Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

The volume in Bevis's uninspired care at the moment had snared his attention more completely than even the most gruesome penitential. He'd been hired by the Church of Cyric to clean up the gatherings of finished pages before they went to the stationer for binding; even with the mysterious shortage of scribes and illuminators in Zhentil Keep, the clerics had rudely informed Bevis that his skill wasn't up to standards to provide any borders or miniatures for this important work. After scanning the first few pages, he was inclined to agree.

The parchment was the finest he'd ever seen, thin and flexible and textured perfectly to hold ink and paint. Ornate display scripts written in bold red ink called out the intention of each new section. Weird borders of bestial denizens lurked around the text, apparently warning the squeamish reader away from the knowledge they guarded. Large squares of rubbed gold foil served as backdrop for the miniatures. The most elaborate of these depicted cities under siege by unnatural monsters and the gods themselves being cast from the heavens.

"Ah, the Time of Troubles," the illuminator whispered then nervously scanned the cavernous room surrounding him.

The priests had gone back to the warmth of the temple long ago, leaving Bevis alone in the crypts. A ring of braziers drew a wide circle of light around him, but he still had the uneasy feeling someone hovered just out of sight. After a staring into the darkness for a time, though, the illuminator decided he was being foolish. He was alone. The priests would never know he'd disobeyed their strict orders and read just a small part of the book.

The Wrath of Ao, the page before him declared in grand, noble letters. The section described how the overlord of the gods, angry at the theft of the Tablets of Fate, had banished the deities of Faerun from their eternal palaces in the heavens. The gods-made-mortal were forced to walk the world in mortal avatars until the tablets were returned. In their wakes, chaos and strife erupted. Magic became unstable, clerics could no longer call on their heavenly patrons to heal the sick, murder and violence seized even the West's most civilized nations and city-states.

This was all the stuff of history, and in the decade since the Time of Troubles, dozens of treatises had been written to explain the calamitous events. Bevis had even illuminated one, five years back. Yet something about this telling drew his interest. He felt strangely compelled to read on. Collecting the gatherings before him, Bevis sorted them into a ragged-edged pile.

The Theft of the Tablets — well, that goes before the section I just read, he thought. The Betrayal of the Guild — this history isn't limited to the Time of Troubles. It's about Cyric before he became a god! A Childhood in the Shadows. Kelemvor and the Ring of Winter. The Knightsbridge Affair…

Breathless, Bevis scanned the first page of each gathering. An illumination showed Cyric in his days as a young thief, sneaking up on an unsuspecting guard atop the black walls of Zhentil Keep. The next entry told of his first meeting withMidnight, the sorceress who would quest for the Tablets of Fate alongside Cyric, the cursed warrior Kelemvor Lyonsbane, and a vain priest named Adon. Little did Cyric orMidnightsuspect that first night in Arabel they would recover the tablets and be rewarded by Lord Ao with a place among the gods.

A violent miniature bright with the sheen of gold caught Bevis's eye as he turned to the next gathering. The artist had created a ghastly scene of slaughter in a halfling village. Zhentish soldiers spitted small women and children on pikes. The houses and barns burned in gold foil while severed heads with ink-black eyes looked on. And in the center of the carnage stood Cyric, a rose-red short sword clutched in his bloody hands. A halo of darkness foretold his future divinity.

The display script next to the gory scene proclaimed its topic simply: Black Oaks and Godsbane.

So it came to pass that Cyric freed himself from the company of the whoreMidnight, the preening Adon of Sune, and the cursed swordsman Kelemvor Lyonsbane. He gathered around him, in the days that followed, a small force of Zhentilar and made them prophets of his ascension. He crossed the Heartlands with these soldiers, striking down any who challenged his vision of a world free from the hypocrisy of Law and Honor.

The blood of doubting kings stained their blades the brains of foolish sages spattered their armor. Yet each shattered skull or riven heart recruited twin heralds to Cyric's cause. In the mortal realms, the corrupting corpses reneged their challenges to his greatness with silent screams and faces frozen with terror. In Hades and the other heavenly realms, the newly liberated souls arrived with a proclamation: Make ready, for a god comes who will take all the vast universe for his domain.

Once his message had spread and the people realized that freedom could only be earned through Might, Cyric found himself welcomed as a conquering hero by many cities and towns. They hung garlands around the necks of his men and presented lavish feasts in his honor.

Yet some isolated hamlets — like the halflingvillageofBlack Oaks- remained blind to Cyric's glory. The stunted creatures that dwelled in Black Oaks shunned him and threatened to call down the wrath of the feeble icons they worshiped. Even then, a month before his ascension from the top ofMountWaterdeep, Cyric knew someone of his stature could not tolerate such insults.

With fire and steel, he scourged Black Oaks from the map of Faerun. As his Zhentilar burned the squalid houses, Cyric herded the halflings together and beheaded them one by one. The heads were set in neat rows, like gawking, bloody cabbages awaiting harvest; Cyric then cursed the bloated lumps of bone and flesh to an unending living death. To this day, the ravaged skulls speak to all who look upon them, decrying their foolishness.

Because his blade had been so dulled by his tiresome work upon the halflings, Cyric sought another to replace it. He liberated a powerful enchanted sword from the hands of Sneakabout, the greatest warrior in Black Oaks and the only one to escape the village that day. The spirit of the blade had broken the halfling's will, making him an unquestioning slave. There was no shame in this, for until Cyric held her, the rose-hued sword had been unconquered. Great was the line of soldiers and kings destroyed trying to bend the blade to their purposes, but only Cyric had sufficient will to triumph over her.

The enchanted, rose-hued sword served Cyric well, shielding him against the chill winds of Marpenoth, healing the wounds he received in the fierce battles for the Tablets of Fate. In return, Cyric rewarded her with blood. Like all who serve him selflessly, the sword received that which she desired most.

Fane, a Zhentilar officer, was the first to give his life to the blade. The halfling Sneakabout was next. Yet the essence of these men would prove to be mere scraps before the banquets on which the blade soon feasted.

AtBoareskyrBridge, Cyric slew Bhaal, Patron of Assassins, Lord of Murder. So great was the chaos unleashed at Bhaal's death that the Winding Water still runs black and poisonous fromBoareskyrBridgeto Trollclaw Ford. Every creature that drinks of the river dies cursing those who stand against Cyric, for such resistance is futile, as the poisoned water surely proves.

Bhaal was not the last god unmade by Cyric's hand. Atop thetowerofKhelben" Blackstaff" Arunson, a mage known as a foe of both Zhentil Keep and her agents, Cyric faced his united enemies, forMidnighthad allied with Myrkul, the fallen God of Death. Together they had hatched a cowardly plan to place the Tablets of Fate — and thus all the lands of Faerun — into the hands of those gods who worshiped Law and Good above all sense. Cyric slew Myrkul for turning against his worshipers. With a single stroke of his enchanted blade, he sliced the god's avatar in two. The corpse dissolved into ashes, which rained down upon Waterdeep, melting away buildings and roads.