Realms of Infamy - James Lowder [136]
"Yes, Sir Hamnet," the hawk-nosed man said. "The Shattered Mirror. You came here for an audience. Now you have it."
The nobleman turned slowly, knowing it would be futile to flee. He found the taproom and its patrons transformed. Bones and grinning skulls had replaced the wooden walls and offal-smeared floor. Instead of gin-soaked toughs, denizens and fiends filled the hall. They stood in silent array, the court of Hades in all its terrible splendor. Some gripped razor-edged halberds. Others had only their horns and fangs and claws for weapons, though they were surely enough to rend any man's soul from his flesh.
And in the center of this ghastly host sat the hawk-nosed man. His myriad names flashed through Sir Hamnet's mind-the Lord of the Dead, the Dark Sun, Master of Strife, the Prince of Lies.
Cyric.
He was robed in darkness, the kind that shrouds the hearts of liars and infidels. The weasel curled affectionately around his neck, a living collar to that shirt of shadow. Pages of other gods' holy books soled his boots, and the remains of false martyrs formed his throne. Free of grime, free of scars, Cyric's countenance glowed with hideous glee. Even as Sir Hamnet watched, fingers sprouted to replace the missing digits on his left hand. He flexed the restored hand and caressed the pommel of the rose-red short sword lying across his lap.
"Well, old gent?" Cyric prompted. "Do you have something to ask?"
Sir Hamnet cast his gaze down. "As a son of House Hawklin and a member in good standing of the Society of Stalwart Adventurers, I claim the rights of safe conduct and-"
"Has anyone here raised a talon against you? No. So you've obviously been granted safety." The death god sighed with impatience. "Aren't you going to return my courtesy?"
"C-Courtesy?"
"I've dropped my facade. Are you going to do the same?" Cyric watched Sir Hamnet's face for some sign of recognition, but none came. There was only the typical pall of fear and awe. "Shall I let the weasel explain it to you again? I thought he'd summed it up nicely before, but maybe he should have another go."
At Hawklin's stammering reply, Cyric pounded the arm of his throne. "The facade of the great hero, the great explorer!" he shrieked in a voice like an orchestra of untuned violins. "You didn't lift a blade in defense of your companions at the Hill of Lost Souls. You ran as the first goblins entered the camp-just as you've run from every danger you've ever faced! As my sinuous friend said earlier, you were the only weasel on the hill that day."
The Lord of the Dead closed his eyes and collected himself. "Now," he continued more calmly, "I don't brand you a coward. I'd label your actions-" He paused and looked up, as if the proper word floated just over his head.
"Self-preservation," the weasel on his shoulder rasped.
"Exactly," Cyric chimed. He stroked the beast's bloody muzzle affectionately before turning back to Sir Hamnet. "I applaud someone smart enough to preserve his own life, but I take exception to your imperfect guise of resolute honesty and stout-hearted courage. You haven't convinced yourself that you're a hero, not deep down. So don't insult me by hiding behind a flawed mask and expecting me not to notice it's cracked."
"It's not a mask," Hawklin murmured dazedly. "My books. My maps. The Stalwarts respect all that I've done." He voice grew stronger, his words more certain. "They know the truth…"
Cyric clapped slowly, facetiously. "Not embarrassingly bad, but I've seen you do better cheating your way out of a bar bill at the club."
"Seen me do better? You've been watching me?"
"No more than any other liar."
Hawklin's bushy white brows knit over his dark eyes. "This was a trap! You charged that monster Uther with luring me here, tempting me to search this place out!"
An amused murmur rippled through the assembled court of Hades.
"I hardly need to employ imitation fiends like Uther when I have the endless