Prince of Lies - James Lowder [80]
"And the wizardry of an immortal?" Cyric asked. For the first time he seemed genuinely interested in the Wonderbringer's explanation.
"Never been tested, but the same thing should apply."
The Lord of the Dead paused and rubbed his pointed chin. "Jergal, I want you to attack the inquisitor. Engulf his arm."
But, Your Magnificence. All the work-
"Don't worry. If you harm him I won't be angry with you." Cyric leveled a warning finger at Gwydion. "You just stand there. Don't fight back."
Jergal swooped up to Gwydion's outstretched arm, swallowing the limb in the formless darkness that was his body. The seneschal's cloak seemed to devour the arm completely, then a faint glittering shone from the murk. A voiceless moan filled the hall, and Jergal retreated from the inquisitor. The golden gauntlet and brassard gleamed defiantly, unbreached and untarnished.
"Impressive," Cyric murmured. "Any normal shade would have been destroyed by that."
He drew Godsbane and brought the blade hard against the inquisitor's hand.Sparksshot into the air, metal grinding against metal with a terrible keening sound. But when the Lord of the Dead pulled the short sword away, only the slightest scar marred the gauntlet.
"What do you think you're doing?" Gond bellowed. "I didn't build this armor just for you to practice your swordsmanship on it."
"I needed to see if the armor was immune to all magic," Cyric murmured. He stared at the inquisitor, discomfort clear on his demonic features.
"That's what you asked for," Gond grumbled, "powered armor that's nonmagical. That's what you got. Not even Mystra herself could blast this suit – not unless the helmet's off. If someone gets the helmet off, all bets are canceled."
Gingerly the God of Craft ran his fingers along the scarred gauntlet. "Look. If you're worried about him turning against you, don't. The helmet was designed to make him follow your commands. No one can change the orders you gave him unless they get the thing off his head – and if they do that, it'll unbalance the suit." Gond rapped the breastplate with his grimy knuckles. "Then all you've got is a very nice set of plate, but nothing that can withstand a sword like yours."
Cyric nodded vaguely. "So how do I send him on his way?"
"Oh, he's already gearing up to follow your order," Gond said. "He should be on his way to the Keep any time now."
In a way, Gwydion had already leftBoneCastle. His mind was focused entirely on the babel of voices he heard in the streets and houses of Zhentil Keep. When anyone mentioned Cyric or his church, the words rang in the inquisitor's ears. Hundreds of fervent prayers to the Lord of the Dead hummed continuously, punctuated by oaths sworn in Cyric's name. Church scholars debated the nature of the City ofStrifeand the denizens that resided there. In hushed tones, mothers warned their children to do as they were told, else the Prince of Lies would steal them away in the night.
The urge to find a heretic lay curled around Gwydion's heart, a coiled spring pressing him into action. He quickly learned to set aside the prayers of the faithful and the endless scholarly sparring. He focused instead on the mutterings of gin-soaked malcontents and greedy minor clerics. He could almost sense the creeping chill of heresy in their minds. Part of Gwydion, the part controlled by the armor, prayed the heretics would voice their treacherous thoughts. The rest of him railed impotently at the bloody deeds he knew he must commit in Cyric's name…
In a litter-strewn back alley in the Keep's slums, someone ridiculed the Prince of Lies, openly challenged his power.
Wires thrummed with power and precisely pitched tuning forks hummed in the inquisitor's guts. The mechanism tore open the curtain between Hades and the mortal realms. Gwydion took a tentative step forward into the swirling chaos, then another. Soon he was thundering