"Then you agree?" Midnight whispered in surprise.
"Yes, Midnight. I believe ye're right," the white-haired mage said. "The Tablet of Fate is hidden in the Temple of Torm…"
The port of Scardale had seen more activity during the past five days than it had in the previous five months. The theft of the Queen of the Night had brought about serious ramifications for the city. Bane's headquarters had been moved from the Zhentish garrison to the port itself, and every ship in the harbor had been placed under the direct control of the Black Lord's troops.
A chamber inside the largest building in the port had been converted into a war room. The room was filled with maps and charts, all of which were lined with marks indicating past and future troop movements. Now, Bane sat at the head of a large, polished table covered with such maps. And as the God of Strife listened to his generals' schemes and complaints, the sorceress, Tarana Lyr, stood behind him.
The soldier closest to the fallen god, a man named Hepton, rubbed at his temples, then folded his hands and dropped them to the table. "Lord Bane, you must address the rumors that have been circulating throughout the ranks concerning Tantras. Do you intend to mobilize our forces again so soon after taking Scardale?"
"To do so would be a grave error," Windling, a general from the Citadel of the Raven, interjected. There were murmurs of agreement from the other Zhentish leaders.
"Enough!" Bane shouted, slamming his fist on top of the thick wooden table. The sound of the table splintering silenced the men. Tarana's quiet giggling was the only sound in the room for a minute or more.
"The Battle of Shadowdale was a disaster," Bane noted casually, his eyes narrowed in anger. "The loss was, of course, unexpected, and the casualties much higher than anyone could have anticipated." The god paused and looked at the silent generals. "And while we managed an almost bloodless coup in the taking of Scardale, it is only a matter of time before the armies of Sembia and the Dales attempt to retake the city."
The generals nodded their agreement. Bane uncurled his fist and stood up. "If we use our forces to attack Tantras, then our victory here will have amounted to nothing. It is clear to me that a majority of the occupation force must remain in Scardale." The God of Strife smiled and ran a hand through his red hair. "But I am a god. And gods have options not open to mortals."
The doors to the chamber flew open, and Cyric rushed in. Bane looked up and scowled slightly. Inside the Black Lord's mind, Fzoul screeched in anger at the sight of the hawk-nosed thief.
Cyric looked around the room and realized the mistake he'd made in interrupting the session. The thief quickly lowered his head and backed away. "Lord Bane, I didn't mean to disturb — "
"Nonsense!" the God of Strife snapped. "You aren't interrupting anything important." The generals looked at each other then slowly began to stand. "I didn't say our meeting was over," Bane growled, and the Zhentish leaders quickly salt down again.
"Lord Bane, I can come back later," Cyric said quickly, noting the anger in the generals' eyes. These were certainly men he didn't want to anger.
"Give me your report," Bane cried, his voice impatient. "Prove to my generals that the Tantras situation is well under control."
Cyric cleared his throat. "I can't do that."
Bane leaned forward, putting his fists on the table. The cracked wood creaked under the god's weight. "What happened?"
"Durrock is dead. Kelemvor killed him," Cyric told the Black Lord, his head still bowed. "The assassin put up a spectacular fight, but the fighter tricked him."
"Why didn't you kill Kelemvor?" Bane asked.
"After Durrock failed, my duty was clear. I had to return to you and inform you that Kelemvor, Midnight, and Adon are in Tantras." The thief swallowed once and hoped that the other information he had for the God of Strife would appease him — for the moment, at least. "And you should know, Lord Bane, that Tantras appears to be preparing for war."
A wave of surprised whispers rolled through the room. Bane looked at the worried faces of his generals.
"Prepare the ships and man them with as few of our Zhentilar as possible!"
"No!" Hepton cried. "This is a grave mistake!"
"Silence!" Bane shouted. "News of our victory in Scardale has obviously spread to Tantras. The city is preparing its defenses, and it is certain to call upon its neighbors for help if we give them time to do so." The Black Lord leaned toward Hepton and snarled, "I want my banner to fly over Tantras within the week. I want it. Do you understand?"
Hepton nodded weakly, and the generals rose from the table and began to file out of the room. Cyric breathed a sigh of relief and turned to leave, too.
"Not you, Cyric!" Bane snapped. The Black Lord gestured for Cyric to come closer. Tarana gripped the back of the Black Lord's chair.
"Shall I kill him for you, Lord Bane?" Tarana asked, her eyes taking on a dreamy glaze.
"No," Bane said casually then waited until the last of the generals had left before he spoke again. As the door closed, Bane whispered, "The Company of the Scorpions is still under your command — is that correct, Cyric?"
The hawk-nosed thief nodded and smiled slightly. It was clear that the news of Tantras's preparation for war had turned the fallen god's thoughts away from murder.
"I wish you and your troops to become my new personal guard. But know this," Bane snarled and placed his hand on Cyric's shoulder. "If any harm comes to Fzoul's body, it will be your flesh I will inhabit next. And I will not be as generous as I was with Fzoul. Your mind will be utterly destroyed. Is that understood?" The God of Strife squeezed the thief's shoulder until the bones felt as if they were about to break.
Wincing in pain, Cyric nodded then hurried from the war room.
The Black Lord turned to his sorceress and pointed toward the door. "Make sure the door is locked then summon Lord Myrkul for me," Bane commanded and sat down.
The sorceress checked the door then cast an incantation. There was a brief shimmering of the air, and the amber skull of the God of the Dead floated in the air before the Black Lord.
"Congratulations on your victory in Scardale," Myrkul told Bane, and the disembodied head bowed slightly.
"That is unimportant," Bane grumbled. "I need to take care of a problem in Tantras. I'll be taking some of my fleet and — "
The God of the Dead smiled a rictus grin, showing a row of rotting teeth. "And I am to have a part to play in the battle," he noted flatly.
"I need the power you gave me in Shadowdale, the soul energies of the dead," Bane said, drumming his fingers on the table. "Can you do it?"
"I need a large number of people to die at once in order to empower that spell," Myrkul said suspiciously, rubbing his chin. "You sacrificed your troops in Shadowdale. Who will pay this time for the increased power I can give you?"
The God of Strife sat still for a moment, silently turning the problem over and over in his mind. He certainly couldn't use his soldiers and priests for Myrkul's spell again, yet the souls would have to he aligned to his cause or it might prove difficult to control them. Then the Black Lord realized whom he would make the victims of Myrkul's spell.
"The assassins," Bane whispered through an evil smile. "The assassins have failed me time and again since the night of Arrival. They failed me in Spiderhaunt Woods, in Scardale, and now in Tantras. For this, all the assassins in the Realms must die to give me the power I need!"
The God of the Dead laughed. "You've become as mad as your assistant. The assassins are valuable to me."
"Are they?" Bane asked, arching one eyebrow. "Why?"
The God of the Dead frowned, and as he did, his cheekbones protruded through his decaying skin. "They provide my kingdom with souls. There is a pressing need — "
"Ah, yes… the Realm of the Dead," Bane said dryly. "Have you been there lately?" Tarana giggled.