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

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