Baldur's Gate II Shadows of Amn (21 page)

She slid to a stop through a bed of dried leaves and came to rest pushed up against the sprawled form of Yoshimo.

“By the long departed,” the Kozakuran exclaimed, “she exploded!”

Jaheira got to her feet, ignored her shaking knees, and took one step toward the lean-to before looking up. When she did look up, what she saw made her stop in her tracks.

The shelter was gone—apparently consumed by what looked like a whirlpool of gray, black, and silver smoke. The whirlpool was standing on end, perpendicular to the ground. A man stepped out through the whirling winds still pouring out of the gate as if he was strolling into a friendly tavern for a night of play. He saw Jaheira and smiled.

“Irenicus!” Jaheira sneered.

The necromancer didn’t answer, just leaned down, his feet still lost in the whirling magical clouds. He rose with something in his hand—an arm, thin and pale. It was Imoen’s arm.

A spell came to Jaheira’s mind, and she started her prayer, running through the words as quickly as she could, but finding they fell into their own rhythm, refusing to be hurried.

Irenicus spared her an unconcerned glance before scooping the rest of Imoen’s limp form into his arms and simply stepping back.

Jaheira’s spell drew to a close the exact moment Irenicus and Imoen faded from sight. A bolt of lightning, easily as big around as Jaheira was tall, crashed into the magical gateway, and Jaheira closed her eyes against the blinding flash. Her hair stood on end, and her skin crawled.

Yoshimo said something in a language Jaheira didn’t understand, and she opened her eyes.

The whirlpool was gone, and so were Irenicus and Imoen.

“More than one problem solved,” Yoshimo mumbled, “I should say.”

Jaheira collapsed to the ground and slammed her fist into the uncaring earth.

Abdel fell more than walked down the stairs into the basement. He was covered in freezing gore and nearly blind with a crushing load of guilt and self-loathing. He found a barrel of water and ripped it open with his bare hands. He spilled it over himself and was immediately drenched. He rubbed the blood off his skin as best he could; his need to be cleaned of Bodhi’s gore far outweighing his need to retrieve the pieces of the Rynn Lanthorn.

She’d told him where it was, and he’d killed her—mission accomplished. Abdel knew that back in Tethir, if they knew, they’d be cheering, reveling in their chance to defeat Irenicus. Abdel still wanted to care, but at this exact moment and in this exact place, he couldn’t. All he wanted to do right now was go back—crawl back if he had to—to Candlekeep and just hide himself away. Here was more blood spilled because he was the son of Bhaal. More blood and more and more. He could just stay in Candlekeep, behind the walls, in the monastery. What better place? Who better than the monks to find some way to rip this curse out of him or kill him trying?

He looked at himself, and there was still so much blood on him. He saw the water from the barrel running to, then through the trapdoor. The casket was there, and the artifact the elves needed so much—that he needed so much—and that Imoen needed so much.

Imoen.

They could go back to Candlekeep together.

Abdel stood and walked purposefully to the trapdoor. He opened it without hesitation. The lanthorn would solve two problems. One more immediate than the other.

He dumped the soil out of Bodhi’s casket and heard metal clatter on the wood as the jagged pieces dropped to the dirt floor. Abdel scooped them up in his big, bloodstained hands, and, just as Elhan’s mages had promised him they would, the fragments caused a teleport to activate, and the root cellar was gone in a flash of blue light.

“I want to …” Imoen whispered, her mind a violent haze of fast-approaching hell, “go … home.”

She was stretched, magically sedated, across a huge, broken, jagged-edged slab of green-traced marble in the middle of a city elves now long-dead once called Myth Rhynn. All around was the broken remnants of a great elven city, now gone to the wilderness and wandering creatures both benign and hellspawned. The marble slab was tilted on one edge, leaning at a sharp angle. Imoen lay sprawled across it, her tattered clothes gone now, and a hundred twisted sigils traced on her pale, goosefleshed skin.

A ring of elven statues, twice as tall as a real elf, surrounded the slab. The space might once have been a garden or a cemetery. The wind-worn faces of the marble elves looked down at both Imoen and Jon Irenicus with a detached calm no real person of any race could have mustered in that place at that time.

Irenicus himself gagged on his own bile and stepped back. He lost his voice to the shock, revulsion, and twisted, freakish pleasure of the sight of his last desperate hope coming to fruition. He’d chanted himself raw, and his begging with the Weave, with gods whose names no one spoke anymore—to whatever forces would listen—had been answered.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice no more than a painful squeak. “Yes. Change!”

Imoen screamed, and it was the last sound she made as a human. Her face changed first.

There was a loud sound like fabric ripping and the skin of Imoen’s pretty, young, smooth-cheeked face fell away in ragged, blood-soaked ribbons. Under it her skull turned the color of old limestone and popped and ground into a different shape with each passing second. Her teeth grew and thinned into needlelike fangs, then grew again when her jaw cracked out and down. Fluid, blood, and some semi-liquid Irenicus pretended not to notice oozed, then dripped, then poured out of a hundred, then a thousand little wounds all over Imoen’s spasming body. The girl was trembling uncontrollably, the shaking punctuated by loud, popping cracks that opened new, larger, puss and slime-oozing wounds. Her skin ripped then melted away, and a new arm stretched out of what once was the girl’s stomach. The arm was huge, a dozen feet long or more and capped with a dripping bulb of slime that glistened in the encroaching light.

The thing that had been Imoen grew—in one sudden, undulating roll—into a pale gray monstrosity that sprouted thornlike spikes from its back so fast and with such urgency that it was almost flipped off the marble slab.

“Bhaal …” Irenicus whispered, his face a twisted rictus of shock and triumph. “It is you…. It is you….”

The bulb on the end of the quivering arm broke open even as a second arm unfurled itself from the growing beast. The hand that bulb had formed had more fingers than Irenicus could easily count. The fingers were set on the long, rectangular palm at angles and with joints placed so that it looked like no hand ever seen on Faerun. The fingers grew long, curved talons, which shone in the dawn’s light in a way that revealed their razor sharp edges.

“The Ravager,” Irenicus gasped. “The Ravager awakens.”

Another arm exploded out of the writhing mass, then a fourth, the bulbs breaking off to reveal three more multifingered, razor-taloned hands. The Ravager screamed out its birth agony, and Irenicus fell to the gravel, pushed back by the sheer force of the thing’s concussive wail. The legs that had once been Imoen’s exploded outward and with loud, sickening slapping sounds, bent backward then forward again as new joints formed.

Stripes of muddy brown faded into sharp contrast along the thing’s hunched pale-gray back. It opened its eyes, staring blindly at first up into the indigo sky as a red light grew in their pits. When the light reached its brightest, the monster convulsed once in a final jerking spasm, and the slime and blood and fluid were drawn into its hardening, chitinous skin like water into a sponge.

It exhaled in a ragged growl, then drew in a long, sucking breath. Its breathing steadied quickly, and it turned its enormous saurian head toward Irenicus.

The necromancer’s knees began to shake, but he managed to stand.

“Obey me,” he whispered.

The monster stood all at once and towered over Irenicus. Its hunched shoulders rose easily ten yards above the gravel of the statue court. It reached out one hand as if to steady itself and wrapped its fanlike fingers around one of the ancient statues. It tensed only slightly, and the stone figure burst into a cloud of dust and pebbles, the largest no bigger than Irenicus’s hand.

“Obey me!” Irenicus barked at the thing, and its inhuman eyes burned into him. There was nothing of Imoen left—nothing human at all.

“Suldanessellar!” Irenicus shrieked. “Ellesime! The Tree!”

The Ravager roared into the dead morning air of Myth Rhynn, raged at the rising sun, then turned in the direction of Suldanessellar and took its first step. The ground shook, and Irenicus put a hand to his stomach to settle it.

He felt it and watched it go on its way to Suldanessellar, on its way to Ellesime, on its way to his own immortality, and Jon Irenicus began to cry.

Abdel burst into the forest of Tethir in a blue flash and just let himself collapse on the ground. The pieces of the artifact slipped out of his hands, and he made no effort to hold them, or retrieve them.

He heard Jaheira call his name, and he put one hand down on the ground, intending to lift himself up to look at her. He heard her running toward him, and she slid to a stop next to him in the bed of leaves.

“The Rynn Lanthorn,” Elhan said from somewhere not far behind and above him. “He’s done it.”

“I’ve done it,” Abdel whispered, his throat tight and painful.

Jaheira’s warm, soft hands touched him, and he rolled over to look at her, unashamed by the tears streaming down his face. The tears mixed with traces of Bodhi’s blood.

“Oh,” Jaheira breathed, “by the Lady …”

“Gather them up!” Elhan shouted, then barked another series of orders in a language Abdel didn’t understand—Elvish, no doubt.

He crawled away, Jaheira holding him, as a dozen pairs of hands quickly, deliberately sifted through the dead leaves, snatching up the jagged pieces of metal that were worth Bodhi’s life.

“Candlekeep,” Abdel said, turning his face to Jaheira’s. “I’m taking Imoen back to Candlekeep.”

Jaheira sobbed once, then gathered her wits quickly.

“Where is she?” Abdel asked.

Elhan stood at the edge of the Swanmay’s Glade, the tall trees of Suldanessellar in front of him.

“Do it,” he told the mages in Elvish. “Open it.”

Elhan was ringed by several of Tethir’s most powerful mages, and several of her weakest. Elves as young as twenty years stood side by side with elves who’d seen two thousand summers pass. Though some could wield power others couldn’t even imagine, they were all equal now, in both power and purpose. They had but to hold—one each of them—a fragment of the fabled Rynn Lanthorn.

“Suldanessellar must be open to us once more,” Elhan said.

He looked up at the typically fair morning sky and saw clouds of deep black roiling against a bruise-purple overcast. Irenicus had sealed them off from Suldanessellar in preparation for this new assault on the Tree of Life, but they’d finally—thanks to a most unlikely ally—managed to gather enough of the fragments of the Rynn Lanthorn to break the back of Irenicus’s enchantment and allow them back into the city that had been held captive so long.

Elhan scanned the line of mages around him. Chanting words that were old when humans first emerged from caves to stare in dumb fascination at the stars, the mages brought the fragments together.

The elf prince drew his moonblade and stepped forward. He reached up and touched the tingling, cold barrier. It was a palpable, if invisible thing, and the feel of it, even now mere moments before its destruction, sent waves of nauseous hatred through him.

“Bring it down, loyal ones,” Elhan said. “Bring it down!”

The fragments came together in the righteous hands of the elf mages, and a rumbling vibration rippled the ground under Elhan’s feet. Some of the mages fell over, a couple of them even dropped their parts of the lanthorn, but it didn’t matter.

A wind blasted down from above, and Elhan had to close his eyes against the force of it. He was driven down to one knee.

It’ll be over soon enough, sister, he thought, letting his mind touch Ellesime’s.

One of the mages screamed, and another shouted, “The lanthorn!”

Elhan opened his eyes and saw that the pieces of the artifact had come together and fused into a still incomplete whole. One of the mages reached out to touch it, and a bolt of green lightning arced out from it, bridging the three paces between it and the mage’s hand. The mage was thrown back with a shower of sparks, and there was another louder, stronger rumble that knocked Elhan to the ground.

It’s open, Ellesime’s voice sounded in his head, but it’s not over.

Abdel could feel the vibration in the bottom of his feet, could feel the dizzying aftereffects of the teleportation, could feel his friends falling far behind him, could feel an old anger rising in him, could feel that yellow haze that always came before he spilled someone’s blood, but none of those things managed to spill through into his conscious mind. He was running to get Imoen. He would take her back to Candlekeep this time and see that the blood of Bhaal was drained from her as it would be drained from him, one way or another.

Irenicus had his back to him, but Abdel was making no effort to quiet his pounding footsteps and gasping, exhausted breathing. The necromancer spun, turning a wild, wide-eyed visage in Abdel’s direction. The necromancer smiled, spread his arms wide as if he meant to embrace the charging sellsword. Abdel almost ran him through, then ran him over, but Jon Irenicus blinked out of existence only to reappear a few yards to one side. The necromancer had the nerve to laugh at him.

Abdel fell face first and skidded in the rough gravel, coming to rest against a tilted slab of marble. He stood quickly, ignoring the bleeding abrasions on his forearms. He spun on Irenicus, who stopped laughing and offered up an impatient snarl.

“She dies!” the necromancer screamed. “I will be an elf again. I will win. I will send her to the hells before you join her yourself, and you’ll burn there together. Your father’s blood can’t stop it, your pitiful friends can’t stop it, all the elves of Tethir can’t stop it!”

“Where is she?” Abdel shouted, his voice low, hard, and commanding. “What have you done with Imoen?”