Baldur's Gate II Throne of Bhaal (12 page)

The big man reached his own hand through the bars and placed his open palm squarely on the center of her chest and shoved. Jaheira stumbled back several steps before tumbling to the ground.

“Abdel!” she cried out, more shocked than hurt.

The big man didn’t respond, but he grabbed the key in his massive fist. The muscles of his forearm flexed and he snapped the metal key off in the lock, trapping Jaheira in the cage.

The druid scrambled to her feet and rushed toward him, reaching out with a free hand through the bars as Abdel hopped back just out of her range.

“Abdel, what are you doing?” she demanded, even as Imoen screamed the same question from the adjacent cage.

He turned away before she could read the expression in his eyes. “I’m sorry,” was all he said before he vanished up the stairs, leaving both Jaheira and Imoen trapped in their respective cells.

The horror and betrayal he had seen in Jaheira’s eyes twisted like a blade in Abdel’s heart. If there had been time he would have explained his actions to her and Imoen. Abdel had been involved in many sieges in his days as a mercenary. He knew all too well the bloody battle that was even now raging atop the battlements of Saradush as the defenders strove to hurl the invaders from their foothold. Abdel knew the only way Jaheira and Imoen would be safe should he lose control of his own murderous fury was if they were nowhere near the violence.

It took less than a minute for Abdel to find his way from the top of the dungeon stairs to the main gates of the castle. Sarevok and Melissan had already disappeared down the streets of Saradush, rushing to aid the soldiers on the wall. Abdel had no trouble following the shouts and cries of those rushing to join the battle.

He came around a corner and found himself directly beneath the melee. Glancing up, he saw that dozens of invaders had managed to scale the wall, overwhelming the Saradush and Calimshan troops positioned atop the battlements. With each passing second, more invaders climbed up the ladders to join their fellows and drive the desperate defenders even farther back. Abdel knew reinforcements for his side would be unlikely, as the men along the other walls would be desperately defending their own positions against a similar rush of ladder carrying attackers.

There had been no more alarms raised, so it seemed as if the only breach was on the south wall. If the Saradush forces could reclaim the battlement, the advance could be halted—for now.

Abdel rushed along the base of the wall, heading for the open door at the foot of the nearest tower, one of many lining the fortifications of the town. He raced up the circular staircase and burst onto the battlement.

Melissan and Sarevok were already there, joining the half dozen defenders still standing against the score of enemy soldiers. The tall woman swung her mace from side to side with both hands, smashing aside the sword of her foe with one swipe, then quickly reversing the direction of her weapon to bring its spiked head crashing down on her opponent’s skull, piercing the iron helm. By the time the dying man had collapsed into the pool of blood gushing from his mangled temple, Melissan had already moved on.

It was then Abdel realized he was charging headlong into the battle unarmed. He had let Gromnir’s soldiers take his sword away when they escorted him to the prison. Without breaking stride Abdel dropped to the ground, letting his momentum carry him into a tumbling summersault. He scooped up a sword from one of the many fallen Saradush defenders as he rolled by and popped up to his feet just in time to block the incoming blade of a heavy battle axe.

Abdel never slowed, but let his charge carry him crashing into the much smaller soldier attacking him. The man was driven back by Abdel’s massive body, dropping his axe and pinwheeling his arms to keep his balance as he stumbled toward the edge of the wall. Abdel took a step back and brought a boot up into his foe’s chest, then thrust with his leg. The screaming man tumbled backward over the parapet to the ground below.

Beside him Abdel saw Sarevok shredding a path of destruction through their enemies. Like Abdel, the armored man had entered the battle without a sword, but unlike his half brother, Sarevok hadn’t bothered to pick up a weapon.

Sarevok’s mailed fists crushed the skulls and smashed the faces of his enemies into pulp. The blows of his attackers rained down harmlessly on the reinforced iron plates of his mailed suit. Sarevok struck back with the spikes protruding from his elbows’ or slashed out with the razor-sharp blades forged on the forearms of his black armor, carving through metal, flesh, and bone indiscriminately. Soldiers fortunate enough to avoid Sarevok’s deadly arms were left crippled and dying on the ground, their lower extremities savaged as Sarevok lashed out with a bladed shin to hack open an enemy’s leg.

The sight of Sarevok carving a swath of gruesome, visceral death through the battle evoked an instant response in Abdel’s own soul. The fury of Bhaal answered Sarevok’s wordless invitation, and Abdel began to hack down his opponents like wheat at the threshing.

Even a division of elite mercenaries could not have stood before Abdel’s ruthless assault, but these men were fodder—the expendable first wave of the attack. Their equipment was substandard, their technique and training nonexistent. Abdel disdainfully slapped away their feeble attempts to parry his lethal stabs, easily sidestepped the clumsy thrusts and wildly off-balance swings of his foes. Those foolish enough to stand in his way were disemboweled, their guts ripped from their torsos by Abdel’s flashing blade. Those wise enough to turn and run were chopped down from behind and left dying in the ravaging sellsword’s wake.

Through the slaughter Abdel felt the hungry flames inside himself escalating, fuelled by the steady spray of hot blood that coated his hands and face. The world was tinged in crimson, his vision colored by Bhaal’s mounting wrath. The fire became an inferno, until Abdel was certain his victims could feel its heat emanating from his skin even as they felt the cold steel of his blade.

But this time it didn’t consume Abdel. Even in the midst of the carnage, the sellsword never lost control. He never lost himself. Through sheer force of will he was able to subdue the demon within and keep the Ravager at bay.

His assault had cleared a path to the nearest of the ladders the invaders had used to scale the wall, and Abdel still had sense enough to kick it down, so that it tumbled back and away from the wall. Three quick slashes of his sword and three corpses later he was at the second ladder. It, too, toppled back to the ground, taking several raiders with it.

The other two ladders had already been knocked down, one by Sarevok and one by Melissan. Abdel spun back to face the melee and saw the only men still standing were all wearing either the colors of Saradush or Calimshan. The searing bloodlust in his soul flared, urging him to unleash his fury on his allies. He felt his skin tingle and itch, the first signs of the hideous transformation he had struggled to avoid at all costs.

Abdel smothered the internal blaze and let his sword clatter to the ground, snuffing out the dark desires of his father’s tainted blood as easily as he would crush a bug beneath his boot. The transformation ended before it even began. There wasn’t time for the big sellsword to revel in his victory or even to wonder why the bloodlust of Bhaal’s fury had been so easily quelled this time.

One of the surviving members of the Saradush troops scooped up a large brass horn from a fallen comrade, while the others began to pick through the heap of bodies searching for survivors. The man with the horn blew three long, wavering blasts to alert the other defenders that the south wall was again secure.

A series of answering blasts echoed over the besieged town.

Melissan was now standing beside Abdel, though the big man hadn’t noticed her approach.

“The breach is sealed,” she said, panting slightly from the exertion of the battle as she explained the meaning of the signals that had rung out over the rooftops of Saradush. “The other walls are secure, and the attackers have retreated. For now.”

There were many questions Abdel wanted to ask of this woman, many answers he needed. But when he opened his mouth, only a single word came out. “Jaheira!”

He turned and ran back toward the dungeon.

“I just didn’t want you to get hurt,” Abdel explained, hoping Jaheira would forgive him for leaving her and Imoen trapped in the dungeon.

He wasn’t being completely honest with them—he still couldn’t bring himself to recount his experience in the clearing with Illasera. He couldn’t admit he had been mere seconds away from transforming into an uncontrollable monster that would have ripped his lover and his sister apart with its four taloned hands. But he had to tell the half-elf something.

The locksmith working to free the end of the key jammed into the lock of the half-elf s cell nodded in agreement. “It was pretty messy up there, Miss,” he said, offering Abdel some unsolicited support. “No place for a couple of ladies.”

Jaheira gave Abdel an angry look and snorted contemptuously, making no effort to hide her disbelief. “You didn’t seem to mind Melissan being up there.”

Imoen, already released from her cell by a spare key, chimed in on Jaheira’s side of the argument. “And we can handle ourselves in a fight, Abdel. You know that.”

Abdel sighed, staring down at the floor. “I know,” he admitted, groping for some explanation and finding nothing.

“You’re free, Miss,” the locksmith announced, standing up and opening the door to Jaheira’s cell.

“I will go tell Melissan,” Sarevok announced from his position at the top of the stairs.

Abdel’s half brother had not attempted to descend the steep steps down to the dungeon. Although the only blood on his armor was that of his victims, the dark warrior claimed to have been injured during the recent skirmish. Obviously, Sarevok did not share his half brother’s remarkable powers of regeneration.

Imoen watched him limp slowly away, a strange look on her face.

“I get it!” she whispered excitedly as soon as the armored man had hobbled out of sight. “It was Sarevok, wasn’t it?”

Uncertain exactly what she was getting at, but desperate for any possible explanation other than the truth, Abdel nodded in agreement.

“Sarevok?” Jaheira asked, then answered her own question. “Of course … you still do not trust him.”

Abdel’s wasn’t the quickest mind in the Sword Coast-he liked to keep things simple and to the point—but he was sharp enough to seize the opportunity that had just dropped into his lap.

“That’s right. I was afraid Sarevok would use the confusion of the battle and try to harm you two. I couldn’t take that chance.”

Jaheira wrapped her long arms around her lover’s massive back, squeezing him with surprising strength. “Oh, Abdel, I am so sorry. I thought Melissan …” She didn’t finish, just buried her face against his chest and hugged him even tighter.

Imoen gave him a friendly punch in the shoulder before heading up the stairs. “You’re always looking out for us.”

The locksmith followed the young woman out, but not before giving Abdel an admiring smile and a knowing wink.

“I want some answers, Melissan,” Abdel demanded, “and I want them now!”

“Of course,” she replied. “What do you wish to know?”

Abdel hesitated, uncertain what to even ask now that the time had come. Luckily Jaheira stepped in to help him out.

“Everything,” she said confidently, glaring at the taller woman with a look of obvious mistrust. “Why don’t you just tell us everything?”

The picture Melissan painted was not a pretty one. The persecution of the Bhaalspawn was far more widespread than any of them had imagined, extending the entire stretch of the Sword Coast and well into the southern lands of Amn, Tethyr and even Calimshan. The Children of Bhaal were being driven from their homes or thrown into prisons by pursuing armies, and in many cases they were simply executed by vigilante mobs.

Many of the unfortunate victims were not even aware of their own tainted heritage. They were as ignorant of their own immortal blood as Imoen and Abdel had once been. Farmers, merchants, storekeeps—to all appearances they had been ordinary people leading ordinary lives. Until the purge had begun.

“But why now?” Imoen asked, searching for some explanation for the madness. “Why, after all these years, is there this sudden hatred and hunting of Bhaal’s children?”

“The prophecies of Alaundo,” Jaheira offered. “They predict the Children of Bhaal will bring a storm of death to Faerun … maybe even the return of Bhaal himself.”

“The half-elf speaks the truth,” Melissan admitted, “but she knows only part of the story, like the masses who so ignorantly carry out this program of genocide.”

Jaheira winced at the insult.

“There is a powerful group that has spearheaded the sudden rise in the hatred of the Bhaalspawn. Through a campaign of fear and misinformation they have spread this madness, until there is nowhere a Child of Bhaal may walk without being hunted. The ones responsible for the atrocities committed against you and your kind, Abdel, call themselves the Five.”

“The Five?” Abdel replied. “I’ve never heard of them before.”

Melissan laughed lightly, though her voice was serious. “I am not surprised, Abdel. Even I have known of their existence for only these past few years, and I have dedicated my life to finding just such a group among those who share your blood. For many years I have sought out you and your kin, Abdel, while always knowing that, as I did so, I was not the only one seeking out the Lord of Murder’s offspring.”

Imoen shook her head. “Hold on, I’m confused. Are you saying these Five are also Bhaalspawn?”

A curt nod of Melissan’s head confirmed Imoen’s assumption. “The Five are indeed offspring of the Lord of Murder, and I suspect they are among the most powerful of Bhaal’s children who yet live. Although, truth be told, I know precious little about the members of the Five. I do not even truly know how many of them there are. Five is a cursed, unlucky number in the culture of Calimshan and Tethyr. It is possible the Five chose this name because of the fear it would inspire in the superstitious masses. \