Even with her myriad incarnations, it took Mystra hours to visit each member of Faerun’s pantheon. The Lady of Mysteries informed the gods and goddesses of Zhentil Keep’s fate, how the holy city would be turned against its patron and the giants allowed to raze the evil place to the ground. She cast her involvement in the plot just as she had explained it to Adon: as the guardian of magic, it was her responsibility to prevent Cyric’s use of forbidden sorceries. No one disagreed.

  As for the destruction of the city itself, Mystra dipped into the thoughts of each deity and used that perspective to describe the Keep’s fall as something positive. To the Lady of the Forest, the giants became a scourge with which to strike down the walls and reclaim the land for the wilderness. To Lathander Morninglord, the end of the city brought with it the possibility for a glorious new kingdom to arise from the torched houses and fractured columns. Talos viewed the promised destruction of the Keep as a desirable end in itself, while Tyr judged the annihilation of Cyric’s faithful to be just punishment for their disregard of law and justice. The process was exhausting and often tedious, but before long the members of the pantheon had been convinced Cyric’s strife was a glorious victory for their cause and their faithful.

  Now, as night began her slow retreat from Faerun, the Lady of Mysteries stood in the courtyard of her heavenly palace. The castle and the walls protecting it were drawn from the magical weave, pulsing blue-white radiance that flickered like faerie fire in a midnight marsh. Bright penons snapped and fluttered from an infinite number of tall spires. Each flag bore the sigil of a wizard or sage granted a home in Mystra’s realm. In their towers lay workshops, wonderfully strange and arcane places where the faithful freely pursued the more elusive secrets of sorcery denied them by the limits of mortal life.

  Dragons of silver and gold perched on the high battlements, and unicorns wandered over the lush, verdant lawn. Other creatures of magic called the palace home, as well. Basilisks and cockatrices roamed the gardens, their eyes masked by special enchantments to prevent them from turning the unwary to stone. A ram-headed sphinx perched near the front gate, exchanging riddles with a couatl. The feathered serpent laughed at some jest and beat the air with its alabaster wings.

  Such beasts were not unknown to the mortal realms, but to Gwydion, standing in the center of the courtyard, they were all gloriously new.

  In his days as a soldier, Gwydion had heard stories about dragons and sphinxes. The creatures populated the tales told by drunken sell-swords and experienced warriors, men and women who’d traveled outside the civilized confines of cities like Suzail. Some of the stories were true. Others were pure fantasy, yarns in which the mere sighting of a manticore’s tracks was embellished until it became a bloody fight to the death against three of the scorpion-tailed beasts.

  Tales like those had helped to lure Gwydion away from his life in Cormyr’s army, drawn him into the unlikely role of mercenary. And though he’d battled more than a few exotic beasts, he’d never encountered creatures as rare and marvelous as the ones gathered before him now. As he watched a phoenix rise high over the palace and spread her fiery wings, the shade realized that neither the bards’ tales nor his imagination had done the enchanted creatures justice. Even after all the pain, all the bloodshed, the mere sight of such wonders had proved enough to remind him that Cyric’s dire city was only a small part of a huge and often glorious universe.

  Not everyone in the courtyard shared the shade’s wonder at his surroundings.

  “Go pester someone else, blast you!” Gond shouted.

  The God of Craft waved a greasy spanner around his head, but the sprites swarming there easily avoided the clumsy swipes. As soon as the Wonderbringer turned back to his work on Gwydion’s armor, they moved close again. The sprites tugged at Gond’s hair and fluttered around the clockwork golems assisting him, dropping daisy chains around their blocky heads. They danced in a circle around the other eight shades whom Cyric had imprisoned in the inquisitor armor.

  “Good thing I’m almost done,” the Wonderbringer muttered into his barbed wire beard. “Otherwise I’d set up a swatter to keep you pests away.”

  A sprite hovered just over Gond’s pate, silently mocking the burly god. Gwydion couldn’t help but laugh as the tiny spirit screwed a scowl onto its sweet face and curled its gossamer wings into a particularly good imitation of the Wonderbringer’s hunched shoulders.

  “What’s so damned funny?” Gond snapped, his iron-gray eyes sparking like steel on flint.

  “Laughter is not as unusual in my realm as it is in some others,” Mystra interrupted, shooing away the sprites with one subtle gesture. “I thank you again for your assistance, Wonderbringer. You prove there are things better left to the hammers of your smiths than the spells of my faithful.”

  Gond grunted. “If you didn’t realize that, I wouldn’t be here,” he muttered. He never looked up from his task, his eyes focused on the rivets holding Gwydion’s knee cops in place. “Glad you didn’t try to dismantle these suits yourself, though. You would’ve damaged ‘em for sure. Like you said, the workmanship’s too good to be wasted…”

  “And we will put it to good use,” Mask said, appearing suddenly at Gwydion’s side.

  “I didn’t care what Cyric used ‘em for,” Gond said as he stood. “I don’t care what you use ‘em for.” He tossed the spanner over his shoulder to one of his golems. “Pack it up, boys. We’re done.”

  The Wonderbringer turned abruptly for the gate, pausing to acknowledge neither Mystra’s polite thanks nor Mask’s snide remarks about the mechanical lover Gond had created, if certain myths were to be believed. Gwydion watched the God of Craft trudge away. A half-dozen clockwork servants clanked along in his wake, boxes of tools and stray pieces of armor in their viselike hands. Just why the Wonderbringer bothered walking to the gate at all puzzled the shade, and the confusion showed on his face.

  “It’s his way of slighting magic,” Mystra said in reply to the unasked question. “By walking out rather than plane shifting, he’s proving he values physical labor over sorcery.”

  Mask chuckled. “He’ll shift quick as he’s out of sight, though. Some time you ought to follow him. The old crank would walk all the way back to Concordant just to spite you.”

  “And where would that leave the two of us?” Mystra replied coldly. “Gond would be home, and I’d have walked all that way for nothing.”

  The Lord of Shadows shook his head. “I thought you’d have learned something from me by now,” he said, the words slithering from his lips. “Ah well. I suppose it’s time we sent the troops off on their merry way.”

  Gwydion suppressed a shudder at the thought of returning to the Realm of the Dead. He could almost hear the screaming, taste the bitter smoke that filled the air.

  “No one will force you to go,” Mystra said.

  “I’ll be all right,” Gwydion said thickly. His teeth and tongue had healed quite a bit since Gond had removed the bit from his mouth, but he still found it difficult to form some words.

  Mask sidled up to the shade. “You’ve got nothing to be afraid of, you know. This armor makes you a match for just about anybody.”

  Long and silver and tipped with venom, a knife appeared in the Shadowlord’s hand. The cloak of darkness obscured Mask’s form as he lunged, but that didn’t hamper Gwydion in the least. His gauntleted hand a gold blur, the shade grabbed the god’s wrist and twisted the knife from his grasp.

  “See,” the Shadowlord purred. “Quite impressive.”

  The second blade left the slightest of cuts on its way across Gwydion’s throat. The shade grabbed at Mask’s other hand, but was far too slow.

  The Shadowlord slithered out of Gwydion’s grasp. “But don’t be overconfident. You’re no good to us with your head rolling around on the ground.”

  “Enough games,” Mystra said. “It’s almost dawn at Zhentil Keep.”

  “Ah yes,” Mask said brightly. He gestured to the other armored shades. “Hades awaits.”

  Gwydion and his fellows formed a ragged line. Together they resembled the figures from some children’s storybook romance, shining knights ready to embark upon a heroic quest. Gond had scoured away Cyric’s foul holy symbols, removed the hooks and razors from the armor. That didn’t make the knights less intimidating, though. They still stood as tall as ogres, even without their great horned helmets.

  “Remember,” Mystra said, coming to stand before the gathered knights. “Your task is to stir up the False and free the Faithless from the wall.”

  “Pardon, milady,” Gwydion ventured, “but it’d be best to leave the Faithless where they are until the battle’s over. They’ll be too weak to fight right after they get free.”

  “The voice of experience?” Mask asked snidely. “Or were you a general in your mortal days?”

  Gwydion frowned. “I was only a grunt in the Purple Dragons - but yes, I spent time in the wall.”

  Mystra cut in before Mask could reply. “Then we shall heed your advice, Gwydion. Focus your attentions on rallying the False. Strike against their jailors, and they’ll rise up to support you.”

  When Mask spoke next, all the shades were startled to find the Patron of Thieves standing right in front of them. It was as if he’d stepped out of their own shadows. “We have a spy within Cyric’s house, and she’s been priming the mob with thoughts of revolt. You only need strike the spark. The oil has already been poured upon the tinder.” He glanced at the Goddess of Magic. “It’s time we gird them for battle, don’t you think?”

  The Lady of Mysteries spread her hands wide, and a sword appeared in the air before each of the knights. Blue fire limned the blades. “These weapons will serve you well, even against the beasts that call Cyric master.”

  As one, the knights reached out to take the swords, but Gwydion’s vanished before he could grasp the hilt.

  “I was hoping you would accept a blade from me,” said a deep, booming voice.

  Torm the True strode forward, a bejeweled scabbard in his hands. “This is the blade of Alban Onire, a weapon called Titanslayer by some. I have taken it from the holy knight’s final resting place. Once you were deceived with visions of this blade. It would be just for you to wield it against the deceiver.” Slowly the God of Duty held the scabbarded sword out to Gwydion.

  The shade paused. “No,” he said. “If you couldn’t rescue me from the City of Strife, the weapon is not for me.”

  “A fine choice, Gwydion,” Mask whispered. “Never trust a man who says he can be trusted. Cyric taught me that. The Prince of Lies has a fine understanding of many things, and the truth behind Truth is one of them.”

  Torm frowned. “Praising Cyric, Mask? If you didn’t lust after his kingdom, I’d wonder whose side you were on.”

  The Shadowlord slid behind Mystra and hissed in her ear, “You left your gates open to the other gods when we’re mustering a rebel army?”

  “I’ve told you before, my kingdom is always open to Cyric’s foes,” Mystra said.

  “Especially in times of war,” Torm added. He smiled at the Lady of Mysteries, the twinkle in his blue eyes almost mischievous. “But you look surprised to see me. Come, come. You’re sending one who would be my knight off to battle my enemy’s minions. You can’t expect me to just stand aside and watch.”

  “How did you know?” Mystra asked.

  “I am called Torm the True for a reason, Lady. What you told me about the doom of Zhentil Keep had the ring of truth about it, but it was faint, as if I were hearing only half the chord.” He scowled at Mask. “I realized then that you must be moving armies in the shadows. It’s common enough knowledge that you’ve been trafficking with this snake.”

  “And you’re helping us?” Mask said. His voice was shrill, his glowing red eyes wide with amazement. “No offense, but I always had you figured for the charge-the-front-gates-in-broad-daylight sort of strategist.”

  Torm ignored the Shadowlord, turning once more to Gwydion. “There are laws I am sworn to uphold, and one of them made it clear you could not be welcomed into my domain. I am offering you the sword now so you can prove yourself worthy.”

  Anger welled up in Gwydion, a blinding fury that overwhelmed his mind. After all he’d been through, all he’d suffered at Cyric’s hands, Torm’s self-righteousness and his casual dismissal of the pain he’d caused struck some long-dead part of the shade’s soul. He snatched the scabbard from Torm, drew the long sword, and lashed out at the God of Duty.

  Gwydion didn’t see Torm move, didn’t hear the sharp retort as the god’s gauntlets clapped over the blade. All he saw was the aftermath of his foiled strike. The God of Duty stood before him, Titanslayer trapped between his palms. The sword tip hovered a hairsbreadth from the bridge of Torm’s nose.

  “Your honor had been questioned, and you have tried to repay that slight,” Torm said calmly. “It is as any true knight would do.” He released the blade and pushed it away from his face. “But your real enemy is in Hades. Bring the sword against his minions, Gwydion, and your honor will be restored.”

  Gwydion stood for a moment, transfixed by Torm’s gaze, by the unwavering light of loyalty and truth that radiated from the God of Duty. “I’ll try,” he said.

  Torm nodded. “That’s all I can ask.”

  “The shadows of morning are on their way to Zhentil Keep,” Mask crowed, slithering up behind Torm. “Time for our knights to go to war.”

  The God of Intrigue reached down and pinned two corners of his own shadow to the ground with daggers. He backed up a few steps, stretching the darkness into a wide black pool. “One at a time, please. No pushing in line.”

  The knights gathered up their helmets, stepped into the shadow, and disappeared one by one. Gwydion was last, and as he entered the darkness, he found Mask at his side.

  “A present for you, just to show there’s no hard feelings for our little scuffle.”

  The Shadowlord handed a fat tallow candle to Gwydion. As the knight took the gift, a feral growl rumbled from deep within the wax.

  “Don’t mind the noises,” Mask said. “They’re just a side effect of an enchantment Mystra put on the wick. Light the candle as soon as you get the signal to begin the revolt, and it’ll release a little creature that should help you deal with Cyric’s faithful.”

  Mask merged with the blackness around him, leaving the shade to fall through the void.

  Gwydion considered dropping the candle; he’d been tricked enough times since that day at the giant’s cave to instantly mistrust someone like Mask. Still, he was certain the fight for the City of Strife would be hard.

  As he emerged from the portal, deep within the necropolis, Gwydion slipped the candle into his sword belt. He still doubted the Shadowlord’s motives, but he knew that to bring Cyric low they’d need all the weapons they could muster.

  Fzoul Chembryl entered the nave of Cyric’s main temple, a huge leatherbound tome clutched reverentially to his chest, his features screwed into his best imitation of divine bliss. As always, the temple stank of sour incense and sweaty, unwashed priests. The awful smoke from the pyre of heretics in the courtyard only added to the miasma. Fzoul’s mustaches bristled at the smell, but he fought down the urge to wrinkle his nose. To be utterly enamored with Cyric would place him above such mundane concerns. With Xeno and all the other fanatical clerics watching him carefully, he’d need to keep up the show, at least until he got to the altar.

  The six guards surrounding Fzoul marched in step down the black marble aisle, their boots ringing out over the drone of Xeno Mirrormane’s sermon and the worried murmur of military speculation from the stalls. The six services had been completed. The army of giants and the vengeful flight of dragons seemed poised, ready to strike with the dawning of the new day. This final test of devotion, this plea to Cyric for salvation, was all that stood between the city and a terrible battle.

  Xeno Mirrormane finished his sermon with a prayer to the Lord of the Dead, though no one joined him. Only at the close of Fzoul’s reading would the city offer up its worship to Cyric. And with that burst of faith, Zhentil Keep would win back the favor of its god. At least, that was how the patriarch had planned things.

  With no prelude, no greeting to the high priest, Fzoul took the steps up to the altar and laid the book on the podium there. The six guards followed in his wake. With military precision, they formed a semicircle behind the speaker’s platform. Their pikes gleamed in the light of ten thousand votive candles, which formed the altar’s backdrop this bitter morning.

  “I bring to you a reading from the Cyrinishad,” Fzoul began.

  All over the city of Zhentil Keep, a ghostly, flickering image of Fzoul Chembryl came to life. The church hierarchy knew that a reading of Cyric’s own words by a man recently converted to faith in the death god would prove inspirational, especially in this time of need. With the help of the few wizards who hadn’t fled the city, they set a powerful enchantment upon the speaker’s platform. When Fzoul addressed the temple, he would be seen and heard by every worshiper within the Keep’s high walls.

  Fzoul felt a wave of panic wash over him as he considered just where he was, exactly what he was about to do. Blaspheming Cyric was dangerous enough, but in his holiest temple, at the black altar itself? The priest smiled grimly at the boldness of the challenge.

  With hands trembling only slightly, Fzoul opened the tome set before him. He flipped past the blank pages set in the binding to make the volume look more impressive, to the few gatherings that made up The True Life.

  “‘In this, the Year of the Banner, the people of Zhentil Keep lost their true beliefs, and an army of monsters arose out of the wastes to punish them. Little did they suspect that their god had gathered this army together for the sole purpose of terrifying the Zhentish into slavery.’”