Suddenly a blinding, green and amber light tore through the assassin's chest, and the killer's blade struck the ground a few feet from his intended victim. Samirson Yarth had failed to complete his first contract.
Far across the Realms, in the city of Waterdeep, Bhaal, the inhuman Lord of Murder, was visited by a sensation unlike any he had ever known. An incredible feeling of loss settled upon the God of Assassins, and for a brief instant he actually knew fear. Running from his chambers, the fallen god found Dileen Shurlef, an assassin who served as his faithful servant. Just as Bhaal opened his twisted, bestial mouth to speak, a green and amber flash filled the hallway. Shurlef gasped and cried out as if his soul was being torn from him. With a mind-numbing certainty, Bhaal realized that was exactly what was happening.
At the warehouse in Scardale, the obsidian avatar had grown to a height of over fifty feet, and the expansion of the magical statue showed no signs of slowing down. A large, steady stream of green and amber light poured into the warehouse and filled the black figurine.
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 essence 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 eves 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."