both if he attempted a spell and it backfired!
'Remember your place,' Bane snapped. Myrkul nodded, and Fzoul found himself tumbling back into the recesses of his own mind.
'My apologies, Lord Bane,' the God of the Dead murmured. 'This has been a very difficult and tiring time for me. Are you ready to return to the Dark Temple in Zhentil Keep?'
Bane ran his hands over the body of his avatar. He had altered his previous incarnation into something more than a man, a horrible creature with sharp talons and hard, charred skin that only the sharpest of instruments could penetrate. The pale, vulnerable flesh of the high priest made the Dark God uneasy. Myrkul had argued in favor of Bane's new appearance, reasoning that humans would trust the god more readily if he appeared to be one of them. Bane had reluctantly agreed. After all, his previous tactics — trying to frighten his forces into submission — had been a rather decided failure. After the defeat at Shadowdale, he would need to regain the confidence of his followers.
The God of Strife shivered as he realized that his power in the Realms was nothing more than the sum of all his worshipers. The thought was revolting. 'Yes,' the Black Lord sighed after a moment. 'Take me to my temple in Zhentil Keep.'
Creating a mystical gate, Myrkul stood aside and beckoned to Bane to come forward. Through the opening, the Black Lord saw the seemingly deserted streets of Zhentil Keep. Bane stepped through the opening. In a moment, the Black Lord was standing in a dark, rat-infested alley. A cut-purse let out a yell as Bane's avatar suddenly appeared nearby. The grimy thief scurried out of the alley and ran down the street in panic.
'So it begins anew, Myrkul,' Bane said as he gazed at the partially constructed spires of his temple in the distance. When he received no response, the Black Lord turned to find that the gate had vanished and the God of the Dead was nowhere to be seen.
It hardly matters, Bane thought as he left the alley. Myrkul has served his function for now.
Bane traveled through the city, shunning the poor and homeless people he passed. Sounds that might have come from thieves or slavers falling upon new victims drifted from nearly every shadow and caused Bane to quicken his step, until finally he was running through the streets, the spires of his temple fixed in his eyes. As he turned one last corner and approached the temple, Bane spotted the figures of several temple guards ahead.
'Guards!' the Black Lord shouted with Fzoul's voice, then stood motionless as one of the watchmen stepped forward, his weapon drawn.
'You'll get no free meals here!' the guard growled, looking out at the tattered clothes of the avatar from under a black hand on a red field — Bane's own symbol. 'Off with you now!'
'Don't you recognize me, Dier Ashlin?' Bane asked, running his hand through the tangle of red hair on his head.
The guard squinted as he examined the tired, grimy man who stood before him, wearing the tattered remains of an officer's uniform. Blood spattered the redheaded man's shirt, and his face was covered with sweat and dirt. But even the grime and blood could not hide Fzoul Chembryl from the guard for long. 'L–Lord Fzoul!' Ashlin shouted and lowered his sword.
'Indeed,' the God of Strife grumbled. 'Get me inside. I have traveled all the way from the Dales since the battle.'
'The slaughter, you mean,' Ashlin mumbled as he turned and headed for the front of the temple.
The Black Lord longed to kill the guard without another word, but something inside him — Fzoul, perhaps — told him that now was not the time for bloodshed. Now was the time for the God of Strife to rebuild his kingdom.
As they entered the partially finished Dark Temple, Lord Bane was impressed with the amount of work that had been accomplished since he had last been there. Unfortunately, the Battle of Shadowdale had diverted many of his men from the task of rebuilding his temple. In fact, now, with the exception of the guards, the wounded who had survived the journey from Shadowdale, and a handful of devout worshipers, the temple was deserted.
'Who is in charge, now that Bane has disappeared? I assumed Sememmon had taken the reigns of leadership,' Bane said as he stopped and looked out a window.
Ashlin shrugged. 'Sememmon was wounded on the field of battle in the Dales. Some of our men said they saw him dragged off, and that was the last anyone saw of him.'
A chill ran up the avatar's spine. 'Then the city is once again in the hands of incompetents!' the God of Strife growled. Balling his hands into fists, Bane turned to the guard. 'Lord Chess?'
'Aye,' Ashlin muttered. 'With Bane gone, you and Sememmon missing, and Manshoon off in hiding somewhere, Lord Chess could see little reason to continue work on the temple, and so it sits. Rumor has it that Chess, the filthy orc, wants to turn it into a brothel!'
The shoulders of the avatar tightened. 'I would like to see Lord Chess,' snapped the Black Lord. 'Tonight.' The God of Strife turned back to the window and looked out on the dirty, rubble-strewn streets around the Dark Temple.
'Yes, Lord Chembryl,' Ashlin said, and he turned to leave.
'Wait! I haven't dismissed you yet!' the Black Lord shouted without turning from the window. The guard froze in his tracks. 'There are others who I wish you to summon…'
For the next several hours, Bane retired to his private chambers, hidden behind the throne room, and prepared himself for the meeting he had called. The ceremonial robes Fzoul had left in his quarters before the battle were brought to the Black Lord. He bathed, then dressed as his guests began to arrive.
When the noise from the outer chamber became a roar, Bane opened a small secret panel to the room and listened to the crowd. The members of the Zhentarim — Bane's Black Network, some called them — were silent. Lord Chess's men, the high-ranking city officials and the heads of the militia, were not.
'Lord Bane has forsaken us!' they cried. 'Lord Chess should rule the city now!'
'Bane betrayed us!' another voice shouted. 'Our forces were led into a deathtrap in Shadowdale! Then he abandoned us to be tortured by the dalesmen!'
A roar of approval went up from a group of militia standing close to Bane's listening post. It's time I made my entrance, the God of Strife thought. Now that they've worn themselves down, it shouldn't be too hard to manipulate them.
As Bane's avatar emerged from behind the large black throne that dominated the room, some of the cries were silenced. Still, a loud hum of conversation hung over the room, punctuated occasionally by a curse or threat. The Black Lord raised Fzoul's hands, and the hum died away, too. 'I am here to unify Zhentil Keep once again!' the avatar cried.
Slowly Bane walked to the black throne. He turned to the crowd, which was now almost completely silent, and flashed a wide, malicious grin. Then he sat down upon the throne.
The room erupted in a wave of gasps and cries of outrage. 'This is an insult!' a dark-haired priest called out. 'Have we been summoned from our homes in the dead of night to witness sacrilege? How do you explain this, Fzoul?'
'With blood,' the red-haired priest said as he raised his hands again. 'I answer your call with blood. For I am not Fzoul Chembryl, although his flesh hosts my essence. I am your lord and master, and you will bow before me!'
The dark-haired priest screamed, clutched at his eyes, then fell to the ground. Visions of a world controlled by the God of Strife filled the priest's mind. The rivers of Faerun ran with blood, and the land itself shook under the tread of Bane's mighty armies. And there, in the middle of the carnage and ruin, the priest saw himself, covered with the blood and jewels of the defeated.
Rising to his knees, the priest removed his hands and revealed glowing, blood-red eyes. 'Bane has returned!' the priest screamed. 'Our god has returned to deliver us!'
'All my children will know my glory,' Bane said, and in moments the entire chamber was filled with the screams of his followers as they reveled in Bane's vision of conquest and power. Looking out through a blood-red haze as a reminder of their true allegiance, Bane's faithful stood before their lord, awaiting his orders.
'We must first discover the strength of our enemies. Recall our spies from Shadowdale,' Bane cried, pointing to a greasy-haired city official who cowered near the throne. 'I wish to learn the fate of those who stood against me in the Temple of Lathander. If Elminster or that raven-haired lackey of Mystra still live, I want them brought
