Baldur's Gate II Throne of Bhaal (8 page)

The Anointed One shivered as the terror sweat of the nightmare was cooled by an invisible draft. The dreams of the anointing were more frequent now, just one more sign that the time of ascension was approaching. Soon Bhaal’s Anointed would receive the ultimate reward for years of faithful service.

It had fallen to Bhaal’s Anointed to identify the most powerful of the immortal offspring and approach them one by one in an effort to recruit them to the cause. Promises of the immortal gratitude that would follow in the wake of Bhaal’s resurrection inevitably brought visions of incomprehensible wealth and power, and those Bhaalspawn the Anointed One approached were always quick to accept the offer. Thus were born the Five, a secret alliance of the Lord of Murder’s progeny, organized and led by Bhaal’s Anointed.

The Five were taught to operate as their leader had done for so many years. They learned to work patiently from the deepest shadows. Secrecy was their weapon, anonymity their shield. Bhaal may have been dead but his many, many enemies still lived.

Over time the Five solidified their positions and power, spreading their invisible web of influence throughout the country, always careful to keep their very existence a secret. Throughout it all the guiding hand of Bhaal’s Anointed directed their sinister actions.

They were instructed in the ancient rituals of the Lord of Murder. The mysteries of how to capture the fleeing essence of the dying Bhaalspawn were revealed to them. They were taught how to nurse the embers of the unholy fire in the temple so that it might one day be fuelled by the spirits of their dying kin. And the genocide of the Bhaalspawn had begun.

But the wholesale slaughter of the other Bhaalspawn had brought consequences even Bhaal’s Anointed had not foreseen. The Five were becoming more independent, less willing to follow the orders of their evil mentor, growing ever stronger as they feasted on the essence of their fallen kin.

Some of them acted rashly and openly now, exposing themselves before the time was right. Illasera had been the most headstrong of the Five. Bhaal’s Anointed had sent her to slay Abdel Adrian, knowing full well it would be the Huntress who perished in the encounter. A lesson for the rest of the Five, a warning to curb their growing ambition and recklessness. A lesson that had gone unheeded.

The gray light of approaching dawn was just visible on the horizon. The new day was almost here. The day, Bhaal’s Anointed knew, when Abdel Adrian would be brought to Saradush.

“That’s Saradush?” It was Imoen who voiced the questions they all were thinking. “How are we supposed to get inside there?”

Sarevok shrugged. “I only promised to bring you here to meet Melissan. She is inside. If Abdel wants answers to his questions, he must speak with her.”

For nearly a week Abdel and his companions had been following Sarevok. Emerging from the shelter of the Tethir Forest they had covered a grueling distance on foot, driven by the enemies behind them and the former enemy who now guided them. Sarevok led them ever east and south, crossing the Sulduskoon river. He led them within a day’s march of the legendary Gorge of the Fallen Idol. Finally he had brought them to the northwestern edge of the Omlarandin Mountains, though the rounded, grass covered mounds were little more than oversized foothills.

Saradush itself was located just beyond the western edge of the small range, and after a day’s journey south through the rolling hills Abdel and his companions finally got their first glimpse of their destination. They didn’t like what they saw.

Saradush was under siege.

The scene was a familiar one to Abdel. The city itself was nearly a mile away, it looked like a small town surrounded by high stone walls that appeared more white than gray. From his vantage point atop the hills overlooking the fields and plains leading to the city gates, he counted nearly a hundred large tents. The sun was just nearing its apex so the glow of campfires was difficult to make out, but Abdel could see thousands of thin smoke trails crawling up through the still air, joining together in a heavy ashen cloud above the plains. Countless tiny figures milled around—soldiers looking to breach the walls. There was no sense of urgency in their actions, but rather a grim, relentless determination. Many of the soldiers clustered together around larger objects.

At this distance Abdel couldn’t make the details of the objects out, but he knew what they were. Huge wooden towers, with platforms fifty feet high so that the invaders could see over the walls and analyze their opponent’s defenses. Trebuchets and catapults capable of hurling flaming barrels of pitch over the walls stood ready for use. Heavy battering rams with steel coverings extending out and up from the sides to provide some limited protection against the burning oil and flaming arrows were also in a ready position.

Many of the men were lined up row upon row, and even though he couldn’t see the flight of their arrows Abdel knew these were the archers, releasing volley after volley of arrows to keep the soldiers inside the walls occupied. With the unending hail of feathered shafts raining down on the defenders from above, the attackers outside were free to position their siege engines and war machines without fear of reprisal. Abdel had been on both sides of sieges many times during his years as a sword for hire. He knew most sieges were bloody, costly—yet inevitably successful—exercises.

Inside the defenders would be whittled down by the unending barrage of missile fire and weakened by starvation and the spread of disease amid the accumulating filth and refuse within. The invaders would keep up the attack, grinding the will of their enemy down and occasionally sending a suicidal rush of ladders and grappling

hooks against the walls in the vain hope that their own soldiers would somehow be able to scale the walls and unseat the defenders from the battlements. Of course, the hooks and ladders would be easily dispatched by those inside, and most of the would-be invaders would come crashing to their deaths. The few lucky enough to reach the top would be butchered by the overwhelming number of enemy soldiers gathered against them, their corpses tossed back over the walls in wordless defiance to the attackers.

Eventually, Abdel knew, the town would be forced to surrender because of famine or pestilence. Or a boulder from one of the trebuchets would collapse a large section of the wall and the enemy would pour in through the breach. Or a battering ram would smash the front gates, tearing the wood from its hinges and leaving a gaping hole too large to be defended for long. In rare circumstances the reckless efforts to scale the wall would actually result in victory, if enough soldiers miraculously reached the top of the battlements and were able to hold their position long enough for reinforcements from their own army outside to scramble up and join them.

In the end, Abdel knew, it was always the same. Without outside aid, Saradush would fall.

“You lied to me, Sarevok,” Abdel said angrily. “Or you’re leading us into a trap.”

In the week they had spent traveling to Saradush, Abdel had not said above a dozen words to his half brother. Wisely, Sarevok had not tried to make conversation with either the big sellsword or his half-elf companion. Occasionally he would speak to Imoen, but the cold stares of Jaheira and Abdel kept the young woman’s answers brief, and eventually Sarevok had ceased his efforts and continued on in silence.

At night Abdel, Jaheira and Imoen alternated shifts watching over the other two as they slept. None of them trusted Sarevok enough to go to sleep in his presence without having a vigilant guard on duty. For his own part, Sarevok would pass the entire night standing motionless in one place, his face invisible behind his dark visor. Abdel often wondered if the big man’s armor supported him in that position, allowing him to sleep standing up—or if the physical form Sarevok had been resurrected in didn’t need to sleep at all. He didn’t eat, at least not that the others ever noticed, and he never removed his armor.

“I did not lie to you, brother,” Sarevok replied. “And I have no desire to betray the one who has given me another chance at life.”

“Then why did you bring us to this doomed town?” Jaheira demanded.

“I did not know Saradush was under siege. If you are afraid of a trap, you need not enter the city.” After a brief pause, the armored warrior added, “But then you will never learn the secrets Melissan holds, Abdel. The secrets of our father. Melissan has the answers, Abdel.”

“Even if you speak the truth, there is no way into the town!” Jaheira said.

“That is not true, half-elf. My brother could walk through the front gates uninjured, if he chose. He could slaughter the entire army and save the town, if that was his wish.” ‘„

“No,” Jaheira spat. “More lies! We do not know the limits of Abdel’s healing powers, and he will not risk his life against an entire army to test them.”

“Besides, he isn’t invulnerable. That lady with the arrows hurt him,” Imoen said.

Abdel didn’t say anything at first. He knew both Jaheira and Imoen had valid points, he knew what they said was true. But he also knew, deep down, that Sarevok was right. If he unleashed his full fury on the army gathered on the plains below, no one could stop him from entering the city gates. Any who tried would surely end up dead.

If the defenders inside the walls tried to keep him from entering, they would end up dead too, and if this Melissan refused to help him he would probably slay her, as well. He was the son of a god, a Child of Bhaal. If he wanted to, he could get inside the town. All he had to do was set the essence of his father loose and immerse himself in an orgy of bloody slaughter. But if he did that, Abdel knew, he would be lost. The part of him that was Abdel Adrian would be gone forever, swallowed by the ravaging beast that was the Lord of Murder reborn.

“If massacring an entire army is the only way in,” the big sellsword said, “then I will have to learn to live without any answers.”

The familiar shriek of Sarevok’s armor as he shrugged set Abdel’s teeth on edge, as it always did.

“I did not say that was the only way in,” Sarevok answered. “I merely told you the solution that came most readily to my mind.” There was a tinge of regret in his otherwise monotonal voice when he continued, “Perhaps such thoughts are why I was lost to the spirit of our unholy father while you have so far been able to resist his call, Abdel.”

Imoen broke into the conversation, her high voice sounding surprisingly determined. “I think I can get us inside.”

“How?” Abdel asked.

“I managed to come and go as I pleased when we were growing up at Candlekeep,” she answered, laughing at the horrified disbelief registering on her half brother’s face. “Every house, every castle, every keep, every walled town has a back way in, Abdel. A way in that nobody uses, a way most people don’t even know about. It’s just a matter of finding that back door.”

“Forget it. It’s too dangerous.”

“If this Melissan has answers for you, Abdel, maybe she has some answers for me, too.”

Abdel was momentarily taken aback by the anger in the young woman’s words.

“You aren’t the only one whose life has been ruined because of this damn Bhaal blood, you know. You aren’t the only one struggling with this, looking for a way to deal with being the child of a god. I want to meet this woman, Abdel. And I’m willing to take more than a few risks along the way.”

Abdel started to respond, but Jaheira held up her hand to silence him. “The girl is right, my love.” The half-elf rested a slender hand on Abdel’s muscular forearm and looked directly into his eyes. “The legacy of Bhaal is not my curse to bear, Abdel. Yet it is not yours alone, either. I have no right to challenge Imoen’s decision, but neither do you. And she may succeed. Stealth is often a solution when force is not an option.”

Before replying, Abdel let his eyes linger on the faces of his female companions. Jaheira’s showed a familiar helpless frustration. The druid’s desire to cleanse away the taint of her lover’s tortured soul and her inability to do so were both evident in her beautiful features. In Imoen, Abdel saw something much different. Her face was young, but it was creased and worn by the burden of being the offspring of the Lord of Murder. Imoen’s eyes reflected his own desire to be free of this cursed legacy, or at least to come to grips with it. Beneath it all Abdel recognized the same desperate hope he had felt when he agreed to bring Sarevok back to life in exchange for the promise of some answers.

“Fine,” Abdel consented at last. “You can try and get us in. But at least wait until it gets dark.”

“So the halfling says, ‘That’s not my sword!’ Get it? ‘That’s not my sword!’ Ha ha hah!”

Imoen could tell the soldier with the gruff voice was drunk—he spoke far too loudly for a man who was supposed to be on guard duty. Judging by the obnoxious

braying laugh his companions gave in response to the vulgar joke, Imoen guessed the whole patrol was drunk. Typical.

It seemed as if the entire army was inebriated. Not that Imoen was complaining—it made her job that much easier. Under cover of darkness the young woman had slipped through the enemy lines without any difficulty at all, often passing close enough to the supposed lookouts to smell the reek of alcohol and hear their earthy banter.

The off-color jokes and the crude comments she heard as she picked her way cautiously between the fires of the night camp of the army besieging Saradush only confirmed her already low opinion of males. The stench from their unwashed bodies, the discolored stains on their garments, and the piles of filth they let accumulate with casual disregard only reinforced what Imoen already knew. Men were pigs. All of them.

They repulsed her, with their hairy, sweaty bodies and their loutish behavior. Abdel seemed different, of course, but she had grown up with him. He was her brother, and not just in blood. He didn’t look at her with leering eyes or “accidentally” paw at her body when they passed in a crowd. Abdel was different. In his half sister’s eyes he transcended the brutishness of his own manhood—despite his muscles and the lustful dalliances Imoen knew he had spent with many women over his life.