The Prince of Lies called into the dark and silent prison: “I am Cyric, Lord of the Dead and God of Strife. I am here to bind you to my service, Kezef.”
A rumbling growl rolled out of the shadows.
“No god of Faerun would loose the Chaos Hound of his own free will.” The inhuman voice was low and full of malevolence. “So you must be no god.”
“If you lavish godhood on the pretenders who chained you here, then you’re right. I am no god,” Cyric countered snidely. “I’m very much more than that.”
The Chaos Hound moved into the light. The beast resembled a huge mastiff, as large as any draft horse Cyric had seen in the streets of Zhentil Keep. Teeming maggots were his fur, the coat shifting incessantly over barely covered sinews and bones. His pointed teeth glittered like daggers of jet. A tongue oozing tatters of corruption lolled to the Hound’s chin, poisonous spittle dripping in sizzling drops to the ground.
A short length of chain, forged by the God of Craft himself, held the beast in place. The links clattered sullenly as Kezef settled onto his haunches and looked the Prince of Lies in the face. “What dark task would you have me complete?”
A wicked smile creased Cyric’s lips. “I want you to find the soul of Kelemvor Lyonsbane.”
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v3.1
To J. F. Marcolini,
for two decades of friendship.
Contents
Cover
Map
Other Books in the Series
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Author’s Note
Prologue
I: Life Underground
II: Book of Lies
III: Point of View
IV: Soul Searching
V: Agent of Hope
VI: Secret Passages
VII: Pandemonium
VIII: Hounds and Hares
IX: Nothing to Fear
X: Duel-Edged Sword
XI: Inquisitor
XII: Puppets on Parade
XIII: The Price of Victory
XIV: A Little Knowledge
XV: Oracles of War
XVI: Mind Games
XVII: Giants on the Doorstep
XVIII: The Dead and the Quick
XIX: Nightmares
XX: Lord of the Dead
Epilogue
About the Author
Author’s Note
Five years ago, I was handed my first big assignment as an editor for TSR’s book department the Avatar Trilogy. little did I suspect at the time that my office would soon become home to something game designer Jeff Grubb liked to call the Avatar Vortex. Anyone who crossed my threshold from July 1988 to October 1989 ran the risk of spiraling down into that maelstrom of Avatar products: novels, game modules, and comic books. Some folks made the descent willingly, others shouted a bit as they went under, but from its inception the Avatar Project owed its vitality to a large team of creative people.
With all that history in mind, it shouldn’t be surprising that this Avatar-related novel owes much to the work of others:
To Scott Ciencin and Troy Denning, the better parts of Richard Awlinson, who penned the original trilogy and broke me in as an editor.
To Jeff Grubb, Karen Boomgarden, Ed Greenwood, and all the creatives who worked on the game department side of Avatar. The vortex would have been pretty lonely without your cheerful company.
To Mary Kirchoff, who assigned the Avatar Trilogy to a green editor, then taught him enough as a writer that he could add a chapter or two (or twenty) of his own.
To J. Robert King, who showed astounding grace under fire in the editing of this manuscript.
And most especially to my wife, Debbie, who has weathered the five-year-long Avatar maelstrom with good cheer. I doubt this is the last we’ll see of Cyric, but it’s nice to know you’ll be around to keep him quiet du
ring Jonny Quest the next time he drops by for a lengthy stay.
PROLOGUE
Gwydion was doomed, but he kept running anyway.
Dubbed “the Quick” by the sergeant of his company in Cormyr’s vaunted Purple Dragons, Gwydion had bested everyone who’d ever challenged him in a footrace. He could dash from one end of Suzail’s expansive Promenade to the other without breathing hard, while the pretenders to his title fell to panting long before they’d reached Vangerdahast’s Tower, less than halfway along the course. As a scout during the crusade, he outran three Tuigan cavalrymen to deliver a report to King Azoun. So unassailable was his reputation that none of Gwydion’s otherwise skeptical fellows had thought to question him, even though no one else had witnessed the amazing feat.
Yet, even Gwydion doubted his fleetness of foot could save him now—no more than Lady Cardea’s priceless elf-crafted bow had kept her alive; no more than the myriad enchantments of Aram Scragglebeard had whisked him out of harm’s way. No, the carrion crows filling the iron-gray sky were there as much for him as for his fallen companions.
As he scrambled to the foot of the cliff, Gwydion looked back up to the plateau. Twilight shadows draped the rocky face, the cloak of darkness broken now and then by long, glinting icicles or patches of snow. And at the trail’s start, haloed by the sun setting at his back, stood the giant. He resembled nothing so much as a tower perched on the high ledge—his boots small gatehouses, his hands thick balconies, his horned helmet the peaked and merloned roof. He stood unmoving, staring at Gwydion with frost-blue eyes. Then the giant leaped forward.
“Torm’s heart!” Gwydion gasped, sprinting away at top speed.
The falling goliath seemed to fill the sky, and his shadow engulfed the fleeing man. With surprising agility, the giant bounded once, twice, and finally a third time as he ran down the steep rock face. His iron-shod boots sent boulders cascading around the petrified sell-sword. Billows of powdery snow swirled into the air as the rocks hit the clearing. The carrion crows flapped to a safer vantage, black spots moving in the glittering mist of snow.
As the giant landed, the ground trembled for miles around, and many darksome creatures in the Great Gray Lands of Thar were shaken from their unquiet slumbers. “You cannot run from Thrym!” the titan bellowed, brandishing a battle-axe adorned with the feathers of griffons and giant eagles.
Gwydion charged across the open ground, heading for the fast-flowing river a few hundred yards away. If he could make the boat they’d secreted there, he might be able to lose Thrym. If not …
Gwydion gritted his teeth and ran.
The clearing sloped away from the cliff, its blanket of new-fallen snow broken only by scattered boulders, clusters of gnarled yew shrubs, and the churned tracks left hours ago by Gwydion and his two fellow treasure-hunters. He stayed in those tracks as much as possible, hoping to avoid the deep drifts and sinkholes hidden beneath the snow. On her way to the giant’s lair, Cardea had stumbled into one such hole—a particularly deep fissure. She’d have blamed the sprained ankle for her poor showing against Thrym, Gwydion thought grimly, if she weren’t lying in two halves up on the plateau.
He risked a glance over his shoulder. Thrym lumbered after him, surrounded by a haze of snow. For every five of Gwydion’s steps, the giant took only one. And he was still gaining ground.
By the time Gwydion spotted the fissure that had done Cardea so much harm, he could smell the stench of the uncured hides Thrym wore beneath his breastplate. The sell-sword let his knees buckle beneath him, and he tumbled painfully into the fissure. Then, clutching his bruised ribs, he tried his best to shrink into the hole.
Running too fast to stop quickly, Thrym leaped over the scar. He swung his axe as he passed, but the awkward slash did little more than fan another thin cloud of snow into the air—that and frighten all thoughts of the river and the boat from Gwydion’s mind.
As the blade hissed close to the mercenary’s face, he saw only the blood coloring the chipped head. The gore’s from Cardea and probably Aram, too, Gwydion thought, though he hadn’t stayed long enough to witness the old mage’s grisly end. The next blow will probably end this sorry adventure and my career as a sword-for-hire.
“Anything, Torm,” Gwydion shrieked. “I’ll do anything if you let me live to see Cormyr again.” The sell-sword’s plea to the God of Duty was utterly insincere, as were all the oaths he’d sworn in times of desperation, but it did not go unheard.
Come to me, Gwydion.
No more than a whisper, the words echoed insistently inside his head. Then a warm, flickering light appeared before the man’s tearing eyes. It beckoned the sell-sword, wordlessly ordering him to tunnel into the snow that filled the fissure. Gwydion did so without hesitation, without doubting for an instant that some greater power had taken pity on him. Such things weren’t uncommon in Faerun, a land where the gods took on mortal avatars from time to time, and miracles were limited only by faith and imagination.
After scraping forward a dwarf’s height, Gwydion felt the packed snow beneath him shift.
Go deeper, the voice instructed. The words banished the chill from his trembling limbs and masked the pain in his raw and bleeding hands.
Through the cold blanket overhead came Thrym’s bellowed curses. The footsteps were getting close again, the ground trembling beneath the giant’s iron-booted gait. Gulping a breath, Gwydion tore into the packed snow beneath him like a vole burrowing away from a ravenous fox. Then, quite suddenly, the shroud of snow covering him was gone, brushed away with one swipe of Thrym’s callused hand.
“Ha! You think you can fool me with an old trick like this?” Thrym mocked. His voice was as cold as the icicles hanging from his dirty blond beard.
Gwydion looked up at the giant. Thrym’s iron boots stood like prison walls to either side of the fissure. Legs clad in motley furs led up to a battered breastplate that had once been the front door of a Vaasan palace. The giant’s face, three stories above Gwydion, was mostly hidden by his unkempt beard and huge helmet, but his blue eyes glittered through the tangle. Those eyes narrowed as Thrym lifted the axe high above his head.
Have no fear, the voice purred in Gwydion’s mind. I have heard your plea.
The snow beneath the sell-sword fell away. With a shout of surprise, Gwydion slipped into the hole and careened down a worn chute of marble. Above him, the giant’s axe struck the ground, sending a shower of snow and dirt clattering down the chute after him.
Gwydion tumbled and slid just long enough to right himself. No sooner had he done that than the chute deposited him into a small, man-made chamber. He sat there for a time, stunned, bloodied, covered with dirt and dripping wet from the snow. He noticed none of those discomforts. Neither did he hear Thrym’s shouted promises of horrible tortures, dire rites of pain, and suffering perfected by frost giant shamans over the centuries.
“It is your duty to bow before your god.”
It took a moment for the command to seep through the mist of fear and awe floating over Gwydion’s thoughts. Then he blinked, mouthed a wordless prayer, and dropped his forehead to the smooth marble floor. The god let Gwydion stay in that uncomfortable position for quite a long time.
“You may look upon me, Gwydion,” the god said at last, and the sell-sword meekly raised his head.
It took some time for Gwydion’s eyes to adjust to the wonder-bright radiance filling the chamber, but when they did, he saw that the stranger was tall, at least twice the height of a man. Waves of power, of steel-fisted authority, radiated from the armored figure like heat from a raging fire. He held up a gauntleted hand, and Gwydion’s wounds were healed. Fear and confusion fled the sell-sword’s mind as divine knowledge engulfed him. A cool clarity of thought settled over Gwydion, and this new understanding trumpeted one seemingly undeniable fact until it shook the core of his being: He was in the presence of Torm the True, God of Duty, Patron of Loyalty. Of that Gwydion had no doubt.
Torm’s ornate armor, more ancient th
an any preserved in Faerun, was hued dusky purple, mirroring the customs of the greatest warriors dedicated to his cause. Spikes carved from the bones of the first evil dragon slain in his name jutted from the cops at his elbows and knees. Points of light scintillated like a thousand tiny stars on the twilight canvas of his breastplate. Eyes like twin suns shone from Torm’s helmet as he held a rose-red short sword toward Gwydion, point leveled at his chest. The blade pulsed with the rhythm of a beating heart.
“Men call me Torm the True because I value loyalty above all else. They call me Torm the Brave because I will face any danger to prove my respect of duty.” The god touched the sell-sword’s shoulder with the rosy blade. “Any who would call himself my follower must do the same.”
“Of c-course, Your H-H-Holiness,” Gwydion stammered. A frisson of fear tingled down his spine. “I understand.”
“Once you understood,” Torm said flatly. “But you have strayed far from the path of obedience and duty.”
The words echoed from the god’s helmet like a ghastly warning sent from inside a coffin.
“When you fought under King Azoun’s banner, you knew honor. You did me great glory in your battles against the Tuigan barbarians and shone as a true knight of my church. But then you left the Purple Dragons, refused your duty to strive for law and justice. And for what—to become a mercenary, an adventurer hunting the land for profit”
When Gwydion merely bowed his head in shame, Torm continued. “You came to Thar seeking the treasure of the frost giants, but you have discovered the only reward they offer to greedy fools is a quick death. For your allies it is too late. For you, there is still a chance, still a way for you to regain your honor.”
“Anything, Your Holiness,” Gwydion said. Tears of contrition streamed down his cheeks as he struggled to his feet.
“Then behold the final resting place of Alban Onire, Holy Knight of Duty, known in his day as a foe of all evil giants.”
Torm floated to one side, revealing a handsome young man lying in state upon a stone bier. He was clad in armor much like the god’s. The plate mail looked newly polished. The smell of fresh oil came from the armor’s straps and the leather belt holding the gem-encrusted scabbard.