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

vent his anger upon the mortals who serve his cause.” The words were as wispy as a yard of silk, and so soft they seemed a mere thought. “But I often expect more than I should.”
    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