Bane was furious. News of the seizure of the Queen of the Night and Midnight's escape from Scardale had driven the Black Lord into such a state that he had refused to speak to anyone the entire day. Now, sitting alone in his chambers in Scardale, the fallen God of Strife muttered and cursed.
Suddenly the doors to his chamber opened and the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, entered. The blond madwoman was practically drooling with excitement.
"Why do you disturb me when I left strict orders that I wished solitude?" Bane snarled, curling his hands into fists.
The sorceress took a deep breath. "There is a man who wishes to see you, Lord Bane. He waits just outside this chamber."
"A man?" Bane asked irascibly. "Not a god?"
The blond sorceress looked at the Black Lord in confusion. "A god, Lord Bane?"
The God of Strife closed his eyes, trying to control his anger. "The presence of another god would have been sufficient cause for you to interrupt my meditation. Not the supplications of a mortal."
"I think you will see this mortal," Tarana purred, rocking back and forth on her heels.
Gripping the arms of his throne, Bane grimaced as he growled, "I do not trust you, mage, but show him in anyway."
Tarana Lyr sprinted across the length of the chamber and threw the door open wide. "He will see you now," she cooed from the door.
A lean, dark-haired man entered the chamber, and the sorceress quietly closed the door behind him.
Bane leaped from his throne, suddenly, frighteningly aware that Fzoul had reclaimed his body.
"You!" the priest shouted in anger, and images of Cyric firing an arrow into the red-haired man at the Ashaba Bridge coursed through the mind he shared with the God of Strife. The priest's anger pushed the Black Lord's consciousness down into his mind's dark recesses. Fzoul reached out to the sorceress. "Give me your dagger!"
Cyric stood motionless, a thin film of sweat on his brow. "Lord Bane, you must listen — "
Fzoul grabbed the weapon from Tarana and advanced on the thief. "Not Bane, you imbecile! It is Fzoul Chembryl who will taste your blood this day."
The hawk-nosed thief backed away from the red-haired priest. The last thing Cyric expected was to confront Fzoul. He was certain that Bane would have crushed Fzoul's mind completely when he took the priest as an avatar.
Fzoul lunged with the knife and Cyric sidestepped as best he could. But maneuverability was limited in the chamber, and a single misstep could mean death. Cyric couldn't risk drawing a weapon. If he killed the avatar of Bane, the explosion might level the entire port town of Scardale — or the fallen god might choose his body to inhabit next. Worse still, the giggling blond sorceress was chanting and seemed prepared to release a spell.
The red-haired priest feinted to the left then drove his body to the right, crashing into Cyric. Both men tumbled to the ground. The thief's head struck the floor with a sharp crack, and Fzoul drove the dagger toward Cyric's right eye, then stopped. The priest's eyes turned crimson, and Bane smiled as he stared into Cyric's wide, panic-filled eyes.
"Fzoul's anger surprises me sometimes," the Black Lord said casually as he climbed off the thief and handed the dagger back to the sorceress. "He has a capacity for hate greater than most gods. Excepting myself, of course."
"No need, Lord Bane," Cyric said as he struggled to his feet.
Bane turned his back on Cyric and climbed to his throne. "I hadn't expected to see you, thief," the God of Strife noted.
"Reports from my assassins told me that you were dead. Of course, my assassins have hardly been reliable these days."
Cyric shook his head, and confusion crossed his face. "Wait a minute. What happened to Fzoul?" the thief asked numbly.
Settling back in his throne, the god laughed and tapped his forehead. "The priest struggles for freedom… in here. We have a deal, you see. He does certain things for me. I allow him to rail at his fate and curse the world. Sometimes he gets out of control." The Black Lord paused for a moment then smiled. "He'll be punished later," he said, seemingly to himself.
Looking off at the wall for a moment, Bane listened to Fzoul's cries for vengeance. The smile dropped from the god's face as he turned back to the thief. "I see you wear my colors, Cyric."
The thief looked down at the Zhentilar garb he had taken from the Company of the Scorpions. "I suppose I do," Cyric answered absently.
"Why have you come here, thief?" Bane asked gravely. "You should have known that a slow, painful death is the most you can hope for at my hands. You are, after all, allied with forces that seek my destruction and the fall of my empire."
"No longer, Lord Bane," Cyric stated flatly. "I entered Scardale with a troop of Zhentilar two hundred men strong, and all loyal to my command."
"Oh, I see," Bane snickered. "You seek to usurp my power. Shall I abdicate now, Lord Cyric?"
The hawk-nosed thief remained perfectly still, his arms at his sides, his hands open, palms to the god. The sorceress approached Cyric, squinting as she stared into his face. Next she circled the man, examining him from every vantage.
"I have no intention of challenging you," Cyric said, ignoring the giggling madwoman who still circled around him. "I wish to offer my services to your cause."
A single laugh escaped the lips of the Black Lord. In his mind, Fzoul was screaming.
You cannot trust him, the red-haired priest cried to the Black Lord. He will betray us. The thief will destroy us both!
Bane sent a horde of gibbering, imaginary terrors to chase away Fzoul's consciousness. For your impudence, I may just make him your commander when I'm done, Fzoul, the fallen god taunted to his avatar's mind as it retreated.
The god looked to the mortal who stood before him. "Tell me why I should believe you," Bane growled, the smile suddenly gone from his face. "Your cursed friend, Kelemvor, played this game with me. He made a pact then reneged on his agreement at the first opportunity. What guarantee do I have that you would not do the same?"
Cyric started at the mention of the fighter's name. Perhaps his former allies were still alive after all. He quickly pushed all thoughts of Midnight and Kelemvor aside, though, and returned to the Black Lord's question. The answer was rather obvious. "None," the thief said firmly.
Bane raised a single eyebrow. "You're honest, anyway." The God of Strife paused then stood. "Give me some proof that you favor my causes. Tell me about the mage."
Cyric told the Black Lord more than he ever intended to relate. He informed Bane of almost all that had occurred from the time he first met Midnight in the walled city of Arabel, to the time they were separated on the Ashaba.
"I'm intrigued," Bane said as he paced back and forth in front of his throne. "For some reason, I actually think you're telling me the truth."
"I am," Cyric told the god. "I've kept myself alive through much to offer my services to your cause." The thief smiled and then explained the intricate series of deceptions that had kept him alive from the time Yarbro and Mikkel found him on the Ashaba's banks to the present. Tarana stood by the thief with her arms folded across her breasts. The mad mage hugged herself tightly as the bloodshed and violence was exposed by Cyric's casual narrative.
Bane shook his head as Cyric concluded his gory tale. "In the last few weeks, you've betrayed everything you once held dear. What do I offer that you want so badly?"
"Power," Cyric snapped, a little too emphatically. "The power to shake empires one day."
The Black Lord's lips trembled in amusement. "You sound more like a rival than an ally, thief."
Cyric took a step toward Bane's throne. "The Realms are very large, Black Lord. When you have conquered them all, you will certainly be able to spare a small kingdom for me. After all, a true god cannot bother himself with the petty day-to-day operations of an entire world." The thief paused and took another step toward the God of Strife. "Give me a kingdom to run."