Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (27 page)

Such was my agitation that I hardly cared that I would be riding into the arms of the Harper witch, forsaking my sacred pilgrimage to Zhentil Keep and sacrificing all hope of finding the True Life and curing the One of his madness. Nor did I consider that I would be damning myself to Kelemvor’s hell for all eternity; no torment of Lord Death’s could be worse than the shame my own wife had brought on my head. Only my devotion to Our Dark Lord kept me from turning Halah around-my devotion, and also the thought of all my friends whispering behind my back!

Such were my thoughts as Halah galloped down the High Road along the brink of a sheer precipice, and I was so absorbed that I did not even notice when the shadow of a flying beast fell over me. The first I knew of my peril was when a huge talon struck my shoulder and jerked me from Halah’s back and carried me out over the cliff’s edge.

I found myself dangling thousands of feet above a forest valley, and I knew at once who had done this. “Witch!”

“Say it nicely, Malik-or you shall ride back to Candlekeep in Silvercloud’s talons.”

I realized instantly how the Harper had overtaken me-by flying straight across the mountains while Halah and I galloped around the great bend before High Horn pass-and I cursed myself for being so distracted that I did not anticipate her shortcut. I craned my neck around and saw the hippogriffs wings flashing silver as he climbed higher above the valley. Ruha’s kohl-rimmed eyes peered down over his shoulder.

Not knowing that Mystra had denied the witch access to the Weave, my greatest fear was that she was preparing some spell to immobilize me. I reached into my stolen aba and pulled out my dagger.

“Malik, look how far we are above the ground!”

I did not look, for then I would not have had the courage to act. I drew the dagger back, twisting my arm around to aim it at Silvercloud’s equine brisket.

“No!” Ruha yelled. “You will kill us both!”

“Not both of us!” I replied, and then Mystra’s spell compelled me to add, “I am protected by Tyr’s magic!”

And on account of these last few words, the witch had time to tap her mount’s feathery neck. “Bite!”

My dagger shot forward, and in the same instant, Silvercloud’s head darted down to attack. My blade struck his hooked beak and turned sideways, sliding along his upper mandible and sinking deep into his eye.

Silvercloud screeched and opened his talons, and I dropped away. My stomach rose into my chest, then the hippogriff and his rider became specks in the sky. I plummeted past the cliff top and looked over to see Halah galloping down the road. Then the valley rushed up beneath me, and I crashed through the billowing crown of a great oak, snapping a branch as thick as my body and tumbling down toward the ground.

Meddling Harpers!

Twenty-Six

In the foothills of the Alphrunn Mountains, a thousand Hlondethar footmen were carrying a hundred siege ladders up a boulder-choked slope. A steady drizzle of arrows and stones rained down from the castle of their enemies, and the wounded fell by the dozens. The closer the ladders came to the citadel, the fewer who remained to raise them. The baying of the war dogs was echoing over the fortress walls. The Seraph of Death sat watching from a spire of sharp granite, and six avatars of Tempus the Battle Lord were wandering the battlefield.

With their battered breastplates and closed visors and bloodied limbs, they all looked the same as they dashed across the slope, plucking arrows from fallen warriors and healing wounds and sending the injured back to the ladders as strong as before. And still the advance was slowing. The Hlondethar knew they would never take the citadel, and even the Battle Lord’s presence could not convince them otherwise.

Mystra manifested herself beside one of Tempus’s avatars, which happened to be reaching through a warrior’s leather armor to pull an arrow from his lung. The man’s face, normally the color of ginger, was as pale as mustard, and the sight of two gods kneeling over him seemed to stun him more than the shaft in his chest. He looked from one to the other, sobbing and cackling madly with laughter.

Mystra touched her fingers to his brow, and when he had grown calm she said to Tempus, “It seems strange to heal them and then send them back to be wounded again.”

“It is the only way to keep the battle going.” Tempus paused to raise his visored face, and Mystra’s skin stung beneath his hidden gaze. “The Hlondethar are fond of their war spells; it is a wonder they attacked at all, with you denying their battle wizards any magic.”

Mystra shrugged. “It is not my fault if their sorcerers neglect their studies.”

“No mortal can study twenty hours a day.” Tempus pinched the shaft between his fingers and pulled it from the man’s chest, and the arrowhead had no blood or gore of any kind. “They would not have time to eat or sleep, much less make war.”

“That would be a shame, would it not?” “More than you know.” Tempus placed his hand over the wound and spoke a mystic word. A circle of smoke shot out from beneath his palm, and the man screamed. “But you did not come here to learn the glories of war. What do you want?” “Adon. Tell me what magic Cyric used to drive him mad.” Tempus cocked his helm and remained silent. Mystra’s face prickled beneath his stare, but she could not look through his visor to see his expression. The war dogs began to bay more loudly, and an eerie howl answered from somewhere deep in the mountains. An arrow struck the goddess’s shoulder and broke in two, and she felt this less strongly than the Battle Lord’s gaze.

Tempus turned back to his patient and lifted his hand. A crimson palm print marked where the god had touched the man’s armor, but there was no hole or other sign of the wound. Tempus stood the warrior up and pushed him toward the nearest ladder.

“Go, and make your maharani proud.” Despite Tempus’s words, the warrior stumbled over the boulders at more of a crawl than a scramble. The Battle Lord shook his head in disgust.

That will be one for Lord Death-though Kelemvor will never punish him as he deserves.”

There is no use changing the subject. Tell me what magic Cyric used against Adon.”

Tempus did not answer, or even turn his visor in Mystra’s direction.

She said, “So far, I have only made life difficult for your war wizards. Unless you wish me to deny the Weave to any spellcaster involved in war, answer me.”

Tempus faced Mystra. “Why would I know anything about Cyric and your patriarch?”

“Because Cyric is behind this trial. He is in it with you.”

“With me?” Tempus shook his head. “That is not so. He had nothing to do with my charges, except to receive them.”

Mystra furrowed her brow, for it was not in the Battle Lord’s nature to lie. Always one to choose an open fight over intrigue, he either spoke the truth or did not speak at all.

“Who claimed Cyric is behind this trial?” Tempus started across the slope, not clambering over the boulders like a mortal, but stepping right through them and walking upon the empty air between. “I do not like anyone lying about me.”

“No one claimed that Cyric is behind the trial.” Mystra floated along at his side. “I inferred it from something Kelemvor said: There is more to our troubles than we know.’”

The God of War stopped and kneeled beside an unconscious warrior, then slipped two fingers into the man’s head and popped his dented skull back into place.

“There is more to your troubles than you know-but the cause is Mask, not Cyric.”

“Mask?”

Tempus nodded. “He hopes to win back what Cyric stole.”

Mystra’s heart sank. Pressuring Tempus had been her best hope of discovering what Cyric had done to her patriarch, and Adon’s condition was only growing worse. The last time she had looked in on him, he had been as frightened as before-and without the lasal haze clouding his mind. She had not dared probe his thoughts for fear of driving him completely insane.

Mystra fixed a stern glare on Tempus, who was pressing his hand to the man’s head wound, and made a chopping motion with her fingers. At once, the magic faded from the Battle Lord’s touch, and the fallen warrior remained unconscious.

Tempus raised his head, and his gaze stung Mystra’s skin like a sandstorm. “You dare cut me off from the Weave?”

“To save Adon, yes. Your charges are distracting me at the moment. Perhaps you would withdraw them?”

“You cannot do this!” Tempus warned. “The Circle-“

“Will consider my actions at the trial. Until then, you will have to perform your duties without the Weave.” Mystra glanced at the carnage strewn across the slope. “I wonder what Faerun will be like after seven days without war?”

“Even you cannot stop war. It will survive without magic.” Tempus’s voice had grown more thoughtful than angry. “But perhaps we can make a bargain.”

“What kind of bargain?”

There was another howl, and this one seemed to rumble up from beneath the hill itself. Tempus paid it no attention.

“You must agree to restore war magic to its full force, if I prove to you that war is good for Faerun.”

“You will never prove that.”

“Nevertheless, I will withdraw my charges if you merely agree to consider-“

“But Foehammer!” protested a wispy voice. A black shadow rose from between the boulders at Tempus’s feet, then assumed the shape of a Hlondethar footman. “What about our agreement? You promised not to withdraw your charges.”

“Mask!”

Mystra’s sharp tone drew the attention of the Seraph of Death, who spread his wings and flew over, swooping low past a company of Hlondethar footmen. More than fifty of them broke and ran for their own lines. Lady Magic hardly noticed, for her glare was locked on the Shadowlord.

“This has nothing to do with you, Blackheart.”

“But it does.” Mask continued to face Tempus and did not look at her. “It has everything to do with me, since Foehammer and I have an agreement.”

“That agreement concerned Cyric,” said Tempus.

“But it was not my doing that you expanded the charges to include Mystra and Kelemvor.” Another howl sounded from between the boulders. Mask glanced into the crevice, then looked back to Tempus and spoke rapidly. “Nor that Tyr separated the verdicts-by then, I had made certain arrangements.”

“Arrangements?” Mystra’s eyes grew narrow. “If you are scheming against Kelemvor and me, stop it now.”

“Or what?” Mask snorted. A shudder ran through his shadowy figure; then an extra face appeared on the back of his head. “Whatever you do to me will be undone after the trial. Already I have duped you and your paramour into proving your own guilt.”

“You have?” Tempus demanded. This was just the sort of complication that he had feared when Mask came to him. “Did you not tell me you had overcome your weakness for intrigue?”

“This was not my fault!” A deep snarl rumbled up from the boulders beneath Mask’s feet, and he started to sidle up the hill toward the besieged castle. “Besides, you have nothing to fear. Mystra and Kelemvor can save themselves no more than Cyric can.”

Lady Magic sneered. “If that is so, Mask, what is there to stop me from destroying you now?”

It was Tempus who answered. “Tyr the Just.” The Battle Lord’s visor swung up the slope toward Mask’s retreating form. “I will need to call the Shadowlord as a witness. It is only proper to disclose whose idea it was to make these charges.”

Mask stopped on the spot. “But if Cyric finds out I-“

“You have nothing to fear from Cyric,” Tempus said. “Not if everything goes according to your plan.”

The Shadowlord withered to half his normal size, and at that moment a reek of foul meat filled the air. A pair of yellow eyes appeared in the shadows at Tempus’s feet, and the Chaos Hound sprang from between the boulders. Before the beast could find him, Mask fled up the slope and vanished into the shadows beneath the castle wall. Kezef let out a low, baleful growl and raised his slime-dripping nostrils to sniff the air.

Mystra pointed up the slope. “There, Kezef.”

Kezef cocked his great head, then let his muzzle fall into a sort of grin and bounded away over the boulders. He crashed through a heavy Hlondethar siege ladder and trampled the poor footmen who had been carrying it, then disappeared into the shadows after his quarry.

The Seraph of Death raised his wings and vanished into the sky. Mystra looked back to Tempus and shook her head.

“Foehammer, you should be wiser than to involve yourself in Mask’s schemes. This will come to a bad end for you.”

“Perhaps, but I have already given my word.” Tempus glanced up the slope toward the reluctant Hlondethar advance. “Besides, you have left me no other choice. War cannot go on like this.”

Twenty-Seven

Of all places in the City of the Dead, Rapture Round displayed most clearly the character of Kelemvor’s reign. The Round was a vast circle of gardens where a dozen boroughs came together, and from Penance Hill at its center, Lord Death could see them all. In Pax Cloister, a vast region of high peaks and shadowy valleys, dwelled the spirits of peaceful hermits who had lived their whole lives desiring nothing more than solitude and quiet. Next to it stood the Idyll Hamlets, which were the villages of simple country spirits who valued family and good company above wealth or power. Flanking these were the Singing City and the Fruitful Forest, and to each of these Lord Death sent souls who would find happiness within; bordering these wards were others filled with kind and noble spirits who had either turned from their gods or never found one at all.

The vista behind Kelemvor was not so pleasant. In the Acid Swamp, the spirits of charlatans and swindlers gathered along roadways and bridges to beg help from passersby. Next to this, the Crimson Jungle was filled with murderers and torturers of every sort, all changed into ravenous beasts too busy devouring each other to escape. Beside these boroughs were the Maze of Alleys and the City of Cold, where Lord Death sent the spirits of thieves and panderers, and bordering these districts were homes for all the intemperate and pragmatic spirits who had made it their business to take care of themselves and no other.

“You know, Jergal, there was a time when every act I performed had to be a selfish one.”