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?