Prince of Lies - James Lowder [78]
The clockwork smiths had almost finished girding the shade in the golden, god-forged armor. They levered him from the table, forcing him to his feet. Gwydion wobbled unsteadily until the largest of the golems supported him with unyielding arms of iron. Even then, the weight and size of the new body disoriented the shade. He was at least half-again as tall as he'd been, with a body bulky enough to belong to an ogre.
The armor appeared at first glance to be nothing more than an exquisitely crafted set of oversized field plate, though it was far more than that. The breastplate was engraved with thousands of tiny grinning skulls, each rictus face surrounded by a dark sun scored into the metal with acid. Thick spikes coated with poison jutted from elbow – and knee – cops, and razors tipped the sollerets on the shade's feet. Both gauntlets bristled with dozens of tiny, barbed hooks meant to bite into the heretics the inquisitor would grapple. No straps or buckles held the armor in place; each piece was anchored to Gwydion's new metal skeleton.
"The helmet's the most intricate part," Gond said, stepping up onto the table. He lifted the bevor, taking care to position the needles over the eyelets he'd driven into the shade's throat. "To keep it secure, we'll need to hammer this bit into his mouth. It's going to make talking kind of tough."
Cyric leaned forward, mildly engaged by the transformation taking place before him. "As long as he can manage 'die, heretic' I'll be satisfied," the death god said facetiously.
Your Magnificence, Jergal began, hovering closer to the gruesome throne. There is the matter of the final sentencing…
"More formalities," Cyric hissed. "All right. Get it over with."
The seneschal unrolled a long sheet of parchment. Know you, Gwydion, son of Gareth the blacksmith that you have been found guilty of high treason against the rightful lord ofBoneCastleand ruler of the City ofStrife. You are hereby sentenced to serve said lord for eternity as a holy inquisitor.
"Sentenced?" Gond scoffed. "He should be privileged to wear this armor. I forged it with my own hands!"
"I'm certain he'd thank you if you hadn't jammed that bit into his mouth," Cyric murmured. "Now, can we just get this over with? My inquisitor has business to attend to in Zhentil Keep."
Gond lowered the bevor over Gwydion's head, guiding the quills into his neck. He anchored the lower half of the helm to the bit in the shade's mouth then took up the rest of the headpiece. Like the bevor, the upper part of the helm was lined with needles.
The long slivers of metal slipped into Gwydion's skull, and he felt his consciousness being drawn back into his hulking new body. He tried to resist, but it was as if the needles had opened a maelstrom below him. He spiraled down into a place of absolute darkness. Suddenly, cold metal walls loomed on every side. They closed in, pinning his arms to his side and crippling his legs. A scream died in his throat, impaled on pins of gold.
For a time Gwydion knew nothing but that terrible paralysis. Then a burst of light shattered the darkness around him. He opened his eyes and looked out on Cyric's throne room.
The shadows from the Burning Men danced along the walls, playing over the trophies hung carelessly about the room. Gwydion could see each individual bone in Cyric's throne, each perfectly tooled plate of purest silver or bronze on Gond's clockwork smiths. The Prince of Lies and the Wonderbringer stood before him, a strange look of pride on both their faces, though for very different reasons. For the first time the shade noticed that their human forms were facades, like costumes worn at a fancy dress ball. Power lurked in their unblinking eyes, radiated from them with every subtle movement. Their tangible forms were nothing more than puppets, no more living than carved husks of wood.
Gwydion could smell the gods' power, like the charge in the air before a violent storm. Other odors washed over him then – the stale