Prince of Lies - James Lowder [79]
Gwydion's other senses began to take in the chamber, too. The bit crammed in his mouth had a vile, bitter taste, like wine just turning to vinegar. He could feel every bolt, every rivet in the armor, as if they'd always been part of his flesh. Each blow from the Wonderbringer's hammer had left an almost imperceptible mark on the metal, and for a moment Gwydion lost himself in studying each dent. Other sights and sounds and smells flooded in on him: the hiss of Jergal's cape as the seneschal floated to Cyric's side; the warmth from the fires surrounding the Burning Men; the distinctive, fetid odor wafting off the Slith as it meandered just beyond the castle walls…
"It'll take him a bit to get used to the way the helmet boosts what he sees and hears," Gond said. He tossed a wrench to one of the golems, who snatched it out of the air with surprising agility. "So when do you want me to do the other eight for you?"
"Right away," Cyric said. "I've already chosen shades to power the rest of the armor."
Gond frowned and dug his fingers into his barbed wire beard. "Hmmm. This takes a lot of my concentration, to do the fitting right, and I've got other work to get to back in Concordant."
"I need these inquisitors right away," Cyric noted bluntly, then strolled back to his throne. "Mystra has robbed me of magic, and there's an insidious subversive turning my church in Zhentil Keep against me. That city holds my largest collection of worshipers. If I lose them, I won't have the power to control the Realm of the Dead." With sudden fury, he slammed a fist down on the throne. "Do you know what would happen if this place went into revolt and I couldn't put it down?"
Gond shrugged. "No, and I don't much care, either. I told you before, Cyric, it doesn't matter to me what you use the armor for, just so long as it ain't turned against my faithful. Beyond that -" he patted Gwydion on the shoulder "- I just want the world to see that artifice can outdo magic, given the right smith and a good set of raw materials."
"Nine clockwork knights will show off your craft better than one," Cyric replied, ridding himself of his theatrical anger like a snake shedding a dried skin. "Come, Gond. Be reasonable…"
The God of Craft rolled his eyes. "From you that's almost funny," he said then held up a beefy hand to stave off the death god's wrath. "All right. I'll do them all now."
At a nod from Gond, the golems hustled to the eight crates lined up at the other end of the hall and began to unpack them with noisy efficiency. The Wonderbringer turned to Gwydion. "Raise your left arm," he said gruffly.
Though he tried to fight the command, Gwydion felt his body do as the god had ordered. Gond watched the shade's movement with a practiced eye, walking around him to get a better vantage of the armor's performance. "If he can understand spoken commands, he'll be ready to go pretty soon," the Wonderbringer announced. "You can give him his marching orders anytime you want."
"You are to destroy all heretics in Zhentil Keep," Cyric said.
"Not good enough," Gond noted distractedly, gathering his tools for the next operation. "That kind of command'll just confuse him."
"You said he'd do anything I wished," Cyric rumbled. "Are you telling me now he can't?"
I believe you need to define your wishes more precisely, Jergal offered. The shade must be told what you mean by heresy.
Cyric paced to Gwydion's side. "We'll start with the obvious traitors, then," the Prince of Lies said. "You will destroy anyone who speaks out against me or my church within the walls of Zhentil Keep."
"Yeah, that'll do," Gond said. He tinkered