Free Crucible: The Trial of Cyric the Mad by Troy Denning

they all understood the power of the sacred Cyrinishad. They knew that upon hearing its truth they would fall to their knees and pay homage to the One, and they also knew the terrible retribution Cyric would take on them for the many affronts they had heaped upon him in the past.
    Kelemvor broke the silence. “Good-we all agree. If Cyric brings the book, the trial is off. We destroy him on the spot.”
    At this, Oghma gasped and shook his head with such vigor that every sage on Faerun lost the course of his thoughts “No!”
    “No?” Mystra gasped. “But the Balance-“
    “Would be utterly destroyed,” said Oghma. “Better to serve in Pandemonium than rule in a wasteland, which is all that would remain if we unleashed an all-out godswar! What you suggest would make the Time of Troubles look like a mere squabble.”
    “Never!” So fast did Kelemvor take his feet that it cannot be said that he rose; he was sitting one instant and standing before the next began. “I will destroy myself before I serve Cyric!”
    Oghma’s eyes grew as hard as diamonds. “The issue is not whether you would destroy yourself, Kelemvor, but whether you would destroy Faerun. As a god, you must put your duty above disputes that linger from your life as a mortal. The fate of a world hangs on your every act, and you would do well to remember that.” Oghma glanced at Mystra, then added, “You both would.”

Six
    The Night of Despair was upon me, for I had met my god, and he was the very Prince of Madness! At my best, I could not have done as he demanded, and I was not at my best, for I had suffered much at the One’s hands. Half blind, half deaf, fully a bloodied fool, I saw only my coming failure and certain doom. I threw myself upon the portcullis and cleaved to the bars, and I wept as never before.
    How could I save myself? I was too fat to squeeze through an arrow loop and too crippled to scale the tor. And even if such things were possible, I was too clumsy to do either without being caught. My god had asked an impossible penance of me, and now I would be delivered to his eternal enemy to suffer an unbearable destiny. I cursed Kelemvor’s name, for he was a jealous coward who groveled in his city of bones and hid from Cyric’s wrath and visited his hatred upon helpless souls like me. I also cursed the One, for in my misery I believed he had lost the Cyrinishad through his own folly, and that if I had relinquished my faith after enduring so much, it was more his fault than my own. This is a terrible shame to me now; I admit it only as evidence of the absolute truth of my account.
    At length, there arose a clattering behind the gates, and the small wicket door behind the portcullis opened. Two monks bent down to peer out through the bars. Both were dressed for battle, with steel skullcaps on their heads and the bulk of their chain mail showing beneath their violet robes.
    “Mukhtar!” exclaimed one.
    The guards of the Low Gate called me Mukhtar the Mad, for in all my years outside Candlekeep, I had never given them my true name, knowing this to be the practice of all good spies. “By the Bard! What happened to you?”
    I saw no use in lying. “I have been gored by a bull.” “Aye, and trampled too, judging by your looks,” said one monk, whose name was Agenor. “But the Keeper thinks our enemy is playing a trick. We can’t open the gate for you, Mukhtar.”
    I nodded, for I had expected no less. Indeed I was surprised they had not slain me already, but perhaps they did not know I had betrayed the Cyrinishad’s presence to the Caliph.
    “Look at him, Agenor,” said the other monk, who was known to me as Pelias. “He’ll die!” “We have our orders.”
    “We can raise the portcullis and let him crawl under. What can happen? There isn’t a Cyricist within a league!” “Remember what the Keeper said about wooden horses.” “Ulraunt has been reading too many epics,” replied Pelias. “And what I remember is that