Prince of Lies (42 page)

“Fire!” the gnoll commander barked in surprisingly good Common. The order was wasted, though; the bestial soldiers had already drawn their bows. Howling like wolves, they let loose a volley of black-fletched arrows.

Renaldo felt the arrow pierce his throat, turning the command he’d mustered there into an unintelligible gurgle of pain. His order would have been wasted, too, however. Since the Zhentilar had no bows, the only thing they could do was run for the safety of the row houses and try to sneak away before the beasts called for reinforcements.

As he fell, clutching at the offending shaft, Renaldo noted dimly that none of his troops gave him a second look as they scrambled for cover. The lieutenant wasn’t surprised; he’d left two dozen men to die in similar ambushes during the morning. That realization didn’t prevent him from bitterly hoping the rest of the company met a truly horrible end.

Renaldo hit the ground hard. The impact drove the air from his lungs in a painful burst. As the arrow snapped beneath his weight, icy daggers of pain exploded out from the shaft, almost as if it were probing for some vital lifeline to sever. Renaldo’s shoulders spasmed, and his fingers came away from his throat slick with blood.

The street swayed before his eyes, the cobbles rocked beneath him like a hammock, but the soldier found himself clinging to consciousness. Perhaps the wound isn’t fatal, he told himself, even though he knew this shouldn’t be true.

With trembling arms, Renaldo pushed himself to his knees. He saw then that the gnolls had closed, circled around him like a pack of hungry wolves. One of them raised its bow and fired.

Renaldo watched the arrow fly toward him, moving with preternatural slowness. He felt the steel head pierce his leather breastplate and bite into his chest. The blow knocked him backward, arms clutching helplessly at the air. As he lay there, the blood soaking into the padded doublet he wore beneath his armor, Renaldo could tell that the arrow had broken three ribs, that it had buried itself in his heart. And still he lived, still his soul refused to abandon its pain-wracked mortal shell.

The truth of it was, Renaldo’s soul had nowhere to go. The Realm of the Dead had no master. No lord ruled over the City of Strife. With Cyric’s defeat, men and women all across Faerun found themselves beyond death’s cold grasp. For some this proved to be a blessing beyond compare. For most, it was a nightmare beyond belief.

In the desert of Anauroch, a young explorer crawled on hands and knees across the dreaded expanse known as At’ar’s Looking Glass. Her camel was dead, her water exhausted days ago. She collapsed onto the wind-burnished stones, robbed finally of her last shred of resolve. The vultures that had been her only companions for the past day circled lower and lower. The explorer prayed for death to take her before the scavengers began plucking at her parched flesh, but that, of course, was impossible…

The room revealed little about the old Sembian merchant, save that he was very rich and very ill. The bed was carved from the finest Chultan teak, the gossamer drapes sewn from imported Shou silks. What he’d paid for the blankets alone could feed and clothe a poor family for the winter. Still, all that wealth hadn’t kept him healthy - despite the potions and salves and tinctures he’d purchased during his long life. For years he’d fought against the withering disease that corrupted his frail form, grasped for every second of life like a miser reaching for gold. Now, though, the return on the effort of living had become too small.

With shaking hands the merchant raised the poison to his lips and choked it down. The sickly sweet concoction burned down his throat. Warmth spread from his stomach to his chest, dulling the pain for but an instant. Then the poison clamped down on his lungs and squeezed the breath from him. It should be over quickly, he reminded himself, but it wasn’t. For hours the poison coursed through his body, killing him over and over…

In a little-visited tower, far to the north of Waterdeep, a man lay strapped to a table. The skin was gone from his right hand, flayed from his fingers so expertly that it retained its shape - a gruesome, bloody glove. Other atrocities had been visited upon the man, as well. The loss of blood alone should have killed him long ago, but for some strange reason, life clung to him.

His torturer - a drow from House Duskryn of Menzoberranzan - thought himself too experienced in the ways of pain to be surprised by anything. Yet as he heated a set of long thin needles, he wondered at the thrill this unusual victim had afforded him.

“A gift from the gods,” the drow murmured contentedly.

He never knew how right he was.

Kelemvor Lyonsbane stood atop the diamond wall surrounding Bone Castle, flanked by Jergal and Gwydion. Gathered before him on the banks of the River Slith and the rubble-strewn plain beyond were the assembled hosts of Hades, the denizens and the damned alike. Despair hung upon the backs of Cyric’s minions, for they had felt their god’s defeat in their black hearts. And though the denizens had surrendered soon after their lord vanished, the victorious shades had bound them like slaves.

“The tyrant is overthrown,” Kelemvor shouted. “And with his defeat ends the reign of injustice.”

He held aloft both halves of the sundered blade that had been his prison. The red sky gave the cold, lifeless metal just a hint of the rosy hue that had once tinted it. “In this shell I was held captive for ten long years, a pawn of the gods.” With the shattered hilt he drew a wide arc over the crowd, gesturing toward the ruined city and the Wall of the Faithless. “In this shell, some of you have been held captive for ten times my decade of suffering. You’ve been tortured at the whims of lunatics like Cyric and, before him, Myrkul. Your suffering has been the stuff of their entertainment. No more.”

A deafening roar went up from the crowd. The damned souls raised their spears and clubs to the sky and shouted out Kelemvor’s name.

“Jergal tells me the gods gather at the city gates, awaiting permission to enter,” Kel announced once the shouting had died down. “Only you can grant them that privilege, for you are the kings and queens of this place.”

“Let ‘em wait!” a shade cried. “They left us here to rot. I say we give ‘em back some of their own while we got the chance!”

Jergal hovered close to Kelemvor, his bulging eyes devoid of expression. The mortal realms feel the pain of this delay, not the gods, the seneschal murmured. His voice was as cold as a winter lake. The dying cannot be freed from their suffering, since their souls have nowhere to go.

Kel nodded grimly then faced the crowd once more. “You want justice for yourselves, but first you have to offer it to others. For each instant we waste in debate, men and women on Faerun are trapped between life and death. Their suffering is unjust, and our indecision is the cause.”

“But what if the pantheon wants to punish us?” rumbled one of the False. “If we let them in they may hand the city back to Cyric!”

Gwydion stepped forward. His clothes were tattered, his face grimy with soot. And, though he no longer wore the god-forged armor of an inquisitor, the shades and denizens knew him well. Like Kelemvor, he’d become a legend of sorts in the city, a harbinger of hope in that hopeless place.

“Cyric will never reign over this realm again, but a new god must take his place,” Gwydion shouted. “That’s the way of things, and nothing we can do will change it. Still, that doesn’t mean we can’t make our voices heard.” He pointed at Bone Castle, deserted now and crumbling swiftly to rubble without a god to maintain it. “The lord who rebuilds those walls will do so only with our permission. And we won’t give that until we have a few promises.”

“No more torture!” someone shouted.

“Fair trials!”

“Justice!”

The crowd took up the last as a chant. After a moment, the denizens added their inhuman voices to the clangor. The chant swelled, echoing over the Realm of the Dead until even the Faithless trapped in the wall ceased their wailing and took up the call. Kelemvor found himself caught up in the moment, screaming along with the rest until his jaw ached.

Finally Kel raised the jagged halves of Godsbane over his head. “Justice will be yours! Each of you will be given a new trial, a chance to lift the doom proclaimed upon you.” A riotous cheer shook the diamond wall. “Those who once served Cyric, we give you a choice: join us in building a just kingdom atop the ruins of his mad empire or flee the city. Your master may yet be hiding in some darkened corner of the planes. Whichever you choose, you’ll not be harmed.” Another cheer rose, this one thick with the growls and monstrous whoops of the denizens.

Kelemvor tossed the broken halves of Godsbane into the Slith. A magnificent plume of darkness erupted from each piece as it hit the fetid water, but the billowing shadows faded when the river swallowed up the blade. “My prison is gone. Together we can shatter the chains Cyric forged for you, the links of suffering and tyranny that make this place a realm of strife. Strike the first blow for freedom! Open the gates!”

A sudden flood of energy washed over Kelemvor. He trembled for an instant as the cool, thrumming pulse filled his being, stretched his mind to its limits then pressed beyond.

The entire Realm of the Dead spread before his consciousness like a map upon a table. Each burning building, each shattered street, lay open to his gaze, cold details of a ravaged city. He sensed the fires and the destruction, tiny pinpricks of discomfort that nagged his thoughts. He felt the chill passing of the nightmares as they returned to Dendar’s cave, the corrupt scrabbling of Kezef’s paws as he climbed the Wall of the Faithless, seeking an escape from the city and from the gods that milled at the gates. The smell of the swamp, the whiff of brimstone in the air, the horrible stench of fear that permeated everything…

This was the nectar of godhood, he realized numbly. At least it was for the Lord of the Dead.

Eyes wide with wonder, Kel looked out at the sea of upturned faces. He saw the hope there, the terrible longing for salvation. The unspoken prayers of each shade and denizen filled his head, granting him the might of a million dreams.

Lead us, they pleaded. Give us justice! Jergal leaned close to Kelemvor once more and spoke for him alone to hear. This time, though, the ice had melted from the seneschal’s voice, replaced by a cool deference. Shall I see to it, milord? “See to what?”

Your command, Jergal replied evenly. Do you wish me to open the gates to the other gods?

At a nod from Kelemvor, the unearthly seneschal vanished, only to reappear an instant later at the massive gates to the City of Strife. Kel could sense Jergal’s presence there, feel his feather-light touch upon the grisly doors. The gates trembled slightly, the cowards’ hearts quaking at the awesome task they had performed; few barriers could bar one god’s passing, let alone a triumvirate’s. Their job was done now, though. At Jergal’s silent prompting, the gates swung wide.

Mystra streaked above the city, a huge blue-white phoenix. Magical light rained down from her, driving the darkness and despair from every corner of the ruined realm. The wind from her passing snuffed out the fires still burning in the city, and her shrill cry of joy made the cruel things that preyed upon the damned cower in their burrows.

Torm and Oghma trailed in Mystra’s wake, flares so bright that none could look upon them. Their passing left streaks of fire arched over the necropolis. Like banners proclaiming Cyric’s defeat, the twin flames lingered over the Realm of the Dead as the three gods settled in Bone Castle’s deserted bailey.

Kelemvor leaped from the wall and walked to Mystra’s side. She looked much as he remembered her - slender and graceful, raven-black hair cascading down her shoulders, a slight smile upon her full lips. Only her eyes were different, blue-white and flickering with power from the weave of magic.

They stared at each other for a time, neither speaking. Kelemvor was the one who finally broke the silence. “Cyric’s gone,” he said. “I don’t know where.”

Mystra nodded. “And Mask?”

“As near as I can tell, he was disguised as Godsbane all along,” Kel replied. “Ever since Cyric stole the sword from the halflings at Black Oaks. Anyway, Cyric shattered the blade. That freed me, but destroyed Mask. He melted away into darkness, crying out for forgiveness. He really seemed penitent.”

“That’s unlikely,” Torm noted stiffly.

“Perhaps not,” Mystra offered. “After all, Mask read the Cyrinishad. Who’s to say the book doesn’t contain the power to twist a god’s mind, as well?”

In the silence that followed, Torm remembered his manners. “Forgive me, Lord Kelemvor,” he murmured, bowing formally. “We have not yet been introduced.”

“No need, Torm,” Oghma said. “Kelemvor knows who - or, more precisely, what we are. He could sense it the moment we entered his realm.”

“His realm?” The God of Duty gave Kelemvor a skeptical look. “Only Ao can bestow godhood, and he-“

“He will ratify what the damned have already decided for themselves,” the God of Knowledge interrupted. “If I can recognize the wisdom in their choice, I am certain Ao will, as well.” He turned to the new Lord of the Dead. “Tell me, Kelemvor, what do you plan to do for a clergy?”

Kel shrugged. “Gather together people who want to see the underworld ruled by law, I suppose. That’s all the denizens and the damned want.” He frowned fiercely. “I really don’t understand any of this. I never set out to be a god. All I wanted was justice. I didn’t do anything to deserve a reward like this.”

“Reward?” Oghma asked, the sound of tiny bells chiming amusement in his musical voice. “What makes you think being made Lord of the Dead is a reward? The last two deities to hold the post went mad.”

Kelemvor glanced up at the grim tower that would become his home. “I liked this all better when I thought it was a reward,” he murmured.

At the wounded look on Kel’s face, Mystra laid a gentle hand on his shoulder. “The title will be what you make of it, but don’t doubt your worthiness for a moment. Sometimes heroes must fight to prove their mettle, sometimes they need be patient enough and wise enough to stay their sword while others fight around them. You did both.” She slid into his arms. “Besides, I have your reward, Kel. I’ve been keeping it safe for ten years now.”