Трой Деннинг - Prince of Lies

Copyright 1989 TSR, Inc. AH Rights Reserved.

This book is protected under the copyright laws of theUnited States of America. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material or artwork contained herein to prohibited without the expreM written permission of TSR, Inc.

Random House and all affiliate companies have worldwide distribution rights in the book trade for English language products of TSR, Inc.

Distributed to the book and hobby trade in theUnited Kingdomby TSR Ltd. Distributed to the toy and hobby trade by regional distributor.

FORGOTTEN REALMS is a registered trademark owned by TSR, Inc. The TSR logo is a trademark owned by TSR, Inc

First Printing: April, 1989

Printed in theUnited States of America.

Library of Congress Catalog Card Number: 88-51723987

ISBN: 048038-730-0

All characters in the book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead are purely coincidental.

TSR, Inc.

P.O. Box758Lake Geneva, Wl 53147

U.S.A.

TSR Ltd.

12 °Church End, Cherry Hinlon

CambridgeCB1 3LB

United Kingdom

Five years ago, I was handed my first big assignment as an editor for TSR's book department: the Avatar Trilogy. Little did I suspect at the time that my office would soon become home to something game designer Jeff Grubb liked to call the Avatar Vortex. Anyone who crossed my threshold from July 1988 to October 1989 ran the risk of spiraling down into that maelstrom of Avatar products: novels, game modules, and comic books. Some folks made the descent willingly, others shouted a bit as they went under, but from its inception the Avatar Project owed its vitality to a large team of creative people.

With all that history in mind, it shouldn't be surprising that this Avatar-related novel owes much to the work of others:

To Scott Ciencin and Troy Denning, the better parts of Richard Awlinson, who penned the original trilogy and broke me in as an editor.

To Jeff Grubb, Karen Boomgarden, Ed Greenwood, and all the creatives who worked on the game department side of Avatar. The vortex would have been pretty lonely without your cheerful company.

To Mary Kirchoff, who assigned the Avatar Trilogy to a green editor, then taught him enough as a writer that he could add a chapter or two (or twenty) of his own.

To J. Robert King, who showed astounding grace under fire in the editing of this manuscript.

And most especially to my wife, Debbie, who has weathered the five-year-long Avatar maelstrom with good cheer. I doubt this is the last we'll see of Cyric, but it's nice to know you'll be around to keep him quiet during Jonny Quest the next time he drops by for a lengthy stay.

Gwydion was doomed, but he kept running anyway.

Dubbed "the Quick" by the sergeant of his company in Cormyr's vaunted Purple Dragons, Gwydion had bested everyone who'd ever challenged him in a footrace. He could dash from one end of Suzail's expansive Promenade to the other without breathing hard, while the pretenders to his title fell to panting long before they'd reached Vangerdahast's Tower, less than halfway along the course. As a scout during the crusade, he outran three Tuigan cavalrymen to deliver a report to King Azoun. So unassailable was his reputation that none of Gwydion's otherwise skeptical fellows had thought to question him, even though no one else had witnessed the amazing feat.

Yet, even Gwydion doubted his fleetness of foot could save him now — no more than Lady Cardea's priceless elfcrafted bow had kept her alive; no more than the myriad enchantments of Aram Scragglebeard had whisked him out of harm's way. No, the carrion crows filling the iron-gray sky were there as much for him as for his fallen companions.

As he scrambled to the foot of the cliff, Gwydion looked back up to the plateau. Twilight shadows draped the rocky face, the cloak of darkness broken now and then by long, glinting icicles or patches of snow. And at the trail's start, haloed by the sun setting at his back, stood the giant. He resembled nothing so much as a tower perched on the high ledge — his boots small gatehouses, his hands thick balconies, his horned helmet the peaked and merloned roof. He stood unmoving, staring at Gwydion with frost-blue eyes. Then the giant leaped forward.

"Torm's heart!" Gwydion gasped, sprinting away at top speed.

The falling goliath seemed to fill the sky, and his shadow engulfed the fleeing man. With surprising agility, the giant bounded once, twice, and finally a third time as he ran down the steep rock face. His iron-shod boots sent boulders cascading around the petrified sell-sword. Billows of powdery snow swirled into the air as the rocks hit the clearing. The carrion crows flapped to a safer vantage, black spots moving in the glittering mist of snow.

As the giant landed, the ground trembled for miles around, and many darksome creatures in theGreatGrayLandsof Thar were shaken from their unquiet slumbers. "You cannot run from Thrym!" the titan bellowed, brandishing a battle-axe adorned with the feathers of griffons and giant eagles.

Gwydion charged across the open ground, heading for the fast-flowing river a few hundred yards away. If he could make the boat they'd secreted there, he might be able to lose Thrym. If not…

Gwydion gritted his teeth and ran.

The clearing sloped away from the cliff, its blanket of new-fallen snow broken only by scattered boulders, clusters of gnarled yew shrubs, and the churned tracks left hours ago by Gwydion and his two fellow treasure-hunters. He stayed in those tracks as much as possible, hoping to avoid the deep drifts and sinkholes hidden beneath the snow. On her way to the giant's lair, Cardea had stumbled into one such hole — a particularly deep fissure. She'd have blamed the sprained ankle for her poor showing against Thrym, Gwydion thought grimly, if she weren't lying in two halves up on the plateau.

He risked a glance over his shoulder. Thrym lumbered after him, surrounded by a haze of snow. For every five of Gwydion's steps, the giant took only one. And he was still gaining ground.

By the time Gwydion spotted the fissure that had done Cardea so much harm, he could smell the stench of the uncured hides Thrym wore beneath his breastplate. The sell-sword let his knees buckle beneath him, and he tumbled painfully into the fissure. Then, clutching his bruised ribs, he tried his best to shrink into the hole.

Running too fast to stop quickly, Thrym leaped over the scar. He swung his axe as he passed, but the awkward slash did little more than fan another thin cloud of snow into the air — that and frighten all thoughts of the river and the boat from Gwydion's mind.

As the blade hissed close to the mercenary's face, he saw only the blood coloring the chipped head. The gore's from Cardea and probablyAram, too, Gwydion thought, though he hadn't stayed long enough to witness the old mage's grisly end. The next blow will probably end this sorry adventure and my career as a sword-for-hire.

"Anything, Torm," Gwydion shrieked. "I'll do anything if you let me live to see Cormyr again." The sell-sword's plea to the God of Duty was utterly insincere, as were all the oaths he'd sworn in times of desperation, but it did not go unheard.

Come to me, Gwydion.

No more than a whisper, the words echoed insistently inside his head. Then a warm, flickering light appeared before the man's tearing eyes. It beckoned the sell-sword, wordlessly ordering him to tunnel into the snow that filled the fissure. Gwydion did so without hesitation, without doubting for an instant that some greater power had taken pity on him. Such things weren't uncommon in Faerun, a land where the gods took on mortal avatars from time to time, and miracles were limited only by faith and imagination.