rumors. A spell far beyond the skill of Khelben – and most mortal wizards – masked the eerie flashes of light and shouted incantations emanating from the high vantage. The powerful, complicated wards Khelben had set upon the tower offered no hint of the dangerous intruder's presence. Unaware, the archmage pored over a musty tome of forgotten lore in his library.
Even if Khelben had shaken off the enchantment and stumbled upon the mysterious stranger, he wouldn't have believed his eyes. Most well-traveled people in Faerun could recognize Lord Chess at a glance; the foppish ruler of Zhentil Keep had a penchant for getting his likeness printed on everything from customs stamps to sheet music. If a trade good originated in, or merely passed through, the city he ruled, an image of Chess could be found on it somewhere, smiling inanely over a thick double chin.
Yet it truly was Lord Chess who sat unobserved atop Khelben's tower, drawing arcane runes upon four wyvern skulls. When that task was completed, the nobleman set the leering bones at the points of the compass graven carefully into the roof. Finally, Chess stood and folded beefy hands over his paunch.
"W – Will you let me go now, please?" he mumbled. "It's almost finished. Just as the parchment instructed."
Of course not, Chess, a smooth voice murmured in his mind. I need the help of a mortal to snare this beast. You'll be free when the battle's won.
Driven by the arcane presence possessing him, Chess walked to the center of the roof, his steps stuttering and tentative. There he rechecked the three thick candles set in a small half-circle. Yes, they were still lit, still facing the trapdoor that led up from the interior. He took a small jar of spider blood and drew a rune that had been ancient long before the fabled city ofMyth Drannorfell, long before Waterdeep had been a minor trading post at the edge of the frozen North. His hand trembled as he completed the rune, but not enough to spoil its grace or its effectiveness.
There. That wasn't so hard, was it?
"I'm afraid," Chess whined. "If Cyric finds out-"
You prayed someone would take revenge on Cyric for killing Leira, Chess. I heard you. And now, after I answer your prayers and give you the chance to help, all you can tell me is that you're afraid?
"But I am afraid. If I die, Cyric will have my soul." Chess dropped to his knees, his fine silk breeches coming perilously close to marring the circle around the rune. He brought his hands up to cover his face and wept. "Then he'll know. He'll look at me and know I betrayed him."
I'll take your soul into my domain, the voice soothed. Cyric won't find you there, not unless I let him…
Lord Chess was not a brave man, but neither was he stupid. He recognized the threat in those words; it was too late to turn back now. "What do I do next?"
Take out the parchment and repeat the last phrase.
Wiping away his tears, Chess withdrew the glowing sheet of moonlight from his billowing sleeve and read the final verse of the enchantment:
"A mortal kills the candle first.
A god's breath slakes the second's thirst.
A traitor's blood to drown the last.
The web of intrigue now is cast."
The parchment fell apart, slipping like moonbeams through Chess's fingers. The radiance from the sundered page settled over the skulls and the candles. After a moment the light faded, and with it disappeared the weird compass burned into the boards.
"That third part still bothers me," Chess murmured "Why blood?"
Because the spell says so, the voice replied. You have that dirk I gave you. All you need to do is prick your thumb. A little blood will do…
"He comesss," the wyvern skull to the south croaked. "The Chaosss Hound comesss from the sssouth."
Finished not a moment