Sulvahn's sword slashed the outrider knight, its supernaturally-hot flames cleaving through the armor and splashing hot metal on the cobblestones. It toppled forward, then tried to crawl away like a limping dog. Sulyvahn circled around, reversed the grip on his sword, and thrust its point into the outrider's skull.
"Master Sulyvahn," cried out a soldier. "The creatures are retreating. They have abandoned this street."
Sulyvahn retracted the sword and considered the corpse at his feet. They fought well, these outriders. Too well, he thought with some amusement. The creature had nearly killed him. Perhaps he had been too successful at his work? They had difficulty recognizing friend or foe. The slightest provocation and they rampaged against their aggressor.
"What are our losses?" he asked the man.
"Five men."
"That leaves … eleven, yes, besides you and me?"
"Yes. We should return to the gate and gather reinforcements to hunt down the remaining outriders."
"Yes, I agree. Let us leave."
The soldier turned his back, and Sulyvahn struck.
There was no time for the man to scream or gasp. The sword cut cleanly through his neck, and his body fell mid-stride.
Time was of the essence now. Sulyvahn did not know how many outriders still stalked the lower bergs, but it would not be long before another contingent of soldiers was sent out to aid in cleansing the infestation. He had one or two hours before his absence was noted and the more suspicious among the city's rulers began hunting for him as well.
He ran through the streets and reached the great gate that connected the mortal neighborhoods with the domain of the gods. He slowed to a quick walk as he neared the gate and waved at the guards atop the wall. He waited for the portcullis to rise. He felt his heart beating wildly inside his chest. Outwardly, he managed an appearance of reasonable urgency. But he did not panic.
It took forty minutes to travel from the gate to the archives. Curse the size of this infernal palace! He passed through, walked past the scholars, and approached the vault where the restricted volumes were kept.
If only he could have infiltrated this place earlier. He had tried, he had carefully analyzed the archives many times during his visits, but he never possessed the time nor the liberty to acquire enough information to devise a way to sneak in. Now, he must resort to more brutish methods.
Two scholars stood in his way when they sensed him approach. Sulyvahn looked at their blank, wax-covered heads for a moment, waiting. They knew he held a drawn sword. Of course they did, they were the ones who allowed him to take it from the trophy room. He waited, ready for whatever reply they gave.
One shook his head and pointed back the way Sulyvahn had come. Sulyvahn shook his head in turn, then sliced open the scholar's chest. The other had no time to react before sharing his associate's fate.
Sulyvahn reached down and pulled off a key around the neck of one of the corpses. He inserted it into the door's keyhole and opened it. He was greeted with a rush of warm air as he entered the vault. Oh, if only he had had time to browse this selection in the past year. Now, he must resort to taking as many books as he could and hope they held the secrets he craved. He took off his cloak and used it as a makeshift sack to hold the books he removed from the shelves.
He could only manage eight thick volumes. Even his voluminous cloak could not hold any more, and he must consider the weight when fleeing the city. He left the vault and made his way for the archive exit. Now, he must reach the lower burgs again, and out of the city via the aqueducts. He had been an astute student of Anor Londo's architecture during his frequent street tours. Aqueducts ran beyond the city walls, bringing in fresh water from mountain springs and carrying out wastewater to the valley below. It was a chink in the city's armor, and it was his escape.
He halted. The exit door opened. Ozett stepped through. He stood before Sulyvahn, his eyes devoid of emotion. He held a catalyst in his hand.
"Well, then."
It struck Sulyvahn as strange, how sanguine Ozett seemed.
"You surprised me," the chancellor continued. "I suspected that you would attempt to kill Lord Gwyndolin."
"I considered it."
"A pity you did not. I had a dozen Silver Knights waiting for you."
"Yes, that is a pity. Are they here now?"
"I realized your intentions just moments ago. A shame really. I didn't have time to warn them."
"So you came alone. Bold."
"I'm disappointed. I find you raiding our archives like a common thief."
"But one of most uncommon loot. How many do you think have fantasized seizing the arcana hidden here?"
Ozett sighed. "Let us finish this charade."
He didn't wait for a reply. He raised his catalyst and cast a soul spear spell.
Sulyvahn dropped his robe and the books inside as he dodged. He closed the distance between himself and Ozett and aimed a sword swing for his head. The chancellor summoned a shield spell that deflected the blow, then generated a wave of force that pushed Sulyvahn through the air and slammed him into a bookshelf.
"I am curious, though," Ozett said as he walked toward Sulyvhan. "How did you poison Lord Gwyndolin?"
"You are an intelligent man, Ozett. Figure it out for yourself."
Sulyvahn leapt again at Ozett. This time, he was ready for the shield. He maneuvered around it to attack from the side. The old man was nimble on his feet, though, and danced out of reach. He threw another soul spear at Sulyvahn.
"Enough of this," Sulyvahn muttered. He held up his sword and incanted a spell taken from the Profane Capital. The fire within his greatsword flared up into a blinding conflagration that licked out at Ozett with prying fingers. The chancellor retreated behind a column.
Sulyvahn knelt down and picked up his robe. A few books tumbled out, but he had no time to gather them. By the time the spell had faded, he was gone.
He heard Ozett's curse and his pursuing footsteps. He felt an urge to turn back and kill the chancellor, to avenge himself of the humiliations he had suffered at the arrogant god's hands.
No, not yet, he thought to himself. All in good time. The thought cheered him.
He rushed past two Silver Knights patrolling a hallway. Ozett screamed out for the confused men to hold the fleeing sorcerer, but Sulyvahn had already run up to a window and leapt through it. Shattered glass followed him down as he descended a story to the balcony below. Oh, yes, he had paid careful attention to the keep's layout whenever he was escorted through these halls.
From the balcony, he reentered the palace and navigated flights of stairs to the ground level. He fled out through a servant's door and into an alleyway.
By now, every soldier in the city would be looking for him.
Sulyvahn had not chosen this route by chance. There was a narrow door in this alley. The door had a rusty padlock keeping it shut, but the sword took care of that. He shouldered the door out of its ill-fitted frame and stepped down moldy steps into the sewers.
It was somehow comforting, he thought, that even gods needed places to dispose of their refuse.
Sulyvahn emerged out of the sewer into an open aqueduct. The tunnel opened directly out of the cliffside. Sulyvahn saw a narrow ledge in the cliff beside the channel and leapt onto it. He navigated around the rock wall until he reached a larger gap that held a grass-covered clearing. Ancient carved stones were scattered across the site. Some sort of graveyard, Sulyvahn thought. He walked through the clearing and up an incline until he reached another ruin, this one a round plaza covered in mossy mounds of what had once been buildings or columns.
In the center of the plaza, placed in a slight depression in the ground, was a bonfire. Not a manmade fire, but one of the bonfires that held the power of the First Flame. A coiled sword was stuck into it. Sulyvahn walked up to the fire. For a moment, he was tempted to reach in and pluck the sword out, but he knew this was folly. The fire would burn his hands to ash. The Flame was not to be trifled with.
He was roused by the sound of movement behind him. Three men in black clothing and hoods over their faces appeared from behind a clump of rubble. They bowed before Sulyvahn.
"Master," one of them said. "Praise be to the Deep that you have reached us in safety."
"The Deep be praised, indeed," Sulyvahn replied solemnly. "All goes as it is meant to. Has the army assembled?"
"Yes, Master. It will reach the city within two days."
"Excellent. And what of the outriders?"
"They scour the landing within five miles of here. The Darkmoons have their hands full."
"Good."
The man gestured to Sulyvahn's bundle. "Shall I carry that for you, Master?"
"No, I shall manage. Let us be off. There is much that demands our attention."
CLANK.
The hammer fell on the blade. The air shimmered with coalescing magic.
Nine months had passed.
CLANK.
Not even Sulyvahn had anticipated the fierce resistance. The gods were stubborn. They refused to let go of their power. They refused to die.
The siege had bled them badly. The army of the deep numbered in the thousands. Even so, nine months of grinding warfare and constant skirmishes had been a heavy test for the followers of Aldrich.
The couriers from Irithyll were forthright. Aldrich was losing patience.
CLANK.
The much-vaunted prophet had not seen fit to show his face during the siege. He remained in his precious city, communing with the Deep, or so it was said. The zealots accepted this. But here on the battlefront, Sulyvahn wondered if he was meant to be but the latest in Aldrich's long line of sacrifices.
CLANK.
Sulyvahn studied the blade he had forged. It was well-made. He had pored over the four books he had managed to take with him from Anor Londo and learned much of Gwyndolin's moon magicks and miracles. He could not replicate a god's miracle, but he took inspiration from the moon lore. He created his own artifact, one of sorcery, imbued with his a piece of his own soul.
It was the twin to his fiery greatsword. But whereas that ancient blade drew its power from an outside source, this new weapon was Sulyvahn's own. A sword to mark his authority, and to judge those who dared challenge his destiny.
He was mean for more than to lead a never-ending siege.
The tent flap opened, and Milvayne stepped in. General Milvayne. Sulyvahn's equal, at least in theory. Milvayne commanded the troops directly, and enjoyed their popular support, especially among the officers. Sulyvahn was respected as a servant of the prophet, but his status as Voice of the Deep had been forever marred by Aldrich's denouncement.
He would have to address that issue someday soon.
Milvayne's eyes flicked to the glowing sword in Sulyvahn's hands. A faint purple light shone from within it.
"A new weapon to strike down the enemies of the Deep," Sulyvahn said.
"That is not Deep magic."
"No, it is something far more poetic. Have you not heard the saying, 'Fight fire with fire?'"
Milvayne frowned. "A most perverse thing to say, given our enemy."
"Perhaps. But the First Flame is not invincible. Is that not why we fight?" Sulyvahn set the sword and hammer down. "How might I be of service, general?"
"We have a breakthrough. The wall has been breached."
"Truly?"
"Our troops rush in as we speak. I want you to lead a detachment into the lower burgs of the southern quarter."
How appropriate that it should come to this. Sulyvahn had waited for this moment for a long time. When he first came to Anor Londo, it was under the guise of a wretched penitent. Now, he would return as a triumphant conqueror.
Sulyvahn led his personal guard through the now-empty streets. He heard the faint rumblings of battle deeper within the city, but here there was only silence. He marched to clear out this and establish a new headquarters for finishing the conquest of the burgs and spearheading the assault on Gwyndolin's palace.
He had expected some manner of ambush and was not disappointed. A band of archers emerged from hiding places on the roofs and began pelting arrows at his troops. Sulyvahn's soldiers raised their shields and formed a turtle shell-like defensive formation. While they did so, more enemies – Darkmoons, he noted – sprung out of narrow alleys to engage them in melee.
Sulyvahn closed his eyes and focused. He felt his senses spread across the city like a fog, dissipating into a hundred eyes and ears, taking in more scenes than a mortal should be able to comprehend. He refined his focus, turning his attention to the eyes nearest him. He touched maddened minds and guided them to his position.
The battle turned quickly when the outrider knights arrived. The Darkmoons still had not devised a viable counterstrategy to their frenzied assaults. It was a quick and fierce battle. The Darkmoons lay dead. The archers fled when they saw the battle turn. The outriders sniffed at Sulyvahn's soldiers, growled, then loped back into the darkness of the narrow streets.
A soldier turned to Sulyvahn. "Are you harmed, master?"
"I am quite fine, captain. Let us carry on."
In point of fact, Sulyvahn was ecstatic. His control over the outriders was limited, but he had learned how to influence their thoughts and guide them where he wanted them to go. And he felt the power and fury of their bestial minds as they slaughtered the Darkmoons. He rejoiced in it. His power was growing.
One week passed. Sulyvahn's intent had been to pierce the castle defenses with a swift attack of outriders and foot soldiers to bring the siege to a close. His eyes and ears told him where and when to strike. But still the defenders remained stubborn in their refusal to break. He led his troops from the front. His swords tasted blood again and again, but the Silver Knights and Darkmoons would not yield, and the mortal Londorians were equally resilient.
Most troublesome of all had been the warrior called Smough. The executioner was a brutish killer from an order of headhunters who were naught but murderers condoned by the throne. But he was a ferocious warrior who overcame anything pitted against him. He had led repeated defenses of the palace's weak points and fended off assault after assault.
Sulyvahn could not trust in mere strength to claim victory. He must outwit his opponents, and so he began preparing a scheme. But, it would take time to arrange. In the meantime, he set up camp in a gloomy parish chapel perched atop one of the highest points in the burgs. There, he studied the campaign maps and guided his soldier's movements. He also conferred with General Milvayne, who grew ever more impatient with the sorcerer. The general had led charges of his own, and been equally ineffective in breaking the castle's defenses. He took out his frustrations on Sulyvahn.
"You waste time," he was saying. "Your strategy is pointless. Direct siege against the palace will not claim Anor Londo."
"Do you have a better idea, general?" Sulyvahn said without looking up from the sketches his scouts had brought him.
"Yes. We attack from below, through the sewers and the underground."
"Ah, yes, the city depths. Some of my outriders have explored that cesspool. Such foulness as would make a swamp leech seem tame by comparison. It is too dangerous a way, and too cramped for our troops. No doubt the enemy already has sentries down there, waiting for us to stumble in."
"That is what your beasts are for, Sulyvahn."
"My outriders are formidable, but not invincible. And I am miserly with their lives. They are valuable."
Milvayne scoffed and paced the floor for a few minutes. Then he spoke again. "Then we bring in the catapults and trebuchets. Rain fire and sorceries on the keep. Burn it to ash."
Sulyvahn looked up and locked eyes with the general. "That is not the command given us by the Prophet. He wants Gwyndolin alive to … as a sacrifice. And I agree. We want Anor Londo intact. For the glory of the Deep, we shall make it a home of our faith."
"It is true that Aldrich wants the gods alive. But to waste our men so clumsily will risk destroying what hold we have on the city. Better to offer up Gwyndolin's skull to Aldrich then nothing at all."
"I did not think you a man so quick to compromise."
Milvayne's face flushed red with anger. "I do not compromise. I am a pragmatist. I will not waste followers of the Deep. This city will burn, and we will build a greater one atop its ruin."
"And the people of this city? Think of it. If they see their gods cowed and beaten, they would swarm to Aldrich. Not even the Deep can spread through corpses. We must think of the future, Milvayne. And so we must take the city whole, along with the gods within it."
"You overstep your mandate," the general said as he glowered at Sulyvahn. "Aldrich has given you this task as a means of atonement. Do not think to undermine him again and expect leniency once more."
"I do not make such presumptions. But my mandate is to conquer Anor Londo, not destroy it."
Milvayne tapped the hilt of his sword impatiently. His fingers squeezed around it, and Sulyvahn wondered if he had pushed him too far. But the general relented with a begrudging grunt.
"How then will you take the keep?" he asked.
"I have made plans for a final assault."
"Again!"
"This assault is but a decoy. I have a certain instrument within the castle itself that will present us with victory."
"A spy?"
"A defector, yes. One most eager for our victory, but sadly not in an ideal position for easy communication. It has been difficult to coordinate with him, but I have finally done so. Victory is at hand, Milvayne. Have faith."
Sulyvahn stepped outside the church and found his soldiers collecting Darkmoon bodies into a pile. The remains of a recent raid on the parish. The pawns of Gwyndolin never remained passive, even while their god was on his sickbed.
"How many losses?" he asked a nearby officer.
"Only three, this time. The enemy lost eight."
That was sloppy work. They were becoming desperate, or perhaps exhaustion was finally addling their minds and skills.
"They are testing our defenses," the officer continued. "Looking for weaknesses."
"They will be planning their next attack already. But we shall not afford them the opportunity. Send word out that the first and second regiments are to combine into one force. We attack the main gate of Gwyndolin's palace."
"My lord?" The officer's face reflected concern.
"Do not fear," Sulyvahn assured him. "It will not fail this time. I have seen to that."
The officer departed to spread the news and begin preparations for the assault. Sulyvahn looked out over the cityscape visible from the parish. Smoke and rubble clouded the view. The city was crumbling beneath the pressure of the siege. It seemed a shame to him to waste such a valuable resource as this city represented. But enough would remain for the rebuilding to begin. He would see to that.
"Master Sulyvahn?"
He turned to see a courier bowing before him. He gave her leave to speak.
"We have received word from Irithyll, my lord. The prophet has departed the sacred city and travels here as we speak."
A rush of alarm swept over Sulyvahn. "How soon will he arrive?" he asked evenly.
"Within a week is the estimation."
Confound that Aldrich! Sulyvahn had received no word from the prophet for months. Now, at this critical stage, he finally decided to enter the arena. Sulyvahn could not allow him to disrupt his plans, not so late into the game. This but reinforced his conviction that he must break the siege and seize victory today. If his plan was successful – and he would make it so, by any means – then Aldrich would arrive in a city firmly under Sulyvahn's control.
Sulyvahn would welcome him with open arms, of course. And then …
The legion of soldiers gathered outside the city, at the south gate. They marched along the main avenue, their footsteps shaking the cobblestones. Scouts had already sent word that Anor Londo had caught wind of this latest assault and was preparing a counterattack. As Sulyvahn had expected.
He remained behind in his headquarters. Milvayne was indignant, but the sorcerer assured him that his spy had warned him that the counterattack would focus on the parish. He already had outriders gathering in force in the nearby alleyways and abandoned buildings. They would ambush this strike force, decimate it, and then Sulyvahn would rejoin his allies at the castle.
"And why is this particular band of enemies so important?" Milvayne demanded.
"Because Smough will be leading them."
Now, he waited, looking down at his maps. Any moment now.
He heard the fighting echo over the rooftops. The battle had begun at the palace gate. It would not be a long battle. And then he heard fighting closer to home. His sentries outside the church were being killed.
He heard the heavy steps behind him. He did not look up.
The voice that spoke was deep and bestial. "Traitor and fiend, I've come for your head. Shall you hand it over willingly or shall I collect it by force?"
Sulyvahn laughed. "You have come to die, Executioner Smough, and to watch your kingdom die with you."
He turned and regarded the warrior. The man was a behemoth clad in obscene armor that mimicked the fat folds of a colossal glutton. But pure muscle lurked beneath that golden effigy, and a soul capable of the cruelest violence. The giant's hands tightened around the shaft of his war hammer.
Sulyvahn smiled, enjoying the anger he sensed radiating off this creature. "Nothing to say, mighty one? No last declaration of glory for your dead realm?"
Smough raised his hammer. "Your head for the tally, Sulyvahn!" he roared. He charged.
At the last moment, Sulyvahn evaded the fall of the hammer and navigated around the beast with ease. As he did so, he reached down to where his swords were kneeling against the map table and brought them up to cut through Smough's armor and into his torso. Fire and sorcery penetrated the metal like butter.
Smough let out a shout and fell into the table. He did not rise right away. The cut had been deep.
Sulyvahn circled the warrior like a hungry vulture. The exultation of looming victory filled him.
"Your god has failed you. My eyes are everywhere. Gwyndolin has been deceived. His feint is exposed. The divine whelp falls into my hands as we speak."
Oh, yes. Sulyvahn had learned of the god's plan from his pawn inside the god's home. As Gwyndolin's forces weakened in the face of the continuing siege, he sought to lure Sulyvahn into unleashing his full might and break it in a decisive battle. Sulyvahn had played along, seemingly walking into the trap, but fully aware of the god's plan to release a small force including Smough to kill him and then attack the Deep army from behind while knights lying in wait within the castle countered its vanguard.
He knew the plan, for it was part of his own.
Smough looked up at Sulyvahn. The mask of his helmet was expressionless, but Sulyvahn could imagine the seething fury in the warrior's hidden eyes.
"And so it ends, Executioner," he said calmly. "Your Silver Knights fall as fodder for my beasts hidden in shadow. Your city falls to those within it who accept the truth I bring."
He was gloating. He shouldn't, but he allowed himself the indulgence. Everything he had fought for and suffered for was finally falling into his hands. He allowed himself this moment.
"And you," he said as he raised his greatswords. "How choose you to fall?" He held up the Profaned Greatsword. "By the undying flame birthed by mortal want?" He gestured with the other that glowed with his secret magicks. "Or by the judgment of ancient sorceries beyond divine ken?"
"I do not yield."
"Hmm." Sulyvahn approached Smough and thrust his sorcerous sword into his shoulder. Smough roared again in pain.
It was an error on Sulyvahn's part.
The pain did not cow Smough, but merely angered him into action. Smough swept a leg under Sulyvahn that knocked him onto the floor. Smough rose and bellowed.
"SMOUGH YIELDS TO NO ONE!"
Sulyvahn rolled to avoid the hammer blow and leapt to his feet. He used the power of the Profaned Greatsword to shield himself in a fiery barrier.
Enough of this, he decided. He had kept the great champion distracted for long enough.
"You will not kill me, slave of Anor Londo. I have wasted enough time with you."
He incanted a spell of teleportation he had prepared for such an occasion. The parish and its surroundings vanished, blurred into a brief chaos that then rearranged itself into the great gate that divided the lower burgs from the palace of the gods.
He stood among a sea of broken bodies, both those of his army and, far more, of the guardians of Anor Londo. The battle had been savage.
Among the bodies prowled his outriders. And on the fringes of the battleground, there were his greater beasts, his outrider's evolved forms, terrible and eager to rend all to pieces. His will alone kept them in check from tearing apart his own men. Even now, Milvayne's soldiers tried valiantly to calm the razor-toothed beasts from their battle madness.
Sulyvahn reached out with his mind to focus on the rings that each wore, rings that had by now fused with flesh and bone. He injected his force of will into their simple minds, forcing them to submit in silence.
When he had tended to this brief chore, he stepped over the bodies and crossed the bridge leading to Gwyndolin's keep. The road was not visible beneath the field of the dead. They had fought to the last. How noble.
The gates of the castle had not been breached. They had been opened willingly. There were pawns of his own pawn who opened the doors, who had stabbed their fellows in the back. Driven by fear and greed, they had condemned their own city to the reign of the Deep.
The defenders were unprepared for such treachery. Milvayne and his soldiers stormed the keep, slaughtered its protectors, and taken their hard-earned victory.
Sulyvahn entered the hall of the palace and navigated its corridors from the memory of his time here.
His way was blocked by Milvayne.
"You did not tell me of your plan," the general growled. "You told me of one defector. I did not expect that you had turned many Silver Knights."
"Only a few, general. Only a few."
"Fewer still, now. My troops cut down a dozen before we realized they were submitting to us."
"Unfortunate."
The two of them entered the great audience chamber where the gods once held court and passed their edicts. Sulyvahn never had opportunity to see it before. Now, as he stood among the columns and looked up at the balcony where Gwyndolin would have sat on his throne and passed judgment on his subjects, he confessed to himself that it was a grand sight. The power of the gods was made manifest in the architecture and its sense of mighty purpose.
Gwyndolin was here now, lying on a litter beneath the balcony. Several of Milvayne's soldiers surrounded him. Next to him was a young lady that Sulyvahn did not recognize. She struck him only because of her uncanny resemblance to Gwyndolin and the strange scales that encircled her eyes.
Silver Knights were here, as well. Perhaps thirty of them stood at attention. Their eyes flickered toward Sulyvahn when he entered. One of their number stepped forward and saluted.
"Master Sulyvahn, all has proceeded as I promised."
"Well done, Captain Tryndel."
It had been so easy to persuade the bitter captain to side with him. Wounded pride, ambition, envy, self-pity. With these tools Sulyvahn had molded Tryndel's will even before he had fled the castle. The captain had been his weapon to unmake Anor Londo from within.
"You have finally risen to the station that you deserve," Sulyvahn stated.
"Yes," Tryndel replied in a quiet voice.
Sulyvahn saw something new within the captain's eyes. An emotion far more dangerous than all the others: Shame.
He must keep careful watch on Tryndel from now on.
"Did His Majesty give you difficulty?" he asked.
"No. His bodyguards suspected no betrayal. We intercepted them in the secret passages below the castle and brought them here. Gwyndolin and his sister."
"Sister? Truly?"
"Yorshka. You never met her. Gwyndolin is quite protective, you see."
Sulyvahn walked up to the girl and inspected her more closely. Yes, it was as he first perceived. Scales covered her face. What's more, a tail emerged from the folds of her dress and dragged on the floor.
Her eyes looked away from Sulyvahn and settled on her brother.
"Such strange features in the god's sibling," he murmured. He turned to Gwyndolin.
The god lay on his back, as cadaverous as ever. But his eyes blazed with indignity and fury.
"You keep secrets, godling," Sulyvahn said. "As you no doubt have realized by now, I have secrets of my own. But this," he pointed to Yorshka, "this intrigues me."
"Leave her," Gwyndolin demanded weakly. "I am … the one you want."
"Tryndel, have your men find suitable apartments for the young princess. Say, perhaps, the apartment I dwelt in while a guest of my most gracious host?" He smiled with mocking benevolence at Gwyndolin as Yorshka was taken away.
Milvayne spoke into Sulyvahn's ear. "There is resistance within the castle. Not all of Gwyndolin's servants have surrendered, and there are still many within the city. We have taken the castle, but we may not be able to keep it."
"True enough. But that lies with whether this godling will order his minions to stand down."
"Never," the god croaked.
Sulyvahn knelt down by Gwyndolin. "Do you know how I poisoned you?"
The god's eyes stared coldly.
"It was your books."
Sulyvahn gestured to Tryndel. "You trusted too much. Tryndel has access to many places in this castle. He is the Captain of your Silver Knights, after all. He entered your private reading room and covered the pages in poison. A dry powder. When you wet your lips to turn the pages, you sealed your grim fate."
Gwyndolin's eyes settled on Tryndel. "Treachery …"
"The poison was easy enough to smuggle in. I wasn't the only follower of the Deep inside Anor Londo." He smiled. "My tours of the city were very productive, indeed. But let us not dwell on the past. It is the future that you must now think of.
"Your sister. You kept her hidden from me? Why? Did you suspect that the scholar of arcana would perceive the depths of your lies? Did you fear that I would recognize mutations of a most blasphemous nature?" He rose.
"You will order your servants to stand down. I know you have spells that spread your voice across the city. Cast your spell, order the fighting to cease."
Gwyndolin remained silent.
"Do so, or I will reveal your illusion." He chuckled at the flash of fear in the god's eyes. "Oh, yes. I know illusions, Gwyndolin. I am something of an expert. And I see that you have an illusion cast on yourself. Whatever could it be hiding? Order them to stand down!" he snapped.
More silence.
"Very well." Sulyvahn swept his sorcerous greatsword over Gwyndolin's body and spoke a spell of revelation. The god's body rippled as the illusion fell away.
Those in the room gasped and took involuntary steps back as Gwyndolin's true form was revealed.
Where his legs should be, Gwyndolin's lower limbs were a mass of writhing serpents twitching weakly and flicking forked tongues into the air. Their heads slithered over each other, things alive and separate from the god's conscious control.
"Tryndel, did you know of this?" Sulyvahn asked.
"No. I had no suspicion," Tryndel said in a hushed voice.
"I wonder if Ozett knew? Hmm, where is our dear chancellor, come to think of it?"
"He escaped," Milvayne replied. "Him and his family. We are searching the underground now."
"No matter. I will see to him later. And now, dear Gwyndolin, now that your secrets are exposed, do you feel more amenable?"
"May the … Abyss take you."
"No? Very well. Let me explain something to you, prince. My master will arrive soon in this city. Aldrich, the Prophet of the Deep. You know of him. You know his appetites. He seeks above all to consume the flesh of gods."
"I do not … fear death," Gwyndolin rasped.
"And what of your sister's death?"
Gwyndolin's eyes went wide.
"I will make you watch, godling, as he tears the girl's flesh from her bones with his teeth. But, if you submit to my demands, I will spare her. I have some influence still," he said, glancing meaningfully at Milvayne, "and I can protect her. The choice is yours."
Gwyndolin was silent for a long while. Sulyvahn was about to speak again when he heard a clear, vivid voice sound from all around him.
"Servants of the gods. Servants of Anor Londo. Lay down your arms. Our city is fallen. Lay down your arms, by command of your lord and master, Gwyndolin."
The voice faded. Gwyndolin's lips had not moved, but the spell had covered the whole city. Powerful even in weakness.
"Milvayne, I leave the collection of prisoners and slaves in your capable of hands. Tryndel will assist you, of course."
"I am not your subordinate, Sulyvahn!"
"No, but you are a subordinate of Aldrich. And he will desire slaves to be returned to Irithyll, will he not?"
Milvayne said nothing, but scowled at Sulyvahn before storming out of the room. Tryndel looked askance at Sulyvahn, who nodded. The captain and his knights followed Milvayne.
"Take His Majesty to the dungeon," Sulyvahn commanded the remaining soldiers. "I so enjoyed my time there, and I am sure he will, too."
Petty. Terribly petty. But the mood had struck Sulyvahn, and he did not resist it. Finally, finally, all things were going as he wished them to. Anor Londo had fallen, he had the gods in his grip, and he had a few precious days yet before Aldrich arrived.
That was enough time to finish his work here. He had only to locate the Kiln.
Gwyndolin must know where it was hidden. He would ask him in a day or so. He would give the god time to stew over his defeat, then guide him into sharing all that he knew. His only regret was that to convince Gwyndolin to speak he would most likely have to reveal his own intentions. He would rather keep his goals hidden, but if Gwyndolin knew them, he would be more inclined to cooperate. It was a risk, but a necessary one.
Sulyvahn paced the audience chamber, considering all these things, when a messenger arrived. His face was joyous and his voice glad as he proclaimed,
"He has arrived! The Prophet has arrived! Lord Aldrich arrives in Anor Londo!"