'Come, Myrkul, I don't have all the time in the world,' Bane muttered, and a shadow passed across an open window. The Black Lord looked at the statue in anticipation just as a column of swirling green and amber light burst through the ceiling and engulfed the obsidian representation.
'Finally!' Bane cried, raising his fists into the air. 'Now I will have true power…'
At that moment, far from Scardale, at the base of the mountains to the west of Suzail, a council of twelve men sat at a long rectangular table that had once been the dining table of the former lord of Castle Dembling. Now, Lord Dembling and his family were dead, murdered by the Fire Knives, a clandestine group of assassins who had sworn to kill King Azoun IV of Cormyr and had seized the small castle near his kingdom as their new base of operations.
The leader of the meeting, a dark-eyed, pug-nosed man named Roderick Tem, was tired of the small-minded bickering that had disrupted all of his attempts to organize his band of assassins into a productive company.
'Fellow assassins, this argument is getting us nowhere,' Tem proclaimed, slamming the handle of his knife on the table to get his comrades' attention.
Before he could say anything else, Tem's eyes widened and his body stiffened. A green and amber light exploded from the pug-nosed man's chest and snaked around the room like a burst of lightning. In just a few seconds, the mystical fire from Tem's chest had pierced the hearts of each his friends. All the assassins fell over, dead.
Stalking the back alleys of Urmlaspyr, a city in Sembia, Samirson Yarth caught sight of his prey and drew his dagger. Yarth was a hired killer with an impressive record. Not one of his intended victims had ever escaped his blade. Yarth had even taken enough lives to personally warrant the attention of his deity, Lord Bhaal, on more than one occasion.
On this particular day the assassin was enjoying the hunt. His prey was a circus performer suspected of seducing the wife of a high-ranking city official. The purchaser of Yarth's talents, a seemingly mild little man named Smeds, had offered twice the assassin's normal fee if he could bring the performer's heart to him while it was still warm.
As Yarth watched, his victim leaped through the open window of a countinghouse. The assassin followed the young man into the semidarkness. There, he found his victim and saw the fear in his prey's eyes as the performer realized that he'd been cornered. Yarth raised his weapon.
Suddenly a blinding, green and amber light tore through the assassin's chest, and the killer's blade struck the ground a few feet from his intended victim. Samirson Yarth had failed to complete his first contract.
Far across the Realms, in the city of Waterdeep, Bhaal, the inhuman Lord of Murder, was visited by a sensation unlike any he had ever known. An incredible feeling of loss settled upon the God of Assassins, and for a brief instant he actually knew fear. Running from his chambers, the fallen god found Dileen Shurlef, an assassin who served as his faithful servant. Just as Bhaal opened his twisted, bestial mouth to speak, a green and amber flash filled the hallway. Shurlef gasped and cried out as if his soul was being torn from him. With a mind-numbing certainty, Bhaal realized that was exactly what was happening.
At the warehouse in Scardale, the obsidian avatar had grown to a height of over fifty feet, and the expansion of the magical statue showed no signs of slowing down. A large, steady stream of green and amber light poured into the warehouse and filled the black figurine.
Bane stared at the form of what would soon be his new avatar as if he were in a trance. 'Myrkul is preparing to step upon the final tier,' the Black Lord whispered to Tarana. The sorceress backed away and gestured for the Scorpions to do the same.
Beside Cyric, Slater cursed her hands for shaking. 'Lord Bane is in communion with Myrkul,' Cyric whispered. 'This is exactly what he said would happen.'
Before the Scorpions, the God of Strife opened his arms, and a tongue of green and amber fire swirled around him. 'After I depart this avatar, its flesh will be weak, its mind disoriented. Tarana, you will stay behind to safeguard Fzoul and protect my interests in Scardale.'
'I would give my life — ,' Tarana started to cry.
'I know,' Bane murmured, holding up his hand to stop the madwoman's oaths of loyalty. 'And one day you shall. Take comfort in that, for now I leave you.'
A reddish black cloud burst from Fzoul's mouth and shot toward the obsidian avatar, trailing a line of green and amber flame. The red-haired priest moaned softly and fell backward into Tarana's arms. The essence of the God of Strife entered the huge statue and an incredible scream burst forth. The cry echoed across all of Scardale and nearly deafened those who stood in the warehouse.
The statue's arms slowly raised and Bane's new avatar clutched the sides of its head and continued to wail, though it still had no mouth. Sharp spikes, similar to those on Durrock's armor, burst from the arms, chest, legs, and head of the obsidian avatar. Finally the swirling mists stopped flowing into the room, and the roiling colors inside the statue changed from amber and green to reddish black.
An evil, leering mouth and a pair of glowing red eves appeared on the statue's face. Bane stopped screaming and looked down at his hands.
'Hollow,' he said in a voice that was unmistakably that of a god. 'My world is hollow. My body…'
On the ground, Cyric stared up at the God of Strife in disbelief, his heart threatening to burst from his chest. To have such power! the hawk-nosed thief thought. No matter the price, one day I will strive with beings like Bane.
Suddenly the Black Lord began to laugh. A frightening, cavernous roar filled the warehouse. 'I am a god. At last, I am once again a god!'
The huge, obsidian avatar of the God of Strife rushed forward, bursting through the front wall of the warehouse as if it were tearing at frail paper. The Scorpions, save for Cyric, helped Tarana carry Fzoul away from the warehouse before the roof collapsed.
The Zhentilar made it to the street just in time to see Bane reach the edge of the port. A vague greenish amber aura enshrouded the God of Strife as he stood on the shore of the Dragon Reach and looked out toward Tantras. The fallen god was sure that nothing could stop him from regaining the Tablet of Fate.
The sudden death or disappearance of all the worshipers of Bhaal who frequented the Dark Harvest — in fact, all the assassins who lived in Tantras — troubled Tenwealth and the other members of the Council of Torm greatly. The assassins had proven themselves to be a considerable asset, despite their blasphemous alignment, and the council members, usually united, were now finding it difficult to locate men willing to rid the city of heretics for a flat fee.
The council had other troubles, too. There had been occasions recently when members had argued that Torm should be made aware of their efforts to unify the city. But as Tenwealth frequently told the council, the God of Duty had only recently taken the body of a mortal; he might not understand the unfortunate measures they had to take to convert most of the population or rid the city of unbelievers. Actually, the council members had stood united in their cause until Tenwealth had recommended that they hire assassins to deal with citizens too unreasonable to convert or leave.
Then, those council members who had failed to see the true value of Tenwealth's plans were killed, too. The high priest had ordered those murders with the same zeal he'd felt when he'd plotted the harbormaster's death, as well the demise of several dozen other intractables. And Tenwealth truly believed he was serving Lord Torm throughout all the bloodshed.
In fact, Tenwealth had just received word that some of his men had taken care of the small sect of Oghma worshipers in town when the order to appear before Lord Torm arrived. Leaving his room, the high priest walked to the audience hall with a light step and the knowledge that all he had accomplished over the years had been for the sake of his god. He knew, too, that Torm would eventually thank him for it. After all, the Tablet of Fate was safely hidden in the temple's vault, and when the city was united behind the God of Duty, the high priest planned to give the tablet to Torm. His god could then triumphantly return to the Planes, an entire city of devoted worshipers behind him.
Tenwealth smiled at that thought. But the smile left the platinum-haired man's face as he entered the private chambers of Torm and found a large group of people gathered there. When he recognized all twelve members of the council, along with many of their subordinates, Tenwealth's heart skipped a beat. The doors slammed shut behind the high priest just as he noticed a group of five old men standing in the corner, their eyes burning with anger.
