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 essense 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 eyes 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.
The worshipers of Oghma, Tenwealth thought frantically. The followers of the God of Knowledge are alive! I’ve been deceived!
The rest of the room was filled with heavily armed guards. Lord Torm himself sat upon his throne, a gray stone gauntlet with its palm resting parallel to the floor. The golden lion to which the God of Duty had given life the day he spoke to Adon in the garden prowled back and forth at his feet. Tenwealth had placed the statue there himself after taking it from the abandoned Temple of Waukeen.
The lion roared, and Torm leaned forward to address his followers. “I hardly know where to begin,” the God of Duty growled, his voice low and burdened with emotion. “My disappointment and my outrage cannot be measured by human standards. If I had learned of the horrors this council has committed in my name while I was still in the Planes, I would have used my power to burn this temple to its very foundations.”
Tenwealth’s entire body began to quake as he wondered how much Torm really knew. He felt an impulse to run, but the high priest knew that there was nowhere to go, nowhere to hide.
“For the past three days, the mortal who has served as my avatar has assisted me in a charade,” Torm told the assembly of traitors and pounded the arm of his throne with his gauntleted fist. “While he has sat upon my throne, I have journeyed into the city, possessing the bodies of a few of my true worshipers and learning first-hand the state of affairs in Tantras.” Torm paused and gritted his teeth. “What I discovered has sickened me to the core. There is no punishment great enough for what this council has done, but know this: you will be punished.”
Tenwealth’s legs gave out beneath him and he fell to his knees. The members of the council quickly mimicked his actions. The Tablet of Fate, Tenwealth thought desperately. He might not know about the tablet yet! There is still a chance to save our holy cause!
“All that we have done has been in your name,” the platinum-haired high priest cried. “For your honor, Lord Torm. For your glory!”
The golden lion roared as Torm leaped from the throne. The god crossed the room in a few running steps, then grabbed Tenwealth by the throat and yanked him into the air.
“How dare you say that!” the God of Duty screamed. Holding Tenwealth with his left hand, Lord Torm raised his fist to strike the priest.
A wave of total fear washed over Tenwealth and he blurted out, “We have the Tablet of Fate, Lord Torm!”
Torm stared at the mortal for a moment, then dropped him to the floor. “How could you have the tablet?”
“It was hidden in the vault beneath the temple. On the night of Arrival, when the fireballs split the sky and the one that bore your holy essence crashed through the temple, I found it. I had no way of knowing what the object was at the time, but—”
“Then I told you the true reason the gods suddenly
appeared in Faerun, and you understood the greatness and the power of the object you held,” Torm said, closing his eyes. “What were your plans for the Tablet of Fate, Tenwealth? Were you going to sell it to the highest bidder? Bane and Myrkul, perhaps?”
“No! Have mercy,” Tenwealth begged. “Let us prove our loyalty to you, Lord Torm. All that has happened was done in your name!”
The god shuddered and looked down at Tenwealth. The high priest lay quivering at the God of Duty’s feet. “Stop saying that,” Torm whispered. “You know nothing about my wishes.”
The fallen god clenched his gauntleted hand into a fist, turned his back on the council, and strode to his throne. He sat down and tried to force his anger away, but couldn’t stop quivering with rage. Torm had suddenly recognized the extent of the damage wrought by Tenwealth and his perverted plan. All this time, when the Realms were torn by chaos and good people suffered, the God of Duty had possessed the means to make things right, to fulfill his duty to Lord Ao. And his priests had hidden it from him, supposedly for his own good.
Torm looked out at the frightened priests and awestruck guards, and for the first time, he saw himself through their eyes. I’m just another petty tyrant to them, the God of Duty realized. I’m nothing but a very powerful despot whom they will do anything to please.
“We were going to give you the tablet when the time was right. We—,” Tenwealth wailed.
“Silence!” Torm shouted. “Where is the Tablet of Fate now?”
“In the vault,” Tenwealth said softly. “I had an illusion cast over the tablet to disguise it, and mystical wards keep it safe.”
The God of Duty stood up again and pointed at Tenwealth. “You and your council will be held until I decide what to do with you,” Torm growled. “Guards, take—”
A wild-eyed messenger burst into the room. “Lord Torm! There are Zhentish ships on the horizon! They’re heading this way!”
The priests all gasped and got off their knees. The messenger stopped moving toward the God of Duty when he saw the golden lion at his feet. “Go on,” Torm said. “What else do you have to report.”
The messenger swallowed hard and spoke again, never taking his eyes off the lion. “There is something else crossing the Dragon Reach, too. A night-black giant, over fifty feet tall. The goliath wears spiked armor, like one of the Black Lord’s assassins!”
“Bane!” Torm yelled. The lion roared and leaped to its feet. “He’s come for the Tablet of Fate!”
The fallen god was then silent for a moment, and he considered the city’s dilemma. After a moment, he said, “Issue a summons to all of my faithful. I wish them to meet in the outdoor cathedral in one hour.”
“We are your faithful!” Tenwealth cried and took a step toward the God of Duty.
Torm looked at his former high priest. “In one hour, each of you will have a chance to prove that.” Gesturing to his guards, the god added, “Take them to the cathedral. Watch them. Then tell the soldiers to prepare to defend the harbor from the Zhentish ships. The Black Lord will be my responsibility.”
The hour passed quickly for the god as he formulated his plan and waited for his faithful to gather in the temple. Soon, he was standing on a platform, looking out over a throng of priests and fighters. The Council of Torm stood near the stage, chains around their wrists and ankles.
“There is little time to waste this day,” the God of Duty cried. “By now, all of you know that our city will soon face an attack by Zhentish forces. Lord Bane, God of Strife and Tyranny, conqueror of Scardale, approaches the harbor of our city in the form of a giant warrior.” The fallen god paused and listened to the frightened, excited murmuring of the crowd. After a moment, he added, “I can stop Bane. But to do so, I need the power that only your belief … and your sacrifice can give to me.”
The noise from the crowd grew louder, and Torm raised his gauntleted hand to silence them. “My avatar has volunteered to be the first to offer me his essence.” A deep sadness filled the God of Duty’s eyes. “You must follow his example, do your duty as followers of my word, if Tantras is to be saved from destruction.”
With those words, Torm plunged his hands into his avatar’s chest and pulled out his heart. A torrent of sky-blue energy swirled around the staggering body of Torm’s avatar, then engulfed not only the frail, human form, but also the golden lion that raced to protect its master. When the swirling lights faded, a golden man more than nine feet tall stood before the worshipers of Torm. His head was that of the mighty lion, and his body crackled with energy.
“Your duty calls you,” Torm roared from snarling lips of his new avatar. “There will be no pain. I would not bring suffering to my faithful. You need only accept your destiny, and you will pass quietly.”
In unison, a dozen worshipers cried, “Take us, Lord Torm!”
With expressions of complete bliss, the worshipers fell to the ground. From their gently parted lips, sky-blue mists flowed and rushed toward the God of Duty. Torm opened his arms and embraced the souls, which lost their individual shapes and became a large pulsating mass of light. The lion-headed avatar absorbed the energy and started to grow.
Soon the cathedral was filled with corpses, and the fallen god towered over the proceedings, the golden avatar now nearly fifty feet tall. Soul energy flowed toward the avatar from all across the city as word of the god’s need spread. In the temple, Tenwealth and his fellow members of the council were among those who had not yet surrendered their lives.
“So beautiful,” one of the priests wept as he looked up at the golden avatar. “Yet no matter how strongly I wish to join Lord Torm, he will not accept my life!”
“We were such fools!” Tenwealth cried. “Forgive us, Lord Torm! Accept our sacrifice! Let us prove our loyalty!”
The lion-headed avatar stared down at the council members. He could feel their desire to join him and almost taste the anguish in their hearts now that they recognized the price of their failure.
Torm closed his eyes and opened his arms. Tenwealth and the rest of the Council of Torm died, and their soul energies rushed to the avatar’s embrace. The God of Duty absorbed the energy, let out a deep, loud roar, and pushed through the back wall of the temple. Then the lion-headed avatar went off in search of the God of Strife.
* * * * *
At the bow of the Argent, a Zhentish trireme, Cyric stared at a city on the horizon. The thief had not expected to return to Tantras so quickly, but Bane’s orders had been explicit. Slater and a few of the other Zhentilar whom Cyric commanded were given orders to stay behind in Scardale, but the majority of the thief’s men were assigned to the Argent and ordered to follow Bane. Dalzhel, the leader of one of the contingents of Zhentilar who joined the Scorpions before Tyzack’s death, had been made Cyric’s lieutenant. Dressed in an ebon cloak that was pressed against his sleek body by the heavy winds, Dalzhel ran his hand over his bushy, black beard.
“You’re worried when you shouldn’t be,” Dalzhel noted. “There should be no doubt as to our victory. Lord Bane himself leads us to Tantras.”
“Of course,” Cyric replied, his voice distant. Realizing that Dalzhel was staring at him, the thief assumed the posture of a confident warrior. “We will bathe in the blood of our enemies.”
Dalzhel was still staring. Cyric thought for a moment, then realized his mistake. “If we are forced to engage them, we will slaughter the Tantrasans. Lord Bane’s orders are not to be taken lightly, no matter how badly some of us may wish to engage these dogs and drive them under our heels.”
The lieutenant looked away. “Were you privy to the ceremony where Bane took his new avatar?”
“I was,” Cyric replied and felt a warmth spread through his body. “It was a spectacular event to witness. It was almost inspirational.”
Dalzhel nodded. “I understand that three beholders were summoned from Zhentil Keep and Lord Myrkul himself was in attendance.”
“That is something of an exaggeration,” Cyric noted and proceede
d to tell Dalzhel all that he had witnessed.
After reaching the harbor, the obsidian juggernaut that Bane had inhabited was forced to enter the Dragon Reach from the east side of Scardale, while most of the Zhentilar fleet, four sailing ships, three galleys equipped with rams, and the Argent, left from the Ashaba port to the south. Triremes were noted for their speed and superior handling, so it wasn’t surprising that the Argent quickly pulled ahead of the fleet and passed the southeast tip of Scardale in time to see Bane’s mammoth avatar enter the water.
The sun had been directly above the avatar as it waded into the Dragon Reach. Brilliant white light enshrouded the unnatural creation with an aura of blinding luminescence. Despite the glare, though, Cyric could see reddish black mists swirling inside the smoky body. The obsidian giant now hummed with a throbbing tone that rose and fell in time with the movements of the crimson light within its massive chest.
During the journey, only the head, shoulders, and parts of the God of Strife’s arms were visible as he waded and swam through the Dragon Reach. The waves Bane caused made it impossible for the fleet to follow closely, and so the god was always far ahead of the ships.
Now, as Cyric told Dalzhel about the birth of the obsidian avatar, the Zhentish fleet’s two-day trek was almost at an end. Bane had broken away from the main body of the fleet, taking two ships with him as he prepared to enter Tantras from the north, where the temple of Torm resided. The Black Lord justified the move by claiming he was going to destroy Torm, and thereby plunge Tantras into chaos.
Cyric knew better. The Tablet of Fate was all that concerned Bane, and the thief now knew that the tablet was somewhere near the Temple of Torm.
The Argent had been ordered to take up a position at the northernmost end of Tantras’s harbor, closer to the scene of Bane’s imminent raid upon the Temple of Torm than any of the other ships sent to blockade the western borders of the city. The Argent’s orders had been to stand ready, but take no action unless it was necessary.
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