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.Cyric had charged the sword with the vital task of drawing him out of the trance the instant the Zhentish raised their voices in desperate devotion.But surely the time had come for him to receive the prayers of the city.Surely dawn had risen over Zhentil Keep.A terrible thought occurred to Cyric then.Perhaps something had gone wrong.The Prince of Lies let the smallest possible fragment of his mind gaze down upon his holy city.At first only a shrieking pain, red and pulsing, washed across his perception.The frantic, frightened demands of sixty thousand priests and worshipers reached up from the mortal realms like hooks, biting into the god's essence.The pleas for rescue, for magical might to slay the reavers of Zhentil Keep, dragged his mind from the confines of the trance.Cyric tried to steady himself and sort out the cacophony in his head, but he found himself spiraling down from his place on high.Then the chaotic scene in the city became clear.The sky yellowed like an old bruise as the sun climbed past the horizon.Above Zhentil Keep, a pillar of smoke pushed steadily into the bitter morning air.A conflagration was consuming the huge temple that had been the center of Cyric's worship.The magical fire devoured stone and steel as readily as it took wood and cloth and paper.The priests' homes surrounding the church had fallen before the blaze, as well, and the work of the bucket brigades seemed unable to stem its fiery advance.At the western gate, fifty frost giants worked at widening a breach in the high black walls.The gate itself had already fallen, riven to splinters by the giants' axes.The magical wards on the iron-braced doors had done their work; the first three giants to lay their blades upon the wood had turned to stone.But that powerful sorcery no more slowed the siege than did the scattered flights of arrows whistling gnatlike around the titans.The handful of giants who fell to these attacks were shoved aside or hurled over the walls like mammoth gunstones.Dragons screamed over the towers and gatehouses, their icy breath paralyzing the archers who raced along the ramparts.Now and then a ballista would tear a dragon's wing with a huge bolt or momentarily stun a wyrm with a boulder.Such victories proved more costly for the Zhentish than the monsters, since the dragons dealt with the offending ballistae quickly and savagely.Covered in ice, the men and women companying the engines held to their posts, their death screams trapped forever in their throats.A few wyrms hovered over the fields beyond the city.If they watched for Zhentish reinforcements, their wait would be long and pointless.The city had been cut off from the thousands upon thousands of Zhentilar garrisoned up and down the Long Road and in the Citadel of the Raven.Had any sizable force managed to break through the dragons' blockade, they would have found themselves outnumbered one hundred-to-one by the vast army of goblins and gnolls now milling to the north and west of the Keep, waiting for the giants to bring down the walls.Cyric slowed his descent and pulled his mind away from the destruction of the city.For an instant he considered granting his priests the sorcerous powers they demanded.That would allow them to drive a few of the giants from the gates, perhaps stall the siege long enough for the death god to take on an avatar and wade into the fight himself.Yet the Prince of Lies could feel his own strength draining away.With each death, each worshiper who gave in to despair and abandoned his faith, Cyric lost more of his divine power.No, better to muster supernatural aid from the Realm of the Dead than risk opening himself to the vortex of his faithful's demands.At the merest of thoughts, Cyric traveled to his throne room.The scene that greeted him there was just as chaotic as the one he'd witnessed in Zhentil Keep.An angry mob of denizens filled the long hall.They pressed toward the throne, shouting curses and threats at Jergal, trying to reach for Godsbane.The sword leaned against the throne, lifeless, pale as the martyrs' bones supporting her."If Cyric's run away from the fight, at least let one of us use the blasted sword," a goat-headed denizen bleated.He bowed his horned head low, threatening to charge the seneschal.Jergal held his ground.He hovered defiantly between the mob and Cyric's throne, his cloak billowing around him like a dark angel's wings.When any of the denizens got too close, he swirled his cape over their grasping hands.The darkness that was his body swallowed the creatures' limbs, devoured the hands and arms greedily, leaving only seared stumps behind.Furious at the violent confusion before him, Cyric lashed out.At a wave of his hand, a black globe appeared at the room's center.Inky tentacles slipped from the orb, curled around the rioting creatures, and drew them screaming into the Abyss.Their shouts echoed from the globe as it shrank to a pinpoint of darkness then vanished.For a moment, only the soft moans of the Burning Men could be heard in the hall.Cyric reached for Godsbane, but a momentary wave of dizziness overcame him.He dropped the sword and fell back against his gruesome throne."Explain yourself, Godsbane," the death god hissed as he pushed himself back to his feet."Why wasn't I told about the attack on the Keep?"The spirit of the sword may not be able to answer, Your Magnificence, Jergal murmured, his cold voice ringing through the death god's mind.Someone has struck a killing blow against her [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]