Prince of Lies - James Lowder [70]
The Lord of the Dead hunched down in his throne. Twisting the moonlight parchment in his bony fingers, he studied the severed head resting awkwardly on the floor before him. Much of the fat had been burned away from the face, but it had obviously belonged to Lord Chess. Kezef had done the gruesome damage with his corrosive breath; it didn't take a master sage to figure that out. The real question was, why had Chess been involved in the treachery and which god – or gods – had orchestrated the capture of the Chaos Hound? The spell on the parchment was powerful enough to imprison the beast, but only a deity would be strong enough to hold Kezef while Chess extinguished the candles.
"Well," Cyric murmured to the severed head, "what do you have to say for yourself?"
Chess opened his eyes and stared blankly at the tips of the death god's boots. A thick, bubbling wail burbled from lips seared by acid, sticky with blood. "I have nothing to tell you, murderer of Leira."
Cyric leaned forward to study the ravaged face. He punctuated his next question by rapping the rolled parchment into his palm with each word. "Who's pulling your strings, puppet?"
"I cannot say."
"Cannot or will not?"
A pause, then Chess replied, "The difference between the two is academic, at least as far as you're concerned. You'll get no more from me about the matter."
"You grow bold now that you're dead. Where's that foppishness the world found so revolting?"
"Burned away with my flesh and flown with my fear of dying," Chess murmured. "And since you know not where I am, no new fears can claim me."
Muttering bitter maledictions, the Prince of Lies slouched back in his throne. "Perhaps there are other creatures like Kezef in the planes, things that can track the dead. Then I'll personally deliver virgin fears to you, you simpering lackey."
"Indeed. There may be trackers like the Chaos Hound -" Chess would have shrugged had his head still been attached to his shoulders "- but my protector has thousands of candles to trap them in."
"I can summon your consciousness like this whenever I wish." Cyric leaped from the throne and placed his foot atop the severed head. "I'll keep your mind anchored in my throne room and demand you entertain me. You'll be my jester."
Chess laughed, a sickening, liquid sound. "My protector asks me to remind you of something: Your talons do not reach as far as you'd like to think. Kelemvor's soul is hidden from you. Placing another beyond your grasp would be a simple enough matter."
Fury twisting his features, Cyric kicked the head the length of the throne room. The dead man's laughter echoed through the cavernous hall, rising over the moans and whimpers of the Burning Men like a ship riding high upon a swell in a wine-dark sea. The Prince of Lies stalked back and forth in front of his throne. He knit his fingers together tightly before him, the long nails digging furrows in the backs of his hands. Glittering, godly energy ran from the wounds like blood.
Jergal took the moonlight parchment from the throne and floated swiftly to the other end of the chamber. He folded the glowing sheet then stuffed it into Chess's mouth. Cyric was still pacing like a caged beast when the seneschal returned from silencing the severed head. Your Magnificence, Jergal asked, bowing low, would you like me to take a message to any in the pantheon, warning them of your anger?
"I'll show the bite of my anger with action, not waste its venom on some polished missive to the Circle," Cyric The Lord of the Dead stomped a few more steps, then stood rigid. "Since my ascension, there have been many powers moving against me. Mystra wants revenge for Kelemvor's death. Oghma wishes to prevent the Cyrinishad from obscuring what he sees as true knowledge. The faithful of Bane and Myrkul and Bhaal – and now Leira – want to reverse the sands in the hourglass and resurrect their foolish, fallen gods…