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  "You'll get no free meals here!" the guard growled, looking out at the tattered clothes of the avatar from under a black hand on a red field — Bane's own symbol. "Off with you now!"

  "Don't you recognize me, Dier Ashlin?" Bane asked, running his hand through the tangle of red hair on his head.

  The guard squinted as he examined the tired, grimy man who stood before him, wearing the tattered remains of an officer's uniform. Blood spattered the redheaded man's shirt, and his face was covered with sweat and dirt. But even the grime and blood could not hide Fzoul Chembryl from the guard for long. "L–Lord Fzoul!" Ashlin shouted and lowered his sword.

  "Indeed," the God of Strife grumbled. "Get me inside. I have traveled all the way from the Dales since the battle."

  "The slaughter, you mean," Ashlin mumbled as he turned and headed for the front of the temple.

  The Black Lord longed to kill the guard without another word, but something inside him — Fzoul, perhaps — told him that now was not the time for bloodshed. Now was the time for the God of Strife to rebuild his kingdom.

  As they entered the partially finished Dark Temple, Lord Bane was impressed with the amount of work that had been accomplished since he had last been there. Unfortunately, the Battle of Shadowdale had diverted many of his men from the task of rebuilding his temple. In fact, now, with the exception of the guards, the wounded who had survived the journey from Shadowdale, and a handful of devout worshipers, the temple was deserted.

  "Who is in charge, now that Bane has disappeared? I assumed Sememmon had taken the reigns of leadership," Bane said as he stopped and looked out a window.

  Ashlin shrugged. "Sememmon was wounded on the field of battle in the Dales. Some of our men said they saw him dragged off, and that was the last anyone saw of him."

  A chill ran up the avatar's spine. "Then the city is once again in the hands of incompetents!" the God of Strife growled. Balling his hands into fists, Bane turned to the guard. "Lord Chess?"

  "Aye," Ashlin muttered. "With Bane gone, you and Sememmon missing, and Manshoon off in hiding somewhere, Lord Chess could see little reason to continue work on the temple, and so it sits. Rumor has it that Chess, the filthy orc, wants to turn it into a brothel!"

  The shoulders of the avatar tightened. "I would like to see Lord Chess," snapped the Black Lord. "Tonight." The God of Strife turned back to the window and looked out on the dirty, rubble-strewn streets around the Dark Temple.

  "Yes, Lord Chembryl," Ashlin said, and he turned to leave.

  "Wait! I haven't dismissed you yet!" the Black Lord shouted without turning from the window. The guard froze in his tracks. "There are others who I wish you to summon…"

  For the next several hours, Bane retired to his private chambers, hidden behind the throne room, and prepared himself for the meeting he had called. The ceremonial robes Fzoul had left in his quarters before the battle were brought to the Black Lord. He bathed, then dressed as his guests began to arrive.

  When the noise from the outer chamber became a roar, Bane opened a small secret panel to the room and listened to the crowd. The members of the Zhentarim — Bane's Black Network, some called them — were silent. Lord Chess's men, the high-ranking city officials and the heads of the militia, were not.

  "Lord Bane has forsaken us!" they cried. "Lord Chess should rule the city now!"

  "Bane betrayed us!" another voice shouted. "Our forces were led into a deathtrap in Shadowdale! Then he abandoned us to be tortured by the dalesmen!"

  A roar of approval went up from a group of militia standing close to Bane's listening post. It's time I made my entrance, the God of Strife thought. Now that they've worn themselves down, it shouldn't be too hard to manipulate them.

  As Bane's avatar emerged from behind the large black throne that dominated the room, some of the cries were silenced. Still, a loud hum of conversation hung over the room, punctuated occasionally by a curse or threat. The Black Lord raised Fzoul's hands, and the hum died away, too. "I am here to unify Zhentil Keep once again!" the avatar cried.

  Slowly Bane walked to the black throne. He turned to the crowd, which was now almost completely silent, and flashed a wide, malicious grin. Then he sat down upon the throne.

  The room erupted in a wave of gasps and cries of outrage. "This is an insult!" a dark-haired priest called out. "Have we been summoned from our homes in the dead of night to witness sacrilege? How do you explain this, Fzoul?"

  "With blood," the red-haired priest said as he raised his hands again. "I answer your call with blood. For I am not Fzoul Chembryl, although his flesh hosts my essence. I am your lord and master, and you will bow before me!"

  The dark-haired priest screamed, clutched at his eyes, then fell to the ground. Visions of a world controlled by the God of Strife filled the priest's mind. The rivers of Faerun ran with blood, and the land itself shook under the tread of Bane's mighty armies. And there, in the middle of the carnage and ruin, the priest saw himself, covered with the blood and jewels of the defeated.

  Rising to his knees, the priest removed his hands and revealed glowing, blood-red eyes. "Bane has returned!" the priest screamed. "Our god has returned to deliver us!"

  "All my children will know my glory," Bane said, and in moments the entire chamber was filled with the screams of his followers as they reveled in Bane's vision of conquest and power. Looking out through a blood-red haze as a reminder of their true allegiance, Bane's faithful stood before their lord, awaiting his orders.

  "We must first discover the strength of our enemies. Recall our spies from Shadowdale," Bane cried, pointing to a greasy-haired city official who cowered near the throne. "I wish to learn the fate of those who stood against me in the Temple of Lathander. If Elminster or that raven-haired lackey of Mystra still live, I want them brought before me!"

  The minister of defense bowed before the Black Lord, then hastened from the throne room. "Of course, Lord Bane," the minister whispered over and over as he fled from the chamber.

  "And now we must address the state of Zhentil Keep," the God of Strife growled and turned to once again face the crowded throne room. "The discontent, fear, and confusion of our people must be put to rest before we may achieve the greatness that is our preordained future.

  "We will proceed through the streets of the city this very night, spreading the news of my return. The flames of hope that light your eyes will be fanned into an inferno. Together we shall sweep away the people's doubts and begin a new age!" The audience chamber was filled with cries of thanks and shouts of support for the Black Lord. Bane allowed a slight smile to work its way across his face. Once again, he held his followers in an iron grip.

  When the frenzy reached a peak, the God of Strife held his fist aloft and spoke again. "Together we shall triumph where gods alone would fail!"

  Bane's worshipers parted as their god rose from his throne and walked to the center of the room. The God of Strife stood among his screaming followers for a moment, then led the multitude out of the temple and into the night.

  IV

  Pursuit

  The edge of the forest was over an hour away, and Kelemvor and his men could hardly wait to leave the slow travel and the many obstacles of the woods behind them. The sun had risen, and the last of the magical crystals Lhaeo had supplied the riders with had failed. The light from the crystals had pierced the veil of night and allowed Kelemvor and his charges to keep moving along the river almost constantly. In the days since they had left Shadowdale, the riders had stopped only twice to rest, for a few hours each time.

  Kelemvor reached for the small purse tied to his belt and jostled it slightly. The jingle of gold coins against one another rose above the sounds of the dalesmen as they made their way along the rough path. A few men glanced at the mercenary, then quickly looked away when Kelemvor scowled in their direction.

  I wonder if Cyric and Midnight received this much money to work against the Dales? Kelemvor thought for the fourth time that day. They probably got paid
off when we were in Tilverton.

  Letting the purse drop to his side, Kelemvor glanced around at the men Mourngrym had sent on the hunt with him. They were, all in all, a less than remarkable lot. The fighter saw them as typical residents of a farming town: narrow-minded but sincere. The men had done little to impress or surprise the experienced adventurer during the long journey from Shadowdale, but that was fine with him.

  The only thing about the party that had surprised Kelemvor was Mourngrym's insistence that Yarbro, the young guardsman who had taken an instant dislike to Kelemvor and his companions when they had first arrived in Shadowdale, join them. But there had been no time to argue about personnel if the hunters wanted to catch the escapees, so Kelemvor had reluctantly agreed.

  "A cold heart is needed for this task," Mourngrym had said as Kelemvor prepared to ride after his one-time allies. "Your rage might blind you to justice. I want the criminals returned alive, unless there is absolutely no other choice." The dalelord paused for a moment, then handed the fighter the purse full of gold. "Yarbro will see that reason prevails."

  Kelemvor snorted. Placing "Yarbro" and "reason" in the same sentence was almost a joke. It seems far more likely that Mourngrym wants someone to keep an eye on me, the fighter thought. He pulled up on his reins, and his horse jumped over a fallen branch. Kelemvor looked around again and sighed. At least the rest of the men seem relatively trustworthy.

  The guide chosen by the dalelord to lead the hunters through the forest was Terrol Uthor, a veteran of several battles against the drow and a scholar steeped in the ancient lore of the elven clans that once claimed the forest around Shadowdale as their own. Uthor was a short, powerfully built, square-shouldered man in his late thirties with blue-gray eyes and thick, black hair that he wore slicked back.

  A common bond of hatred for the escapees was the one thing that united the remaining members of Kelemvor's charges. Gurn Bestil, a woodsman in his fifties with a shock of white hair, had lost his twenty-year-old son in the Battle of Shadowdale. Kohren and Lanx were priests of Lathander. Kohren was tall, and all that remained of his dark hair was a widow's peak. Lanx was of moderate build, with thin, curly blond hair and dull brown eyes. Both priests wore the red crest of their order on their clothing.

  Bursus, Cabal, and Jorah were soldiers who had watched comrades and friends die in the battle. Of the three, Cabal was the oldest, with a gray beard and thick white eyebrows. Tired, jet-black eyes and deeply tanned skin distinguished Bursus. Jorah was of slender build with wild, auburn hair. All three were archers as well as swordsmen, and they carried spare bows and arrows for the other huntsmen.

  Mikkel and Carella owned the fishing skiff that bad been stolen by the escapees. No one knew their last names, but in appearance, they could have been taken for brothers. Their faces were baked red by the sun, and their builds were rugged and well toned. Both their heads had been shaved. They were dressed alike. The only thing that really set them apart was the sparkling prism that dangled from Mikkel's right ear.

  Since the trip through the thick woods along the Ashaba had been uneventful so far, Kelemvor had no idea how the men would react in a battle. Not that he was worried about their fighting ability. The battle against Bane's troops had given the adventurer enough proof of the dalesmen's general fighting prowess. Still, the fighter wondered how his pack of huntsmen would work as a team.

  "Until we run into a stray band of Zhents or a wild creature that is addled enough to attack a party this size, or those butchers we're chasing, we won't know how the men will fight," Yarbro said snidely when Kelemvor had posed the problem to his second-in-command. "But I wouldn't worry," the soldier added. "We'll all pull together when we catch up to that witch and her friends."

  Even now, as he rode through the forest with the troops, Kelemvor was not reassured by Yarbro's confidence. Or perhaps it was the knowledge that the soldier was right — that the dalesmen's hatred would pull them together when they finally caught Midnight, Cyric, and Adon — that troubled the fighter the most.

  Kelemvor shook the thoughts from his head. I'm doing the right thing, he growled to himself. They betrayed me. They murdered innocent people. They killed Elminster.

  The fighter spurred his horse and raced down the path. His men pushed their horses on as well, and soon the company was out of the forest and on the edge of the open fields of Mistledale. So far, they had seen no sign of the skiff or the escapees. Unless they got lucky or did something drastic soon, the huntsmen were in danger of losing their quarry.

  "Halt!" Kelemvor called as he held up his hand to signal the troops. When all the men got close enough to hear, the fighter added, "We need to decide where to go from here."

  "We follow the river," Yarbro snapped. "What else can we do? In fact, we're wasting time even talking about it. We should be charging across Mistledale as fast as we can. It's open land, and — "

  "The road to the Standing Stone," Kelemvor interrupted flatly. The fighter dismounted and stretched. "We can ride even faster on the road than we can across open fields."

  Gurn ran his hand through his white hair. "But the road angles to the north and east, away from the river."

  Kelemvor fished a piece of dried meat from his saddlebag. "And then it turns to the south, all the way to Blackfeather Bridge. We know they're going to Scardale, following the river. They have to pass the bridge eventually."

  Yarbro cursed. "How will we know they haven't already passed the bridge when we get there?" A few of the other men mumbled in agreement.

  "We won't," the green-eyed fighter said as he stuffed the piece of meat into his mouth and mounted his horse again.

  "Kel's right," Terrol Uthor said over the mumbled curses of the two fishermen. "We'll never catch up with them if we continue along the river. Once we've crossed the dale, the woods between here and Battledale are very thick. At times we wouldn't even be able to ride."

  Kelemvor smiled and turned his horse to the east. "That's it, then. Our guide has spoken." The fighter kicked his horse into a gallop and headed east, toward the road. A few of the men looked at Yarbro, who cursed again, then spurred his horse and raced off after Kelemvor. The rest of the men followed.

  It wasn't long before the huntsmen reached the wide, well-traveled road that led from Hillsfar in the north to Tilverton, Arabel, and eventually even the great city of Suzail in the south. To Kelemvor, the open road seemed to carry the sweet scent of freedom and release. Even the mood of Kelemvor's fellow hunters seemed to improve.

  By midafternoon, however, the dry heat of the sun had managed to burn off whatever good cheer the dalesmen had felt. As was becoming common on the journey, the men vented their ill humor by suggesting new and inventive means of dealing with the escaped criminals once they were caught. Yarbro's fertile imagination accounted for fully half of these.

  Kelemvor's anger grew as the day went on. If Mourngrym thinks that these men will support his justice, the fighter thought, he's a fool! They're a bloodthirsty lynch mob, no more or less vicious than the wild-eyed fanatics in Tilverton who tried to kill Midnight, Cyric, Adon, and me because they thought the God of Blacksmiths wanted us dead.

  Kelemvor knew that he should remind the men of Mourngrym's orders that the prisoners were to be returned to Shadowdale alive, but he couldn't. Instead, he brooded silently, and his refusal to contradict the hunters' angry threats and boasts was taken as unspoken consent. The tales became wilder and more cruel as the day went on.

  As the fighter looked around at the leering, cursing men he commanded, he remembered Cyric's tirade against the "justice" the dalesmen would provide to Midnight and Adon, and for the first time since Lhaeo had burst into Mourngrym's chamber, Kelemvor wondered if he was doing the right thing.

  The fighter turned the idea over and over in his mind all day, until finally the sun became a low, blinding orb at the hunters' backs, and the road ahead was blanketed by the first hints of nightfall. The food reserves had not been replenished in the last few days, and Ke
lemvor gave silent thanks for a task that would take the dalesmen's minds off their murderous imaginings.

  The fighter signaled the company to come to a halt. "We'll need to forage here," the fighter snapped as he dismounted. "Perhaps the earth has not yet turned sour from the chaos in this part of the Realms, and we will find healthy game."

  Dividing the hunters into three groups, Kelemvor led Bursus, Jorah, and Terrol into the south woods while Mikkel, Carella, and Gurn went to the north. Yarbro, the priests of Lathander, and the remaining soldier, Cabal, stayed behind to guard the camp.

  Half an hour later, as night was beginning to fall in earnest and a dark blue veil hung over the woods, Kelemvor and his group emerged from the forest. They were carrying the carcass of a deer that had been felled by one of Jorah's arrows.

  A few minutes after that, Mikkel and his men exited from the thick, dark woods north of the road. The fisherman carried the still form of a jackrabbit in his hands. His look of triumph faded quickly as he saw the meal Kelemvor had secured. The hunters laughed at the sight of Mikkel, standing alone and dejected with his prize, then welcomed him and his party to join in the meal. The hunters feasted on the fresh deer meat, then lingered around the fire at the edge of the woods.

  Well fed if not well rested, the hunters buried the deer's remains and took to the road once again. For a short time, Kelemvor sensed a camaraderie that he had never before associated with the grim, disparate band of hunters. Stories of past adventures, real or imagined, were traded as they traveled through the moonlit night on their way to the Standing Stone.

  As always, however, the topic of Midnight and her accomplices soon became the central focus of conversation, and the veneer of civilized behavior disappeared, to be replaced by the bitterness and savagery of the hunters' threats and curses. Kelemvor realized that, no matter how much he might hope otherwise, it was the common hatred of the three criminals, whom most of the hunters had never even met, that truly bonded the men.