Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (20 page)

When I did not answer, Cyric cackled in delight “Brilliant!” He reached down and plucked me from the floor. “But you will need help to reach Zhentil Keep before my trial.”

“Then you’ll carry me there?”

“You know I cannot, Malik. You would never find the Cyrinishad. Oghma’s magic still keeps me from discovering it” He thrust my heart into my hand, then turned toward the old mare. She whinnied and raised her head and glared at him with her big round eyes. “But I can make sure you have a good mount.”

“A good mount?” Under no circumstances could that swaybacked nag be called such a thing-though I had intended to steal her all along, as she looked like a beast even I might control. “If you’ll just help me with the bit, Mighty One.”

“Bit? For a spirited beast such as this?” Cyric went to her.

The trembling nag backed against the wall, and the goats fled to my side of the shed, and I snatched the One’s heart up off the floor. Even when they are afraid, goats are voracious beasts that will eat anything.

Cyric grabbed the mare’s mane and pulled her head down to his mouth. The poor beast grew so frightened she kicked a plank out of the wall, and through this hole, morning’s golden light rushed in to mix with the purple glow the One had struck earlier. Our Dark Lord clamped his teeth over the horse’s neck and bit into a vein, and her shriek was as shrill as a hawk’s, save that it was a hundred times as loud. My ears rang, and the dog howled from beneath its manger, and the goats bleated and butted the door in their fury to escape.

Blood rushed from the mare’s throat faster than Cyric could drink it, so that it poured out over his chin and cascaded into the dirt. The nag grew weak and began to sway, and still the One drank, forcing her to kneel in a steaming pool of her own blood. At this sight, my weak stomach threatened to betray me again, so I turned away and pressed my head against the wall. Through a crack in the planks, I saw an old man standing outside; he held a loaded crossbow in his shaking hands, but his mouth was gaping, and his feet seemed rooted to the ground in fear.

“Malik! Quit daydreaming. Get her harness.”

I slipped my heart into the crook of my elbow, then took the bridle off a hook on the wall and carried it over to him. The nag had stopped struggling, and now Cyric was lying atop her, holding his slashed wrist over her throat. A sticky black syrup was flowing from his wound into hers, on which account she seemed to be growing healthier by the moment. Before my eyes, her swayed back straightened, her gaunt frame grew robust and strong, and her dull coat became bright and glistening.

Cyric pulled his wrist from her neck. Both his wound and the mare’s stopped bleeding, and her eyes grew as blue as sapphires. Her lips curled back, revealing teeth as sharp and ugly as a shark’s. She snorted clouds of cold vapor from her nostrils and raised her head to glare at me.

“She is waiting for her name.” As the One said this, he took the bridle from me and tore out the bit, then slipped it over her head. “You are the one who must give it to her.”

“Halah.” I chose this name not because of its meaning, which was “nimble,” but because she reminded me of my wife, whose beauty resembled the mare’s in more ways than one. I name you Halah.”

Halah whinnied, and the sound was like the cold rattling of a captive’s chains. She rolled onto her knees and rose, tossing the One off her neck as though he were nothing.

“Stand back,” he ordered. “She is hungry.”

I barely had time to leap aside before Halah sprang across the shed, trapping all five goats against the wall. She killed them in a flurry of snapping teeth and striking hooves, then whirled upon the whimpering dog. Seeing what was in her mind, the dog shot from its hiding place and vanished through the hole the horse had kicked in the planks earlier. The mare stopped short of crashing through, though I am sure she had the power to, and returned to the dead goats.

“Never stop her from eating,” Cyric warned. “You can ride her day and night at a full gallop, but when she is hungry, do not even think of interfering.”

I looked away from the goats, which she was devouring hoof, horn, and hide. “I doubt I could.”

The One reached over and took my heart. “Certainly not with this. We shall have to give you something stronger.”

“S-Stronger?”

“I will hold on to this one for you.” Cyric’s hand became translucent, then he slipped my heart into his own chest and shook his head as though he had eaten something sour. “It might even help, if you are right about what Oghma says.”

I looked down at my own chest, which had a hollow inside that felt as large as the stock shed.

“There is no need to worry, Malik. You can use mine until we finish.” Cyric took his own heart from my hand, then plucked the writhing white threads from its slurping mass and dropped them into his mouth. “But it would hardly be wise to leave these with you, would it? No telling what kind of trouble they would cause.”

I watched him pull out the last of the strings and swallow it, then I fell to my knees. “Please, Mighty One, I am not worthy! Let me keep my own heart.”

Cyric grasped me by the shoulder. “Stop whining, Malik.” He thrust his hand into my chest, and with it his fetid heart. This is for my own good.”

Sixteen

Talos was riding a storm in from the Sea of Swords, and he could see hippogriffs hurrying back to Candlekeep from all directions, their masters eager to reach shelter before a lightning bolt blasted them from the sky. Only a single beast, the big one that carried the Harper witch behind its rider, continued to sweep back and forth over the plain.

Today, the riders need not have worried. The God of Destruction would be hurling no bolts at them. Today, his fury was directed farther inland than they could see, toward a little rider on a fast horse who had already galloped farther than they could imagine. Though the protection of Tyr prevented Talos from causing the rider any harm, the Destroyer was determined to turn the ground into mud beneath the hooves of his swift mount.

As the storm rumbled toward shore, a great baying rolled from the clouds behind Talos. The sound was as deep and deafening as a thunderclap, and it sent a chill down even the Destroyer’s spine. The Chaos Hound was coming.

Talos drew a handful of lightning bolts from the empty air and whirled around, determined to spear the beast the instant he saw it. The Chaos Hound fed on the marrow of the Faithful, and the Raging One had Faithful spread all through this storm, hurling bolts of lightning and pounding thunderheads and pelting the ground with waves of pounding hail. Another howl broke from the black clouds. Then a murky shadow came streaking out of the billowing darkness.

Talos hurled his first bolt, but the shadow saw it coming and dodged aside. The lightning streaked into a roiling cloud and blossomed into a flashing silver heart, and a tremendous crash rumbled through the entire storm front.

“Stay your arm, Destroyer!” Though the voice was wispy, it was as loud as the raging winds. “I mean no harm.”

“No harm?” Despite his roaring, Talos dropped his lightning bolts and let them sizzle into the sea. “Then why do you lead the Chaos Hound through a gale of my Faithful?”

Mask trotted across the cloud top until he reached Talos’s side. “Forgive me, but that was not my intention.” The Shadowlord braced his hands on his knees, and his form shifted to that of a panting gnoll. “Kezef caught my scent as I entered the storm.”

Then leave.”

Another howl broke from the depth of the tempest, and Mask glanced at the thunderhead behind them. “Soon enough.” The Shadowlord kept the form of the gnoll, for he would need his strength to flee Kezef. “I want to talk with you about this trouble you have gone to.”

“I make my storms where and when I wish.”

“I have no argument with that,” Mask replied. “But it seems a pity to waste so much effort on a mortal you cannot even kill.”

“I have no need to kill him, only to slow him down.”

Mask nodded. “Then we have reached the same conclusion. Malik is still chasing the Cyrinishad.”

“I cannot know for certain.” As Talos spoke, the storm began to roll over Candlekeep. With a thought, he instructed his Faithful to pound the thunderheads and sprinkle lightning bolts upon the shore, and then he looked back to Mask. “But I can think of no other reason for Cyric to give him such a horse.”

True, but this is so … obvious.” Mask waved an arm at the length of the storm. “Even if Tyr does not stop you, Cyric is sure to counter with a measure of his own.”

Talos shrugged. “I cannot help that.”

“No, but perhaps something subtle would prove more effective-and also advance your cause against Mystra.”

From deep in the storm came the screech of a soul in agony, followed by long, happy howl. Talos scowled and glared at Mask.

“Say what you have come to say and go. If I lose another of my Faithful, I shall forget you deserve the courtesy of a god.”

“As you like.” Mask pointed toward the Harper witch and her companion, who were still flying their hippogriff over the plain. “You see how determined the witch is to capture Malik. Perhaps she could use a little help.”

“Help one of Lady Magic’s worshipers? Never.”

“You are angered that Mystra has weakened the magic of destruction?”

Talos made no answer, for the question did not deserve one. Magic had all but ceased to serve the forces of destruction, and the situation had grown so bad that the Destroyer often disguised an avatar as a new god and sent it down to spread the magic of wildness and havoc.

When Mask received no reply, he said, “The best way to beat a foe is not always to fight. Sometimes it is to steal.”

Talos glared at the Shadowlord. “What do you care about my troubles with Mystra?”

“Nothing.” A deafening howl sounded inside the thunderhead from which Mask had come. He shuddered, but kept his gaze locked on Talos. “I am after Cyric. Until I take back what he stole, I will never have the strength to chase Kezef off.”

The Destroyer narrowed his eyes. “But the Eyeless One separated the charges. To find against Cyric, we need not find against Mystra and Kelemvor.”

“Too late for me,” Mask replied. “I have already laid a trap for Kelemvor, and I do not want Mystra taking vengeance after the trial. Unless they are both removed along with Cyric, I will be worse off than before.”

Talos smirked and shook his head. “Was it not one of these plots that drew Kezef onto your trail in the first place?”

“This is not my fault! How could I know Tyr would split the charges?” Mask was nearly shouting. “Besides, the verdict is more likely to go against Cyric if the Circle has already decided against Kelemvor and Mystra.”

“As usual, you have snagged yourself in your own plot.” Talos watched the Harper and her companion land their hippogriff and dismount; the gale was now rolling across the plain, and not even the bravest rider would fly through a thunderstorm. “I see no reason to entangle myself with you.”

“Not even to be rid of Mystra?”

A tremendous howl broke across the cloud, nearly drowning out the Shadowlord’s question. Kezef the Chaos Hound came bursting from a distant thunderhead. From his slavering jaws hung the flailing torso of one of Talos’s Faithful.

Mask kept his gaze fixed on the Destroyer and did not turn to flee. “Even if matters go against me, no one will blame you. It will look as if you were only trying to stop Cyric.”

Now Mask glanced at Kezef, who was sniffing back and forth across the swirling clouds-like any dog, he often relied upon his nose when his eyes would have served him better.

Talos considered the Shadowlord’s plan, then instructed his Faithful to cast no lightning bolts in the witch’s direction. “My magic is not the same as Mystra’s,” he said. “If I enhance Ruha’s powers, she will know something is amiss.”

The Chaos Hound let out another great bay, then tossed aside Talos’s half-eaten worshiper and came bounding across the clouds.

“Let me worry about what Ruha knows.” Mask stepped over to the cloud’s edge and peered into the swirling darkness beneath the storm. “You just give her the magic to catch Malik.”

And then he jumped.

Seventeen

Every god favors one mortal above all others, and for Mystra that mortal was Adon the Fop. He had been born to a wealthy family of Sembia more than thirty years before, and his life was one of sloth and excess until his fifteenth year, when a boy’s normal obsession with the beauty of women grew so strong he entered the church of Sune Firehair. There he learned all the disciplines of love: the spells of enchantment and the art of good grooming and the skill of close combat It was on account of these talents that Cyric and Kelemvor endured Adon’s company and that he was present when they met Midnight, as Mystra was known then, and began their quest for the Tablets of Fate.

Early in the journey, Adon suffered one of the most terrible things that could befall a cleric of Sune the Fickle and Beautiful: a madman cut his face and left a hideous scar. Thinking the mark a sign of Sune’s displeasure, the Fop lost his Faith and turned from the Church of Beauty. Yet he remained as loyal to his friends as a dog to its master, and in the many battles that followed, he and Midnight saved each other a hundred times. He was the one who stanched her bleeding in Waterdeep after Cyric stabbed her and took the Tablets of Fate, and when the lying Harlot persuaded Ao to make her Goddess of Magic, Adon was the first to declare his faith.

After that, he devoted himself to gathering worshipers for the Church of Mysteries. Mystra rewarded him with many special favors, not the least of which was naming him her patriarch. She also visited him in the sight of others, so that all would know Adon to be favored of the gods, and he became a much-valued guest in the homes of the powerful and the rich.

At no time was this more true than during the Rites of Joy. On account of the love between Kelemvor and Mystra, dying had become a time of wonder. If the departing one had lived a virtuous life and a cleric of Mystra was present at the instant of death, all manner of marvels would fill the air. Anyone who made a small wish would have it granted, provided the wish was a worthy one and for the good of another. Among those who value such follies as charity and compassion, the Rites were deemed a sure sign of the dead one’s happiness in the afterlife.