Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad Read Online Free PDF Page A

the veil that hid her face, scanning the battlefield. Her hands began to move.
    She was calling to me, I thought, casting her spell. I imagined her voice rustling inside my skull, beckoning to me, bidding the Finder of the Book to stand and show himself.
    It might be wiser, I decided, just to close my eyes.
    I am but a man, and no man may perceive everything that occurs in the world and in the boundless heavens above. Only the gods see all, and when it serves their purpose, they will sometimes brighten a mortal’s mind with their perfect knowledge. Know then that the following accounts, like many others describing events I could not have witnessed personally, are gifts of the One. Long after my days as a spy came to their end, Our Dark Lord graced my thoughts with an exact knowledge of all that occurred during the search for the holy Cyrinishad, whether or not I had seen it with my own eyes, and even if it happened in the heavens above where no man may see.
    I bear no blame for the many blasphemies of speech and thought contained in these accounts. These lies belong only to those who spawned them, and I swear they are a great offense to my ears! I include them only because it is my duty to present a complete and faithful chronicle of the search for the holy Cyrinishad. I pray you, Almighty Cyric, One and All, do not torment your poor servant for doing as he is bound!
     

Two
     
    After the companies of Most High Haroun and His Deadliness Jabbar destroyed each other, what remained of Cyric’s army fled across the plain in ten directions at once: south toward the Cloud Peaks and east toward Beregost and north toward the Cloak Woods, and in all directions but west, where loomed the towers of Candlekeep and the raging Sea of Swords. The eagle-horses wheeled over the field, their riders hurling fireballs and lightning bolts, True Believers scattering before them as sheep before wolves. Only the Company of the Ebon Spur did not flee, for it had become a crimson tangle on the knoll where Jabbar and Haroun had fallen. The bodies of men and beasts lay as deep as a man’s shoulders, and their steaming blood cascaded from the summit in glistening streams. A dozen bulls staggered over the heap, lowing for their dead masters, while the warriors who had not yet expired prayed to Cyric in voices hoarse with pain.
    All this did fickle Tempus, God of War, see from his home in faraway limbo. The sight charged his heart with such a fury that he smashed his gauntleted hand against his iron throne, and fields of battle quaked all across Faerun. Pikemen lost their footing and exposed whole flanks to the charging enemy. Loyal war-horses stumbled and fell, pitching their riders to the mercy of their foes. Castle walls crumbled and cracked, and besieging armies poured through the breaches to pillage and plunder.
    The Battle Lord paid no heed to these calamities, for war is won as often through accidents of destiny as through acts of courage. But when he thought of the valiant warriors slain before Candlekeep, stilled by the blades of their own fellows, and of the epic contest that might have been, again Tempus felt his anger rising. It erupted with the rumble of a hundred thunderclaps, and the Numberless Hosts that did battle in his vast halls shrank from the ire of their god. They lowered their blades and turned to tremble before his throne. For the first time since the Time of Troubles, the Eternal War fell quiet.
    A slender elf emerged from the shadows of a far corner and started across the debris. He wore a cloak of dark gloom, and though he crossed many heaps of crumpled armor and trod upon the shards of countless broken weapons, he moved in utter silence and never caused a sound. Nor did his feet leave any track, though he often walked through pools of fresh blood and stepped in piles of steaming gore.
    The elf stopped before the throne of Tempus and bowed low. “When mighty Tempus is robbed, I would expect him to strike down the thief-not