Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (30 page)

“Ah, yes … how very nice.” Tang accepted the sword and lowered his brow, yet his eyes betrayed his confusion. Shou princes were more accustomed to fleeing assassins than hounds. This will be most useful. I am certain it will save my life… someday.”

“It is but a small token of gratitude for the care you showed Adon. May it serve you well.”

Mystra led Prince Tang back into the temple, leaving the onlookers to whisper among themselves. She could have heard every word if she wished, but there was no need; she knew her plan would work.

The thieves of the Purple Mask had been stealing sheets of alabaster and cartloads of marble from her temple since the day construction began, and their spies had certainly been among the onlookers who watched her bless Tang’s sword. Those same spies would report the gift to their guildmasters, and the guildmasters would see at once how the weapon might benefit their divine patron. Before Prince Tang reached his palace, Mask himself would know of the weapon’s special powers-and then Mystra would have her vengeance.

Or so the stupid Harlot thought.

Thirty-One

After my audience with the One, I took leave of Arabel at once and galloped north through Tilverton and Shadow Gap into Shadowdale, home to a nation of ignorant farmers and an irksome old twaddler named Elminster. Ruha, who had stopped in Arabel overnight to have a healer care for Silvercloud’s injured eye, followed half a day behind, as unshakable as a bad reputation. Every so often, as I crested a mountain pass or crossed a vast bottomland, I glanced back and saw a speck in the southern sky and knew she was still there, dogging my trail as the Chaos Hound dogs Mask’s. And then I cursed her for a hellhag and raised my eyes to the Heavens and asked what I had ever done to her, though of course I never received any answer. The truth was she hated me not for any wrong I had caused her, but on account of my place in the many terrible visions and dreams she had been suffering of late, and because she feared these mirages would drive her as mad as Cyric if she did not stop me.

But even had the witch been farther behind, I would have stopped no longer than it required to sate Halah’s hunger. Cyric’s visit had renewed the zeal for my sacred pilgrimage, as I had no wish to send my unfaithful wife to the City of the Dead-or to join her there, which would certainly be my destiny if I failed to recover the True Life and cure the One of his madness. With my holy devotion thus renewed, I rode day and night, giving no thought to rest or food or any need that could not be answered in the time it took Halah to gulp down her meals.

And such was my fervor that when I galloped into a muddy little village and saw the One’s sacred starburst and skull openly flying from the flagpole of an imposing black fortress, I stopped only long enough to demand a meal for Halah and myself. As usual, the acolytes were at first reluctant to feed me when I said I would not pay, but this changed as soon as they sensed Cyric’s presence in my person. Halah was shown to the goat pen, and I was taken into a great hall and seated at the head of a long banquet table. Like the rest of the temple, the entire hall was shuddering and trembling from the effects of Mystra’s unjust assaults on the One, but I was too weary to let this trouble me.

As I waited for my food, two Believers came and stood at my sides, their hands resting on the hilts of their weapons. One, a brawny man with flinty eyes and a narrow face, wore a purple robe trimmed in black silver. The other, whose shoulders were as wide as Halah’s, was dressed in armor of red leather, and it was he who addressed me.

“Who are you to come into Voonlar and insult Gormstadd”-here he jerked a thumb at his silk-robed companion, then continued-“by ordering his monks around in his own temple?”

I replied without rising. “I am Malik el Sami yn Nasser, and I am on a sacred pilgrimage for the One. It is a great honor for Gormstadd”-and here I jerked my thumb at the man in silk- “to aid me in any way he can.”

This caused both men to raise their brows and remove their hands from their weapons, for like any True Believer, they were quick to sense the One’s presence. Then a monk happened to arrive with a tray piled high with food and drink, and Gormstadd himself took the platter and held it out toward the red-armored man.

“Why don’t you serve, Buorstag?”

Buorstag nodded, then set the mug on the table before me and filled it with mead from the pitcher. This did much to restore my spirits, as it reminded me of the great honor and power that would be mine after I saved the One.

“You look tired, el Sami,” said Buorstag. With his own dagger, he cut a piece of bread for me, then smothered it in honey. “Perhaps you should stay and rest in Voonlar.”

I shook my head. “I am being pursued by a Harper witch, and if I let her catch me, I will never cure the One of his madness.”

I did not know whether it was my own weariness or Mystra’s spell that caused me to add these last words, but as soon as I spoke them, I realized what a blunder I had made! Buorstag and Gormstadd scowled and stared at each other and dropped their hands again to their weapons.

I leapt up to flee. Gormstadd clapped a hand on my shoulder, and Buorstag grabbed my arm, and I thought they would certainly throw me in chains and denounce me to Our Dark Lord.

But such was their awe of the presence they sensed in me that either they thought it wiser to ignore my blasphemy or did not notice it at all.

“This Harper-can you describe her?” asked Buorstag.

I saw by his white knuckles that he liked meddling Harpers no more than I. “Of course. You will recognize her by the hippogriff she rides and by the veil she wears over her face.”

“Good,” said Gormstadd, pushing me back into my seat. “Finish your meal. Buorstag will make certain that Harper never catches you.”

Thirty-Two

Prince Tang passed the day gathering his company of bodyguards and riding home to the Ginger Palace, which lay about a half day south of Elversult. He finished the trip so exhausted that he commanded his servants to wash him and put him straight to bed. He did not stir until late in the night, when he was roused from a dead slumber by a strange and ghostly baying. The howl sounded at once distant and near, as though his bedchamber had stretched to a length of many li.

Tang thought of Mystra’s gift and sat up. His bed formed its own room, covered as it was by a silk canopy and enclosed by lacquered panels depicting all manner of leering monsters. These were the guardians of his sleep, which prevented evil spirits from stealing his soul as he slumbered. When the prince heard no sound from his night servant, who sat beyond the panels at the foot of his bed, he wondered if the baying had been a dream.

Then came another howl, louder than before and so eerie that it sent a prickle up his spine. The night servant did not open a panel or make any other move to wake him, and Tang thought this strange. He reached under his pillow and withdrew a dagger of silvery Shou steel, then crawled to the end of his bed, wondering if the goddess had foreseen this when she blessed his sword. He wedged the tip of his knife between two panels and slid them apart, moving so slowly they made no sound at all.

The night servant lay upon the floor, her eyes dead and wide and fixed upon the little lamp she kept burning on the night table. The purple cord that had strangled her remained wound about her throat, and the murky shape of the assassin stood a few paces beyond, facing away from the bed. In the flickering light, the intruder’s body seemed to curl and roll like smoke. He was staring at the freestanding sword rack where Tang kept his most cherished weapons. The rack resembled a ladder, each rung a bejeweled scabbard worth an entire caravan of frankincense. In the highest berth rested the chien Mystra had blessed.

Tang did not call for his guards; he guessed that the intruder had already killed them. Instead, the prince watched the dark silhouette in growing puzzlement. The thief was staring at the blessed chien, yet he seemed reluctant to take it.

Tang did not guess that the intruder was Mask. Nor did the God of Thieves sense Prince Tang’s wakefulness; the Shadowlord was consumed by thoughts of the chien. Even through the scabbard, Mystra’s magic radiated off the blade so strongly that it nearly blinded him. This made the thieving god more suspicious than ever, for he had known the instant he heard the guildmaster’s prayer that the sword was bait in a trap. Still, he had come. A weapon that could keep the Chaos Hound at bay-or kill him-was worth any risk.

Kezef’s plaintive howl sounded again in the distance. The Shadowlord shuddered, imagining what would happen if the hound’s poison-crusted fangs ever sank into his tenebrous flesh. He reached into his cloak and withdrew a piece of raw venison, and this he tossed into a dark corner. Then he took a half-starved wolf pup from his other pocket and set her on the floor to see if the sword’s magic would prevent the beast from finding her meal.

The pup looked around the dark room, then touched her nose to the cold marble and fell over dead.

Mask nearly screamed his delight, for the weapon was more powerful than he had hoped: it had killed the wolf pup without even touching her. All that remained was to find Mystra’s trap and disarm it, a task that the sword’s blinding aura of magic would render considerably more difficult.

From the same dark corner through which Mask had entered came another howl, this time so loud it rattled the lacquered panels of Prince Tang’s bed.

Tang cringed, for he feared the sound would draw the intruder’s attention to his hiding place. But this did not occur. The thief-and the prince thought him to be simply that-ignored the baying and also the soft rattle of the panels, and he paced back and forth before the sword stand. In the darkness, the figure looked like an elf at some times and at others like a man, and once it even seemed to be an orc. These changes Tang dismissed as tricks of the dim light.

The prince could not imagine why the interloper hesitated, but he wished the man would find his courage. The strange howls convinced him that Mystra had foreseen the need for just such a weapon, and as soon as the intruder reached up for the chien, Tang meant to attack. Unfortunately, it was beginning to appear the hound would be in the room before the fellow made up his mind.

Tang kept his eye pressed to the crack between the panels, watching the intruder consider the sword stand. Twice more the hound howled, and this baying disturbed even the thief, who shuddered like empty cloth and glanced toward the sound.

A low growl rumbled through the room; then a pair of yellow eyes appeared in the dark corner. The eyes began to grow larger, and the prince dared wait no longer. He pulled the panel aside and flung himself at the intruder, dagger raised to strike.

The silhouette did not turn so much as ripple, and the prince found himself looking into the damson eyes of a towering gnoll. Like all Shou nobles, Tang had mastered the art of mortal combat, and in a blink, he stopped himself short and delivered a kick to the gnoll’s knee that would have snapped a ginkgo tree.

Nothing happened, save that the impact broke several bones in Tang’s foot.

“Fool!” sneered the intruder. “Leave me alone, or I-“

The rumble in the corner became a blaring howl, and a sickening reek of spoiled flesh filled the chamber. Four sets of claws clattered across the floor, and the prince knew that if he did not retrieve his chien, nothing would save him now. He feigned another kick, then slashed at his foe’s eyes and tried to slip past to grab his sword.

A murky arm swept down to block the attack, then flung the prince back toward his bed. Tang glimpsed an enormous beast loping beneath him, then crashed through a pair of sliding panels and found himself lying where he had started.

Though his body ached, the prince rolled to the edge of the bed and saw a creature as large as a horse. It was the most hideous hound imaginable, with a tail of bare bone and a haze of brown breath ringing its blocky head. The beast stopped and shook itself, spraying a cloud of wriggling maggots in every direction, then leapt at the thief. Tang gasped, for he knew the hound would turn on him as soon as it swallowed the intruder.

Seeing that Tang had robbed him of any chance of escape, the thief whirled and grabbed the sword, intending to complete the circle and attack the Chaos Hound in one smooth motion.

This was not to be.

A slender arm shot up from the chien’s supporting berth and wrapped itself around Mask’s wrist. He tried to shrink free, but the smaller he made his arm, the tighter the hand grasped him.

“Mystra!”

Even as Mask hissed the goddess’s name, the Chaos Hound tore into his leg and severed it at the thigh. A great blast of darkness shot through the room, shattering the panels of the canopied bed and smashing the furniture against the walls.

Kezef’s poison surged through the Shadowlord’s veins, filling him with a scalding weakness that seemed to consume him from the inside out. He felt his head shriveling into a wrinkled husk and his limbs withering into drooping stalks, and his spirit rushed out through his severed veins. In that moment, he knew the folly of angering the Goddess of Magic.

The Shadowlord shook his head clear and saw Kezef’s great head looming above him. The remains of his leg dangled from the dog’s slavering jaws, yet the hound made no move to attack. Instead, he kept his angry eyes fixed on the chien, for he could sense the blade’s magic as well as its purpose, and it made him cautious. Mask looked back to the arm that had sprouted from the polished wood of Tang’s stand.

“Mystra, wait!” the Shadowlord pleaded. All the swords except the blessed chien clattered to the floor. “Let me save myself, and I will tell Tempus to withdraw his charges.”

“It is too late for that.” Mystra’s avatar flowed out of the sword stand and took shape beside it. She held Mask’s wrist with one hand and Prince Tang’s chien in the other. “After what you have done, you cannot buy me off with a mere boon!”

“I thought that was what you wanted!”

“No longer.”

With a flick of her wrist, Mystra freed Prince Tang’s chien from its scabbard. At once, the bare blade filled the room with a crimson glow. Mask’s shadowy form lost all semblance to a body; it became a puddle of darkness upon the floor, and the goddess raised her arm to strike.