Blackthorne smiled enthusiastically.
"My physical wounds, anyway. There is always the matter of my pride."
Blackthorne's smile faded.
"Aye. My pathetic human pride…" Bane held up his talons before his eyes. "But I am not human," he said, and looked to Blackthorne. "I am a god."
Blackthorne nodded, slowly.
"Now help me dress," Bane said, and Blackthorne rushed forward. As they struggled with Bane's black armor, the god inquired about specific followers and the progress that had been made on his temple.
"The humans that came to Mystra's rescue in Castle Kilgrave," Bane said at last. "What of them?"
Blackthorne shook his head. "I do not know."
One of the ruby red eyes of Bane's gauntlet opened wide, and the Black Lord grimaced. Memories of Mystra's final moments and of her warning to the dark-haired magic-user filled the mind of the dark god.
"We will find them," he said. "They will journey to Shadowdale, to seek out the assistance of the mage, Elminster."
"You wish them detained?" Blackthorne said.
Bane looked up, startled. "I wish them dead." Bane's attentions returned to the gauntlet. "Then I want the pendant from the woman brought to me. Now leave. I will call for you when I am ready." The emissary nodded and left the chamber.
The Black Lord fell back against the wall, his body trembling. He was very weak. Bane corrected himself. The body had been weakened. Bane, the god, was immortal and immune to such petty concerns, despite his situation. Bane reveled in his first moments of true clarity since awakening from his sealing sleep, then he considered his options.
Helm had asked Mystra if she bore the Tablets of Fate. When she offered the identities of the thieves instead of the actual tablets, Helm destroyed her. The secret he shared with Lord Myrkul was still safe.
"You are not omniscient after all, Lord Ao," Bane whispered. "The loss of the tablets has made you weak, as Myrkul and I suspected it would."
Bane realized he had said these words aloud in an empty room and felt a coldness in his essence. There were still a few traces of his avatar's humanity to exorcise, but he would accomplish this in time. At least his search for power had not been a strictly human conceit. The quest had begun with the theft of the tablets and would end with the murder of Lord Ao himself.
Yet there were obstacles Bane would have to overcome before he could achieve his final victory.
"Elminster," Bane said softly. "Perhaps we should meet."
In the darkest hours of morning, Bane stood before an assembly of his followers. Only those who had been awarded the highest ranks or privileges were in attendance as Bane sat upon his throne and addressed his followers. He linked the minds of all present so they could share in his fevered dream of incredible power and glory. Without uttering a word, Bane had whipped the humans into a frenzy.
Fzoul Chembryl had the loudest voice and the most intense passion for Bane's cause. Though the God of Strife knew Fzoul had opposed his will in the past, he felt a growing admiration for the handsome, red-haired priest, as Fzoul argued for the eventual dissolution of the zhentarim — of which Fzoul was second in command — and the reformation of the Black Network under the strict authority of Bane himself. Naturally Fzoul requested to be considered for the position of leader of these forces, but the decision would be Bane's alone, Fzoul cried, and Bane's wisdom was beyond criticism.
The Black Lord smiled. There was nothing like a good war to motivate humans. They would march on Shadowdale, Bane leading the troops personally. In the frenzy of battle, Bane would slip away and dispatch the troublesome Elminster. In the meantime, assassins would be sent to intercept Mystra's magic-user before she could deliver the pendant to the sage of Shadowdale. Another group would be sent to occupy the tiresome Knights of Myth Drannor. Satisfied with the plans, Bane went back to his secret chamber in the rear of the temple.
That night the God of Strife did not dream, and that was good.
IX
Whenever the bald man attempted to sleep, his dreams would inevitably return to the same shocking nightmare. He would wake almost the instant it began, but then he would see that his dream only reflected reality: his nightmare was only a memory of the widespread destruction he and his men had faced on their journey from Arabel to the place where Castle Kilgrave had once stood.
And somehow the bald man knew that he was now camped near the place that had been the eye of whatever supernatural storm had taken place. The effects had reached almost as far as Arabel, then stopped. The denizens of the walled city were relieved that their home had been spared, although one only had to look from the watch-towers to view the startlingly altered landscape and see how close the city had come to destruction.
The goddess Tymora had suffered an agonizing attack the day the sky had been filled with the odd lights from the north. Then the goddess had gone into a deep shock from which she had not yet risen when the bald man and his Company of Dawn left the walled city in pursuit of Kelemvor and his accomplices. Constant vigils had been held by Tymora's followers, but the goddess merely sat upon her throne, unresponsive to their calls, staring at something beyond the limited range of human senses.
Dismissing the nightmares and memories, the bald man attempted to get back to sleep. In the morning he and his men would set out from the untouched place of beauty they had found, a lovely colonnade that once may have been a shrine to the gods. The cool, sparkling water of the glorious pool had served lo refresh his men, but they had not washed away the memories of the vast destruction they had witnessed.
Although he was not a worshiper, the bald man uttered a small prayer to Shar, Goddess of Forgetfulness. Just as it seemed his prayer might be rewarded, a scream sounded in the night. The bald man sprang into action.
"There!" one of his men shouted, pointing at the fair-haired fighter who had been lifted from the ground by his neck. The flesh of the man's assailant appeared to be white as chalk, the moonlight casting an unearthly glow upon the headless creature.
"The statues," another man called. "They live!"
The bald man heard the soft crush of earth behind him and turned to face the statue of two lovers, still connected, the stone flesh of the man's hand and arm bonded to the woman's back. The stone lovers moved as one as they surged forward with a speed the bald man was not prepared for.
There were screams in the night.
The mountains of Gnoll Pass were visible behind Kelemvor and his companions, but the riders did not look back at them very often. If they had, they would have seen the mountains shimmer against the soft blue of the sky, as if the brave peaks held the consistency of little more than illusion.
The decision to follow the road north and travel on to Tilverton instead of braving the open countryside had been a unanimous one. Even Kelemvor raised no objection to the change in plans, despite his hurry to ride on to Shadowdale and put this job behind him. Before the packhorses died and their food and supplies turned to dust he might have argued, but it was clear now that they had to stop and get new supplies before crossing through the Shadow Gap and moving on to Shadowdale.
Kelemvor and Adon still shared a horse, as did Midnight and Cyric, through most of the journey. After the lack of supplies, this seemed to be the biggest annoyance for the heroes, and soon the tempers of the mounts and their riders were flaring regularly.
The heroes were at the end of a long day in the pale gray expanses of the treacherous Stonelands when they spotted travelers a quarter mile off the road. One moment the area appeared flat and safe, an inviting alternative to the plodding, twisting road before them. But upon approach, the carefully disguised ridges and falls of this area became apparent.