Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

The echoes of Fzoul's footfalls preceded him into the crypts. When he appeared at the base of the stairs, he showed no signs of having hurried to answer Cyric's call. In fact, from the ceremonial dress he wore, it seemed as if the priest had taken the time to array himself for the meeting. The weird radiance lighting the catacombs made Fzoul's black armor appear slick, like a snake's scales just after it molts. Once the holy symbol of Bane had graced the breastplate. Now it was blank, amidnightsky devoid of stars. Bands of silver plundered from the centaurs ofLethyrForestbound his long red hair in a braid and ringed his drooping mustaches.

Fzoul slid the gloves from his hands one long finger at a time, then folded the dragon-leather gauntlets and slipped them into his belt. "Your Magnificence," he said without reverence or enthusiasm. The priest dropped to one knee and bowed his head, more to hide the look of disdain on his harsh features than to show his submission.

Cyric's cruel laughter filled the crypts. "Your reluctance only makes your worship that much sweeter to savor, Fzoul. I know you hate me. You've hated me ever since I put that arrow in you at the Battle of Shadowdale." He smirked. "Tell me, do the war wounds hurt on Bane's old high holy days?"

Fury flashed like lightning in the priest's eyes. He gritted his teeth to hold back a bitter reply.

That's right, Fzoul. Send silent prayers to every dark power in the universe," Cyric said. The other gods can't bring Bane back, and they'll do nothing against me." The mirth had fled his voice now, and his gaze pierced the priest's soul.

Slowly Fzoul stood. A pall of fear had damped the jagged streaks of anger. "So you have proved, again and again over the last ten winters, Your Magnificence."

To break the tension that had settled over the group, Lord Chess smiled broadly and clapped a hand on Fzoul's shoulder. "Tell me, how go things with the Zhentarim? Have your mages found any trace of Kelemvor Lyonsbane? Damned strange, his soul missing for all these years." He beamed foolishly at Cyric. "Your Magnificence killed him too well, I fear."

Godsbane stirred uneasily against Cyric's thigh. I long to drink the blood of all these prattling apes, the rose-hued sword purred in the god's mind.

The dark smile returned to Cyric's face as the sword shared visions of carnage with him. The Prince of Lies dwelled upon those; Fzoul's precise uninteresting explanation for the Zhentarim's inability to find Kelemvor's soul lodged itself in another part of Cyric's immense consciousness.

The Lord of the Dead didn't particularly trust the Zhentarim. Since the destruction of their immortal patron, Bane, the Black Network had continued to subtly undermine the lawful kingdoms of Faerun by means of spies and assassins. The mages who controlled the group had proved annoyingly loyal to the memory of Bane or, even more infuriating, to the Goddess of Magic. Still, Cyric recognized their usefulness, especially for matters that required the services of talented sorcerers.

"And the oracles can find no trace of Lyonsbane," Fzoul concluded flatly. "If his soul fled your wrath and hides in the realms of the living, some great power is shielding him from our magic."

Cyric frowned. "The same as every report for the past ten years," he rumbled. "Mystra is behind this, or one of her allies. But they won't keep Kelemvor hidden from me forever, not after the Cyrinishad steals their worshipers away, eh Xeno?"

The patriarch cackled madly and lifted the stack of parchment from the table. "You're fortunate, Fzoul. Someone else has given the book its first review — part of it, anyway." He gestured to Bevis with his chin. "We'll put the brand to him and see if he believes it."

"Don't worry, Fzoul," Cyric murmured as he passed close to the priest. "You'll get to read the book next if this little experiment proves successful. That's why I called you here. I want you to be the first to see the error of your ways."

After shaking Bevis awake, Xeno held the hot iron rod against the man's bare feet. The pain sent the illuminator into an agonized swoon. As soon as his mind cleared, the smell of his own charred flesh made the gorge rise in his throat.

"I'm sorry," Bevis choked. "I know I wasn't supposed to read it. B-But once I started, I couldn't stop."

Xeno howled triumphantly. "Couldn't help yourself, you say?" He waved the smoldering iron in front of Bevis's face. "You wouldn't lie about that, would you?"

"No!" the prisoner shrieked. "P-Please. I won't tell anyone what I read. I won't tell them what the book says!"

Rubbing his double chin, Lord Chess scowled and shook his head. "That's not the point at all. We'd really rather you tell everyone."

Bevis looked hopefully into the foppish nobleman's eyes. "Then I will. I'll stand in the streets and shout the story over and over. Look, my daughter used to be a scribe, an excellent one, too. She quit the guild, but I'll get her to help copy the text if you want…"

This is getting us nowhere," Fzoul snapped. He grabbed the red-hot iron from the patriarch. "We want to find out if he believed the book, not if he can be bullied into becoming a town crier for the church."

At a nod from Cyric, Fzoul Chembryl started a long, systematic torture of Bevis. For more than an hour the illuminator endured the pain. He repeated much of what he'd read from the Cyrinishad, word for word. The passages were set into his memory with brilliance un-dimmed by the priest's most ingenious use of his dagger or the hot iron — until they came to the death of Myrkul and the battle atopBlackstaffTower.

"I can't remember that part of the story," Bevis shouted through scorched and bleeding lips.

Xeno frowned. "Don't believe him."

"Of course not," Fzoul snapped. He wiped his sweaty brow with the back of one hand then flicked the salty liquid onto Bevis's flayed cheeks. When the illuminator stopped howling, the priest asked quietly, "Who destroyed Myrkul?"

"It — it was in the other book," Bevis said. "The one about the Time of Troubles I worked on years ago." He began to laugh uncontrollably. "The only book I read from cover to cover, that history was. I thought-"

"The destruction of Myrkul," Cyric prompted impatiently. He unsheathed Godsbane, for some part of him knew the answer before Bevis gave it.

"Midnightkilled Myrkul," the illuminator whispered, rolling his eyes back until the whites showed. "But it hurts to think that now, even though the other book said it was true. And Cyric waited in the tower and ambushedMidnightand Kelemvor and the other one, the scarred priest. And he stabbed Kelemvor in the back and stole the Tablets of Fate. He ran away becauseMidnightwould have-"

The crimson blade pierced the man's side, cutting off his rambling reply. Bevis had time to gasp once as Godsbane drained every drop of blood from him. Then Cyric reached into the corpse and yanked the soul free. Phantasmal and shimmering, the soul seemed to be formed of light, but once he was in the City ofStrife, Bevis would be as corporeal as all the other shades — and as vulnerable to eternal torture.

One hand tight around the soul, the Lord of the Dead turned eyes brimming with hellfire on the three mortals in the crypts. "We will start again three days from now, at sunset," he shouted. "Have a scribe ready in the usual place. Find the one who penned this piece of rubbish-" he pointed Godsbane at the gatherings, and the ink disappeared from the pages "-and add his skin to the parchment for the next volume. I'll send a denizen to collect his body when you're done flaying him."

Xeno dropped to his knees. "But we've no more scribes in the temple," he said, his voice quavering. "We've even used up all the guild members we arrested."

The soul in Cyric's grasp burst into flame. "This one said he had a daughter who could write," the god shouted over Bevis's cries for mercy. "If you have no one left, find her. I'll decide if she's worthy of serving me when I meet her." And with that, the Lord of the Dead vanished.