Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad (4 page)

Tempus, garbed as always in little more than his battered breastplate and war helm, regarded the intruder in sullen silence. Though the Battle Lord’s visor was lowered and had no slits for seeing, his gaze sent a shudder down the visitor’s spine. Such was the horror of War, that its face was too terrible to look upon and its stare too withering to bear.

Tempus leaned forward in his great throne and loomed over the elf, who stood no higher than the Battle Lord’s knee. “What you expect is no concern of mine, Shadowflea.” He did not ask how this visitor had passed through his castle’s defenses; though Mask was feeble by the measure of gods, no ward or hasp could lock out the God of Thieves. “And when I am robbed, I shall strike you down before any mortal.”

Mask rose from his bow, and his gloom-shrouded features changed to those of an elven female. “Then you shall be doubly robbed, first of what is already lost, and next of a loyal ally.”

“You could never be loyal, and I take no allies.” Tempus made no comment on his visitor’s transformation, for he knew that the Shadowlord changed appearances constantly to evade his many pursuers. One of these pursuers Mask feared above all others, and the Battle Lord could not resist a taunt. “Perhaps you should say what you came to say. Is that not Kezef I hear baying?”

Mask cringed and looked over both shoulders, and Tempus chuckled darkly. Many years before, during the turbulent times of the Cyrinishad’s creation, the God of Thieves had tried to sic Kezef the Chaos Hound on Cyric. Of course, the One had countered this plan easily, nearly destroying the Shadowlord in a mighty blast. Kezef had arrived on the heels of the explosion, angered by Mask’s bid to manipulate him and eager to take vengeance. The Shadowlord had fled so quickly that, for a time, even his fellow deities had thought him destroyed in the blast.

When Mask saw that Tempus had deceived him, his features brightened to the color of a fair-skinned girl. “The god of war makes a joke,” said the Shadowlord. “How unexpected.”

Tempus sat back, his eyeless glare still fixed on Mask’s ever-changing face. “I have more humor than patience this day, Shadowcrab.”

“As well you might, given what Cyric has stolen from you.”

“Stolen?” Tempus noted the quiet that had fallen over his battle hall. With a mere thought, he ordered the Eternal War resumed, then snorted, “Cyric could not steal the feculence from my cesspits. That lunatic has done nothing in years but ponder his own lies.”

“Just so, but Cyric has robbed you.” Mask’s visage changed to that of a long-snouted troll. “He has robbed you so well you do not blame him, though his guilt is as plain as the nose on my face. In too many places, diplomats are bargaining fairly, second princes are content in their positions, foes are keeping treaties made in good faith. This is Cyric’s doing. Is he not the god of murder, strife, and intrigue? Is it not his duty to spread these things across Faerun? And yet, they are vanishing everywhere-everywhere but within his own church.”

Tempus nodded. “Peace has spread like a disease across the continent-and without the usual aid of Sune or Lliira.”

A crescent of yellow teeth shone in the gloom beneath Mask’s long troll nose. “We are in agreement, then.”

“We have noted the same condition,” Tempus said. “But to say we agree implies we are allies, and I remember how you betrayed both sides during the debacle of the Cyrinishad.”

“You dare chastise me for vacillating? The God of War, who favors one side at dusk and another at dawn?”

Tempus folded his arms. “Such is the nature of war. I make no claim otherwise, and that is why I make no alliances.”

“But you are unhappy with events at Candlekeep. You were robbed of an epic battle by Cyric’s incompetence. His priests are more adept at murdering each other than at spreading strife across the land.” Mask had taken the stocky form of an orc, and nothing showed in his shadowy face except two gleaming pig’s eyes. “Unless matters change, war will become a thing of the past on Faerun-and you with it.”

Tempus felt his anger stir once more, but he resisted the urge to pound the arm of his throne. If he tipped the balance of battle yet again and so quickly, he might dampen the fighting, and already there were too few good wars raging across Faerun.

“I know what Cyric’s incompetence has cost me,” Tempus said. “And I know why you are here. But if I lash out in vengeance-“

“Not lash out,” Mask said. “That would accomplish nothing, save to draw your foes into a battle there is no need to fight.”

Tempus locked his visored gaze on the God of Thieves. Mask’s form shifted from orc to dwarf, but the Battle Lord still did not see the meaning behind the Shadowlord’s words.

“What are you suggesting?”

At that moment a howl echoed through the hall, and though its source lay outside the Battle Lord’s palace, it was loud and shrill, piercing the din of the Eternal War as cleanly as the blare of an unholy trumpet. The Shadowlord’s flesh rippled and turned pale. Tempus saw a puny halfling with pink eyes and skin as white as alabaster, then Mask remembered himself and took the form of an eight-foot gnoll.

“You must assemble the Circle of Twelve.” Mask spoke rapidly and edged away from the direction of the howl. “Accuse Cyric of neglecting his godly duties.”

“Call a trial council?” Tempus paid no attention to Kezef’s impending arrival; the Chaos Hound was Mask’s concern. “We cannot intrude upon Cyric’s affairs. Ao would never hear of it!”

“He will-if enough of you ask.” Mask’s gaze darted over his shoulder. “You are not the only great god who suffers because of Cyric’s neglect. After the debacle at Candlekeep, Talos the Destroyer and the Nightbringer Shar both have reason to stand against him. And you can be certain Mystra and Kelemvor will support you; their hatred for Cyric will blind them to how his incompetence benefits their cause.”

Another howl broke over the hall, this one as shrill as finger bones scratching at iron walls.

Mask shuddered and became an amorphous blob. “Of the twelve gods in the Circle, you can already count the support of five. Just one more is enough to guarantee victory, for Cyric will never deign to attend, and Tyr will hold himself above the polling as judge.” Mask raised his shadowy hand, and a parchment scroll appeared in his grasp. “I have spelled it out for you here. Even if Ao denies your petition, he will take action himself. He must, for the very Balance is threatened!”

“All you say is true enough.” Tempus spoke slowly, for he enjoyed watching Mask twitch and ripple, and he wished to see whether the Shadowlord’s fear of Kezef was greater than his hatred of Cyric. “Yet, your plots have a way of rebounding on those who take part in them.”

Mask lowered his eyes. “In the past I have had a weakness for intrigue, I admit.” His shadowy head took the form of a two-faced human, one visage turned in Tempus’s direction, the other keeping watch for the Chaos Hound. “But I am better now. That is why I came to you directly, instead of trying to… ‘arrange’ the trial through other means.”

A great moan rolled through the hall, echoing off the iron walls rather than passing through them, and Tempus knew the Chaos Hound had entered his palace.

Mask started forward, holding out the parchment scroll.

Tempus raised a gauntlet, bidding him wait. “And when Cyric is stripped of power, you will be there to claim what he loses?”

Mask glanced toward the dark corner from which he had come. “I want only what I lost to him-my dominion over Intrigue-and perhaps the small boon of Lies, if my service proves worthy.”

“That is not in my power to grant,” Tempus said. “Even if the trial goes against him-“

“I ask only that you suggest it.” Mask’s words were soft and quick, and his shadowy figure changed with every one, as though switching forms might hide him from the keen nose of Kezef. “And I ask that you stand by your charges. Once you lodge your complaints, it will be too late to change our course.”

A deep, profane snarl rumbled through the battle hall and drowned out the din of clanging steel. A beast the size of a war-horse emerged from the far corner. It resembled a giant mastiff with black-crusted fangs and a shimmering coat of maggots.

Mask trembled so violently his form grew blurry and indistinct, but he did not flee. “Do I have your promise?”

The Chaos Hound cocked his head, then swung his massive snout toward the Shadowlord and snuffled. Threads of poison-laced drool fell from his chomping maw.

Tempus nodded. “I give you my word.”

Kezef charged.

Mask tossed the scroll at Tempus and leaped over a pile of warriors and disappeared into a shadowy corner.

The Chaos Hound streaked between two ranks of charging cavalry, then bounded over a knot of grappling footmen. He shoved through a tangle of blood-spattered knights, flashed past Tempus’s throne, and disappeared into the shadows after Mask.

The Battle Lord sat watching the Eternal War for a moment, then opened the scroll Mask had thrown him. The Shadowlord’s plans always made him uneasy, but Tempus would convene the Circle of Twelve. The Battle Lord rarely gave his word, but when he did, he always kept it.

Three

The great gods of the Circle of Twelve gathered in the Pavilion of Cynosure-eleven in all, for Cyric the One was not among them. The Battle Lord Tempus arrived first, followed by Mystra, Lady Magic, and her lover Kelemvor, Lord Death. Then came Talos the Destroyer and Shar the Nightbringer, Goddess of Loss and of all the wicked things men do under cover of darkness-a pair upon whose support the Battle Lord was counting. And too there was Chauntea, Goddess of Bountiful Nature, along with her paramour Lathander the Morninglord, who appeared in a streak of golden light. Never to be outshone, Sune, Goddess of Beauty and Love, appeared in a flash of flame as red as her hair. Silvanus Treefather, God of Wild Nature, also saw fit to attend, as did Oghma, thieving God of Wisdom. Tyr, the eyeless God of Justice, came to act as judge. Though many called him Tyr the Evenhanded, this was something of a joke, as his right arm ended in a stump.

The gods did not “arrive” in the pavilion so much as turn their attention upon it, for deities are more energy than body and can manifest themselves anywhere with little more than a thought. By dividing their concentration, they can perform many tasks at once, or “travel” between locations in an instant But their abilities are not entirely without limits; they can divide their attention only so many times, and the greater their exertion in any one place, the more of their attention they must concentrate there. The Pavilion of Cynosure appeared different to each god.

Chauntea the Great Mother perceived it as a lush and fragrant garden, burgeoning with dew-kissed blossoms of impossible brilliance. Shar the Nightbringer saw a dark cavern where no light could shine, filled with barbed stalactites and hidden abysses that seethed with pains long buried but never forgotten. To Mystra, Lady of Magic, the pavilion was an alchemist’s laboratory, strewn with simmering beakers and jars packed with arcane spell components.

The gods saw each other as differently as they saw the pavilion itself, each in accordance with his or her own nature. Mystra saw her companions as wizards of awesome power, cloaked in robes spun from the shimmering energies of the Magic Weave. In turn, Tempus envisioned her as a valkyrie armored in gleaming plate of the purest silver. Oghma the Wise viewed her as a young sage, while Talos the Destroyer saw her as an annihilating whirlwind of magic that left havoc wherever she went.

But Mystra did not know how Kelemvor, Lord of the Dead, saw her-perhaps as a skeleton of polished ivory, or a mummy wrapped in golden silk. She had asked him once, in a quiet moment alone, and he had refused to answer, saying only that he regretted some things about becoming a god.

When these eleven had come to the pavilion as gods do, they waited. Two places remained empty in the circle. The first was a large gap between Oghma and Chauntea; it was always left open in acknowledgment of Ao’s eternal presence. A smaller space lay between Talos and Shar, the space reserved for Almighty Cyric, the One and the All. Although the Dark Sun had not deigned to attend any circle in many years, the gods stood in such awe of his power that they did not dare begin before allowing him a few moments to appear.

When it grew clear that Cyric had chosen not to grace their meeting with his presence, Tyr the Evenhanded gazed around the pavilion, lingering upon each of the gods until he caught their eye. Slowly, the chamber fell silent.

Tyr the Just turned his empty eye sockets in the direction of fickle Tempus. “I believe you called us here, Foehammer?”

Tempus walked to the heart of the pavilion, which he saw as a war room cluttered with maps and markers. Most of the other gods remained in their places, arranged in a circle, although some created chairs in which to sit or couches upon which to lie. Ever restless, Talos the Destroyer and Sune Firehair began to wander about, Talos tearing map corners and Sune pausing at every shiny surface to study her own reflection. No god scowled at their behavior, for it was no more in their nature to hold still than it would have been in Shar’s to step into the light.

Tempus raised one armored fist and smashed it into the palm of the other. “I have had enough of Cyric the All!” he declared. “The time has come to strip him of his powers. Give me the word, and I will muster my thousands to storm the Shattered Keep and drag that mad god from his throne!”

Tempus offered no explanation of his charges and presented no evidence to back them up. He had done all that as he summoned the others to the pavilion, and the Battle Lord was not one to repeat himself. He spun in a slow circle, glaring at each god in turn. “Who will stand with me?”

Tempus turned to Shar and Talos, then waved his palm through the air before their eyes, leaving in its wake an image of the plain before Candlekeep. Though the battle between Jabbar and Haroun was not yet an hour gone, already Kelemvor’s carrion-eating harbingers had turned the knoll black with their gleaming feathers. On the plain before Candlekeep, hundreds of bodies lay scattered through the salt grass, struck down from behind as they fled the madness that had seized the Ebon Spur. “Even now, your worshipers lie dying in the field, betrayed by Cyric’s madness.”