The City of Splendors_ A Waterdeep Novel - Ed Greenwood [201]
The two Amalgamation priests started chanting.
As one of them lifted a knife, Mrelder smiled. "Just don't make me lopsided."
The shining blade swept down.
* * * * *
Out of purple agony he swam up into ruby-red pain. Mouthless, he shrieked… eyeless, he wept… voiceless, he prayed-and shot into the light.
Flaming torches overhead, and pain, pain, PAIN.
Mrelder screamed.
A face swam above his, grim and somehow familiar, blotting out torchlight. Cruel fingers forced his jaws apart, pouring gurgling iciness that soothed… soothed…
He sank thankfully away from the pain and the light, sinking into shadows warm and welcome, that-
His head was struck into fresh fire. "Stop that! Rise, Mrelder of the Amalgamation!" The priest slapped him again, and Mrelder found himself blinking up at the torches. His throat was raw, his body ached and, yes, itched despite all the healing potions they'd poured into him… and he was still screaming.
Or, no, the shrieking wasn't his. It was coming from beside him, and weakening into gurgles.
Golskyn of the Gods writhed on his slab, one eye socket empty and weeping, and a raw stump where his nearest arm ought to be.
Mrelder's father was dying, literally drowning in his own blood as he thrashed feebly.
Mrelder looked back up at priests. "How well did it go?"
"Very well. If your grafts remain alive, you've gained your father's fiery eye and his best arm."
That was saying something, considering how many powerful appendages the man who'd called himself Lord Unity had sported. Mrelder glanced down at his new limb, strong-looking and promisingly ruddy. "Well, we'll know soon enough."
"We will indeed." The beastman's voice was flat.
Their eyes met. Both knew that if Mrelder's grafts started to fail, the priests would slay him without hesitation. There was an old saying: Those who smite kings had best slay at first strike…
Mrelder struggled to sit up. Raw fire surged through him, and the only thing that kept him from weeping and vomiting was his body's struggle to decide which to do first-and the awe and respect on the faces of the priests.
With a smile of satisfaction, Mrelder forced himself upright. "To come to Waterdeep was no mistake," he announced to the dozen surviving Amalgamation faithful. He discovered that he was drooling blood but went on anyway. "Even so, Golskyn's deeds have made this city a trap for us now. We'll return here in time, but not before we are ready to triumph. Make ready for the journey back to the temple-cellar in Scornubel."
"And this?" One of the beastmen pointed at the mutilated and dying Golskyn.
Mrelder looked down at the weakly mewing man who'd filled his entire life with terror and pain. "He no longer matters. It's past time to leave him behind."
* * * * *
Mrelder hugged himself against gnawing pain as the lurching wagon creaked and groaned.
He lived, and the spell he'd so carefully prepared burned in his mind like an overwhelming lust.
"Stop the wagons," he ordered, thrusting aside the wagon-flap with his new arm. "This is far enough."
He clambered out and down and walked a little way along the ridge to look back at the distant walls and towers of Waterdeep.
"The City of Splendors," Mrelder murmured, and cast his spell with slow, deliberate care.
"There will come a day when this City of Splendors is mine… and that day will come sooner than any think."
The monstrous priest bowed his head. "Lord," was all he said, but his voice was husky with reverence.
* * * * *
The beast-madness is a powerful spell, and during his time in Waterdeep, Mrelder of the Amalgamation had managed to touch or wound no less than six magists of the Watchful Order.
One of them erupted from quiet spell-study when the sorcerer's words crashed into his mind. He raced out and over a handy parapet, to a wet and bone-shattering death below.
Another whimpered, stopped in mid-stride on a busy street, and then burst into roaring, capering madness. Merchants recoiled from the wild-eyed, foam-mouthed