grown a foot taller and expanded to twice his original size.
The dirty, matted hair began to wave in an ethereal wind.
Kehrsyn stared in frank amazement at the creature's naked body. The powerful muscles rippled with crisp definition. The lines of the face, jaw, and brow were handsome, even beautiful, without a trace of femininity. Each move was executed with the grace of a dancer. He would have struck her down with desire, had it not been for the dead eyes and the slack, hanging mouth.
'Gilgeam!' hissed a dozen voices in the room, as the priests shrank back in fear.
The animate corpse of the slain god turned to face them, head swaying back and forth like a scenting tiger.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
The moment for which he'd waited so patiently had, at long, long last, arrived.
Zimrilim felt better than he had in years, if not his entire life. No more need he mince his words and actions as the compassionate and sociable Massedar, merchant prince of Wing's Reach. Gone also was his need to imitate the treacherous Ekur, lurching around his conspiracy. The burden of his aliases was vanished. Better yet, the weight of patriotic duty and personal ambition had been taken from his shoulders. He felt light, even giddy, soaring upon his success. With the theft of the Alabaster Staff just days before, it had seemed that his very heart had been ripped from him forever, but, within just a few days, not only had he managed to retrieve the priceless Alabaster Staff, he had the added privilege of grinding his enemies' faces in hopeless defeat. Such a fine extravagance during his moment of victory.
Zimrilim looked at the assembled priests, held back by the zombies and staring in horror at the return of Gilgeam. A smirk crossed his features. He usually didn't like to show genuine emotion-he considered it a sign of weakness-but that day, of all days, he would indulge himself.
'Now ye ken why thy plans are paltry kittens,' he said. 'Unther needeth not Bane. Unther hath its devoted lord Gilgeam! And as the people make obeisance unto him, they shall be worshiping me, who maketh the god to dance at my whim.'
To prove his point, he aimed the staff at Gilgeam and bent his will to force the dead god to dance.
'As the Empire of Unther drapeth the mantle of its faith upon Gilgeam, he shall yield it unto me, placing it at my feet, and I shall ascend to the divine, with Gilgeam-my avatar-at my right hand! And lo! the powers I shall unleash upon the Pharaoh of Mulhorand and upon the followers of Bane who darken the thresholds of the Untherites' doors shall be utterly without mercy!
'Gilgeam!' he shouted. He focused his energy on directing the powerful beast, and even with the ancient necromantic artifact, it was difficult. 'Smite the heretics!'
Gilgeam raised his hands, fingers spread with thumbs touching, and launched a bolt of raw divine power at the thickest congregation of priests. The sound of a thunderclap drowned out the screams of Bane's devoted as they perished. The other priests stampeded for the ramp, their flight harried by the zombies that reached up and gripped at their ankles with a strength only attainable by the dead.
Let them flee, thought Zimrilim. They can flee neither far enough nor fast enough to escape my wrath.
He redirected the staff's energies toward the priests that Gilgeam had just slain, and they, too, rose up. Gilgeam paused in his destruction, but Zimrilim cared not. He chuckled as he watched his new servants rise.
Why, he thought, I shall send those who know the Zhents best to kill them, and therewith gain more to serve me.
He paused to survey the room. In the corners of the walkway, clusters of zombies struck and tore at groups of trapped priests. Several other priests, rather more brave than those who'd fled, called down the wrath of Bane upon Gilgeam, but the god-animate seemed only enraged by their efforts. He strode over and struck one of the priests with his bare fist, punching his sternum so hard that the breaking of a score of ribs resounded in the torture chamber.
The god-thing was acting without direction, but Zimrilim cared not. For a few moments-ages to the Banites, but less to him-Zimrilim let Gilgeam run unfettered by his authority. The priest swirled the staff to drag more corpses to a semblance of life and aim their directionless hunger toward the Banite priests. But then he felt the wrath of Gilgeam rising, threatening to erupt, and he felt the dead mind of the deity slowly turning his fury on him, the master. He applied his willpower against Gilgeam's, using the Alabaster Staff as a fulcrum. It was difficult, tasking work, but the outcome for one such as him was unavoidable, and Gilgeam was brought back to heel.
At that moment, Kehrsyn flung herself at him, wrapping her arms around him, grinding her pelvis into his hip.
'O my lord!' she cried. 'Make me thy queen! I shall see to the safety of everything that is thine for as long as I shall live.'
'What?' sneered Zimrilim. 'Thinkest thou I have need of thy petty skills, when my apotheosis is at hand?'
Kehrsyn's eyes widened, and tears started to form at the corners of her eyes.
'But… but my lord, I thought you loved me-or at least found me attractive…'
Zimrilim snorted. 'Prefer I my women cold and obedient,' he said.
Kehrsyn quailed in shock and horror, but in the blink of an eye she abandoned her ruse, and, prying his middle finger back, she wrested the Alabaster Staff from his grasp with a move that was as fast and sure as an owl's strike. She turned to flee, but he seized hold of her thick hair and wrenched her around to face him again, yanking her head back to expose her jugular.
'Return thou the staff, whelp,' he hissed, pulling her head farther back, 'lest I raise thee to serve me more personally.'
Kehrsyn whimpered in pain and offered the staff back to him with a trembling hand.
Taking the thin wand back, he threw Kehrsyn to the torture floor, where she landed on a pile of twitching, squirming, almost-animate bodies. He turned to look at Gilgeam, once again threatening to run amok.
He raised the Alabaster Staff to bring the boastful deity back under his thrall. He glanced at the staff itself.
That's odd, he thought, I don't remember it having a crack…
Though it bridled him not to fall upon the high priest of Gilgeam with a whirlwind of steel, Demok held himself back as she had bidden. It was all but impossible not to attack, though it would mean his death, and instead watch a lovely young girl put herself in grave danger.
She moved in, pleading and cajoling, and though Demok could not hear a word, her actions communicated her tack clearly, worming into Zimrilim's weakness through offering her beauty and praising his power.
He scowled. If she'd had the time to tell him her plan, he would have told her not to try. He knew Zimrilim far better than she did. Even though his true identity was a surprise to the Harper, the fundamentals of his brutal personality had leaked out over the years.
Demok moved closer, scanning the room. It was clear that Zimrilim no longer cared who was killed and when. The zombies were acting indiscriminately. He smote first one, and another that reached its pallid, dead arms toward him.
He glanced up and saw Kehrsyn make a grab for the Alabaster Staff. She pried it out of the priest's grip and turned to dash away. Demok moved to cover her escape, bulling his way through the zombies that occupied the walkway. Then, from the corner of his eye, he saw Zimrilim hurl Kehrsyn from his presence. The young thief tumbled in midair and landed on her back atop a soft cushion of twitching, squirming corpses.
Zimrilim had taken back the staff.
With a curse, Demok leaped toward her. She rolled over to her hands and knees, shaken but not hurt. Thank the gods, he thought.
He moved next to her, his swords drawn and ready.
'Nice try,' he said, speaking loudly to be heard over the din.
It was not false praise. She'd come within a hair's breadth of disarming the most dangerous villain Demok had ever seen. There remained no options left but the sword. He rose up and began to advance, his short sword ready to parry, his long sword held behind him, swaying gently.
