Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

"Oh no," Perdix whispered. "Not him. Not now."

Torm the True strode toward Cyric. His armor clanked as he walked, the sharp sounds echoing off the walls like distant cannonades. At Gwydion's side Torm stopped and removed his helmet. The shade had never seen such a perfectly handsome young warrior. The light of righteousness flashed in his blue eyes. Unwavering courage set his square jaw.

"Release this soul," Torm ordered. "You drew him into your realm through illusions and perfidy. You cut short his life through deception."

The Lord of the Dead sat back in his chair and scowled. "Oh, come now, Torm. You didn't journey all the way to Hades for this worm. You have bigger giants to slay — isn't that how the expression goes amongst your Tormites?"

"Tormish," the God of Duty corrected stiffly. "And Gwydion's fate alone is enough to bring me to your loathsome court. He called upon me. I am answering his prayer."

A cry of relief escaped Gwydion's lips. "Thank you, Your Holiness. I knew you wouldn't let a faithful…"

"Don't shower him with praise just yet," Cyric interrupted slyly. "Torm cares nothing for your soul. He has enough power to enter my city uninvited only because you spoke his name aloud. You've provided a convenient way for him to make himself unwelcome in my home."

The anger Torm had been fighting to suppress boiled over. He raised a mailed fist and shook it at the Prince of Lies. "I have a duty to my worshipers. Men call me Torm the True because I value loyalty above all else. They call me-"

"They call you Torm the Brave because you are too stupid to cut your losses and abandon a failed fight," Cyric hissed. "I know the litany quite well. I repeated it rather dramatically to Gwydion in Thar not too long ago."

Torm took a menacing step toward Cyric, who still had not risen from his chair. "We get to the meat of the matter quickly. That's unlike you."

"Ah, you came here to inform me you are unflattered by my impersonation." The Prince of Lies laughed. "It was quite good, I assure you. Apart from the sword, I had you to a T." He stood and stretched. "Still, I'll give you a chance to save this poor, abused soul."

"You admit your sins?" Torm asked, narrowing his eyes suspiciously. "Gwydion is free to leave?"

"I admit nothing," Cyric said, "but I'll give you the chance to rescue this would-be Tormite." He kicked Af out of the way and raised Gwydion by the shackles. "Before you take him under your armored wing, though, you must convince me he will have a home with your faithful. I cannot release a soul from my realm without such a guarantee."

"If not with me," Torm began, "then with-"

"You cannot speak for the other gods, Torm. I'm surprised you would be bold enough to try."

The God of Duty flushed. He turned his steady gaze on Gwydion and said, "I can offer you sanctuary, but only if you are truly one of my faithful. Will you prove your devotion to me?"

The shade stepped forward, away from the cringing denizens and the weird, silent seneschal. "Of course," he said.

Torm straightened his fingers and held his hands out, palms to the floor. The sickly glow from the windows revealed myriad tiny runes carved into his gauntlets: on the right hand, the word for duty in every language ever known; on the left, the same for loyalty.

It was whispered that Torm could be destroyed if all those words were lost. To prevent this disaster, some Tormish novices spent their first year of servitude sequestered in tiny cells, where they repeated one of the words for duty or loyalty, mantralike, throughout their waking hours. The most devoted of them even kept up their assigned chant in their sleep.

"Read any word from either gauntlet," Torm said solemnly.

Gwydion squinted at the armor then looked up at the God of Duty. "I… I see no writing, Your Holiness."

A genuine sadness filled Torm's eyes. "The pact I have with my church is clear, Gwydion the Quick. I cannot accept your soul if you cannot pass this simple test." The anger returned then, flaring hotly. He faced Cyric. "You will pay for this. I'll make certain of that."

The Prince of Lies turned his back on the armored god and walked slowly to his chair. "Af, Perdix, take Gwydion and stick him in the wall. Watch over him until I summon you again."

Silently Gwydion looked to Torm for aid, but the God of Duty shook his head. All the shade's hopes died. Head down, he let the denizens lead him away without a struggle.

As soon as the prisoner had left the room, Cyric waved a hand, idly dismissing Torm. "Go on, report his punishment to the Circle. I know perfectly well the wall is reserved for the Faithless. I put the worm there for one reason: I want you to know for the rest of eternity you made things worse for him by sticking your square jaw where it didn't belong."

"The law that governs-"

"My whim is law in the City ofStrife," Cyric snapped. "You'd be well-served to remember that, especially since you are trespassing. If I happen to summon a few hundred pit fiends to escort you out…"

"You threaten me!" The God of Duty transformed, his handsome features becoming leonine. "I could slay every pit fiend in your hellish home," he roared.

"But they would keep you occupied for quite some time," Cyric cooed. "Long enough for me to visit your churches in your guise and start a holy war. You wouldn't have the might to stop me, either. After all, Torm, you are only a demipower."

Torm stalked to the edge of the library. His lion's face was locked in an angry snarl. His golden mane bristled around his head like a halo. "You are unfit to be called a greater power." With a flash of blue light, he was gone.

The Fool is lucky he cannot know how dangerous you truly are, Your Magnificence, Jergal noted.

Cyric drew his short sword again and stared intently at the crimson blade. "If he did, I would simply deal with him as I did Bhaal and Myrkul and Leira. In fact, I might kill him anyway. My sword has gained a taste for the blood of gods." He ran his hand gently along the blade. "Haven't you, my love?"

Only if it is blood spilled for you, a seductive, feminine voice purred. The spirit of the sword curled contentedly in the mire of Cyric's consciousness, as dark and vicious as any of the corrupt thoughts lurking in the death god's mind.

Wherein the three hundred ninety-seventh

version of a book detailing Cyric's life receives a

very harsh review indeed, much to the dismay

of the scribes and illuminators

in Zhentil Keep.

Bevis had been an illuminator for fifteen years, and he couldn't think of an instant when he'd enjoyed his job. He hated the perpetual ink stains blotting his fingers. The sour-smelling paints made his eyes run, and he never finished a day's work when his hand wasn't cramped to the wrist. The problem was, Bevis had no other skills he might put to legal use and even less bravado with which to cut himself a niche in Zhentil Keep's sizable and thriving underworld.

And so he plodded through the days, providing artistic embellishments for dull collections of sermons, tedious accounts of local battles, and pompous autobiographies by guildmasters hoping to buy a place in Zhentish history. Bevis found the work he did on penitentials a bit less tiresome. Such books detailed the penance demanded for various sins and usually contained vivid scenes of denizens torturing souls in the City of Strife — just in case the faithful needed to be reminded of the penalties for shirking. Like all the other miniatures Bevis drew, the horrific images originated in a pattern book. Still, copying denizens was more interesting than repeatedly scribbling the holy symbol of Mask on cheap paper intended for thieves' guild ransom notes.