Gratus frowned, but he didn't turn to look at the thief. "Normally the Zhents chop the heads off their victims just to be sure no one's faking," the old man explained. "When you fell, I had to assume you were dead… or soon would be."
Varden turned white, and Midnight couldn't suppress a shudder. The realities of war, she reminded herself. She turned away from the tunnel as there was a loud crash upstairs, and Adon heard Durrock barking orders to his men.
"I may be wrong, you understand," Gratus noted calmly as he reached for a torch that hung inside the door. He quickly pulled out his flint and steel and lit the old wooden torch. "But if I'm right, I think we can make the Sembian garrison by nightfall."
Varden took the torch from Gratus and stepped into the tunnel. Midnight and Adon glanced at each other for a moment, then followed the Sembians into the darkness.
Shaking his head to toss his thick, matted hair from his eyes, Kelemvor surveyed his cell. It was a barren little room, really little more than an eight-foot cube, with a wall at his back, bars at his front, and bars to either side of him. Beyond the bars in front of the fighter, there was a poorly lit hallway where two guards were stationed before the cell. Chains bound the fighter's hands and feet, allowing him less than two feet of unimpeded movement from the back wall of the cell.
Heavy footsteps sounded from down the hallway, as if a procession had entered the lower level of the Zhentilar headquarters and was now approaching through the narrow stone walkway. Kelemvor watched as a red-haired man wearing ebon armor entered the corridor and stopped before his cell. The fighter recognized the ornate armor as identical to that worn by the God of Strife in the dungeons of Castle Kilgrave. A beautiful blond woman, wearing an elegant black robe with a brilliant red sash, stood beside the red-haired man, a wicked smile playing across her features.
"Kelemvor Lyonsbane," Lord Bane murmured. "I trust you remember me." The god drew a finely crafted sword from a scabbard at his waist.
"Your dogs address you as 'Lord Bane,' but if that's true, you've changed," the fighter said calmly. "You're not quite as ugly as you were when Mystra defeated you in Cormyr."
The sword shook in the Black Lord's hand. "Do not try to goad me into granting you a quick death!" Bane roared.
Kelemvor winced. Even if this wasn't Bane, Kelemvor realized, his impersonator had control of the situation. Perhaps it wasn't best to provoke him. "What do you want with me?" the fighter asked softly.
"I have come to make you an offer. Choose wisely, for your life may depend on your response," Bane purred, clanging his sword across the bars of the fighter's cell.
"I would expect that kind of offer from someone who threatened a chained, unarmed man with a sword," Kelemvor said, smiling. The fighter looked at Bane and saw shards of crimson dancing in his eves.
The red-haired man narrowed his eyes. "Do not try to endear yourself to me, either. I know everything about you, Lyonsbane. Perhaps you forget that I was inside your mind when you and your pitiful friends entered Castle Kilgrave."
Kelemvor flinched. This really was the God of Strife who stood before him. No one else could know that Bane had entered his mind and drawn forth illusions based on his fondest desires to prevent him from rescuing Lady Mystra.
"Ah, you remember," Bane noted. "And do you remember the offer your dead uncle made to you in the dream I gave to you?" The fighter looked up sharply. "You can be free of the curse of the Lyonsbanes, Kelemvor — free to be a hero if you wish, without fearing the curse."
Lowering his head, the green-eyed fighter looked away from the Black Lord. "What do you want with me," Kelemvor repeated.
Bane sighed. "Right to business, then. As you might have guessed, my true interest is not in you. You can swing from a meat hook, for all I care." The blond woman at Bane's side giggled.
Kelemvor thought of the body he had found in the Twisted Tower, courtesy of Cyric's handiwork. Those two would be well matched, the fighter thought.
"Open the cell," Bane ordered, sheathing his sword. In seconds, the door was opened and Bane stood within a few feet of the fighter. The blond sorceress followed the fallen god into the cell.
Bane smiled a perversely charismatic grin and put his hand on the fighter's arm. "It's the mage I want… Midnight. You know her better than anyone else in the Realms," the God of Strife purred. "And I know you. I know everything about you. Your entire life passed before my gaze in Castle Kilgrave."
Kelemvor looked into the avatar's eves and nodded slowly. "I want information from you, mercenary," Bane stated, all emotion absent from his voice. "I want an accounting of every time Midnight used the power Lady Mystra granted to her."
"The pendant, you mean?" Kelemvor asked. "The blue star pendant that Mystra gave to Midnight?" The fighter paused and breathed a sigh of relief. "It's gone. It was destroyed in the Battle of Shadowdale. Midnight has no other gift from Mystra, so you can stop worrying about her."
Bane thought of his final moments in the Temple of Lathander. Even though he had taken the pendant from the raven-haired mage, she was still able to cast a spell of far greater power than should have been possible. Perhaps Mystra, who was by then only a magic elemental of sorts, granted Midnight the power directly. Or perhaps Midnight had more power than any of her friends suspected.
"I want you to tell me in detail about every time she used magic since the time of Arrival," Bane said, anger tingeing his words. "And I want to know what her destination is."
Then she escaped! Kelemvor suddenly realized. The assassins didn't recapture her. "I don't know her plans," the fighter said sharply and turned away from the God of Strife. "Besides, why should I help you?"
The Black Lord's hand struck out with blinding speed, and Kelemvor's head snapped to the side with the force of the blow. "If you lie to me, the consequences will be painful." Bane stepped back from the fighter and grinned again. "Besides, you will eventually tell me the truth… given the right prompting. So let's not waste my time, and yours, by forcing me to slowly flay you alive."
The blond sorceress moved past Bane and reached up to touch the side of Kelemvor's face, where he had been struck.
"If you refuse me," the God of Strife noted, "I'll let Tarana take your body, then your mind, then your life." Bane covered his mouth his hands, stifling a yawn. "She is a mage. She can enter your mind, just as I have in the past."
The fighter jerked his head away from Tarana's caresses. "Magic's unstable," Kelemvor snapped, tear spreading through him. "A spell like that could kill us both."
"That's true," Tarana cooed and giggled again. "Quite a romantic picture, don't you think?"
Kelemvor looked into the deep blue eyes of the sorceress and felt as if he was gazing into an endless pit of madness. She would gladly kill us both, the fighter realized. He shuddered and turned back to Bane. "What reward do you offer me for my assistance? You know that my curse will not allow me to help you without payment."
The God of Strife smiled. "Before we set a price, my friend, you should know that I want more than information from you." Bane ran a hand through his flaming red hair and paused.
"I assume that Midnight plans to venture to Tantras, with hopes of finding one of the Tablets of Fate that Lord Myrkul and I stole from the heavens." The God of Strife turned away from Kelemvor. "Not that she would ever find it, of course. Its hiding place is a masterpiece of deception. It is nowhere that you would ever expect it to be."
"Stop playing games, Bane. If you're going to kill me once I give you the information, you might as well tell me where you've hidden the tablet," Kelemvor growled.
"Kill you?" Bane asked, a chuckle in his voice. He turned back to the fighter.