Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

In fact, much of the hall had been dedicated to displaying badges of other gods' shame. Cyric had meant these trophies to unnerve the deities when they visited, but in his isolation, they served only to remind the Lord of the Dead how easily worship could be twisted.

The greatest symbol of that truth was Cyric's throne itself. The Prince of Lies had built the hulking, grotesque chair from the bones of men and women who died mistakenly believing themselves saints — a worshiper of Chauntea who slit his wrists thinking his blood would make the crops grow faster; a druid devoted to Eldath who drowned everyone who wandered near a certain secluded pool because they upset the peace of the place; a knight of Torm who tortured anyone he caught in even the most insignificant lie…

As he approached his throne once more, Cyric stopped and stood absolutely still. Amongst the other relics was the hand of a Gondish ironsmith. The man had bled to death after lopping off his left arm in hopes of replacing it with a mechanical limb built from blueprints he'd dreamed the night before. As his lifeblood drained away, the smith raved about an army of unstoppable mechanical warriors, men in living Gondish armor greater than any artifact wrought by magic. The idea of Gond's machines making Mystra's weave superfluous was near to Cyric's black heart, and one he had discussed many times with Mask.

"Greater than magic," Cyric whispered. "Of course."

The Prince of Lies smiled and gestured to Jergal. "Pen and parchment," he said impatiently. He took the items that appeared in the seneschal's gloved hands and scribbled a lengthy note. "Take this to Gond," he told the phantasmal creature when he'd finished. "No one else is to know of this message. Make it clear to the Gearsmith this is so. Tell him I'll pay whatever price he asks, but the consignment is to be kept secret. See that the emissaries are killed before you go, but keep one of the arquebuses. That will be answer enough for the Shadowlord."

Bowing deeply, Jergal took the parchment and backed away, keeping his bulging yellow eyes fixed on the floor until he reached the doors.

The Shadowlord is a worthy Lord of Intrigue, Godsbane said once the seneschal had gone. A novice could learn much from him.

Cyric settled back in his grisly throne. "Actually, I was just thinking how much he's learned from me…"

A flutter of light appeared somewhere in a remote part of Cyric's consciousness, causing his mind to race and seek it out. The Prince of Lies found his thoughts drawn to the small section of his mind devoted to hearing the prayers of his faithful. A braying voice called to the Lord of the Dead with a fervor even he found hard to ignore.

"O mighty Cyric, judge of the dead, master of the damned, hear me! I have glorious news from your most holy of churches in Zhentil Keep."

When Cyric focused on the prayer, the visage of Xeno Mirrormane appeared before his mind's eye. The high priest's silver hair was wild around his glowing face. His eyes shone with a mad happiness. "Yes, Mirrormane," Cyric replied flatly.

"O great Prince of Lies, the priests of Leira have news," Xeno burbled. He smiled like a drunkard happily lost in his bottle. "Lord Chess himself led their vigil — under my supervision, of course — and they had a most magnificent vision, a most-"

"Get on with it," Cyric snapped.

"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," Xeno said. "The priests have divined that his soul is in the City ofStrifesomewhere."

"Where in the city?"

They cannot tell exactly. Some power still tries to block their magic."

Cyric withdrew his consciousness from his faithful priest and focused once again on his throne room in Hades. His voice tight with excitement, he shouted for his denizens. They would scour every inch of the city, burn down every structure if need be. Kelemvor could not escape; no one left the Realm of the Dead without Cyric's permission. If he was trapped there somehow, all that remained was to flush him out of hiding.

As he formulated his plans for the search, the Lord of the Dead cursed Mystra again for robbing him of magic. But then another thought presented itself fleetingly. Mystra was the one who'd been hiding Kelemvor all along, masking his presence within Cyric's own realm since she had no way to rescue him. The death god had no doubt of that. But now that she was expending so much power to guard the weave, she'd missed the prying magic of Cyric's new followers. The Prince of Lies smiled. That had the ring of truth to it…

Cyric's mind spun away, embellishing the plot he'd just created. He was soon certain there could be no other explanation for Kelemvor's elusiveness. But now Mystra had let her guard slip, and Cyric would have his revenge. He imagined a thousand new tortures to be played out on Kelemvor's soul. The fantasies stretched across his mind like a web shimmering silver in the swirling darkness.

* * * * *

"Stop your whining, Perdix," Af grumbled. "I'm climbing as fast as I can."

The wolf-headed denizen pushed himself past another level in the Wall of the Faithless. He climbed slowly, planting spider legs between the rows of writhing souls that made up the wall then pulling his long, serpentine coils up the steep face. "I don't see why you needed my help, anyway," Af grunted.

Perdix hovered just out of striking range, wings beating furiously against the fetid air. "You've never had to get someone out of the wall before, have you?" he puffed. "Tsk. You should know it'll take at least the two of us. After all, you built the thing single-handed didn't you?"

"I never said that!" Af shouted over the agonized moan emanating from the wall. "Don't be so facetious, or I'll club you one. You need — " With his human hand, Af clamped the mouth of the nearest shade closed. The souls of the Faithless cried out continually; that's why the wall had been built with the souls facing into the City ofStrife, so that, in their torment, the unquiet spirits could serenade the Lord of the Dead. "Damn whiners," Af said bitterly. "Worse than living downstairs from a banshee."

"I knew a banshee once," Perdix said wistfully. "Lovely lass, but you're right, they are a bit hard on the ears." He scanned the wall with his single blue eye. "Almost there, Af. Just two or three more levels — well, possibly ten, but that would be the most."

After passing thirty rows of souls, Af reached the spot where they had left Gwydion the Quick. Like the Faithless stacked around him, the sell-sword twisted and cried out. Some of his agony was caused by the greenish mold that held the souls in place. The living mortar grew between the shades, sending painful rhizoids into any of the unfortunates that stopped moving.

"What do you know," Perdix exclaimed as he looked at Gwydion's pale face, "he's still got a tongue. He learned something after all. I thought for sure he'd try calling out to another god again." He wrinkled his face in distaste. "Those beetles they use to eat the tongues out of troublemakers… brrr."

"Yeah, yeah. Let's just get this over with."

Af placed his human hands to either side of Gwydion's head and leaned back. Slowly the denizen worked the soul out of the wall, though the Faithless to either side tried their best to hold the sell-sword back. It was Perdix's task to deal with these jealous shades. The little denizen tore at their arms and hands with gleaming white teeth.

When Gwydion was free of the other souls and the green mold, Af hefted him over one hunched shoulder and started back down the wall. "You're a lucky boy," the denizen grunted. "I woulda bet anything Cyric was going to leave you in there forever."

"W — Why free me?" Gwydion gasped.

Perdix hovered close to the soul's ear. "Cyric wants all the denizens — that's us — and the False who aren't being tortured for something specific — that's you — to search the city," he said. "You're going to help us look for a fellow named Kelemvor Lyonsbane, some old enemy of Cyric's who's hiding out here."