"Go on," Mourngrym said impatiently.
"The next time Bane was sighted, it was at the crossroads, near the farm of Jhaele Silvermane. The Black Lord appeared
before you, Mourngrym Amcathra, and attempted to slay you. Mayheir Hawksguard pushed you aside and was fatally wounded in
your stead. Is that correct?"
"Aye," Mourngrym replied. "Hawksguard died nobly in the defense of the Dales."
"Where did Lord Bane go after that?" Thurbal asked. "Weren't you quite vulnerable? Could he have not slain you then and
there, despite Hawksguard's sacrifice?"
"I don't know," Mourngrym mumbled uncomfortably. "Perhaps."
"But he didn't. He vanished again," Thurbal said. "Bane's attentions must have been drawn elsewhere." The captain was seized
by another coughing fit. Mourngrym drummed his fingers nervously on the lectern.
"I'm all right," Thurbal said, and he drew a breath before continuing. "Now, where was Elminster throughout the battle for
Shadowdale?"
"At the Temple of Lathander," Mourngrym replied.
"Why?" Thurbal asked. "Why was he not at the front lines using his magic to help repel Bane?"
Mourngrym shook his head. He had no answer.
"Didn't Elminster tell you repeatedly that the true battle would take place in the Temple of Lathander?" Thurbal asked.
"Aye, but he never explained what he meant by that statement," Mourngrym said. "Perhaps he had foreseen the danger to the
prisoners and wished to draw them away from the true battle -"
Thurbal held up his hand. "I suggest that the true battle was at the temple, that Bane went there, and it was he who murdered
Elminster the sage."
Storm stood up and threw her arms over her head. "All this is complete speculation. There isn't a bit of evidence to suggest
Bane was at the Temple of Lathander."
Thurbal grimaced and turned to Mourngrym. "Before you can convict the prisoners, you must show a motive for their actions.
Storm Silverhand claims they were agents of Bane. Yet there is no proof to support such allegations. I spoke to the prisoner,
Midnight, before the trial, and she claims -"
Mourngrym raised his fist. "I don't care what she claims!" he snapped. "She is a powerful mage, powerful enough to slay
Elminster. My orders were explicit: She was not to be allowed to speak to anyone!"
"Then how is she to defend herself?" Thurbal yelled.
"How do any of us know that she did not ensorcel you when you spoke, bending your will to hers?" Storm asked. "You are
hopelessly trusting, my friend, and for your own sake, you should be removed as counsel."
"You cannot!" Thurbal yelped and moved to Mourngrym's side.
"You're wrong. I cannot let you be injured again by Bane's servants." Mourngrym gestured to a pair of guards. "See that Thurbal
is well provided for. He is obviously fighting off the effects of powerful magic. Whatever guards were present when Midnight spoke
should be relieved of duty, pending my later judgment. Take him away."
Thurbal cried out in protest, but he was too weak to stave off the guards that dragged him away.
Addressing the court, Mourngrym stepped out from behind the lectern. "I have seen all that I need to," Mourngrym said.
"Elminster the sage was our friend and our loyal defender to the death. It was his blind trust in others that led to his demise. Yet we of
this court are not blind. Our eyes are open wide, and we can see the truth.
"Lord Bane was a coward. He ran from the battle in fear when our forces overwhelmed his army. That is why we cannot account
for his whereabouts. If Elminster were alive, he would appear before us now. But that cannot happen. There is nothing we can do to
bring Elminster back, but we can put his tortured soul to rest by punishing his murderers."
The audience chamber had grown completely silent again. Mourngrym paused a moment and looked back at the noblemen
seated behind the dais. Like the rest of the room, the nobles were staring at the dalelord, waiting for his verdict.
"I decree that at dawn tomorrow, in the courtyard of the Twisted Tower, Midnight of Deepingdale and Adon of Sune will be put to
death for the murder of Elminster the sage. Guards, remove the prisoners." Mourngrym stood back, and guards grabbed Midnight and
Adon and pulled them to their feet. The crowd erupted in a roar of cheering.
At first Cyric was swallowed up by the crowd, but the thief fought his way through the blood-crazed villagers in time to see
Midnight and Adon exit the courtroom under heavy guard.
Justice will be served, Mourngrym had said. The words of Shadowdale's ruler echoed in Cyric's thoughts as he maneuvered
past the remaining guards standing in Mourngrym's vicinity. As he drew closer to the dalelord, Cyric thought about exactly how
quickly he could draw his dagger and slit Mourngrym's throat.
Mourngrym Amcathra felt a slight rush of air at his back, but when he turned to see what had caused the breeze, he saw only
the back of a lean, dark-haired man vanishing into the crowd.
Once again lost in the throng of excited townspeople, Cyric contemplated why he had changed his mind at the last instant and
spared the life of the man who had condemned Midnight to death. There were better ways to honor his debt to Midnight and make
these contemptuous imbeciles pay, Cyric thought. Besides, the crowd would have torn me to pieces. And I'm not ready to die quite
yet.
Quite the opposite, the thief thought. Quite the opposite.
* * * * *
The God of the Dead reached for the shard of red energy with his bony right hand. The fallen god chuckled softly as he held the
fragment next to the foot-tall obsidian statue of a man he clutched in his left hand. There was a flash of brilliant white light as the
statue absorbed the energy, and Lord Myrkul looked at the faceless figurine. A red mist swirled inside it violently.
"Yes, Lord Bane," the God of the Dead rasped through cracked, black lips. "We will have you whole again soon enough." Myrkul
chuckled once more and stroked the smooth head of the statue as if it were a small child. The mist pulsed with an angry red light.
Myrkul looked around and sighed. Faint images of the real world hung in the air around him. The farmer's home in which he
stood was dark, dirty, and bleak. The low-beamed ceiling was black from the greasy smoke of the peasants' cooking fires. Rats
occasionally scurried across the floor, racing between the legs of the warped wooden tables and splintering benches. Two people lay
asleep under stained furs.
Lord Myrkul, the God of Decay as well as the God of the Dead, rather liked this place. It was like a tiny, unintentional shrine to
him. In fact, it upset Myrkul that he couldn't experience it fully. For Myrkul was in the Border Ethereal Plane, an area parallel to the
plane where the Realms and its people existed. From the Border Ethereal, the things Myrkul saw around him - the furniture; the
vermin; the grimy, sleeping peasants - appeared only as phantasms. And if the snoring farmer and his wife had been awake, they
wouldn't have been able to see or hear Myrkul.
"If only they could see me," the skeletal man complained to the black statue. "I could frighten them to death. How pleasant that
would be." Myrkul paused for a moment to consider the effects his avatar's visage, complete with rotting, jaundiced skin and burning,
empty eye sockets, would have on the humans. "Their corpses would make this hovel complete."
Energy crackled and arced from the figurine. "Yes, Lord Bane. The last shard of your being isn't far from here," the God of the
Dead hissed. Myrkul cast one glance back at the hovel as he walked through the insubstantial walls. When he got outside into the
ghostly moonlight that shone down upon the countryside south of Hillsfar, the God of the Dead shuddered. The filthy hut was much
more to his liking.
Pulling the hood of his thick black robe over his head, Lord Myrkul stepped into the air as if he were climbing an invisible
staircase. Gravity had no effect on him in the Border Ethereal, and it was easier to see his prize if he looked for it from a vantage
point high above the ghostly hills and houses. After he had climbed a hundred yards or so straight up, Myrkul could see the final
fragment of Lord Bane glowing in the distance.
"There lies the rest of the God of Strife." Myrkul held the statue up and faced it toward the pulsing shard that rested over a mile
away. Tiny bolts of red and black lightning shot from the figurine and bit into the God of the Dead's hands. Slivers of pain raced up the
avatar's arm, and Myrkul could smell burning flesh.
"If I drop you, Lord Bane, you will plummet back into the Prime Material Plane, back into the Realms." The tiny arcs of lightning
grew smaller. "And I will not help you to recover the last piece of your essence. You will be unwhole - trapped inside this statue."
Myrkul smiled a rictus grin as the lightning ceased and the statue became black once more. "I am pleased to serve you, Lord
Bane, but I will not be goaded into action." When the figurine remained dark, the God of the Dead started walking toward the shard of
Bane's essence. After an hour, the fallen deities reached their destination.
This fragment of the God of Strife resembled a huge, bloody snowflake, almost three feet wide. It was larger and far more
complex than any of the other pieces Myrkul had recovered. How odd, the skeletal figure thought. Each shard is different. This one is
the most intricate yet. I wonder if it could be his soul...
The God of the Dead shrugged and held the statue next to the snowflake. As before, there was a brilliant flash of light as the
shard disappeared into the figurine. This time, however, the statue continued to glow brightly, pulsing red and black in a quickening
pattern. Myrkul narrowed his eyes in pain as a loud, high-pitched shriek tore through his brain.
I am alive! the God of Strife screamed in Myrkul's mind. I am whole again! A pair of burning eyes and a leering, fanged mouth
suddenly appeared on the smooth face of the statue.
"Please, Lord Bane, not so loud. You are giving me a splitting headache," the God of the Dead rasped. "I am pleased my plan
succeeded."
How did you find me? How did you know I wasn't destroyed?
"I was monitoring the battle in Shadowdale as best I could. When that debased form of Lady Mystra appeared in the temple, it
became clear to me that we gods cannot be destroyed, but merely dispersed." Lord Myrkul smiled. "And so, when your avatar was
destroyed, I tracked one of the shards of your being into the Border Ethereal and started searching for the others there as well." The
God of the Dead tilted his head slightly and tried to look into the obsidian statue. "Are you quite whole now?"
Yes, Myrkul, I'm fine. Do you understand what you've done? The voice inside Myrkul's head was growing loud again, and the
God of the Dead winced at the noise. You've crossed into the Planes! You've beaten Lord Ao! We have escaped from the Realms,
and now we can go home and claim our true power! The eyes on the statue were wide with excitement.
"No, Lord Bane, I'm afraid we cannot. I was ready to give up when I discovered that you had been blown into the ether. I thought
that Lord Ao had blocked all the existing planes from us." Myrkul rubbed his rotting chin with a bony hand. "I was wrong."
Wrong?
"Yes," Myrkul sighed. "As my high priest pointed out, none of the gods live in the Border Ethereal, so Ao had no reason to stop
us from entering it. Of course, with magic being so unstable, three of my wizards died trying to locate all the fragments of your being
and send me here to recover them." The God of the Dead bowed slightly, and all the vertebrae in his back cracked. "But I could not
let you suffer here."
Please, Myrkul, spare me your flattery. After all, you need me to force my way into the heavens so you can follow.
Myrkul scowled. For a moment, he considered journeying farther into the Border Ethereal and dropping the statue into the Deep
Ethereal, a place of swirling colors and mighty vortices. Bane would never make it back to the Realms - or his home - from there. But
the thought lasted only a second.
Bane was right. Myrkul did need him. But not because the God of the Dead lacked courage or initiative. Myrkul wanted the God
of Strife to lead the assault on the heavens because it was very dangerous, and it wouldn't do at all for the God of the Dead to be
destroyed.
So Myrkul grinned obsequiously and again gave a slight bow to the obsidian statue. "Of course you are correct, Lord Bane. Let
us exit this place so that we may find you a new avatar and proceed with your plans."
How will we return to the Realms?
"It seems that magic is more stable outside the Prime Material Plane. I should be able to cast a spell to send us home without
error." The God of the Dead held the statue close to his face and smiled once more, so wide this time that the decaying skin at the
sides of his mouth tore slightly. "I only await your command."
II
THE TWISTED TOWER
The mystical wards that Elminster had placed throughout the Twisted Tower had begun to fail the night the Temple of Lathander
was destroyed. The passageways within the tower that were cloaked to appear as part of the walls sometimes revealed themselves
as open doorways, and during the first day after the Battle of Shadowdale, people passed through them without incident. By that
night, however, an unwitting guardsman walked into one of the openings and was killed as the break in the wall sealed up by itself,
trapping him within.
Outside the tower, the torches lit by blue-white eldritch fires either smoldered dimly or blazed with a light that blinded any who
dared to look directly at them. Any attempts to remove the torches met with failure, since mortal hands merely passed through the
torches as if they weren't there.
The mists that engulfed the upper levels of the tower were meant to stop any prying mystical eyes, but their nature had
