Baldur's Gate II Throne of Bhaal (18 page)

“The blaze is strong because our triumph is near,” the second figure replied. The tattoos on his face and hands seemed to pulse and shimmer in response to the ghoulish radiance of Bhaal’s burning essence.

The third and largest figure flicked his long forked tongue to taste the scent of Bhaal’s sacrificial glory that hung like smoke in the air. In the harsh light his pupils were mere slits of black in the yellow of his reptilian eyes. “Yet Gorion’sss ward ssstill thwartsss usss.”

The drow scoffed at the fear in the voice of her larger companion. “Abazigal, surely you are not afraid of this stupid oaf?”

The half dragon hissed at the revelation of his name. “You dare betray my identity?” he growled.

The tattooed man halted the impending argument with a simple wave of his hand. “Do not be a fool, Abazigal. Your identity is already known to our enemy. The Anointed One has informed me that even now Gorion’s ward tracks your pet to your mountain enclave.”

‘“Perhaps I should accompany you back to your home, Abazigal,” the drow suggested in a sinister whisper. “If you are frightened I can deal with Abdel for you.”

“No!” Abazigal spit out hastily. “I ssshall deal with him alone. You will not befoul my sssacred cavrensss with your unholy presence.”

The drow laughed, amused at Abazigal’s righteous indignation. “Do you seek to hide secrets from us, Abazigal? Do you think we are unaware of the dragon army gathering near the foot of your mountain home?”

She shook her head in mock sympathy. “Poor little half-breed,” she sighed. “You are fooling yourself if you believe the true dragons will flock to your banner. They will never demean themselves enough to follow a bastard wyrm like yourself!”

The clawed hand of Abazigal lashed out to rip the drow’s windpipe from her throat but found only air. The drow ducked under the attack and slipped around behind her heavyset opponent, her knife pressed against his throat.

“Perhaps Yaga Shura will not be the only member of the Five to fall tonight,” she whispered in his ear.

“Enough,” the tattooed man said in a firm voice.

The drow sheathed her blade and stepped back from the chastened Abazigal. The half-dragon turned his back on his two companions and walked slowly toward the exit.

“I can ssstay no longer. I have more pressssing mattersss to attend to.” Embarrassed by the drow’s display, Abazigal’s voice was sullen and petulant.

“Yes, hurry, half-breed,” the drow taunted. “You must not keep your betters waiting!”

Beneath his cloak, Abazigal’s body stiffened.

“We shall leave Abdel to you,” the tattooed man promised, causing Abazigal’s body to relax. “Do not underestimate him,” he warned his companion. “Illasera and Yaga Shura paid for their arrogance with their lives.”

Without turning to face them, Abazigal replied, “They were weak and foolish. I am not.”

Without another word, the humiliated half-dragon stepped through the nearby door and into the cool night. He crouched low to the ground then launched himself high into the air. His biped form morphed, and his body grew into an enormous mountain of scaled flesh. Great wings erupted from his back, his arms became small vestigial claws, his legs changed into massive, taloned haunches. With the sound of cracking bone, his face transformed into the tooth-lined visage of a dragon, perched atop his suddenly elongated neck.

The entire transformation took less than a second. With a flap of his enormous wings and a swish of the tail that had sprouted from his hindquarters, Abazigal rose up into the blackened sky.

Not at all surprised, the other two members of the Five watched the silhouette of his massive new body as it grew smaller and smaller against the full moon that hung low in the sky. Only when it had diminished to a faint speck did they speak again.

“Abazigal is more focused on winning favor with the council of dragons than on fulfilling his duties as one of the Five,” the drow noted. “He thinks with an army of wyrms under his command he will have no further use for us.”

“The dragons will not follow him,” her companion assured her. “And Abazigal lacks the strength and the courage to disobey Bhaal’s Anointed.

“Still,” the tattooed man admitted, “his attention is diverted. He does not fully appreciate the threat Gorion’s ward represents.”

“If Abazigal should fail, we two shall figure more prominently in our father’s return,” the drow whispered.

When her companion made no reply she added, “And if the Anointed One should also perish by Abdel’s blade, Bhaal’s favor will be split between we two alone.”

“And perhaps you are plotting ways to eliminate me as well,” the tattooed man answered without a hint of emotion’. “Though I suggest we concentrate on destroying Abdel Adrian before we turn against each other.”

The drow smiled. “Of course, my half brother. Your words are as wise as ever. Are you certain the blood of my kind does not flow beside that of our immortal father through your veins?”

“While Abazigal is engaged with Gorion’s ward,” the tattooed man said, ignoring the draw’s compliment, “we should attend to that other Bhaalspawn from Candlekeep.”

“Imoen?” the drow sniffed disdainfully. “She is hardly worth the effort.”

“She is Abdel’s friend, and the essence of Bhaal still dwells within her, however faintly. If Abazigal should fail, killing the girl will make Abdel’s grief even greater and our plans for his death easier.”

Unconsciously, the drow’s lithe hand slid down to caress the hilt of her rune-covered dagger. “Then we must see to it she dies.”

The tattooed man shifted uncomfortably. “Melissan is bringing her to Amkethran.”

The drow laughed, a sound of malevolent evil. “Melissan, the great protector of the Bhaalspawn, is bringing Imoen to the fabled protection of Balthazar and his monastery? How deliriously ironic!”

“I do not wish to reveal myself by moving against her,” her companion replied. “The time is not yet right for me to take such open action.”

“Then give me the pleasure of killing this girl!” the drow insisted. “You know the protective walls of the monastery are nothing to me—I am but a shadow. Melissan herself will not even know I am there until she finds the Bhaalspawn’s corpse!”

The man hesitated briefly before nodding his assent. The drow laughed again and slipped out the doors into the cover of night, shedding the heavy hooded cloak once she was beyond the glow of the temple’s fire. Her dark skin and clothes were instantly invisible in the evening’s gloom.

A lifetime of emotional discipline and training could not prevent the tattooed man from feeling a faint glimmer of hope as he watched the drow assassin disappear into the night. He had no doubt Sendai would succeed in her mission. The monks of Amkethran’s monastery, though powerful, were incapable of keeping the drow from slaying the young woman from Candlekeep. Perhaps, if fortune smiled on him, Sendai would slay Melissan as well.

Alone in the house of his father, the tattooed man turned his attention back to the conflagration in the center of the temple. Beneath the crackle of Bhaal’s flaming fury he could hear the anguished screams of the slain Bhaalspawn. He felt their torment pulling at his tainted soul, drawing out the unholy lust of his father. He resisted the urge to submerge himself in the glorious suffering.

This night had not gone as he had expected. He had hoped to feed the sacrificial fire with the souls of the drow and the half-dragon tonight. But with Abdel Adrian still alive he could not afford to betray his allies just yet. As the tattooed man had explained to the drow, the continued existence of their common enemy forced the members of the Five to forestall their natural inclinations to turn on each other.

But if his study and training had taught him anything, it was patience. He would bide his time. Eventually he would see them all dead: Abdel, Imoen, Abazigal, Sendai, Melissan—all of the Bhaalspawn, all of the Five, even Bhaal’s Anointed would fall. If they killed each other off, so much the better, and in the end he would be the only one left.

Abazigal flew the entire night spurred on by his shame, his hatred of Sendai, and the knowledge that the arrival of Gorion’s ward could ruin all his carefully laid plans. Still many miles from his destination, his keen serpent’s eyes could already see the assemblage of dragons who had gathered on the top of the mountain plateau where Abazigal had built his mountain fortress. Blue and green dragons from deep within the Mir Forest, brown wyrms from the sands of the Calimir desert, black dragons from the spider swamp—a glittering kaleidoscope of hues and colors all impatiently awaiting the half-dragon’s arrival.

Abazigal had sent his request for audience to every mountaintop, hidden cave, and underground cavern within a thousand miles. Over a dozen of the magnificent creatures had responded, drawn by Abazigal’s promises of treasure, glory, and a return to a time when dragons ruled the lands of Faerun. Though he was disappointed to notice the absence of the ancient reds Balagos and Charvekannathor, he was exceedingly pleased to mark the gleaming hide of Iryklagathra, the great blue dragon known to most mortals as Sharpfangs, among the assembled throng.

Arriving just as the first rays of sun knifed through the morning clouds to ignite the snow-covered peaks, Abazigal alighted in the center of the circle formed by the great wyrms. As his feet touched the hard rock he

resumed his humanoid form. The others would not be fooled by his appearance. Even in dragon form they could smell he was a half-breed. Proud as he was, Abazigal knew enough to humble himself before the pure bloods. It had cost Abazigal a small fortune in gold and gems just to gain this audience, and he was not about to offend his guests by speaking to them in the form of a true dragon.

“You are nearly late,” Saladrex, an ancient green wyrm, said by way of greeting, his great voice echoing throughout the surrounding hills. Smaller and less powerful than the red and blue dragons that struggled for dominance in the region, Saladrex was crafty and ambitious. Sensing an opportunity to gain a powerful ally, he had been open to Abazigal’s initial queries. Saladrex was the first wyrm to agree to come and listen to Abazigal’s offer. For a price, of course.

Now, apparently, Saladrex was also serving as the voice of the collected council. Abazigal suspected the green dragon had been chosen because many of the other wyrms, like the glorious Sharpfangs, felt it beneath them to bargain with a creature as insignificant as Abazigal knew he was in their eyes.

“My most sincere apologies, great Saladrex,” Abazigal replied, careful to keep the snakelike hissing lisp from his speech lest it insult his guests in some way he could not even imagine. The effort made his jaws ache, but he knew it was a small price to pay if he could win the support of Saladrex and the others. “I flew all the night without rest to arrive on time. I would never dishonor this revered assemblage by making you wait for one as insignificant as me.”

His fawning answer seemed to assuage the irritation his last-second arrival had caused among the collected dragons.

“We shall listen to your offer,” Sablaxaahl, a large but relatively young black dragon blurted out, exposing the impetuousness of youth by speaking out of turn. “Though what a man spawn such as yourself could have to interest us we could not imagine.”

The other wyrms accepted the black’s breach of etiquette without comment. Another sign they didn’t feel Abazigal worthy of proper respect.

“Ah, there is where the potential lies,” Abazigal replied. “I am not the offspring of a mere mortal. I am a child of the god Bhaal.”

The assemblage rumbled with laughter. “The lineage of a human god? And a dead one at that?” There was amusement in Saladrex’s voice as he spoke. “This is meant to impress us, half-breed?”

Abazigal bit his tongue to keep from speaking out of turn.

“You have yet to hear my offer, mighty Saladrex” he replied once he had quelled his anger. “Bhaal was indeed a god of the man creatures, but he was also a god of death and destruction, the Lord of Murder. When he rises again, he will be a god bent on vengeance.”

“You speak as if the return of Bhaal is inevitable, but we know the future of this matter is not yet decided. Now our patience wears thin,” Saladrex warned. “And we have yet to hear how this will benefit dragonkind.”

“Are not dragons the most majestic of beings to grace the face of Faerun?” Abazigal asked rhetorically. “Are dragons not the most powerful? The most intelligent?” The wyrms could not resist nodding their heads in agreement. Dragons were truly intelligent creatures, but even the wisest was not above allowing himself to be shamelessly flattered.

“Yet dragons do not rule,” Abazigal continued, knowing he had captured the wyrms’ attention. “The lesser creatures—humans, halflings, orcs, goblins—they breed like insects! They spread like the plague across the face of Faerun, burning forests and turning your hunting grounds into pastures and towns. They steal from your hoards, their foolish heroes band together and track you to your lairs, plotting to end your existence so that they may

seize your hard-won treasures for themselves and advance their own petty reputations with the title of dragonslayer.”

There were murmurs of assent from his reptilian audience.

“Through sheer numbers these undeserving vermin have pushed dragonkind farther and farther into the wilderness as they expand their territories. How long until they seek to exterminate your kind forever?”

“Impossible!” a fiery young brown spat out. “Our species will never be destroyed by these pathetic little bipeds!”

But the other dragons did not second her hasty protest. They were old enough to have experienced the spread of the lesser creatures. They were wise enough to see Abazigal’s ominous prophecy was not so far-fetched.

“And you claim you can stop this, Abazigal?” Saladrex challenged.

The half-dragon nodded. “When Bhaal returns, he will begin a campaign of bloody vengeance, a war to make Faerun suffer for his death. He will slaughter the humans and their two-footed cousins in numbers history’s most infamous tyrants could not even begin to comprehend.